The Changs and the policewoman now paused beside her yellow sports car. William, who'd been sullen and moody all day, brightened when he saw it. "A Camaro SS," he said.
The woman laughed. "You know American cars?"
"Who'd drive anything else?" he asked derisively. The lean boy examined the sports car closely. "This is fucking sweet."
"William," Chang whispered threateningly and received back a cold, uncomprehending look from his son.
Mei-Mei and the children continued on to their van and Chang remained beside the policewoman. Translating his words slowly, Chang said to the red-haired woman, "Everything you do for us, you and Mr. Rhyme . . . I am not knowing how to thank you. And the baby . . . See, my wife, she has always--"
"I understand," the woman said. Her voice was clipped and he realized that though she appreciated the gratitude she was uneasy receiving it. She dropped into the seat of her car, wincing slightly from a sore joint or pulled muscle. The engine fired up with a powerful rattling noise and she drove quickly out of the parking lot, spinning the tires as she accelerated.
In a moment the car was out of sight.
The family was due soon at a funeral home in Brooklyn, where the body of Chang Jiechi was being prepared. But Sam Chang remained where he was, gazing at the complex of gray courthouses and office buildings around him. He needed a moment of solitude, this man caught between the yin and the yang of life. How badly he wanted to slough off the hard, the masculine, the traditional, the authoritarian--the aspects of his past life in China--and embrace the artistic, the feminine, the intuitive, the new: all that the Beautiful Country represented. But how difficult it was to do this. Mao Zedong, he reflected, had tried to abolish old customs and ideas with a simple decree and had nearly destroyed his country as a result.
No, Chang reflected, the past was with us always. But he didn't know, not yet, how to find a place for it in his future. It could be done. Look at how close in proximity was the Forbidden Palace with its ancient ghosts to Tiananmen Square with its very different spirits. But he suspected that this reconciliation would be a process that lasted for the rest of his life.
Here he was, half a world away from everything familiar, steeped in confusion and beset by challenges.
And pummeled too by the uncertainty of life in a strange land.
But some things Sam Chang did know:
That at the autumn tomb-sweeping festival he would find comfort in tidying his father's grave, leaving an offering of oranges and conversing with the man's spirit.
That Po-Yee, the Treasured Child, would grow up to become a woman in complete harmony with this remarkable place and time: the Beautiful Country at the start of a new century, easily embracing the souls of both Hua and Meiguo, China and America, yet transcending each.
That William would eventually get a room of his own and discover something other than his father to be mad about but that little by little his anger would lift away like a phoenix rising from cooling ash and he too would find a balance.
And that Chang himself would work hard at his job, continue his efforts as a dissident and on his days off would enjoy modest pleasures--strolling with Mei-Mei through their neighborhood, visiting parks and art galleries and passing hours in places like The Home Store, where they would make their purchases or just walk up and down the aisles, examining the bounty on the shelves.
Finally Sam Chang turned away from the tall buildings and returned to the van, summoned by his desire to be with his family again.
*
Still dressed for her undercover work as a Manhattan businesswoman, Amelia Sachs strode into the living room.
"So?" the criminalist asked, wheeling to face her.
"A done deal," she answered, disappearing upstairs. She returned a few minutes later, as jeans and sweats as she could be.
He said, "You know, Sachs, you could've adopted the baby yourself if you'd wanted." He paused. "I mean, we could've done that."
"I know."
"Why didn't you want to?"
She considered her answer then said, "The other day I laid some brass on the deck with a perp in a Chinatown alleyway, then I went swimming ninety feet underwater, then was point on a takedown team . . . I can't not do things like that, Rhyme." She hesitated as she thought of how best to summarize her feelings then laughed. "My father told me there're two kinds of drivers--those who check their blind spot when they change lanes and those who don't. I'm not a checker. If I had a baby at home I'd be looking over my shoulder all the time. That wouldn't work."
He understood exactly what she meant. But he asked playfully, "If you don't check your blind spot aren't you worried about an accident?"
"The trick is just to drive faster than everybody else. That way there's no chance anybody'll be in your blind spot."
"When you move they can't getcha," he said.
"Yep."
"You'd be a good mother, Sachs."
"And you'll be a good father. It'll happen, Rhyme. But let's give it a couple of years. Right now we've got a few other things to do with our life, don't you think?" She nodded at the whiteboard, on which were written Thom's charts for the GHOSTKILL case, the same whiteboard that had been covered with notations from a dozen prior cases and would be filled with those from dozens of future ones.
She was, of course, right, Lincoln Rhyme reflected; the world represented by these notes and pictures, this place on the edge that they shared, was their nature--for the time being, at least.
"I made the arrangements," he said to her.
Rhyme had been on the phone, making plans to have Sonny Li's body shipped back to his father in Liu Guoyuan, China. The arrangements were being handled by a Chinese funeral home.
There was one more task attendant to the death that Rhyme needed to do. He called up a word processing program. Sachs sat down next to him. "Go ahead," she said.
After a half hour of writing and rewriting he and Sachs finally came up with this:
Dear Mr. Li:
I am writing to express my heartfelt condolences at the death of your son.
