The Bishop

by Steven James

  She shook her head softly. “No, it’s the same.”

  I evaluated her words, but the two sayings seemed contradictory to me. “Calvin’s words warned against foraying into your heart, Shakespeare promoted the idea. How are they the same?”

  At last she stopped studying the shadows across the yard and looked at me. “In Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote, ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst be false to no man,’ or ‘thou canst not then be false to any man.’ There’s some controversy about the manuscripts that were preserved, which ones are authoritative—” She caught herself veering into a tangent and redirected her thoughts. “Anyway, that’s exactly what these guys that you track do—serial killers, rapists, pedophiles, whatever.”

  “They’re being true to themselves,” I said, finding myself agreeing with her, “to their hearts, their desires.”

  “Yeah. Forays into their hearts, not departures from them.”

  The observation flew in the face of the popular wisdom that people should be true to themselves, follow their dreams, their heart’s desires, but it made sense because when people do that without restraint, they end up committing the worst crimes imaginable.

  “That’s very incisive,” I said. “So then, Shakespeare was wrong in encouraging people to follow their hearts.”

  “No.” She was starting to sound more and more like her typical sardonically-irritated-Tessa-self, and I took that to mean that she was starting to feel better. It was refreshing. “Look at the context. The Hamlet quote isn’t advice, it’s sarcasm.”

  Out front, I heard a car pulling up the driveway.

  “Supper,” she said.

  My wallet was on the kitchen table, and I went to grab some cash. “Okay, so how is it sarcasm?” She followed me into the house, carrying my computer for me. “Everyone quotes Shakespeare’s words as advice. Besides, ‘Follow your heart! Be true to yourself!’ is the theme of every Disney movie ever made. How could Disney have gotten it backward?”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “Only partly.” I found my wallet, pulled out a twenty. “But I don’t see how it’s sarcasm.”

  “Polonius says the words.”

  I heard a car door slam.

  “Tessa, I have to admit I’m not as familiar with Hamlet as you are.”

  “Polonius is a fool who gets into trouble whenever he does follow his heart, when he actually is true to himself. By having him say the line, Shakespeare was underlying how absurd the advice is. Shakespeare wasn’t stupid. He’s warning people against being true to themselves, not telling them to do it. He understood human nature better than almost any other author in history.” Then she added, “Except maybe Poe.”

  “Of course.”

  I couldn’t help asking myself the obvious follow-up question: if we shouldn’t be true to ourselves, what should we be true to?

  The doorbell rang. I crossed the living room. “I’m not so sure about the whole Polonius irony thing. I’d have to look that up.”

  “Trust me.”

  I answered the door and found Lien-hua standing on the porch holding three bulging bags of Chinese takeout.

  “Lien-hua.” I stood there holding the door open, staring at her.

  She smiled softly. “Can I come in?”

  “Oh.” I stepped aside. “Sure. Sorry.” She walked past me, and I flashed Tessa a look: What in the world is going on? She gave me a light conspiratorial smile.

  “Hello, Agent Jiang,” she said.

  “Hey, Tessa.”

  Lien-hua put the food on the kitchen table.

  “I didn’t expect you.” I was searching for the right words. “So soon.”

  “Well, the Evidence Response Team and CSIU guys are processing the hotel room and luggage area, so there wasn’t much for me to do there. Besides, I needed some space to focus on the profile, and even when you’re in the middle of a case—”

  “You still need to eat,” Tessa said.

  “That’s right,” she replied. “So when Tessa was kind enough to call and tell me how sorry you were that we missed lunch but that you would love to have me join you guys for dinner, well—”

  “It was an offer too good to pass up,” Tessa said.

  “Yes.”

  “And here you are,” I said.

  “Here I am.”

  “Well, it’s nice. It’s . . . I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Me too.” She was scouring through the cupboards, looking for plates.

  I went to the fridge. “Not much to drink, I’m afraid. Pretty much just juice, soy milk, root beer—”

  “Water’s fine.”

  “Water it is.” I took a glass to the sink and asked Tessa to get out the silverware, but Lien-hua rebuked me with a slender, wagging finger. “This is Chinese food.”

  “Oh, please not the chopsticks. You know how bad I am with those things.”

  She smiled. “Practice makes perfect.”

  67

  After five minutes of letting me fumble around with my chopsticks while she and Tessa used theirs with annoying dexterity, Lien-hua finally leaned toward me. “Here, like this.”

  She gently took my right hand in hers and slid the chopsticks into position between my fingers. Her touch was both cool and full of fire.

  “This is very helpful,” I said as she glided her fingers across mine, maneuvered the chopsticks for me. “I might never go back to using a fork.”

  “Hush.”

  Tessa just shook her head.

  Lien-hua took her time teaching my fingers what to do. I didn’t mind. “See?” she said.

  No. Let’s keep the lesson going for a while.

  “Reminds me of that night in San Diego,” I said. “When you taught me the sign language alphabet.”

  “I remember that,” she replied softly. She patted my hand and then went back to her food.

  I’d only managed to take three bites when I heard a car pull into the driveway. I gave Tessa a questioning look, and she said, “That would be our other guest. Why don’t you go get the door?”

