by Finn Bell
“You two?” Martin asks, looking over at us.
We just shake our heads.
As Martin lights up his cigarette he looks over at us and says, “Looks like the only tenuous hope we have left is that our warning reached Remu Black in time and that stopped him from killing James outright. And that by some miracle he’s continued to keep him alive because he believes even now that he’s somewhere close enough that we’d still find the body. Although that would fade with every step he takes away from here. And that’s blindly assuming help hasn’t reached him by now. Tom’s right. We’re past that point. Out of time. No breaks in the case. No trail. And the search grid is too wide now. We’re not rescuing him.”
* * *
THE TWO MEN IN THE DARK
When the moment finally comes I’m not ready for it. We’re going down a steep hillside deep in the cold gloom of tall pines when I finally work my hands free. The rush of adrenalin burns in my chest. I’ve been rehearsing what I need to do in my head for what feels like hours, but when it finally happens my mind goes blank. I take a deep breath and force myself to act.
As I rip off the blindfold I see he’s only a step ahead of me. So close. He must have sensed something because he’s already starting to turn towards me. Seeing him right in front of me jolts me into reacting. No more thoughts now, just instinct. I lash out as hard as I can, my kick catching him squarely between the shoulder blades, flinging him forward into the open air with a painful yell. The force of the impact shoots a flash of pain up my leg. I know I hurt him. But I realise my mistake a moment later as I’m painfully yanked down after him. No! I forgot about the rope around my neck.
As he flies forward he manages to hang on to it with one hand and it jerks my head down painfully, pulling me clean off my feet. We’re both falling now, out of control limbs slamming into each other in a confused tumble. None of it hurts, too many hits, too fast to feel anything. Then he crashes down first, sprawling on the hard frozen ground half a second before I land on top of him. I can feel the moment his head bangs into my knee, and as my momentum carries me beyond him I frantically scrabble for the rope, thankfully finding as I get myself oriented that it’s several steps away from him. And even though the rope still bites chokingly into my throat, he’s lying on his stomach groaning and his hands are empty. I’m free.
A mix of hope and fear sears through my veins as I sprint down the hill in huge, desperate strides. Forcing myself not to look back. Then my feet find the rough animal track we must have been following and I sprint down it at a reckless pace. Away! I have to get away!
When I reach the bottom of the hillside my breath is already coming in ragged gasps so loud I can’t hear anything else. In a sudden spasm of fear I realise he could be right behind me. On impulse I look over my shoulder, expecting to see him right there reaching for me, but he’s still down where he fell, only rising now. It takes just this brief glimpse away from the treacherous path to betray me and I stumble as I drag my gaze back down to my feet.
I almost fall but flail my arms wildly and manage to keep upright as the first gunshot rings out behind me. Reflex makes me duck down at the sound but I keep running. The second shot explodes the bark of a tree right next to me, splinters of wood cutting into my face. My heart racing, muscles screaming, I force myself to run faster as the third shot comes so close to me I hear the angry hissing, feel the air disturbed by its passage.
* * *
THE STORM
As the burdened wind reaches open water it is swallowed whole in the endless clash of air currents at the bottom of the world where all oceans meet. Only a minnow now, it is dwarfed by the turbulent collision of massive low-pressure systems birthing on the edge of the Pacific, the largest ocean on earth.
The tendrils of cooling smoke become smeared thin in the vast arm of a slow spiral arcing out across the great ocean. Growing in size and speed and height, it soon stretches across the horizon, spanning more than 100,000 square miles. The only conception of its true scale now is from outer space. The gigantic storm coils there, feeding on itself, building strength as it grinds against the buffeting Antarctic winds until it finally overpowers them. It has become the strongest thing in the sky. This is when it breaks free, flinging itself north, into the world.
* * *
TOBE AND NICK
Martin sent us home because there was nothing left for us to do. Or, to be more honest, because we couldn’t do the things that needed to be done. Nobody has said anything to us, not even Martin, but the questions cling to us anyway.
As we drive back from Lawrence in tired silence, I wonder how the biggest killing of gang leaders in the south happens without us knowing a thing? When it’s our job to know. How come we have nothing? Not who, not how or even a vague, general clue as to why.
Working organised crime isn’t like normal policing; we already know who the suspects are before they do anything. We’ve known them for years. We know where they live, who they love and who they hate. We tap their phones, trace their accounts and follow their friends and family. We bribe their worst enemies. Most working days we talk to them face to face, in prisons, in their homes, even on their death beds, and still we have nothing.
“What did we miss? How is it that when this happens we’re just as clueless as everybody else?” I ask, breaking the silence as we crest the last, high hill, the lights of the city opening out below us in a glittering yellow swath.
“I’ve been considering that question since this morning,” Tobe replies. “Ever since we saw Brian Kepu lying dead in that house, in fact. But I don’t have any answers. Good or bad I still can’t see why all of them went out there in the first place, what they were looking for, or why they stayed there. The only part that makes sense is Remu Black kidnapping James Chen, which is simply a crime of necessity. Unfortunately, it looks like it’s also the one crime here that’s going to have the biggest price and I’d say the odds are good that he’s going to get away with it,” Tobe remarks.
