Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Ling knew that even though Little Chow had been born in the United States, he had been raised in his father’s version of Chinese culture, and could be expected to behave accordingly. By running she had not only been disrespectful but defiant—and such behavior could not go unpunished lest Little Chow lose face.

  That was why Ling felt sure that the snakehead and his men were looking for her and was careful to keep to the shadows as she walked the mostly empty streets. The International District was a bad place to spend time, Ling knew that, but it was hard to resist because she knew her way around it and some of the locals spoke Mandarin. A black limo turned the corner ahead and the young woman ducked into a doorway and stayed there until the vehicle had passed. A hot bath: That’s what Lena Ling wanted more than food or a safe place to sleep. But, with only $12.62 left from her hoard, there was scant chance of getting that.

  Ling shivered in her thin leather coat, stepped out of the doorway, and continued to look for some temporary warmth. Buses were one of her favorite places to spend time. It was her experience that they were inexpensive, safe, and warm. Earlier that day she had enjoyed a truly magnificent ride from downtown to West Seattle and back, a journey that consumed the better part of three hours.

  Other favorite haunts included 7-11 convenience stores, shopping malls, and the downtown branch of the Seattle Public Library. Not only did the modernistic building provide the illegal with an opportunity to use the ladies room, it stocked some Chinese books. Her favorite thus far was Meiguo sheng huo shiyong hui hua, or Encounters in America. The other book she liked to curl up with was Xiao shi sheng huo Mei yu, or, Say it in American English. Something she was getting better at all the time.

  “Hey, come here for a minute. I want to ask you a question.” The voice was male and originated from a Monte Carlo that had been seized in a drug raid three months earlier. It wasn’t the first time Ling had been propositioned during the last few days, and the illegal knew that prostitution was an option. Perhaps a reasonable option given her circumstances, but the illegal had promised herself that she would never submit to sexual slavery again, even if that meant death. She refused to make eye contact with the man and hurried away.

  The plainclothes cop in the Monte Carlo shrugged, rolled the window up, and passed a five-dollar bill to his partner. “You were right, Rita. She wasn’t a whore. I guess I’m slipping.”

  Rita kissed the fiver, stuck it into her bra, and turned a corner. “You got that right, Pat. But what else is new?” The cops laughed as a Volvo with stolen plates passed headed in the opposite direction, turned a corner, and disappeared.

  Having spent a good portion of the day watching the government take possession of his underwater way station, not to mention illegals worth sixty thousand each, Joe Chow was in a bad mood. And, making matters worse, was the fact that Ling was missing. And not just missing, as in arrested by the police, but missing as in run off. The snakehead knew that because he knew the police and their tendency to brag. If they had arrested Ling at the Prospector’s Palace, they would have called a press conference to trumpet their accomplishment the next morning.

  That being the case, Chow had put the word out for people to keep their eyes peeled for Ling, and sent his men to visit some of her favorite places, all without success—until twenty minutes earlier when a cell phone registered to Paco’s dead aunt chirped and a tip came in. Ling, or a woman who looked very much like her, had entered a convenience store and purchased a cup of green tea. The proprietor attempted to stall her, or that’s what he claimed, but the illegal grew suspicious and left. Now, in spite of the fact that every cop in the state of Washington was on the lookout for him, Chow was determined to find his mistress. “Slow down,” he told Paco. “And pay attention. I want that bitch—and I want her now.”

  Ling had just crossed a street and was eyeing a well-lit apothecary shop when she heard the screech of tires. A quick glance over her shoulder was sufficient to confirm that a car was cruising up the street. It might have meant nothing, but that was a chance the illegal couldn’t afford to take. She ran, saw the cleaners up ahead, and turned in. The Chinese proprietress looked up from her sewing machine as the door opened and was just starting to formulate a protest when Ling bolted past the counter. Plastic garment bags swayed back and forth as the illegal pushed her way through. They were still in motion when Skinner burst into the shop.

