“Oh, my god, I hadn’t realized that. I’m sorry, Andra. This is completely the wrong time. Tomorrow if that works for you.”
“No, Max, maybe this is exactly what I need.”
He bridged the distance between them in one long stride and again took her in his arms, but this time he held her tight. “I’m sorry, Andra,” he repeated as her face burrowed into his shoulder. He held her there for a minute, her frame lithe yet fragile in his arms. His hand threaded through her hair. At another time he would have relished its soft and silken feel. Instead he just held her as her face cradled into his neck and her breath caressed and teased him in a way, in this moment, it shouldn’t.
She took a shuddering breath as he trailed his hand down her back, settling at her waist and pausing there for a moment, then two, before letting her go.
“Come in. I need to sit down, my knees are shaking,” she said with a laugh that didn’t quite ring true.
“I shouldn’t have involved you,” he said. “This damn doll, the code, all of it . . .”
She pushed thick strands of jet-black hair from her face. But her eyes met his and the passion in them left no doubt that she was laying down a challenge with her words. “Don’t be ridiculous, Max. I’m not sure what you’re implying but I’m a colleague with an equal stake. Besides, it’s too late. You’re in possession of the doll and I . . . Look.” Her eyes shifted to the hallway. “Come in. I could use a drink and I’m not going to offer you one in the doorway.”
“Are you sure it’s safe for you to remain here?” he asked as he hovered on the threshold. “The police . . .”
“Can do nothing.” Her smile was poignant. “I’m fine for now. Come in, please.”
“You’re sure.”
“I am. There’s nothing I can do for Margaret. And I can be sad for what happened just as well later as now. Now, we have to talk.” She smiled, a rather whimsical, shell-shocked smile. “You’re shocked.”
“A bit taken aback. You’ve just been through a trauma.”
“I’m pragmatic. Learned to be that way as a child. Tragedy isn’t an anomaly. You know that. It happens more frequently than we would like to believe. Unfortunately, a part of life.”
“And you have to keep going,” he finished.
“Exactly, even an hour later.”
“Even . . . that’s so soon. I wouldn’t . . .” He hesitated, seeing the look of determination in her eyes. “I suppose it’s not my way.”
“But it’s mine,” she said simply.
But her hands shook as she took his arm and ushered him inside, pushing the door closed behind them.
Chapter Three
A bank of windows covered one wall in the apartment and gave the illusion of space. Behind him Andra was opening cupboards in the tiny kitchen that gleamed with undersized stainless steel appliances, for space in Hong Kong was at a premium.
“Scotch?” she asked.
“If you’re offering, I’d love a Scotch.”
“And I desperately need one,” she said with a dry edge in her voice.
In the distance, Victoria Peak was partially hidden behind the glass and steel forest, its mysterious summit cloaked in mist, a unique mixture of nature and wealth as trees blanketed the slopes and intermingled with lavish apartment buildings. Around it, evening was settling and the city lights were flaring up. Advertisements for every major corporation lit up in broadband neon, a light parade that provided the awe factor to the night sky. Hong Kong was a city powered by the energy of commerce and its advances were showcased under the strength of endless artificial lights.
He turned around as she pressed a glass into his hand. “Laphroaig.” His hand overlaid hers for a moment longer than necessary.
“Max.” His name was a husky whisper.
“Andra,” he replied. “I’ve waited for this moment for too long.”
His palm cupped her cheek then dropped, and he turned his attention to the glass in his hand. “A single malt. Excellent.” The words were like a mental shake, taking him away from her lush body and his desire to put the drink down and make love to her.
“Not only that but twenty-seven years old,” she said.
“I’m impressed.”
There was silence between them as they admired the amber drink, swirled the whiskey, inhaled the aroma and finally tasted it.
“A hint of chocolate.” She looked up at him, her eyes silently asking his opinion.
“Layers,” he agreed. “Smooth, nutty. I can taste caramel. An incredible vintage.” He swirled the glass and glanced over his shoulder at the windows, where outside the city lay in the darkness that the artificial light could not reach, to where the mysteries lay, and to the reason he had come here. Silence hung between them, as rich and heavy as the rare Scotch they shared.
“Who would have killed her? Margaret was quiet, staid even. She wasn’t one to get anyone riled or to mind anyone else’s business. And she definitely stayed on the right side of the law. At least that’s the impression she gave.” Her hand trembled slightly. “It’s unbelievable.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter how often I ask the question as to who would have done this, it’s exactly as I told the police. I have no idea.” She set the glass down on a small wicker table.
Max set his glass down beside hers and settled into a canvas-backed chair. His legs sprawled in front of him as he shifted in the too-small chair.
She twirled a long strand of black hair and then released it, letting it swing softly against her cheek. He remembered the satin feel of it as it ran across his palm.
She clutched her elbows and shivered. “Margaret was killed in typical triad fashion.”
He scowled as he shifted his wayward and conflicted emotions and considered this new possibility. “It might be someone making it look like a triad killing. Is that possible?”
