Legacy of Fear

by Ryshia Kennie

  It had been years since he had killed and even then there had been no joy in it. This time was no different. His prey had been no contest, his cries for mercy forgotten long before he was left to rot in the abandoned pipe factory. This killing protected the woman he loved—the woman he would mourn always. She would expect no less from him.

  The killing was what sealed his reputation, what he had done for a living. No one messed with him. He had lived easily and richly in the time since he was able to legitimize his fortune in savvy stock market trades. The stock market had become his new game and his reputation had left him alone. Even now he had no hesitation to kill if necessary. But now he had few reasons. This time it had been Fu. Even in death he would be there for her.

  As the car slid smoothly through the congested streets, Le’s grip on the steering wheel’s soft leather eased. For it was here in this vibrant modern city, where secrets were hidden behind the smiles of old men and where housewives hung their laundry on sampans and junks in Aberdeen that he had made his fortune. He unwrapped a stick of gum with one hand and popped it into his mouth, crumpled the wrapper and tucked it into his pocket. Ahead, Victoria Peak pierced the city center, a testament to permanence in its tribute to nature amid the push of concrete and steel. It stood proud as businessmen strode beneath it on commerce-jammed streets. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Hong Kong was a spicy mix of new ideas and old world customs that held the secrets of a lifetime—and one secret in particular. Already many had died to learn its truth. And more would die so it wouldn’t be revealed.

  Chapter Four

  The street was empty except for an elderly couple some distance away, yet shadows seemed to lurk in the corners. An old man shuffled from between two buildings, his flat-soled black canvas shoes scraping roughly against the concrete, a newspaper in the familiar hard slants of Cantonese tucked under his arm.

  Max stopped. The old man’s newspaper reminded him of what had brought him here and of a danger that seemed to be everywhere. His gaze swept the dusky perimeters as if the perpetrator waited in the shadows.

  He was being fanciful. There was no one lurking nearby. The police had already scoured the area. He raised his arm as one cab flashed by and then another. Despite the late hour, the traffic swept by in a conjoined rush while exhaust fumes mixed and clouded the air. A double-decker bus blew past and cloaked him in a blast of hot air and exhaust. Finally, a cab pulled to the curb.

  “The Regency.” He closed the door as he gave the information. Tension thrummed through him as Hong Kong ran like a blurred movie reel outside his window. In the distance the city’s light reflected the pallid blue of the harbor that was crowded with the pristine white masts of the yachts of the wealthy, and hid the more plentiful sampans and junks that hugged dark and low to the water. Aberdeen Harbor, where families lived their entire lives on water. For Max it was a disconcerting thought.

  The cab pulled over beside his hotel, where rich yellow light showcased a pristine stretch of sidewalk beneath a black and gold awning. He paid the driver and stepped out. The air was clearer here, rich and warm with the taste of salt lacing through the inescapable exhaust.

  The plate glass door opened as if he were anticipated and the doorman reached for his satchel. He swept it out of reach.

  “No, thank you.”

  Inside the lobby was lit with a large and rather brassy chandelier that seemed oddly out of place. Behind the registration desk, a young female clerk smiled and nodded to him. The tiled floors seemed to announce his arrival with each step as he strode to the elevator and punched eighteen.

  It was a relief to finally be home—such as it was, he thought—as he slid the card into the room lock.

  “Unbelievable,” he thought as the door swung open, his thoughts still with Andra and all that had happened. He’d had trepidation over leaving her and he’d told himself over and over that she was safe for now. His logical mind knew that. He’d seen the doorman ensuring the security doors to the apartment building were locked. The police presence earlier would more than likely deter anyone, and her apartment was securely bolted. More importantly, he was the one in possession of both the doll and the notes. Besides, what had happened at her apartment building was probably no more than a tragic crime of convenience and an unfortunate coincidence. At least that’s what he hoped, and that’s what he told himself. In the meantime, there was nothing to do until morning.

  Or maybe there was.

  It was ten thirty p.m. here, but seven thirty a.m. tomorrow in California. Britt would be up and getting ready for school. If anyone knew something about a doll, it would be his ten-year-old niece. It wasn’t something he’d considered until now. Until Andra found the faded heart on the sole that linked so easily to the phrase that was engraved in his mind.

  Find my heart. Find my girl.

  And Andra’s words: It’s what I would have done.

  Those words reminded him that this doll might have once belonged to a child. Who better to understand a doll than a child?

  The phone rang twice before a young, high-pitched, rather breathless voice answered. “Uncle Max!” she shouted before he had even said hello.

  He smiled and held the phone slightly away from his ear.

  “I can’t believe you called.”

  He chuckled. “I know, Uncle Max the technophobe.”

  Britt laughed, and in the background he could hear his friend’s laugh, for although he called Britt his niece, she was really the daughter of a close friend, his godchild. Max had no siblings.

  “Hey, kiddo. I need your help.” He considered whether he really did. It was a stretch but he had nothing else to go on.

