The Red Heart of Jade

by Marjorie M. Liu

“That’s even dumber. How could you ask that?”

  “How could I not?” She said it gently, trying to take the bite out of her words, but she could see it cut him. It hurt her, too. More than she wanted to admit. She stared out the windshield as she collected her thoughts, taking in the lights, the endless signs and city decorations, trinkets for the eyes, cheap and soulless.

  “You could have gone to Ni-Ni,” she finally said. “Especially if you thought I was dead. She would have needed you at a time like that. But you didn’t. You never went back.”

  “Miri,” he whispered.

  “No, Dean. They never found your body. You know what that did to me? I couldn’t let go. I kept hoping, telling myself that I imagined you dying and that you were out there. But when you didn’t come back, I thought maybe you had another reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “That was the worst part. Trying to imagine all the reasons why you wouldn’t come home. And finally … finally it was just easier to tell myself you were dead. It hurt less.”

  She felt him staring at her, silent, but when he spoke his voice was so rough, so broken, she jumped in her seat because it was a different man talking, a man with a cut throat, bleeding out and out and out, and he whispered, “Jesus Christ, Miri. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you like that. I would never have made the choice to leave if I had thought you were still alive. Never. But you died. You died and I watched.”

  “I died,” Miri agreed, reaching up to touch her heart. “I died. But then I came back. In the ambulance. They called it a miracle. The EMTs were able to start my heart. I had to have a transfusion. It was touch-and-go. I was in a coma for a while.”

  “I didn’t know,” Dean whispered. “I swear to you, I didn’t know.”

  I believe you, she wanted to say. I believe you mean that. But instead she told him, “I saw you die, too. You took a bullet.”

  “But you went before I did,” he breathed. “Or maybe I passed out and you thought I was dead. All I know is that we were together in that car, and that man came. That jacked-up no-name son of a bitch. He wanted to steal our ride, and then he wanted to steal you, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “So you took a bullet,” she whispered. “And then he got scared and shot me, too.”

  She still remembered the sound of the blast, the feel of the rain coming down on her head while she stood half naked on the street, watching Dean go crazy trying to help her, screaming at him to stop, that it wasn’t worth it, that she’d be okay—which was a lie, but worth it if it kept him alive—and she remembered the blood, she remembered the pain, she remembered falling and falling and falling, down into a darkness and a light, and feeling even there that her heart had been torn in half. No peace in death. Only regret.

  “I was awake when you died,” Dean said. “I felt your heart stop. Right beneath my hand. And then the ambulance came, and somehow I could stand, and I got out of there. I don’t know how I was able to move, but I did it because you were dead and I wanted to die and I couldn’t stand it and that man was still alive. That man had run, too. He had run.”

  And you found him, Miri thought, because she could hear what he was not saying, she could see it in his eyes, and she wanted to cry harder for that, for what she knew he must have done.

  “You could have come home again,” she said.

  “No. Not after what happened.”

  “You thought Ni-Ni would blame you for my … my death.”

  “I knew it.”

  They stared at each other, and there was a look in Dean’s eyes she recognized from long ago, a compassion that had once been for her only; those first days, which had turned into weeks and months and years, until one day friendship had matured into something deeper, unspoken, when holding hands suddenly meant more than just arm-wrestling or play, and when looking into his eyes, whispering in his ear, spread a warmth through her body that had nothing to with the heat of the sun or the overworked stove in her grandmother’s kitchen.

  Her heart crawled up her throat. All those years wasted, spent dreaming of something she could never have, feeling the wistful pull of that old desire. Because even so young, just a kid, she had known it was forever.

  Dean leaned in so close she thought he might kiss her. He brushed her cheek with his fingers. His skin was smooth, light; she found herself leaning into his touch and it was not too much, it was not enough. She did not speak. She could not. The old memories were too strong for words.

  “I did miss you, Miri,” he whispered. “God, did I miss you!”

  Miri closed her eyes, unable to stand his gaze, which was open and wide and held no lies. I missed you, I missed you, she heard him say, again and again, and though she wanted to say the same, other words came to her, harder words, and she said, “It broke Ni-Ni’s heart, Dean. She was never the same after you were gone.”

  Never the same at all, though her grandmother had tried to hide it, even if that meant pretending she had company coming to excuse the extra bowl on the counter, the extra rice in the cooker. Even if it meant leaving her door unlocked far later into the evening than was safe, or treading the floor at ungodly hours to peer out the window, as though somehow she would find Dean there, magically resurrected by the strength of her will. She had loved that boy. Loved him more than her own son.

  “Miri,” Dean whispered, and there was still that break in his voice, that break that was like the one in her heart, and it made her eyes hot with tears. Miri could not bear that pain, but she forced herself because it was Dean, and he was here, and she would not be weak in front of him. Not now. She refused.