  Lien-hua looked at me. Blinked. “Other guest?”

  Knowing Tessa as well as I did, I had a feeling who might be arriving outside. On my way to the door I flicked on the porch lights.

  And in the fading evening light I saw Cheyenne getting out of her car.

  Oh, Tessa . . .

  Cheyenne jogged up the steps.

  I opened the door for her. “Hey,” I said. “You’re here.”

  “Yup.” She was carrying a supermarket brand apple pie. “Dessert has arrived.”

  68

  “Thanks for the invite, Pat,” Cheyenne said as I closed the door behind her.

  “You’re welcome.” Then I called to my stepdaughter in the kitchen, “Tessa, you were so kind to pass along the dinner invitation to Detective Warren as well.”

  “Not a problem,” came the reply.

  “As well?” Cheyenne said. “So who else is—”

  Lien-hua stepped into the kitchen doorway. “Cheyenne.”

  “Lien-hua.”

  Both women looked at each other for a moment, and then, almost simultaneously, looked at me.

  “Great,” I said awkwardly. “So, good . . . um, I’m glad there’s plenty of food then.”

  Neither of them spoke.

  Oh, this was just outstanding.

  Cheyenne took the pie to the kitchen, Lien-hua joined her, and I asked Tessa if she could kindly come to the hall for a moment. She reluctantly followed, and when we were out of earshot of the two women, I said, “What is this all about?”

  “We missed lunch with Agent Jiang.”

  “I know, but why did you invite them both over here tonight? What are you trying to do?”

  She gave me a you-are-so-clueless look. “We talked about this earlier. You need to decide who you’re more interested in. The best way to do that is to have them both here. That way—”

  I didn’t buy it. “Wh
y are you suddenly so concerned about me being with a woman?”

  A long uncertain pause followed, and somehow it almost made me regret pressing her for a reason. At last she said softly, “When we got back here tonight, there was so much . . . I don’t know . . . I just thought it would be good for both of us if we didn’t have to think about death for a while.”

  I couldn’t come up with any argument to that.

  “You need to fill me in on these things, okay?”

  “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

  “That line doesn’t apply to teenage girls.”

  A tiny smile. “Come on.” She started down the hallway. “You have guests to entertain.”

  Brad arrived at the small country gas station on the isolated road that skirted along the edge of the Quantico Marine Corps Base.

  He parked the car.

  Astrid had wanted an unforgettable climax to this crime spree, and so he’d suggested leaving the FBI a little surprise in their own backyard. She’d seemed pleased by the idea, and considering where he’d left the laptop, this gas station was in the perfect location.

  There were no other cars on the road, none at the gas station.

  Seclusion was another reason he and Astrid had chosen this place.

  He turned his attention to the man behind the counter in the gas station—Hispanic, mid-twenties, bored, alternating between texting and talking on his cell phone.

  Then Brad organized his things and prepared the needle.

  69

  By consensus the four of us agreed not to talk about dead bodies or blood or, as Tessa put it, “anything even remotely gross,” and the conversation wandered through the topics of where we’d each lived, our hobbies, and embarrassing stories from high school.

  Safe territory.

  The places you go when you need to set the dark things aside. However, the more we spoke, the more the three of them seemed to jump from topic to topic without any discernible links between the subject matter. I was caught constantly playing catch-up while none of them seemed to have any trouble at all following the conversation. I finally commented that women do this all the time but that guys can’t keep track of where the discussion is going because the thinking isn’t linear.

  The three women stared at me.

  “Chauvinist,” Tessa said, not completely seriously.

  “No. I’m not. You know that. I’m just saying—”

  “It’s okay, Pat,” Cheyenne said. “I’m glad you’re aware there’s a difference between men and women.”

  Actually, I’m aware of several of them . . .

  “Yes, exactly,” I said. “That’s my point.”

  “And you’re right. We are different—physiologically, chemically, hormonally, psychologically, emotionally. The way we think, prioritize, remember, construct knowledge, and process information—all different.”

  Good. A way to salvage things.

  “There you go,” I said. “Men and women think differently. Men are more logical, women are more—”

  Lien-hua raised an eyebrow. “Careful, now.”

  Tessa signaled her agreement. “I second that.”

  “I’m just saying—” By the looks on their faces I decided I’d better try a different tack. “However, you do know that some feminists might argue that masculine and feminine roles are simply social constructs and not physiological traits.”

  “Then they’re ignoring the research.” Cheyenne shook her head. “But that’s no surprise. In one of the tragic ironies of the twentieth century, feminists never fought for women to become more feminine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Instead of celebrating what it means to be a woman, to be feminine, to be an empowered female, they fought for women to act and be treated more like men. That’s why I call them masculinists.”

  “You call feminists masculinists?” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  She must have noticed the surprise on all of our faces because she went on to elaborate, “Yes. Masculinists. Because in their fight for more rights, they ended up devaluing what it means to be a woman and emulating the very things they criticized most in men—imperialism, identity confusion, militaristic propagandism, dehumanizing competition, careerism.”