You should know how thankful my fellow police officers and I are for the privilege of having been able to work with Sonny on the difficult and dangerous case that resulted in the loss of his life.
He saved many lives and brought a vicious killer to justice--an accomplishment we alone could not have achieved. His actions have brought the highest honor to his memory and he will always have a place of great respect within the law enforcement community of the United States. I truly hope you are as proud of your son for his courage and sacrifice as we are.
Lincoln Rhyme, Det. Capt., NYPD (Ret.)
Rhyme read it and grumbled, "It's too much. Too emotional. Let's start over."
But Sachs reached down and hit the print key. "Nope, Rhyme. Leave it. Sometimes too much is a good thing."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Sachs set the letter aside for Eddie Deng to translate when the young cop arrived later in the day.
"Want to get back to the evidence?" Sachs asked. Nodding toward the whiteboards. There was much preparatory work that needed to be done for the Ghost's trial.
But Rhyme said, "No, I want to play a game."
"Game?"
"Yeah."
"Sure," she said coyly. "I'm in the mood to win."
"You wish," he chided.
"What game?" she asked.
"Wei-chi. The board's over there. And those bags of stones."
She found the game and set it up on the table near where Rhyme was parked. She glanced at his eyes, which were examining the grid of the board, and said, "I think I'm being hustled, Rhyme. You've played this before."
"Sonny and I played a few games," he said casually.
"How few?"
"Three is all. I'm hardly an expert, Sachs."
"How'd you do?"
The criminalist said defensively, "It takes a while to get the feel for a game."
"You lost," she sai
d. "All of them."
"But the last one was close."
She looked over the board. "What'll we play for?"
With a cryptic smile Rhyme replied, "We'll think of something." Then he explained the rules and she leaned forward, raptly taking in his words. Finally he said, "That's it . . . .Now, you've never played so you get an advantage. You can make the first move."
"No," Sachs answered. "No advantages. We'll flip a coin."
"It's customary," Rhyme assured her. "No advantage," Sachs repeated. Then dug a quarter out of her pocket. "Call it," she said.
And tossed the coin into the air.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Kim Arthur and the folks at Invacare and to Cheryl Lehman for their extremely helpful insights on care of and equipment available for spinal cord injury patients. And, as always, to Madelyn.
"Deaver is the master of ticking-bomb suspense."
--People
Turn the page to read an excerpt from
The Vanished Man
The next novel in the Lincoln Rhyme series by Jeffery Deaver
Chapter One
Greetings, Revered Audience. Welcome.
Welcome to our show.
We have a number of thrills in store for you over the next two days as our illusionists, our magicians, our sleight-of-hand artists weave their spells to delight and captivate you.
Our first routine is from the repertoire of a performer everyone's heard of: Harry Houdini, the greatest escape artist in America, if not the world, a man who performed before crowned heads of state and U.S. presidents. Some of his escapes are so difficult no one has dared attempt them, all these years after his untimely death.
Today we'll re-create an escape in which he risked suffocation in a routine known as the Lazy Hangman.
In this trick, our performer lies prone on the belly, hands bound behind the back with classic Darby handcuffs. The ankles are tied together and another length of rope is wound around the neck, like a noose, and tied to the ankles. The tendency of the legs to straighten pulls the noose taut and begins the terrible process of suffocation.
Why is it called the "Lazy" Hangman? Because the condemned executes himself.
In many of Mr. Houdini's more dangerous routines, assistants were present with knives and keys to release him in the event that he was unable to escape. Often a doctor was on hand.
Today, there'll be none of these precautions. If there's no escape within four minutes, the performer will die.
We begin in a moment . . . but first a word of advice: Never forget that by entering our show you're abandoning reality.
What you're absolutely convinced you see might not exist at all. What you know has to be an illusion may turn out to be God's harsh truth.
Your companion at our show might turn out to be a total stranger. A man or woman in the audience you don't recognize may know you far too well.
What seems safe may be deadly. And the dangers you guard against may be nothing more than distractions to lure you to greater danger.
In our show what can you believe? Whom can you trust?
Well, Revered Audience, the answer is that you should believe nothing.
And you should trust no one. No one at all.
Now, the curtain rises, the lights dim, the music fades, leaving only the sublime sound of hearts beating in anticipation.
And our show begins. . . .
*
The building looked as if it'd seen its share of ghosts.
Gothic, sooty, dark. Sandwiched between two high-rises on the Upper West Side, capped with a widow's walk and many shuttered windows. The building dated from the Victorian era and had been a boarding school at one point and later a sanatorium, where the criminally insane lived out their frazzled lives.
The Manhattan School of Music and Performing Arts could have been home to dozens of spirits.
But none so immediate as the one who might be hovering here now, above the warm body of the young woman lying, stomach down, in the dim lobby outside a small recital hall. Her eyes were still and wide but not yet glassy, the blood on her cheek was not yet brown.
Her face was dark as plum from the constriction of the taut rope connecting her neck to her ankles.
Scattered around her were a flute case, sheet music and a spilled grande cup from Starbucks, the coffee staining her jeans and green Izod shirt and leaving a comma of dark liquid on the marble floor.