  “Really?”

  And at that Max had to smile. It probably wasn’t often in a ten-year-old’s life that they heard those words. He told her briefly about the doll, how it had arrived unexpectedly on his desk and how it had intrigued him enough to come to China. He glossed over much of the details, but what he told her was enough to awaken every detective inclination in her over-imaginative head.

  “Will you take a look at it?”

  “Sure thing. Email me the picture.” He could hear his friend’s voice in the background. “Look, I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. Mom says to call her back later or at least email.”

  “Thanks, Britt.”

  She giggled again as she hung up the phone and Max was left to turn the doll over in his hands and consider the strange twists in life that were causing him to entrust a piece of this mystery to the knowledge of a ten-year-old.

  • • •

  Despite the fact that Andra was exhausted, sleep eluded her.

  She stared at the ceiling.

  Minutes ticked by.

  She flipped onto her side.

  This was ridiculous. She sat up and turned on the bedside light.

  Find my heart. Find my girl.

  A doll carrying a plea sent in a language that few people on earth could read. It was another hour before she finally slept. And the sleep wasn’t refreshing, as tiny girls in traditional dress and an Asian cast to their eyes followed her through the streets pleading with her to save them.

  It was a noise, a foreign sound that shifted the dream. At first she wasn’t sure if she were asleep or awake. Like a waking dream, it was a sound that shouldn’t have been there. Someone was on the other side of the thin apartment wall. But that was impossible. For that was Margaret’s apartment.

  She was wide-awake now. She sat up and listened. A sound like light footfalls in the hallway had awakened her and now a soft thump that sounded like something had brushed the outside wall of her apartment had her tense and listening. It was probably nothing, someone getting home late. She reached for the housecoat she’d left lying across the end of the bed.

  Something rustled softly against the kitchen wall, the wall that faced the hallway. They were thin walls in the stretches where the original brick had been removed, where even a brush of an elbow in places could be heard. I
t was one of the few complaints she had of the place she’d called home for the last few years.

  “It’s nothing,” Andra said, even as her feet slid over the edge of the bed and she pressed the palms of her hands against her knees, as if that would calm her. She was so tense it felt as if her entire body might begin vibrating. She strained to listen, afraid in that moment to move. She didn’t have to wait long. Another rustle like the whisper of cloth came from right outside her door. Her throat was achingly dry and her pulse pounded so loud she was sure it alone would frighten off the intruder.

  Intruder.

  Security is making the rounds of the building, she told herself. Instinct contradicted that thought and kept her from calling out. The security was at the entrance to the building. Security had no reason to be here, neither in the apartment beside her or outside her door.

  The doorknob to her apartment rattled, and Andra’s breath died in her throat.

  She picked her phone off the dresser and punched emergency and the building’s superintendent in quick succession. Both conversations were hurried and whispered and it was she who ended both, even as the questions pelted from the other end. She slipped past the red and black patterned bamboo screen that served as a divider between her sleep and living area and tiptoed the twenty steps to her kitchen area. She picked up a chair and propped it under the knob. Her breath seemed to stick in the pit of her stomach. She turned right where another sliding door hid the tiny bath area. There she picked up a can of hairspray, almost knocking it over as her fingers trembled. Despite a dose of the shakes, she clutched it like it was as effective as a handgun. It had to be. Except for her phone in her other hand, it was all she had.

  Chapter Five

  It seemed like hours but it was only minutes.

  Andra stood with her breath sucked through her teeth and clutched the spray can. She could hear raspy breaths then something that sounded like footsteps. Something solid hit the door and there was a sharp crack, like that of wood breaking. She jumped and bit back a scream. The door shifted and seemed to buckle. And then the unimaginable happened and it began to open.

  She hesitated before throwing her entire weight against the door. There was resistance and another grunt. A hand was caught in the jam, and she could catch a glimpse of something more—a strand of shaggy black hair, briefly—a man’s face. He could have been any man, any age. She rammed the door with her shoulder but it was still open a crack. It was only she and the pathetic-looking security chain that stood between her and a potential assailant. She pushed with all her strength and knew she was about to lose the battle. There was only one thing to do. She took the can of hairspray and hammered it against the hand, not caring how hard she hit, aiming to injure.

  The hand slipped.

  She pounded, mindless to time, concentrating only, for the first time in her life, on inflicting pain on another human. Something gave, whether it was bone or the metal can she didn’t care. Margaret had died. She didn’t plan to be the next victim. She threw all her strength into the next hit. There was a pain-filled grunt and the hand slipped more. With nothing temporarily blocking the door, she slammed it shut and rammed the chair under the knob even as she swept a panicked look around the room. The table followed and she pressed her entire body weight against it. The door shivered once more and then there was silence. She pulled the dresser over and against the door, and then the small couch.

  Only minutes later there was a brisk knock on her door. She lurched to her feet with a small screech.

