by David Dagley
Monica dropped her hands into her lap, still holding the knife, then pointed it at Mr. Won, and said, “I’ve always known something like this was going to happen. My father set my whole life up to be separated from everything—private all girls’ boarding school, private college.” She shook her head in disbelief, “Are you saying that my whole family is dead because of this key?”
“No. It’s not the key. It’s the greed that turns the key into something it was not intended to be. Monica, did your father ever mention the name Bower to you?”
Monica tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear and drew her wrist across her tears. She looked up at Mr. Won and said, “Yeah, I think they used to work together or something. Rayman knows him, too. Is he the one killing people?”
“No. I mean, I doubt it very much. He would be more interested in a fair game of matching wits and hide-and-seek than to kill his adversary. Listen to me, Monica. Bower is a collector, for sure. He believes he has the gold ring on which all these keys belong. They are very old, older than this knife. He’s an eccentric archeologist—the best in his field in my father’s opinion, top of his game. We don’t know how many keys there are in the world anymore, but it’s turning out to be quite a few more than we suspected. Two hundred years ago,” Mr. Won gave up. “Monica, I can’t explain it to you now. It’s a long story that begins with one of our ancestors. It’s written down in ledgers, journals, and documented maps. I want you to take a leave of absence from your job and come with me to Korea, right now. Your life may depend on it. It’s up to you! I’m leaving. Put on some comfortable clothes, get your passport and wallet, bring your key, and let’s go. You are possibly the bridge in a three-way bloodline feud, the Cho, the Won, and the Stell. I fear for my family, and you should fear for what’s left of yours.”
“And this?” asked Monica, holding the knife.
Mr. Won stood up and said frankly, “You can’t take it on a plane. We’ll mail it UPS or FedEx. It’s also yours. You deal with it. We must hurry.”
—
41
—
Cale got out of the cab at 1260 Euclid, walked up the brick stairs, and quickly searched the wall for Monica’s address. He knocked on the door and peered in the bay window through the kitchen. He thought he saw a shadow moving towards the door, so he took a step back to the entrance and waited for someone to open the door. No one came.
“Ms. Stell?” Cale said loudly. He knocked again and tilted his head to the door to hear more clearly. “Ms. Stell, I’m Detective Dixon from San Francisco. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He waited. Cale moved back to the window and put his hand up to shield reflections. He looked through the kitchen and into the living area. Frames of photographs were on the floor in front of the fireplace. Sofa pillows lay about the room. A chest of drawers was open at the far end of the room with files scattered about it. French doors were wide open into a courtyard out the back to the other side of the building. Cale backed up and looked for a gate or a passageway to the courtyard. A wrought-iron gate led Cale to the back of the building. He walked onto Monica’s porch and to the open French doors. “Ms. Stell? I’m Detective Dixon. I just want to ask you some questions about your cousin, Rayman. I think he’s in trouble, and he could use your help. You would be helping him if you spoke with me for a few minutes.”
There was no response.
“I’m coming in. Please don’t be frightened.” Cale walked in and surveyed the scene. The room had been turned upside down and searched. There were two glasses of water on the table near a ripped-up sofa. Cale walked over to the table and looked in one of the glasses. There was a very small cluster of bubbles floating freely on the surface and a water ring outside of the glass. Cale put the back of his hand against the glass and knowingly discovered it was still quite cold. He stepped carefully through the papers and empty picture frames on the floor to get to the telephone and message machine at the edge of the kitchen counter. He pulled a pencil out of a cup on the counter and pushed down on the corner of the message machine button, which was flashing. He put the pencil behind his ear as he listened to Monica introduce herself and leave message details.
“Monica Stell, this Victoria Short from San Francisco. I run the research department at a police precinct. We are investigating a murder at the Cho Estate Museum, and my partner was recently getting some help from your cousin, Rayman Stell. Apparently his house burned down last night, and we are trying to find him. If you could call me back as soon as possible, we would appreciate it. Our phone number is 415-788-7001. Please call; it’s very important. Thank you.”
The message machine flashed a number two and a second message began:
“Hey, Monica, it’s Rayman. I’ve got bad news. We can’t go back to the ranch house anymore. Somebody burned it down last night and died in the fire while looking for the floor safe. It was those people I told you about. I’m coming to see you. Be careful and stay home.”
Cale saw a staircase near the front door, traversed the kitchen towards the entryway, and walked up the cream–colored, carpeted steps quietly. On the landing there were three open doors. Monica’s bedroom overlooked the courtyard. The sheets and blankets were piled up in the middle of her bed. There was a path of clothing from the closet, out the door, and into the bathroom. Cale walked over to her desk and looked it over, searching for something about her or Rayman. Cale turned and looked in her closet and moved her remaining clothes around to see if there was anything in the corners. There was a box on the floor with a photo of two men in military fatigues, John and Robert Stell. They were sitting on the hood of a military jeep in front of the Presidential “Blue” House in Seoul, South Korea.