Which means the only people who are going to pay for it are Andrea Chen and her daughters. And fate won’t spare them even the smallest mercy, because there will be no body. No funeral. No ending. Officially it will be ‘missing person, presumed dead’ but grief is especially cruel to the young. It will take all their childish optimism and curdle it into a poisoned, desperate hope that somehow, somewhere, their father is still alive.
“When we left I heard Martin talking about bringing in the army reserves to help with the search. They were saying they could make it go into next week. Maybe there’s still a chance of finding him,” I say, even if it’s only James’ body that we find, I think to myself.
“That’s simply public relations Nick. Tom was right, it’s over, and you heard Martin, he agrees. So do I and I know you do too. But that’s irrelevant because of what all of this means. A big, bad thing has happened to good people. This is simply too much tragedy for the average person to accept, too high profile, too much media attention for the police to come out and publicly say there’s nothing we can do after just a day. I’ve seen this happen a few times with big searches. Everyone knows we’re beyond finding anything but we can’t quit so soon because people aren’t ready for it to be over yet. So the search area gets bigger, more road blocks go up and the helicopters keep flying, but in reality the odds of success become far too low to justify any of it. We don’t do it because we think it will work, we do it because people need us to look like we do,” Tobe says.
“What’s the point? We run around in the wild for a few more days just because it looks good to the public and then what? A week from now Martin fronts up to the cameras with a sincere expression saying we did all we could? When really he could have said the same just as honestly tonight?” I ask, surprised by how angry I’m getting.
“We do it so people can have time to start blaming the Chens for this happening to them,” Tobe replies.
“What?” I respond.
“Think about it. That’s how
this works. When something bad happens to good people the first thing most people feel is sympathy. Because everyone thinks of themselves as good people too. We’re all the same. They tell themselves it will be ok, things will be ok for those poor people because we’re going to make it better. If the cops came out and said sorry it’s over, nothing we can do, right there and then people wouldn’t feel safe anymore. It would mean bad things can happen to good people and there’s nothing anybody can do to stop it. And if it can happen to them it can happen to us.
“But people are selfish and that pang of sympathy fades quickly, reliably, it just takes time. A week or two later we can tell people the exact same thing but it doesn’t scare them so much anymore because their sympathy is almost gone by then. And without it, something inside people tells them it’s all ok now. Because we’re not the same as those people. And if we’re good people that means they’re not, not really. So even though this bad thing happened everything is still ok because it only happened to them. It doesn’t mean it can happen to us. Because bad things don’t happen to good people.”
“You know that actually sounds just fucked up enough to be true,” I say as my hands start to shake on the wheel, making me clench them tight to still them. It is true, I really don’t want it to be but it is.
“It’s not good or bad Nick, it’s just how it is. You need to learn how to accept things as they are. You’d be happier and you’d live longer,” Tobe says in a calm tone.
“Nothing wrong with being a sore loser, it makes you a better detective. And happy people don’t automatically see the worst in people, which also comes in handy, and I don’t want to live longer if it means more cases we aren’t fucking solving,” I reply, louder than I meant to. Then I sigh and force down my frustrations before continuing. “Sorry. Look, it’s been a long day and my brain is fried, is all. This is the reality of the case. What do we do now?”
“I’m afraid there aren’t many reasonable options left to us,” Tobe states. “Let’s assume Remu Black won’t get caught and has in fact gotten away already. This means we’re no longer working a kidnapping but a murder. That leaves two possible scenarios: he’s already killed James and disposed of the body somewhere in the wild where he feels confident we won’t find it, or he reached his help and the gang has killed and disposed of James elsewhere. Neither option allows us much opportunity. Anyone searching out in the wild stands exactly the same chance of finding the body as us. Remu will have hidden it well and would also have done what he could to limit any evidence linking it to him. The longer it’s exposed to the elements the less likely it becomes that we find anything useful even if we do find the body. And the odds of that are exceedingly small as it is. If he reached the gangs for help our prospects worsen even more. There won’t be a body left to find. James may already be ash in the ocean as we speak.”
“That’s about what I thought,” I reply, stifling a yawn. “And once the rest of the gang gets involved, there are too many possible options open to them for us to hazard any kind of workable guess as to who did it and where they got rid of the remains. Even if by some miracle we find DNA somewhere we’d never be able to link it to Remu. He’ll have a host of alibis lined up the moment he surfaces.”
“There’s one way this could not be over. One way James could still be alive,” I say, chasing a stray trickle of thought across my exhausted brain. “There had to be a reason why they chose that house right? What if James Chen is the reason? We know they were searching for something and we know they waited in the house for a long time. And when it all went wrong the one person they take is James. What if they need something from him, or want him to do something? That could explain why the family was held hostage and maybe even why they searched the house. Then we show up and ruin everything. They don’t have what they came for so Remu kidnaps James to get it later. If James hasn’t given them what they want yet then he might still be alive.”
“It’s doubtful Nick. Occam’s Razor,” Tobe says.
“Huh?” I ask.