  “Miss Vandersan.” The voice was official-sounding and her hand shook as she crawled over the couch and dresser and then leaned over the table and chair to get to the peephole. It wasn’t the police but it appeared to be the next best thing—security. Or was it? “Open the door.”

  “No. I don’t know who you are.”

  Minutes passed and suddenly there were more voices, another knock on the door, this one sharper—more authoritative than the last.

  This time when she peeked out she saw the official uniform of two Hong Kong police officers. She pulled the furniture back and opened the door with fingers that still shook.

  “Ma’am.” One tipped his cap. “Can we come in?”

  She opened the door wider. “Of course,” she managed through dry lips.

  One officer pushed a chair to the side. “You’ve had quite the fright,” he said, and even in her frightened state Andra suspected they were only words meant to placate and calm.

  “What time were you awakened?” the younger officer asked, his brown eyes tense as he seemed to follow her every move.

  “I’m not sure.” She shook her head. “It was still dark.”

  “The call came in at two forty-three a.m.,” the older officer said as he glanced at his notes. “You called shortly after you were awakened?”

  “I did,” she agreed. “I called a few minutes after he tried to open the door.” Those words made her stomach tighten and her hands quiver. She clutched one hand in the other as they questioned her. For the next few minutes they asked questions as Andra struggled for answers, the ordeal foggy in the aftermath of the fear and panic. The officers nodded sympathetically as they took notes. Finally, they looked at each other and closed their notebooks.

  “We may need to question you further.”

  “You can reach me at this number. And I’ll give you the name of the hotel once I’m settled.” It had come to her as they’d questioned her that she couldn’t stay here. The security that had been put in place after Margaret’s death was obviously ineffectual.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to remain here. We may need to question you further,” one of the police officers said.

  “You’re kidding me. There was a murder and an attempted home invasion. I don’t feel safe here.”

  “We’ve posted additional security around the building. For now, I’m afraid that’s how it will have to be.”

  “And if I don’t remain here?”

  “You’ll be breaking the law.” His look, while serious, was also slightly apologetic. “It’s safe. There’ll be an officer on-site at all times. What happened tonight won’t be replayed.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Either incident. We believe the perpetrator entered through an unlocked basement window. Those have all been locked and both the front and back entrances are under guard. There won’t be anyone entering this building without our knowledge.”

  Andra’s legs felt like they might not support her. She put a hand out, seeking support from the wall. A look of sympathy seemed to pass over the officer’s face.

  “We don’t mean that you cannot go about your daily business. Just be careful and remain in contact. Anyone entering the building will be screened. And at night, well, we’d prefer that you remain here. I wouldn’t worry. This won’t happen again.”

  She spent the remainder of the night, despite the police promises, awake, a cup of tea at her side, a kitchen chair wedged under the doorknob and her back to that. It was the longest night of her life, and as daylight streaked across the silver linoleum and the benign sounds of her neighbors awakening and going about their business sifted into her space, she finally began to relax.

  She’d gone over everything that had happened. But the only thing she knew at daybreak was that somehow Max and the doll had become a dangerous link to all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. They had to resolve this mystery quickly or give it up. If it had been anyone other than Max, she would have run. Except the possibility that the women’s language of Nushu not only existed but thrived was not something Max would let go, nor was it something she could forget, at least not easily. That and the fact that he might be in danger was something she couldn’t walk away from. Whether he knew it or not, he needed her.

  Chapter Six

  Morning arrived too quickly, Max thought as he pushed himself wearily upright from the slouching posture he had struck against the elevator’s fake wood-grain interior. Despite hours when he had lain a
wake reviewing the events of the last twelve hours, only one thing was clear since he had landed in Hong Kong a little under a day ago, and that was that things had taken a sinister turn.

  The elevator doors slid open and before Max knew it he was on Andra’s floor and standing in front of her apartment. He clutched the morning newspaper. The headline had reminded him that answers were sometimes in plain sight and that reporters could be incredible sleuths. The newspaper seemed to ground him, as if all the answers were there. And yet he knew they weren’t. The article had only triggered more questions.

  He glanced over at the other apartment door, the one now off limits to everyone but the authorities. The brass apartment number seemed to gleam in the dull hallway light. He froze. He hadn’t realized that Margaret was Andra’s next-door neighbor. Yesterday that fact had been lost in the blurred chain of events that followed the tragedy. But now as he looked from one door to the other and saw a difference of a single number, his jaw tightened. Was it possible that it had all been a horrible mistake? That one woman had died in a hit intended for another? The confirmation of the paper under his arm combined with that lone number made it all seem terrifyingly plausible.

  “Max.” Andra frowned as she opened the door. “What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

  But if he looked terrible, he could only think that she looked shell-shocked. She was pale and her hair was uncombed. There were shadows under her eyes that made him think she might not have slept, and guilt ran through him. He glanced over her shoulder and saw the kitchen chair was lying on one side. It was then that he noticed the slightly off-kilter look of the upper door hinge. “What happened?”