  Lien-hua, Tessa, and I glanced at each other. I had the sense that all of us were unsure what to say.

  Cheyenne set down her chopsticks. “Women should be extended the same dignity, opportunity, and respect as men but shouldn’t be treated in an identical way: equality without uniformity. I want to be treated like a woman, not a pale imitation of a man.”

  “You go, girl,” Tessa said.

  Cheyenne took her up on the offer. “Women should never be ashamed to be feminine. Strength comes from conviction, not from acting like a man. Being feminine doesn’t mean you’re weak, it just means you’re proud to be a woman.”

  All three of them looked at me as if they were daring me to refute her. I had the sense that if they were guys they would have pounded fists with each other, but I decided this might not be the time to point that out.

  “Feminine is good,” I said at last.

  Cheyenne stood. “I’ll be right back. I need to use the ladies’ room.” She’d smiled as she said the words and offered a warm emphasis to the word ladies. She left for the hall.

  Lien-hua and Tessa watched her sweep away. When she was out of sight, Lien-hua said, “She’s not subtle is she?”

  Nope, I thought.

  “Nope,” Tessa said.

  “I’m glad she’s on our team,” Lien-hua said evenly. Then she went back to her meal.

  But I noticed that she avoided eye contact with me as she did.

  70

  After dinner and dessert, we gathered in the living room, and when Lien-hua noted the chess set, Cheyenne complimented Tessa’s skill. “She’s quite a player.”

  “Not compared to you,” Tessa said. “Just to Patrick.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Lien-hua picked up the black queen. “I learned to play years ago, but I’ve never been very good.”

  “I’m sure Detective Warren could teach you some moves to improve your game,” Tessa said.

  “I’m sure she could.” She set down the queen.

  A touch of silence.

  “So,” Cheyenne said, “your name, Lien-hua, it’s lovely.”

  “Thank you. It means lotus.”

  “The flower.”

  “Yes.”

  Though there was no outward antagonism in their words, I had the sense that the two women were verbally fencing.

  Cheyenne looked reflectively at the far wall. Then, concentrating on remembering the words, she said, “Flowers are the hieroglyphics of angels. Loved by all men for the beauty of their character, though few can decipher even fragments of their meaning.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Lien-hua said, clearly impressed. “What’s it from?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly; it’s a quote I read once by Lydia M. Child. I’m not a huge reader, but I sometimes stumble across something that’s worth holding on to, and I make sure I don’t let it slip away.” As she said the words, she was looking at me, leaving me to interpret them on more than one level. Then she glanced at Lien-hua. “I like the line about deciphering fragments of their meaning.”

  “I’d love a copy of it.”

  “Absolutely.”

  But at the moment Cheyenne didn’t take the initiative to write it down.

  More fencing. This time with silence.

  “So, speaking of lotuses,” Tessa said, “the Lotus Sutra is a teaching, a discourse of Buddha.” She paused as we all gave her our attention, then added, “Which brings up the .”

  “Ngas?” Cheyenne said.

  “According to legend,” Tessa explained, “the Lotus Sutra was given by Buddha himself and kept hidden for five hundred years in the land of the Ngas until humans were finally ready to understand it.”

  “What a
re Ngas?” asked Cheyenne.

  With a glance, Tessa deferred to Lien-hua, who answered, “A Nga is a serpent. The word is typically translated dragon, but a better translation would probably be cobra. Usually, Ngas are kind to humans, unless they’re provoked. Then, they can be truly malicious. They guard treasure and represent immortality.”

  “Yup,” Tessa said. “You wouldn’t want to cross a Nga while it’s guarding its treasure.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Cheyenne said.

  With all of the subtext shooting through the room, I wondered how that meal last night between the two women had really gone.

  After a moment, Cheyenne, the faithful Catholic, asked Lien-hua, “So, are you Buddhist?”

  “No. My mother was.” Lien-hua paused. “I don’t mean this to be flippant, but I guess I’d say I’m between religions.”

  Cheyenne waited for her to go on, but when Lien-hua didn’t elaborate, she said, “Well, it’s a journey.”

  When Christie and I were dating, she used to tell me that when we pigeonhole people by their faiths, everyone loses out. “Multiculturalism doesn’t build bridges,” she said. “It puts people into boxes.” Maybe it wasn’t always true, but I could see it beginning to happen right now.

  I wondered if Lien-hua was thinking something along those lines, because she went on to say, “Last February when Pat and I were working a case in San Diego, I was attacked and left in an empty pool—one that was nearly thirteen feet deep. While I was unconscious, a man who’d already killed at least eight other women—including my sister—chained my ankle to the bottom, and when I awoke he began filling the pool with water.”

  “That’s horrible,” Cheyenne said softly, her voice full of empathy. “What happened?”

  “Well, I was terrified, of course, and when the water was going over my head, I . . .” Lien-hua hesitated, and I think we could all tell how difficult it was for her to share this story. “Being raised in a Buddhist home, I wasn’t even sure if God existed, but I prayed, and someone arrived just in time to save me.” Her eyes found mine just as Cheyenne’s had a minute ago. “I’m still trying to sort out what all that means.”