Cale grabbed the pencil from behind his ear and bent down. With the eraser end he lightly lifted a cover of a folder by its edge. There were more photos of the Stell family. Cale poked around, shuffling pictures, and found a photo of a baby being held by her Korean mother and John Stell, standing behind her with an arm over his wife’s shoulder. Both adults were smiling. There was another photo of Rayman’s family, when Rayman was young, and a photo of both families together at the ranch in Driggs. There were some news articles of the disappearance of Robert Stell, articles on the disappearance of John Stell, and articles and a hospital report on Rayman’s mothers’ poisoning. A framed photo, the same photo Rayman had on his desk mantle, was wedged down the side of the box. Cale tilted his head to look at it. He dug deeper and found a photo of Monica Stell with friends at a rock concert picnic. He pulled out the photo and stood up.
A searing pain grated against Cale’s ribs and entered his right lung. His muscles contracted; he couldn’t breathe. He fell forward to his knees. The jolt of the landing stung and intensified the pain. He winced, holding as much breath as he could. Someone put his hand on Cale’s shoulder and pulled the knife out of his back while pushing him forward with his hand and a foot. Again Cale felt the burning of the blade sliding between his ribs on its way out. Time moved in slow motion as Cale’s body went limp and fell face first against the wall before him. His neck and back arched unnaturally. His draped arms pinned themselves under his pelvis. All went black.
—
42
—
Monica boarded Korean Airlines and sat by the window in first class. Mr. Won sat next to her in the aisle seat.
Mr. Won smiled at Monica and said, “You made a good choice coming on this plane.”
“Did I?”
“I think so. There are so many things that your father kept from you, first and foremost, your mother. Ji Tun loved your father very much. Unfortunately for both of us, no one is able to bring back the dead, but we can show you where you came from and some idea of how your mother lived.” Mr. Won was trying not to think of the negative side of bringing Monica to Korea. He didn’t know how Father Won was going to react; would he kill her on the spot or take her under his wing and educate her in the ways of Won tradition and custom? After all, Monica
is family; she is blood. Mr. Won began explaining the basics, “When we arrive in Seoul, if everyone is still alive, you will have two grandparents, three uncles, including me, two aunts, and four cousins. You will have an option of four separate houses to stay in and or visit. We all live within a short subway ride on the red line, which we will give you a tour of when the time is right. Have you ever had kimchi before?”
Monica shook her head while she reached into her bag and pulled out a loose stack of photos she had taken off the wall and some others she had gotten from the box of photos in her closet. She was growing comfortable with the idea of finding out the truth. She felt she deserved that much, and her side of the family wasn’t going to give it to her; they were all dead except maybe Rayman. She thought maybe she would finally get a good night’s sleep if she could find all the pieces to her lonely, jaded past.
“Korean people love kimchi. It is very good for you. You will see.”
—
43
—
Victoria sat by Cale’s hospital bed when one of his swollen eyes opened. He inhaled through his nose, but stopped in pain. She gently touched Cale’s hand and whispered, “Hey there.”
Cale was supported at an angle on his side and had to drop his head to look at her. He tried to smile through gauze and bruised lips. He managed a soft nasal groan. With his free hand he reached up to his mouth and pulled out a piece of bloody gauze that was partially stuck with dried blood and looked at it.
Victoria spoke deliberately, “You’re in the hospital with two knife wounds in your back. One of them punctured your lung, and the other is more superficial. You have a smashed face and you’re still in DC. You’ve had surgery, and the doctors have sown you up to the best of their ability. You’ve been out of it for awhile, twenty-four hours or so. How do you feel?”
Cale spoke without moving his lips as much as possible, “Like I’ve just been stabbed in the back. What’d the doctors give me? I’m so high; I can barely open my eyes.”
“You mean your eye. One is definitely closed,” she smiled at her cute remark, trying to be funny.
“Do not make me laugh, or I will never go out with you,” Cale said with the corners of his mouth turned up in as much of a smile as he could muster.
Victoria laughed.
“Don’t do it,” Cale smiled and winced in pain, trying to hold back a chuckle.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just so happy you’re alive, Cale.” She had tears in her eyes and squeezed his hand.
“Is it bad?”
“No.” She shrugged and continued, “No worse than a prize fighter who lost the fight… and the prize. Your face is pretty banged up. Your eyes are swollen and bruised black-and-blue —so are your lips. And you have a broken nose. But the doctors have given you some really good drugs by the sound of your goofy state. Are you in pain?”
“No. Actually, I can’t feel much of anything, except what am I lying on?”
Victoria gave out a sigh of relief, “You’re on a hospital bed with half a section missing where your major knife wound is trying to mend.”
“It feels like my butt hanging out the window because there’s a fierce breeze blowing up my skirt.”
Victoria tried to hold it back but couldn’t; she put her hand over her mouth and busted up. When she stopped giggling, she explained, “There’s a fan back there keeping your back cool and moving air over your wounds.”
“So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“My butt.”
“What?” Victoria shook her head and grinned, “Cale, don’t flatter yourself.”
“I know you looked.”
Victoria gave a smile of approval and nodded, “I’ll still let you go out with me.”
A nurse opened the door and walked over to Cale’s bed, “Hello, Mr. Dixon. How are you feeling?”