  Ling heard a man shout as she emerged from the forest of clothes, passed through a cloud of warm steam, and found herself in a large kitchen. The fluorescent ceiling fixture gave the scene a bluish cast. A woman with a heavily seamed face looked up from a bowl of soup as the illegal rushed in and circled the table in order to reach the back door.

  And that’s where Ling was, fiddling with the lock, when the snakehead entered the room behind her. “Hold it right there!” Skinner ordered, and was halfway around the table when the crone extended her aluminum cane. The gang member tripped and went down hard.

  The old woman yelled, “Pao!” (run) and hit the gang member with her stick. There was very little strength behind the blow and the snakehead barely felt the impact. It took time to rise though, exchange angry words with the old lady’s son, and break free.

  Ling felt a surge of hope as the bolt turned, she opened the door, and was grateful for the cold air. Once in the alley she ran and ran hard. She caught glimpses of the Volvo from time to time, but managed to elude it long enough to spot a bus and hop on board. The illegal didn’t know where it was going nor did she care. The bus was warm and safe. That was all she could hope for.

  Meanwhile, back at the cleaners, Mrs. Tianyi Jiang went back to eating her soup. Even though the old woman’s opinion of her daughter-in-law was not especially high, there was no denying that the little hussy could cook, and that was something to be grateful for.

  Though not as fancy as Bellevue Square, which was located on the east side of Lake Washington, Northgate Mall was easier to access from the Wallingford District where Rossi lived. It was a big sprawling affair surrounded by parking lots, box stores, and strip malls. As the FBI agent guided the Maxima into a row of empty parking spots, she noticed that a crew was hard at work removing the fake Christmas wreaths that had been attached to the light standards.

  It was relatively early in the morning, but the combination of much-hyped post-Christmas sales, plus the need to exchange gifts, meant that a lot of people were likely to show up. “Okay,” Rossi said, as she prepared to exit the car. “Have you got the outfit? Good. Let’s get this over before the mall turns into a zoo.”

  Missy said, “Oh, mom,” and rolled her eyes as she got out of the car. It was an expression Rossi had seen more and more of lately—and was probably a harbinger of things to come. A short walk took them through big glass doors and into Nordstrom’s. It was warm inside, and judging from all the signs, just about everything was on sale. After a short detour into the shoe department, and a side trip to look at jackets, the twosome made their way to the Juniors section where the sweater-skirt combination could be exchanged—not because the clothes were too large or too small, but because they were “yesterday,” and almost guaranteed to destroy Missy’s social life were she foolish enough to wear them. That’s what the pre-teen claimed at any rate, and since she had been young once, Rossi was willing to go along. Or that’s what the agent believed until she heard Missy say, “Hey, Mom! Look at this!” and emerged from the racks holding what looked like half a skirt. She swallowed and forced a smile. “That’s a nice color. Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Short is in,” Missy announced airily. “Here, hold my bag, while I try it on.”

  “Not so fast,” Rossi insisted. “Let me take a look at that thing.”

  The pre-teen’s face registered an expression of pained exasperation as she was forced to surrender the garment to her mother. The FBI agent held the piece of clothing up and turned it around. That was when she saw that the word “Juicy” had been emblazoned across the back of the skirt.
Rossi gave it back. “No way, hon. I don’t approve of the ‘junior hooker’ look. Let’s see what else they have to offer.”

  Missy slapped the skirt onto the top of a carousel. “It isn’t fair!”

  The FBI agent sighed. “Why not?”

  “You go to bed with men you aren’t even married to—and expect me to dress like a nun!”

  The remark was so clear, and so well timed, that Rossi wondered whether it had been rehearsed. She felt a sudden stab of anger, followed by a tremendous sadness, and turned away. The cash register was only a few steps away. A salesperson accepted the return, made an adjustment to Rossi’s account, and produced a much-practiced smile. “Thank you for shopping at Nordstrom’s. Have a nice day.”