“Occam’s Razor. It’s a basic principle of science; the world wants things to be simple. The least complicated explanation for any given event is most frequently the right one. Which makes it more than likely that James is dead and this is over. There’s too much supposition in your theory that has no proof,” Tobe says, then takes a moment before nodding to himself. “But I can’t see any more plausible alternatives that would allow us to do anything constructive right now so let’s assume for the moment that it is true. That would open two more lines of inquiry. First, is there a way for us to find out what the gang could want from James Chen? Second, if James Chen is alive and being held somewhere, could we find that place before they kill him?”
“See, now those are questions I like a lot more,” I say. “Because both could end up pointing to bad people we already know. With Martin’s pull we could divert a slew of cops wasting their time on that futile search and rescue to ripping every shred of James Chen’s life apart in hours. If there’s a connection between him and the gangs, if there’s a possible use they could have for him, we could find it. And while we’re doing that Tom’s guys could smash open every gang safe house, business and drug den in the south looking for him while the army wanders around in the mountains for appearance’s sake.”
* * *
“Nick, stop. Stop talking,” Martin interrupts me. I swear I can actually hear him taking a drag on a cigarette over the phone.
“But Cap we—”
“Stop,” Martin cuts me off again. “Nick, you don’t need to explain. We’re already doing it. Some of the guys at the main office raised the possibility earlier. Tom and I started shifting people into working the murder scenario this morning, before we even found that tunnel.”
It takes me a moment to process what Martin is saying. When I get it I experience a conflicting mix of admiration for how much more cynical bastards some cops are than me and embarrassment for taking this long to make the connection myself.
“Oh,” I reply.
“You’re too tired Nick. Let’s pretend I’m the captain, and for a change everybody else does what I tell them. You and Tobe go home. Eat. Sleep. Be back here tomorrow at 5:00 a.m. Do it. I can’t use you like this,” Martin says.
“Ok,” I reply, but Martin’s already hung up.
“He’s right,” Tobe says next to me, as we’re sitting in the parked car outside his house. “We’re too tired. Taking this long to see the murder angle is one thing but assuming that nobody else would is one thing too many. We need to step away from this. We’re not helping anymore.”
“The Chen family doesn’t have that option Tobe,” I say stubbornly, although I know he’s right. But I’ve never been someone to quit doing stupid things just because I’m confronted with good reasons.
“Come on,” Tobe says as he gets out of the car.
“I got a message from Mother. She got hold of Maria through the school and invited her to join us for dinner. They’re already inside. I believe they will be getting on well,” Tobe continues.
Dinner. Tobe’s mother. Maria. All these things seem a world away from the day we’ve had right up to a second ago. Part of me doesn’t want to get out of the car, because it would mean that days like today can happen and afterwards normal life just goes on. And it shouldn’t. Again, I think back to seeing those three people huddled together in that hospital bed, waiting for the bad news to come while they’re telling each other it’s all going to be ok. Only now I also hear Tobe saying that bad things don’t happen to good people. That part of me wants to go find Remu right now and kill him a whole lot.
Instead I follow Tobe into the house, trying for the umpteenth time today to still the trembling in my hands.
“I’m not sure I’m getting this,” Maria says, smiling at us from the swinging double doors of the kitchen entrance as we come out of the coat room under the main stairway.
Tobe and his mother Margaret share an 18th century, three-story mansion
built by their ancestors and passed on from a succession of prestigious bankers, renowned doctors and wealthy businessmen. I sometimes forget that the very straight-laced Tobe is seen as something of a rebel in his family for choosing a cop’s life.
Then I realise that Maria’s looking at my head. I have forgotten to take off my Happy Hearts Daffodil Trust hat.
“Long story,” I say as she comes over to me, one of her hands going down to take hold of mine, to feel how steady it is. It’s unfair when your partner can so easily bypass your lies to check how well you’re really doing. Then she gives me an estimating look and by her expression I guess I don’t come across much better than I feel.
“Long day?” she asks as Tobe heads into the kitchen after kissing Maria on the cheek.
“That too,” I answer. Maria was raised in a cop family so she knows I can’t talk about it. But she knows I work for GIC. Knows what Tobe and I do. And thanks to Becca Patrick and the Channel 3 News I’m pretty sure she also knows what we were doing today.
“Here, drink this. Margaret made it,” Maria says as she hands me the glass she’s holding in her other hand. My throat contracts around a mouth full of what turns out to be almost pure gin with just the vaguest rumoured insinuation of tonic added in. What is it with old ladies and gin and tonic? Better to be safe than sober I guess.
“How long have you been here? Should I apologise to you for having to meet her yet?” I ask while we’re still alone.
“Nick, Margaret’s lovely,” Maria replies, giving me a gentle shove.
“Yeah, right up to the point where she starts telling you the thoughts that go through her head,” I say as Maria laughingly leads me into the dining room.
“Nicholas,” Margaret says with a big grin on her round face as she bustles in carrying a large tray covered with a silver dish. Tobe and his mother share almost nothing in appearance or manner. Where he’s tall and gaunt she’s short and plump, and even well into her eighties she still contrasts his reserved, calm and aloof rational manner with her extroverted, passionate nature and jovial wit. About the only thing they share, aside from a strong intellect, is the habit of telling me what to do.