“As good as can be expected, I guess.”
The nurse moved around behind Cale and said, “It’s time to rotate you onto your back for a few hours now that you’re awake, all right?” The nurse looked at Victoria sitting in front of Cale, “Could you help me remove these supports while I hold him away from them?”
Cale watched Victoria stand up, and he said snidely, “You women are all alike.”
The nurse and Victoria smiled at each other while the nurse slowly rolled Cale onto his back and looked under the bed to make sure his bandages were intact and that Cale wasn’t lying on his wounds. She changed the angle of the fan and asked, “How’s that feel?”
“Fine.”
“Okay then, you’re all set for awhile. I’ll be back within the hour to give you your evening medication and take care of a few other odds and ends.” The nurse grabbed Cale’s clipboard off the end of his bed, jotted down some information, and walked out the door. Her white shoes squeaked as she turned and walked away.
Victoria sat back down and began, “Guess who called 911 from Monica’s house for you and saved you life?”
“Who?”
“The one and only Rayman Stell. The DC police got fingerprints off the phone, but nowhere else. We originally thought he was the one who stabbed you, but that was all blown to pieces when we checked with the neighbors. There were a few visitors at Monica’s house before you. An Asian man showed up; we’re assuming it was Mr. Won, and Monica let him in through the front door. Soon thereafter they left together, and she was carrying a suitcase and what we now know was a carry-on. A half hour later a neighbor described a man in his late fifties, early sixties, knock on Monica’s door, peer through the window, then go around back and break in through the French doors. The neighbor couldn’t tell if the man was white or Asian, but they did say he wasn’t black. Whoever it was didn’t leave the house until a half hour after you arrived. And Rayman showed up an hour or so after you. So you were lying on the floor for about an hour or so. We checked all the taxi services, and two separate taxi dispatches confirmed the approximate time line.”
“There was a box in Monica’s closet full of the Stell history, photos, articles, everything,” said Cale.
Victoria looked puzzled, “No, there was nothing in the house—no clothes, no pictures, nothing in her desk, just furniture and dishes in the cupboards. It’s a nice place. I’d rent it, except for the neighborhood.”
Cale tried to explain, “When I got there, the French doors were open and the place looked like it had been searched. I heard your voice on the answering machine and Rayman’s. There were two glasses on the table. All her sheets and blankets were piled in the middle of the bed, and her clothes were strewn about the floor between the upstairs bathroom and Monica’s closet. That’s what led me to the box of photographs. That’s when I got stabbed, then I crashed face first into the wall.”
“I’m telling you, there was nothing in the house. Apparently someone had stripped it clean and wiped down everything, then Rayman came in and left fingerprints on the numbers and the phone. At least that’s what the DC investigators told us. I’ll bring you their report.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see that report,” Cale said curiously and continued, “because mine is going to be very different.”
Victoria moved onto another subject, “The victims’ body, one of four Won brothers, has flown back to Seoul with all his effects intact. There were originally four brothers and three sisters. One of each has died.”
Cale grunted.
Victoria continued with the updates, “Monica Stell’s passport is in use. She is now officially out of the country and has landed in Seoul, South Korea. She and Mr. Won flew first class, and she has an open-ended return. I’ve got a bunch of Won family information for you when we return to California. And here’s something for you to chew on while you’re here. There’s a connection between the Moguk murders and your international bank robber case that got you suspended and brought you to my department. The captain and his superiors are going to give you a formal apology when you return. The captain has already contacted the shrink and told
him that you were right and that he should take his books off the shelves to delete your information from his delusional manifestations chapter.” Victoria leaned her head to one side as if leading Cale, “That brings me to the final bit of news I have for you, which I hope doesn’t upset you too much and that you can understand due to your present condition.”
“What’s that? I get an apology and I’ve I been fired?”
“No, but the captain has officially taken you off the case and handed it over to Martin and his pet dog, Matt. The good news is, when you’re better, you still have a desk in my office, and you get a full raise.”
Cale closed his eye and concentrated on taking shallow breaths with as little pain as possible, saying slowly, “That’s all right with me; the case is going to evaporate now. Everybody has played their hands, and a call has been made. The cards are down.” Cale started to mumble and drift.
Victoria got up, kissed Cale on the forehead, and said, “Get some sleep, and I’ll come see you tomorrow. I’m taking some sick days and will accompany you back to San Francisco when you’re ready to get out of here. The doctors say you can leave in a couple of days. They’re watching for infections.”
“Thanks, Vic.”
“No problem. I’m just happy to see that you’re going to pull through.” Victoria went to the door and said over her shoulder, smiling, “By the way, you do have some wicked tan lines.”
Cale smiled slightly and turned his head towards her, “Hey, I showed you mine.”
Victoria smiled, “That’s the spirit; maybe another time, Cale. See you tomorrow,” she said, still smiling as she closed the door. The sterile corridor was quiet and empty except for a few people sitting to the side of the hallway, either sleeping uncomfortably across rigid blue plastic chairs or upright reading. A nurse carrying a small stack of clipboards walked towards Victoria. The nurse and Victoria greeted each other with head nods as they passed.