“I suppose. It’s not knowledge that’s classified. We’ve all read about how knives are used and throats are slit.” She got up. The flip-flops clipped against her heels and made an odd yet familiar snap as she walked over to where off-white doors hid a closet just behind the front door. She took out a peach-and-plum-colored sweater and slipped it on. “Can I get you a jacket?”
“No, I’m fine.” The answer was almost rote as his mind churned through everything that had happened and everything they didn’t know. There was too much gray and no solid ground. “You can’t stay here. It’s too close to home. What if they didn’t get what they wanted? If they target you next or . . . ? I should never have involved you.”
“Shouldn’t you?”
His eyes met hers and again there was that promise of something else. She dropped her gaze.
“Do you think you had a choice?”
“You’re right, but that still doesn’t mitigate the danger. Is it even safe for you here?”
“I should be safe for now. The police are still collecting evidence. And the apartment owner has hired a guard. It will be good, at least for now.” She drew her knees up to her chin.
Max took out the note that had accompanied the doll. Until the day, two weeks ago, when he had checked his mail and found the package notification, he had never heard the name Fu and Nushu had been only one of many forgotten languages.
“Fu knew you were an expert in languages and that I was an expert in codes. And she’s contacted us both, albeit through you. Could she have seen our names in the article we wrote for the American Scientific Journal last year?”
She picked her glass up, studied it for a moment as if the glass had answers, and then set it down. “I suppose it doesn’t matter how she found us.”
She drained the last of her Scotch. “I know I should have savored it and I usually do,” she twisted the glass around as if it were at fault. “All things considered . . .”
“I’m surprised you didn’t finish it in one gulp,” Max said as he set his half-full glass down. “This has been a horrifying night for you.”
“I can’t think of it, Max, not now. Le
t’s take a look at what brought you here.” She leaned forward, the plum in the sweater seeming to bring out a blush in her cheeks. “Let’s review what we have so far.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he replied.
“A doll mailed to you from Beijing by a woman named Fu. In a language for and by women and a plea.”
“A plea?”
“What else would you call the note pinned to the doll—find my heart, find my girl? As we’ve discussed, a women’s language, a clue that not only suggests the female gender but emphasizes it. A doll. Female too, I might remind you.” She looked at him with a whimsical smile. “Let’s see the doll. I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for this.”
Max lifted the doll out of the satchel. Its cloth body was light. It was only the porcelain head that had given him any trouble.
Andra reached for it. “It’s smaller than I would have thought.”
“Fourteen inches head to toe.”
“The traditional wedding dress of southern China,” she said. “The cloth is so faded. Delicate.” She ran a finger along the dress, red faded into pink, scalloped with gold braid.
He took a sip of Scotch and set it down. “The day the package with the doll arrived . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t tell you how perplexed I was.”
“So you said.”
He handed the note to her.
“The writing is unsure,” she said softly. “Or almost like the writer was old, or sick.”
“That’s what I thought. And the language.”
The paper shook in Andra’s hand. “Nushu,” she whispered. “I couldn’t believe it when you told me.”
“The characters were challenging at first,” Max went on.
“Even with a doctorate in linguistics?”
“Even with that. Nushu wasn’t something I was looking for, and as it resembles Cantonese, I was thrown off track. At least temporarily.”
“The lost language,” Andra said, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I just can’t, I mean I knew . . . you told me, but to see it. A language used solely by women, the only one of its kind.”
“I understand. It affected me too,” Max admitted. “I never thought to see it in anything other than a textbook.
“Wow.” Andra leaned forward. “Few people know of it or of the province in China where it was developed.”
“Possibly because it’s a remote southern township and it is written, not spoken.”
“And, unfortunately, because it’s about women.” Her dark hair coiled around her neck as some of it slipped from the knot she had it tied in.
“And that,” Max agreed. “It has driven me crazy day in and day out. What does this all mean?” He reached into the satchel. “There’s something else. I didn’t tell you, there wasn’t any time. The letter arrived just a few days ago.”
“From Fu?”
“Yes. Separate from the doll. It is all unbelievably odd.”
“Nushu?”
He nodded.
“Read it to me, Max.”
He unfolded the parchment-like paper, cleared his throat and began to recite the note.
I am known as Fu. But before you arrive I will be gone. It’s a death that I embrace and one that was a long time coming. But because of it I must reach out to strangers, to you. Because of who I am, it must be a woman who guides you to find what only women have built. The doll is the key to what I loved most. Hong Kong offers much but only one woman, a colleague, who you need and you respect. Take what I have given you to her. Beware of Bao, one I raised as my own.
Andra blushed. “I’m flattered that I have your respect.” She turned the empty glass with an elegant finger and her mauve nail polish winked elegantly in the soft flush of the artificial light. “Do you think she’s ill? That reference to her death, as if she knows it’s imminent.”
“That’s what I thought,” Max agreed. “I would give anything to be able to speak to her and yet her note leads me to believe that I may never have the opportunity. Of course, it all has a rather nebulous, almost unreal feel to it. But you can’t deny the evidence of Nushu’s continued existence. I might not have taken any of this seriously, except for that, for Nushu. There are few who know the language anymore, a handful maybe.” He set the note that had been pinned to the doll beside the second note.