  It was too late for that, but the FBI agent nodded anyway and turned to leave. Missy’s face registered concern—but defiance as well. There was an icy silence between mother and daughter as they left the store and entered the parking lot. Rossi looked for the Nissan but a van blocked her view. Then, as they began to get close to the car, the agent saw that her sedan was sandwiched between two identical vans. That struck her as unusual, but not especially worrisome, so long as their owners hadn’t contributed to the collection of dings she already had. Lights flashed as she thumbed the remote.

  Missy went down the right side of the Maxima and Rossi went down the left. Her hand was on the door handle, and the FBI agent was just about to pull on it, when she heard the door open behind her. That was when Rossi registered the fact that she hadn’t seen so much as a blob through the darkened glass and went for the collapsible baton in her right hand jacket pocket. The handle came out smoothly and six inches of steel was transformed into sixteen as Rossi turned.

  But Joe Chow had the advantage. Because unlike the FBI agent, who had to confirm a threat before she could counter it, the snakehead was free to hit anyone he chose to. The blow started low, came up fast, and connected with her jaw. The lights went out, the agent started to fall, and Chow was there to catch her.

  Missy attempted to scream, just like she’d been taught to do, but never got the chance. A hand went over her mouth and one of her arms was bent up behind her back as she was hustled around the Nissan and into Chow’s van. Her mother lay on the floor where the second row of seats would normally be. The pre-teen paused as if to help but another man was there to stop her. “Sit down,” he instructed, “and keep your mouth shut.” The ten-year-old had little choice but to obey.

  Joe Chow took a look around, saw no signs of alarm, and spent the time necessary to toss a manila envelope into the Nissan. Once that was accomplished he locked the doors and pocketed the key. Then, having bent to retrieve Rossi’s purse, the snakehead reentered the van. Skinner was in the back, next to the girl, and Paco had the wheel. The rest of the gang were in the second van. “We got what we came for,” Little Chow said smugly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Both vans left the parking lot slowly, made their way onto an arterial, and followed it west toward old 99. Rossi, still unconscious, lay on the floor as Chow went through her handbag. “Well, well, look what we have here. A Glock, an extra magazine, and some lipstick! Wait…. There’s more. Hey, Paco! I have a badge! Don’t speed or I’ll give you a ticket.”

  Paco laughed obediently as Chow twirled the Glock, cowboy-style, and pretended to shoot people through the windshield.

  Rossi returned to the world of the living gradually. Her jaw hurt, the arm that was trapped under her torso had gone to sleep, and she needed to pee. That fact that she could hear an occasional sob was a relief. At least Missy was alive! But for how long? Relief surrendered to fear—and grim determination. If there was a way out of the situation Rossi would find it.

  Rather than look around, and thereby signal the fact that she was conscious, the agent chose to remain as she was for the moment. They were in one of the vans. A new van judging from the smell and the clean carpeting that lay only inches from her nose. That much was painfully obvious. But bound for where? There was no way to tell from her position on the floor. One thing was for sure, however. Judging from what she could feel the vehicle was not being pursued. That was depressing because no one was likely to report the two of them missing until sometime late that evening, when the agent failed to bring Missy home and Vanessa began to fuss. Would the hyper-efficient house executive let the matter go? Oh, she’ll call, Rossi thought to herself, and go over to my house when there isn’t any answer. But will Vanessa contact the cops? Or the FBI? Because, if she decides to call the cops, they might conclude that the whole thing is part of a custody battle, and sit on it for a day or two. Not Theel though…He would know better.

  There was no way to know what Vanessa would do, and her arm hurt like hell, so Rossi issued a theatrical groan. Skinner bought the act, kicked her in the ribs, and said, “Stay where you are, bitch.”

  The FBI agent did as she was told, but was able to shift weight off of her arm and restore some circulation. That hurt, too, and continued to bother Rossi as she managed to place two full sets of prints on the back of the vinyl driver’s seat. Assuming the van was stolen, and would soon be abandoned, the prints would let the forensics people know that she had been in the vehicle and transported on the floor. Chow looked back over his shoulder. He smiled smugly. “So, Special Agent Rossi, it seems that congratulations are in order. You wanted to find me and here I am! Maybe you should call a press conference.” That triggered laughter from Paco and Skinner.