  “She grieved for you,” Miri said, swallowing hard. “Looking back, I think, maybe, she knew you were alive, knew you were out there, and every day until she died she expected you to come swaggering through that back door, back from the dead or wherever you were hiding. She told me—”

  Miri stopped. She had to stop because she finally tasted salt, tears, and there was a sob rising up her throat, that old burning sorrow. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt his hand on her shoulder, a warm palm at the back of her neck, and she was drawn, tentative and careful, across the seat into a hard chest that thrummed slow with breath, the steady beat of a quiet heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Dean breathed. For a moment it made her angry—a terrible fury that he had not gone back to her grandmother, back to where he could have found her—but then he said it again and again, and she felt something wet hit her ear, and she gazed up into his face and found him crying. She had never seen Dean cry—not ever, not even when he was ten years old with his hand slammed in a door and still young enough for tears without shame. She had cried for him that day. She had cried for him on other days, too, even when he did not realize what she was doing.

  Miri pulled back just enough to smooth her thumbs over his wet cheeks, savoring the feel of his face, the rough lines of blond bristle, the curve of bone, and the hollow of his throat. His shoulders had filled out with muscle. Dean grabbed her hands, holding them warm, and said it again, “I’m sorry.”

  Miri leaned close, studying his haunted face that was the same, and yet changed, and pressed her mouth against his ear. “She told me every day that even if it took a day or a year or longer, you would come home to her, to us, even if it was just as a ghost, because there was love waiting for you, all kinds of sweetness, and that you were a boy with a sweet heart, and that sort of thing carried a bond.”

  Dean shuddered, rocking against Miri’s shoulder. She clutched at him, digging her fingers into his lean back, and it was not enough to hug him like this, not nearly enough, because even though she was still hurt and bewildered, it was good to be near him again. She had forgotten how good, and she wanted more.

  “I imagined this,” she murmured.

  Dean’s fingers threaded through her hair. “If I could have, I would have. I promise you that. Hell, I moved to California because your parents were there and I though
t it was another way to be close to your memory.”

  She closed her eyes, marveling. “I’ve lived in Palo Alto for the past sixteen years. I work at Stanford.”

  “Goddamn,” he breathed. “You’re shitting me. You were so close. You were so close I could have just walked up and said hello.”

  “Hello,” Miri said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hello,” Dean whispered. “Hello.”

  Miri smiled and touched his cheek. “This kind of sustained heavy emotion might just melt you into a puddle if you’re not careful. Your face is all wet.”

  He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “I’m man enough not to care.”

  “Dean—”

  “Are you married?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Dean.”

  “Come on.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m none of those things.”

  “Neither am I,” he said. “So, yeah. Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. “Things are different now, Miri.”

  “We already covered this, Dean. I’m not the same person I was back then. Neither are you.”

  “Close enough. Don’t get too technical on me.”

  She tried not to smile. Dean stroked her palm with his thumb, and then, watching her eyes, raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “My lady,” he whispered, and Miri touched her throat, the place above her heart, and imagined she could feel her scars, pressing up through her blouse.

  She shivered. “It’s been a long time since I heard that.”

  “I was a lousy knight. Always getting into too much trouble and dragging you along with me.”

  “I was a willing partner. More than willing.”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t make it right. Things are different now, though. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove myself to you, Miri. You’re right. Twenty years is a long time, and the way we separated was bad. You don’t have any reason to trust me, not anymore, and I shouldn’t expect you to. So we’ll start over, okay? We’re adults now. We should be able to do this.”

  Miri tried not to smile. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you shouldn’t trust me? That I have something to prove, too?”

  “No,” he said. “It really didn’t.”

  Miri pulled away, though she did not insist he let go of her hand. She felt like the victim of a split personality: the woman she had become, shadowed by the echo of her sixteen-year-old self. Both sides tugging, both sides wanting. She heard the wail of sirens, the sounds of distant voices; the world, returning to her, piece by piece. She wiped at her face.

  “Police,” she said, listening. And then, an odder sound: fluttering, the beat of wings.

  A large crow hopped from the sky to the passenger-side mirror of the van. Miri was too numb to feel any surprise; only, she noted, its eyes looked strange. Light, somehow. Almost … golden.

  The crow cawed—once, twice—and its rasping voice twisted in the air like words.

  “About fucking time,” Dean muttered, leaning his head out the window. “You bastard.”

  “Dean,” Miri said, and he glanced at her with a slight expression of consternation on his face. Like he was doing something wrong—or maybe right, and he was not quite certain how to explain himself. Behind him, the crow stared into the van. Really stared, like it was memorizing her face, taking notes. She did not like it. It was intrusive, and Miri, feeling irrational, met that golden gaze, tore off the air freshener on the rearview mirror, and flung it out the window at the bird. She had good aim. The crow squawked and flew off.

  Dean stared at her. “You just threw an air freshener at my partner.”

  “Your partner…. Right.” Her gut twisted. “We’ll save that explanation for later.”

  The sirens got louder. Police, accompanied by a tiny ambulance not much bigger than the van, zoomed past the alley behind them. Presumably heading to the university. Again, Miri thought of Ku-Ku and Kevin, and that creature in the blaze. God.

  “You think anyone is going to come after us?”

  “Got a hankering for a good old game of Dukes of Hazzard?”

  “Oh yeah. The power of this van is a mighty thing.”

