Legacy of Fear

by Ryshia Kennie

  Andra typed in “88” and again received the same result. She looked up at Max. “I can’t believe it. I was so sure eight is the number of each of their names. I mean Fu’s real name.”

  “And perhaps too obvious.”

  “Maybe. But Fu seemed to be consistent with a straightforward alphabet-to-number approach.” She frowned.

  She typed in “eight” phonetically and was again blocked.

  “Two eights in China is very lucky,” she whispered. “One eight alone is luck.” She paused with her fingers resting on the keys. “Numbers or letters would be too simplistic. But she doesn’t want it too difficult either.” Her gaze rested on Max. “Why not both?”

  She turned her attention back to the keyboard and typed in one numeric “eight” followed by “eight” phonetically. And the screen mutated and another screen appeared as the door opened like petals on a flower, first black and then fusing into a screen with a lavender border that framed a small white square in the center. They were led into a virtual world of European-style cottages bordering a traditional Chinese roofed house, all nestled in a sea of lush lotus flowers and ribbons of greenery that enfolded it all. It looked oddly similar to the village of women they had so recently left. The woman stood by a pond and smiled sadly before moving aside, where a picture of a small child with long black hair and a doll that looked suspiciously close to the one they had under her arm. The child looked to be about four. The screen mutated again and a journal appeared. It was burgundy-covered and flipped slowly open to a page and stopped.

  She pushed her chair to the left. “The journal is in Nushu. It’s your turn now, Max.”

  He pulled his chair closer and took over control of the screen.

  “Can you make sense of it?”

  “Possibly,” Max said. He directed the cursor over the picture and the scene changed. “Unbelievable!”

  “What?”

  “She’s recorded her life.” He began to read in a soft whisper, his voice masked from others by the overly loud, tinny music.

  And when he was done recounting the pain of her marriage and giving away her only child, Andra wiped the tears from her eyes. “What she must have gone through,” she marveled quietly. “First inflicting the pain of that tattoo on her baby and then giving her up.”

  “While the journal was brief and rather redundant, it does confirm an inheritance—both today’s and future plans for the doll—and one other thing: Fu’s daughter has the final clue to the fortune she will inherit.”

  Andra’s hand was on his shoulder as they shared the excitement of the moment and the passion of the discovery. “She’s safeguarded an empire for the generations that follow.”

  They looked at each other, the words a legacy between them.

  “And how does Le fit in all this? Why did Fu trust him?”

  “Or more aptly, who is the father of Fu’s child?” Max said dryly.

  “Max! Do you think . . . ?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “A love affair . . .”

  “Or a one-night stand. Or nothing at all.”

  “Max!”

  “Andra!” he teased as he purged the traces of their online search.

  But Fu’s words and the hint of a great love affair lay like their own unwritten future, a raw and living entity between them.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I’ve been thinking about Britt’s suggestion. You know, posting the doll’s picture online,” Andra said later that night as they closed the door to their hotel room. She plunked the ice bucket on the counter.

  He looked up. “How would we generate traffic?”

  It was just past midnight according to the unadorned round-faced clock that hung a few feet above the bar fridge.

  “I can’t see any other way to locate this missing girl. I think we need her to find us and the only connection is that doll.” She opened the bar fringe and pulled out a can of coke. “Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She plopped ice into a glass and emptied the can over it. “On a completely different note, do you think there was something in Le’s relationship with Fu? Something more than he would admit?”

  “Of course, but . . .”

  He pushed thick hair from his forehead and stretched his interlaced hands out, cracking the knuckles.

  “He knows much of her, including where the village was, and when he spoke of her, he appeared heartbroken,” Andra said dreamily.

  “Only you would find something appealing in the eyes of a killer,” Max said with a smile.

  She shrugged. “So what about Twitter? It’s one of the busiest social networks, and if we can generate traffic it could work.” She set her glass down.

  “Generating traffic is rather a big roadblock. Do either one of us have any idea how to accomplish that?”

  Andra paced the room. “I think it could work.” She stopped and faced him. “I didn’t mention it sooner.” She looked rather sheepish. “As a matter of fact, we’ve kind of been out of touch the last year or so.” She pressed a forefinger against her chin. “But for the sake of an old friendship and considering what’s at stake . . .”

  “Andra, get to the point.”

  “I know someone who already has the traffic we need.” Andra smiled and then named one of the most famous female rock singers of the day.

  “You’re kidding me. How would we possibly solicit her help?”