  Conscious of the fact that Missy was present, and extremely vulnerable, the FBI agent chose her words with care. “That would be terrific. You could turn yourself in on live television.”

  Chow didn’t laugh, but he smiled, if somewhat tightly. “You’ve got balls, Agent Rossi, and balls are a good thing. Except on a woman.” It was a laugh line and produced the predictable response from his subordinates.

  “Thanks,” the agent replied. “I think…. So, what’s the plan? Are you going to send them a message? Like ‘let me go or I’ll cap the cop?’”

  “Yeah,” Chow replied evenly. “Something like that.”

  “Sounds good,” Rossi lied. “I guess I’ll find out who likes me.”

  “I guess you will,” Little Chow replied. “If I decide to let you live.” The FBI agent didn’t have a good comeback for that one—nor would it have been appropriate to use one. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to know that it was a good idea to let Chow win the verbal sparring match. Especially with two of his men looking on. So Rossi chose to remain silent as Paco selected a hip-hop station on the radio and added his own sound effects to Eminem’s “Bonnie and Clyde”.

  Rossi still had her watch, so she knew that about forty-minutes had passed by the time the van finally came to a halt. And, judging from the fact that there had been plenty of stops, the FBI surmised that they were still within the Seattle city limits. But where? The answer, or part of the answer, soon became apparent. “Back in as close as you can,” Chow instructed. “And once we get into position, grab the wheelbarrow that Tian Lei and his men were using. Plus some sort of tarp. We’ll take them across one at a time.”

  Rossi felt the van go into reverse and stop. Skinner made his way over to the side door, and the FBI agent wondered if that was her chance. She decided that it wasn’t when Chow peered into the back. “Go ahead,” he suggested, as the door slid open. “Make a run for it…. But the girl is mine.”

  Hearing that Missy said, “Mommy? Are you okay?” The pre-teen’s voice was shaky—and she was clearly on the verge of tears.

  Rossi attempted to sound confident. “I’m fine, honey. Hang in there. Everything will be okay.”

  The side door slammed closed just as the rear door opened and Paco stuck his head into the cargo compartment. “Take the girl first,” Little Chow instructed. “And don’t forget to tape her.”

  Rossi started to object, but thought better of it when the snakehead waggled the Glock at her and she was forced to lie on the floor and wait while Paco and Skinn
er hogtied her daughter, dumped the little girl into a wheelbarrow, and threw a tarp over the load.

  The FBI agent’s turn came ten minutes later, and rather than struggle against the inevitable, Rossi put all of her energy into intelligence gathering. The snakeheads forced their captive into a ball and secured her with three or four yards worth of tape before loading the helpless woman into the wheelbarrow. The conveyance had been used to mix concrete at some point and the inside surface felt like coarse sandpaper. Though not sure that they would take, Rossi did her best to register a good set of prints on the inside surface of the barrow, and tore out some of her hair as Paco took control of the one-wheeled vehicle. If found, the hair sample would provide the forensics people with yet another clue.

  There was a small tear in the blue tarp, and moving by her head, Rossi discovered that she could see out. That was when she saw a wooden cabin cruiser sitting up on blocks and realized that she was near the water. But which water? Lake Washington? Lake Union? Puget Sound? There was no way to know.

  There was a painful bump as the wheelbarrow was pushed up onto a gangplank, and another bump at the far end, followed by a relatively smooth trip along a central walkway. The FBI agent couldn’t see what lay immediately around her, but caught a glimpse of calm, green water and a building before being wheeled through an open door and into a dark enclosure. That was when the wheelbarrow tilted forward, and Rossi was dumped onto rough wood decking. Skinner had entered by then and watched while Paco ripped the tape off the captive’s mouth, flicked his knife open, and cut her free. Once that was accomplished Paco jerked the agent up onto her feet. “Put your hands on top of your head,” the gang member ordered. “I’m going to search your ass. And when I say ‘your ass’—that’s what I mean.”