  Dean snorted, rubbing his face. “Don’t worry about the police, Miri. They’re not the ones trying to kidnap you.”

  “Yet.”

  “Everyone and their mama, right?”

  “It’s a conspiracy,” she agreed, then added, “I’m serious. Both Kevin and Robert had instructions, possibly from two different people. And if your serial killer is involved … Dean, that’s bad enough, but with all the other weird stuff?”

  “Robert,” Dean said. “I’m still trying to figure him out. Someone found him. Found him or made him, either of which would take huge amounts of money. And power.”

  “Everything comes down to the jade,” Miri said.

  “The jade and you. Are you sure you don’t have any idea what this is about?”

  “Yes, Dean, I’m sure. I’m boring. I have students, I teach, I do research, I run excavations with Owen, and that’s it. The jade, on the other hand, came straight out of a woman’s chest, so it’s already got a weird vibe about it.”

  “A chest?” Dean rubbed the space above his heart. She remembered his glowing scar and touched her chest. The skin felt hot.

  “The jade was placed there while the woman still lived,” she told him. “It remained long enough for her flesh to grow over its edges.”

  “That’s some beauty mark. How much do you think she paid her plastic surgeon?”

  “Not nearly enough. It would have been incredibly painful. I’m surprised the initial surgery didn’t kill her.”

  “So why would someone go through that? Was it forced?”

  “No idea. Owen and I were planning to go back to the dig site in Yushan to look for more clues. One thing we’re certain of is that the jade—and the writing on it—originated outside the region. Finding the other fragments, though … it’ll be almost impossible. Research can narrow the location, but discovering the first piece was a miracle. I doubt it can be repeated.”

  “Maybe someone disagrees with you.”

  “Then they know something I don’t. Or they have someone like you around.”

  She meant it as a joke, but one look at Dean’s face and her smile faded. He said, “Money and power, Miri. If they can hire someone like Robert, what makes you think they don’t have a guy like me on standby?”

  “Because the odds are—” She was going to say impossible, but stopped herself. “Men like you are rare, Dean. What you can do … it’s not normal. Don’t you think I’ve kept my eyes and ears open over the years? Looking for … for more?”

  For you, she wanted to say, and maybe Dean heard it in her voice, in her hesitation, because he shifted in his seat and said, “Miri, we’re not exactly a public spectacle. At least, not the really talented ones. I mean, hell, can you imagine?”

  “I don’t want to. I find it hard enough to believe everything that’s happened tonight, and I’ve even had some experience with … abnormal things. Thanks to you. But if the rest of the world knew? It would be a spectacle. A circus. Maybe even panic in some parts. People would get hurt.”

  “Probably people like me.”

  “Wuss. You’re bulletproof, remember?”

  “That’s more of a problem than an asset, Miri. I’m also thinking it’s a one-time deal.”

  “You were shot in the chest before tonight,” she said quietly. “You lived through that, too.”

  Dean gave her a long, hard look. “That doesn’t count. The bullet went in. I bled everywhere.”

  “But you still walked away. Did you even try to go to an emergency room or a doctor?”

  “No. I was too scared.” Easy, simple. Miri felt him watching her, waiting, but she did not ask why he had been scared. She remembered everything he had not said about the man who attacked them—abou
t what happened afterward—and thought she knew why he would not want to go any place where someone might be obliged to report a gunshot wound to the police.

  “So you treated yourself,” she said slowly. “What about the bullet? How did you get it out?”

  “I didn’t have to. It passed right through me.”

  “You still should have died.”

  He blew out his breath. “Why are you focusing on this, Miri? You survived, too, don’t forget.”

  “But I had medical attention. I can’t imagine what you had to go through.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” he said. “I don’t even know what made me think I could do it, except that I was desperate and I’d watched too many Westerns. Cowboys were always patching themselves up, right?”

  She shook her head. “And now this. I don’t like the timing.”

  “I don’t like any of it.” He rubbed his chest.

  “Is that cut bothering you?”

  “A little.” He hesitated. “I know you saw it light up all pretty.”

  “Very pretty. Very strange. How did you get it?”

  “I don’t know. Not really. It happened this evening. I … was having a nightmare related to the case I’m working on, and when I woke up, voilà.”

  “Voilà? That must have been some nightmare, Dean.”

  “You’ve got no idea,” he muttered. Miri rubbed her throat, fingers trailing down to her breastbone. Her skin felt warm, damp with sweat. She tried to imagine a cut, a glow. Instead she pictured jade.

  “You said it happened this evening?” she asked softly. “And that you were staying in the same hotel?”

  “One floor beneath you.”

  “Crazy,” she murmured, and then louder, she said, “I became very ill tonight. I felt like my body was on fire. Especially here.” She tapped the skin above her heart. “Strange, huh?”

  She looked at Dean and found him staring at her with an awful uneasiness that made her skin crawl.

  “What?” she asked, alarmed. “Does that mean something to you?”

  “You might say that.” His voice was hoarse, strangled. “What time did you get sick?”

  “Around seven thirty or eight.”