Also present was the man who'd killed her, bending down and examining her carefully. He was taking his time and felt no urge to rush. Today was Saturday, the hour early. There were no classes in the school on the weekends, he'd learned. Students did use the practice rooms but they were in a different wing of the building. He leaned closer to the woman, squinting, wondering if he could see some essence, some spirit rising from her body. He didn't.
He straightened up, considering what else he might do to the still form in front of him.
*
"You're sure it was screaming?"
"Yeah. . . . No," the security guard said. "Maybe not screaming, you know. Shouting. Upset. For just a second or two. Then it stopped."
Officer Diane Franciscovich, a portable working out of the Twentieth Precinct, continued, "Anybody else hear anything?"
The heavy guard, breathing hard, glanced at the tall, brunette policewoman, shook his head and flexed and opened his huge hands. He wiped his dark palms on his blue slacks.
"Call for backup?" asked Nancy Ausonio, another young patrol officer, shorter than her partner, blonde.
Franciscovich didn't think so, though she wasn't sure. Portables walking the beat in this part of the Upper West Side dealt mostly with traffic accidents, shoplifting and car theft (as well as holding the hands of distraught muggees). This was a first for them--the two women officers, on their Saturday morning watch, had been spotted on the sidewalk and motioned urgently inside by the guard to help check out the screaming. Well, upset shouting.
"Let's hold off," the calm Franciscovich said. "See what's going on."
The guard said, "Sounded like it was comin' from 'round here somewhere. Dunno."
"Spooky place," Ausonio offered, oddly uneasy; she was the partner most likely to leap into the middle of a dispute, even if it involved combatants twice her size.
"The sounds, you know. Hard to tell. You know what I'm sayin'? Where they're coming from."
Franciscovich was focusing on what her partner had said. Damn spooky place, she added silently.
Seeming miles of dim corridors later, finding nothing out of the ordinary, the security guard paused.
Franciscovich nodded to a doorway in front of them. "What's through here?"
"Be no reason for students t'be there. It's only--"
Franciscovich pushed the door open.
Inside was a small lobby that led to a door labeled Recital Hall A. And near that door was the body of a young woman, trussed up, rope around her neck, hands in cuffs. Eyes open in death. A brown-haired, bearded man in his early fifties crouched over her. He looked up, surprised at their entry.
"No!" Ausonio cried.
"Oh, Christ," the guard gasped.
The officers drew their weapons and Franciscovich sighted down on the man with what she thought was a surprisingly steady hand. "You, don't move! Stand up slow, move away from her and put your hands in the air." Her voice was much less firm than the fingers gripping the Glock pistol.
The man did as he was told.
"Lie facedown on floor. Keep your hands in sight!"
Ausonio started forward to the girl.
It was then Franciscovich noticed that the man's right hand, over his head, was closed in a fist.
"Open your--"
Pop . . .
She went blind as a flash of searing light filled the room. It seemed to come directly from the suspect's hand and hovered for a moment before going out. Ausonio froze and Franciscovich went into a crouch, scrabbling backward and squinting, swinging the gun back and forth
. Panicked, she knew the killer had kept his eyes shut when the flash went off and would be aiming his own weapon at them or charging forward with a knife.
"Where, where, where?" she shouted.
Then she saw--vaguely thanks to her frizzled vision and the dissipating smoke--the killer running into the recital hall. He slammed the door shut. There was a thud inside as he moved a chair or table against the door.
Ausonio dropped to her knees in front of the girl. With a Swiss Army knife she cut the rope off her neck, rolled her over and, using a disposable mouthpiece, started CPR.
"Any other exits?" Franciscovich shouted to the guard.
"Only one--in the back, around the corner. To the right."
"Windows?"
"No."
"Hey," she called to Ausonio as she started sprinting. "Watch this door!"
"Got it," the blonde officer called and blew another breath into the victim's pale lips.
More thuds from inside as the killer beefed up his barricade; Franciscovich sprinted around the corner, toward the door the guard had told them about, calling for backup on her Motorola. As she looked ahead she saw someone standing at the end of the corridor. Franciscovich stopped fast, drew a target on the man's chest and shone the brilliant beam from her halogen flashlight on him.
"Lord," croaked the elderly janitor, dropping the broom he held.
Franciscovich thanked God she'd kept her finger outside the trigger guard of the Glock. "You see somebody come out of that door?"
"What's going on?"
"You see anybody?" Franciscovich shouted.
"No, ma'am."
"How long you been here?"
"I don't know. Ten minutes, I'd guess."
There was another thud of furniture from inside as the killer continued to blockade the door. Franciscovich sent the janitor into the main corridor with the security guard then eased up to the side door. Gun held high, eye level, she tested the knob gently. It was unlocked. She stepped to the side so she wouldn't be in the line of fire if the perp shot through the wood. A trick she remembered from NYPD Blue, though an instructor might've mentioned it at the Academy too.
Another thump from inside.
"Nancy, you there?" Franciscovich whispered into her handy-talkie.
Ausonio's voice, shaky, said, "She's dead, Diane. I tried. But she's dead."
"He didn't get out this way. He's still inside. I can hear him." Silence.
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