Find my heart. Find my girl.
“I suspect that was the purpose of Nushu, that and to keep the wrong people from getting the message.”
“I thought the same,” Max said.
“Have you considered that she’s looking for a child?” Andra asked.
“You mean one of China’s many abandoned babies?”
“A lost girl.”
“Too simplistic. Don’t you think?”
She shrugged. “It’s an idea I keep coming back to ever since you told me of the note and the doll. The more I think of that phrase the more sense it makes.”
“Seems quite a bit of trouble just to find a child you gave up years ago.” He thought of the phrasing: Find my heart. Find my girl. He had mulled over what that might mean since he had first read the note. It was engraved in his mind.
“Is it?”
“Possibility or not, I think it’s too obvious.”
“Something hidden beneath what might be obvious.” She stood up and this time she briefly touched his shoulder. His hand settled over hers, staying her.
He turned and met her troubled eyes. He stood up, drawing her against him. “I hate that this has happened to you. I wish . . .”
She pulled away, her hands still on his shoulders. “There’s nothing you could do, Max. I suspect this is bigger than both of us.” She dropped her hands and walked away, moving behind a divider in the room. Minutes later she was back, a magnifying glass in her hand. “Let’s take a closer look at this doll of yours.”
They both sat on the floor, she cross-legged, now with gray leggings and pale pink socks replacing her flip-flops, and he crouched with his legs folded straight behind him. It had been a long time since he had sat on the floor and it reminded him of his youth and the brief moments when he had been allowed to be a child.
Andra flipped the doll over, its rag arms and legs flopping. Minutes passed as Max watched and Andra inspected. After awhile he leaned back and stretched his numbed legs in front of him. “Nothing?” he asked, but he knew there wouldn’t be anything. It was about the note, as he already knew and as his colleagues stateside had agreed. The doll was an attention grabber, something to pin the note to to get his attention. Still, he’d had doubts and he’d brought the doll thousands of miles because of them.
“Unbelievable!” she said a few minutes later as she pushed the doll and the magnifier at him. He took it from her, his fingers lightly brushing hers.
Max sucked in his breath, forgetting for a moment the woman beside him. On the doll’s cloth sole was a faint image, so faded that it was almost hidden, a small heart that twisted into a scrolled flower within the inside of the heart. “I didn’t know that the doll had an insignia on it. What made you think of that?”
“It’s what I would have done,” she said softly. “Marked the doll, I mean. Made it impossible not to be recognized as anything but mine.” She ran a finger over the heart. “Fu sent the doll halfway around the world. Is it possible that the doll is a map of sorts?” She shrugged. “And the logical way to deliver a map you want kept secret is in bits.”
“I hadn’t thought the doll anything but a conveyance for the note.”
She stood up. “Did you ever consider the impossibility of delivering that doll to one man a world away.”
He didn’t answer, for he was trapped by the intensity in her eyes and a sudden urge to kiss her.
“Apparently, Max, you’re special. There’s no one else like you anywhere else in the world. At least not to the sender of that doll.” She lifted her hair from the back of her neck and smoothed it down her shoulder. “Are you special, Max?” Her last words were breathy, a
nd he wasn’t sure if the seduction was intended or was only in his overheated imagination.
“No more special than you.” He stood up. They were friends, nothing more. And no matter how many times he thought that, it wasn’t how he had felt about her right from the very beginning. “I should call it a night. It’s late.”
“I don’t know if I want you to leave, not yet.”
The words were almost a whisper and it was one step before he had her in his arms. He wasn’t sure how his lips met hers or how she dipped backward or how his tongue dueled with hers when he had meant for none of it to happen. Instead, his hand skimmed her breast as she bent willingly beneath him. Her fingers ran along the edge of his neck, flickers of sensation that knotted him tight in his core and had him pull her closer, his hand dropping to her waist, his tongue plundering her mouth, tasting cinnamon and something else. She pressed closer into him. He was hard against her, wanting and . . .
“Andra,” he said thickly as he pulled away briefly, cupping her face. “Damn. I shouldn’t have done that.” He shook his head, his thoughts scattered as he held her against him.
She took a hesitant step backward, and despite what he had said, all he wanted to do was draw her close and continue what they had so briefly begun.
She ran a forefinger in a light touch along his chin and smiled whimsically at him. “We can get an early start in the morning. Be here at, say, eight? Breakfast?”
“I’ll be here.” He bit back the urge to ask her once again to reconsider staying here. She was obstinate. He had learned that long before this face-to-face meeting. “Keep the security latch on the door and your phone by your side,” he warned her. And all he could think as he closed the door gently behind him was that he’d prefer it if he were by her side.
• • •
In a sleek black Audi, Le drove the thirty miles from the scene of one crime and unknowingly close to another. The digital clock glowed in the darkness and illuminated a small tattoo on his wrist—a roughly inked heart. He had engraved the tattoo long ago, as a boy on the edges of manhood. Then, he had liked the idea of its permanence, a reminder of what he had lost. As a man he needed no reminder.
Legacy of Fear Page 2