  “She’s a friend. I haven’t seen her much lately, admittedly, but I’ve been busy and she’s been on tour.” She shrugged. “Our mothers were good friends. We were best friends way back when, as children. Anyway, I’ll give her parents a call and find out where she’s at. Not that it matters; the web is pretty universal and I’m sure she has a tech company handling that kind of thing. If I can get hold of her and she’s agreeable, I know she has a Twitter account and her followers are pushing thirty million.”

  “So you post a picture of the doll.”

  “Let me see if Ana will even consider this.”

  Forty minutes later, with the benefit of differing time zones, Andra flopped backward on the bed. “She’ll do it. But she also suggested a push-it-forward sort of contest. Her followers send it to people connected to them and next thing you know—”

  “The network extrapolates into infinite numbers. Not a bad thought.”

  “Ana has her tech guy getting the info on Twitter in the next few hours. I’ve got his name and number—he’ll be the guy that runs this gig and will forward anything of interest to me.”

  “I can’t believe we are now working hand in hand with one of the most famous female rockers of this century.”

  “Not quite. I doubt if she’ll see any of this.” She laughed. “Let’s get a picture of the doll so we’re ready to roll.”

  She pulled back the bedspread and set the doll on the white sheet, making its features stand out.

  Max took the camera and took a couple of pictures. Then he sat the doll up and took a couple more pictures, all of them leaving out the one identifying feature that only its owner would know. The heart that resided in faded subtlety on the doll’s foot.

  He scrolled through the pictures. “If you post these two, that should do it.”

  Less than an hour later, they received confirmation that the post was up.

  “I’m glad that’s done,” Andra said. “You realize that if we find this woman, all we have to offer is a doll and the promise of something very nebulous.”

  “It’ll have to do,” Max answered rather pragmatically.

  She dragged the back of her hand across her forehead.

  “You look exhausted.” Max looked at her with concern.

  “I am,” she admitted.

  “Maybe you should lie down,” he suggested, and the concern was bare of any sexual connotations.

  She nodded. “I may just sleep for a bit. I’m so tired I can barely think,” she said as she slipped out of her jeans. “You’re not tired?”

>   “No. I’ll stay awake for a while. You sleep. I’ll wake you later.”

  He touched her shoulder gently as he gave her a light kiss and pulled the blanket over her.

  “Thanks, Max,” she whispered, already beginning to dose.

  She was sleeping even as he watched. Sleep, he knew, would elude him for hours if not for the entire night. He was too wired. He leaned against the window. Beijing sprawled out in front of him and even in the muted cloud of smog it was still a beautiful sight. And somewhere beneath that blanket of smog were children, abandoned, lost and alone. And there was nothing he could do—he had decided long ago what his path would be. Raised by a mother with little maternal instinct, he would not inflict his own lack of paternal instincts on any child, abandoned or not.

  Children.

  He glanced back at Andra and he knew that was the one point that would cause him to lose her, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Max?” Andra sat up, rubbed her eyes and reached for the bedside light. “What are you doing?” she asked as she pulled her hand through her sleep-tossed hair and yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Three in the morning. You’ve been sleeping for a few hours.”

  She stood up, stretching long and languidly, but the look she gave him was a subtly edged challenge—the invitation in her smoky gaze unmistakable. The light from the bedside lamp reflected off her dancer-slim body, off breasts that sat high and pert and legs that stretched long and lean and . . .

  She came toward him in what seemed slow motion. And in the time it took her to cross that short distance he was sure he forgot to breathe.

  “Andra,” he warned but he was incapable of resistance. Instead he dropped the doll.

  “Max,” she said simply.

  He took her, smooth and sleek and ready, into his arms. He kissed her sleep-heavy eyes and sighed as her arms folded around his neck and she pressed against him.

  It was many hours later before he gave the doll another thought.

  And it was then that they had the conversation that threatened to end it all.

  “You’re rather fond of this Britt.” She turned to him, one hand holding her hair in a casual ponytail, the other holding a barrette. She was wearing a white oversized T-shirt and her legs were bare as she padded across the carpet while clipping the barrette into place.

  “I am, surprisingly enough. I’m not comfortable around most kids. And they’re definitely not something I’d consider for myself.”

  “No?” She frowned.

  “Fortunately, I’m unable to have children.” The truth slid out reluctantly as some truths are apt to do. He hadn’t meant to tell her in quite that fashion.

  “Fortunately? I don’t understand.”

  “This is difficult, Andra.”

  “Only as difficult as you want to make it.”

  He took a breath. “I never want to inflict a duplicate of my childhood on a child. I wasn’t abused,” he was quick to add. “My parents meant well. It’s just that neither of them was happy. I was never a planned baby, nor particularly wanted.”

  He turned back to the window, as if a reprieve was housed somewhere in the city.

  “What happened, Max?” she asked, and then she was beside him, in his space, in his life, and he wanted her there with everything in his being and knew he had no right to ask. “You’re putting a distance between us. Emotionally, I mean, obviously not physically.”

  He turned to face her. He met the concern in her eyes, saw the soft tremble of a mouth that was only made for kissing and wanted to gather her in his arms.

  “It’s the money, isn’t it?”

  He wanted to shake his head, to not be that shallow. And yet he couldn’t deny that her wealth made him uncomfortable. It wouldn’t stop a relationship but it was easier to discuss than the other topic.

  The words spilled out. “You became rich and I became the poor professor. It will never work and I’ll never have the children you want. I can’t.” He turned away.

  “What do you mean, can’t?” She frowned.

  They were in a place he didn’t want to be. He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want them, ever.”

  “Max.”

  He couldn’t look at her, didn’t want to see her reaction.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Tell me, why.”

  He turned back to the window. No matter how empathetic she was, she would never understand. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Really. The childhood, one gets over—there’s something else.”

  “You ask too many questions,” Max said thickly.

  “I think I may have asked too few.” Andra’s words were silken even as she pushed closer to him, her elbow brushing his.

  Max resisted the urge to hold her, kiss her and forget that the question hung between them. He had no right to that, not anymore. If he were truthful, he knew that he never had. “I am who I am.”

  “And more than you’d like others to believe. That’s what I love about you.”

  He looked at her, startled. “Don’t use that word lightly.”

  “What word?”

  “Love,” he bit out.

  “You took it out of context.” She was silent for a moment as if considering. “I suspect it was a woman.” She looked up at him. “I’m right, aren’t I, Max?”

  He nodded slowly. “Her name was Jane. I thought I loved her. But that was long ago, I was twenty-four, and only the aftermath has any relevance.”

  “Go on, Max,” Andra encouraged.

  “She never told me she was pregnant. Instead she presented me with a fait accompli—an abortion.” His fingers bit into the edge of the metal railing that lined the window well. “A baby that will never exist and one in whose destiny I had no say. I decided then and there that I would never let that happen again. Children will never be in my future. I removed the possibility of it happening again.”

  “Max.” Her voice filled him with a sweet longing. “That was a decade ago.”

  “No, Andra. Nothing changes for me. I’m not the right man for you. We were better as we began, friends.”

  “You’re wrong, Max.”

  “Am I? Maybe you don’t understand what I’m telling you. You love children and I can never have any, nor do I want any. I had a vasectomy.”

  She paled.

  “So you see, Andra, it’s only fair that we end this relationship now. We can remain colleagues obviously—”

  “I don’t believe you’re being fair,” she snapped, cutting him off. “But if that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you shall have it for now.”

  “It’s not the way I want it. It’s the way it has to be.” He was drowning in the mesmerizing beauty of her eyes and her soul that seemed to be reflected in them. “I’m sorry, Andra. Maybe when this is all over we can remain friends. I’d regret losing our friendship.”

  Her eyes gleamed suspiciously. “It pretty much stalemates our relationship beyond professional.” She held out her hand. “Friends.”

  “Friends,” he agreed as silence fell around them and something broke quietly and softly within him as he realized that he had gotten his way. Andra was lost to him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  They wouldn’t have found the restaurant the next morning if it wasn’t for the sign that glared in flashing neon and covered the restaurant’s largest front window. Otherwise, the signage would have been lost in a clutter of shops and restaurants that crushed together along a street only two blocks from their hotel. Inside the smells were heavenly and removed any of their earlier doubts.

  “I hope the concierge knew what he was talking about when he recommended this place.” Max glanced around at the rather grim interior. The open floor plan gave the feel of a cafeteria rather than the intimacy of a high-end restaurant. “There’s nothing upscale about this.”

  Andra looked at the menu. “I don’t know about you, but after a night like last night, the only thing I w
ant is good old-fashioned bacon and eggs.”

  “What, not the usual?” Max winked.

  “Max,” she warned. “You’re flirting and I thought we agreed. Friends.”

  Already they were dancing much too close to the edge. But his joking had only been an attempt to break the unbearable tension that lay between them since his confession last night. For that’s how he thought of it—a confession. It had been nothing less, as difficult as anything he’d ever admitted and as impossible to overcome. A vasectomy was a life-changer both when he’d made the decision and all these years later when he faced questions that had once been only theoretical.

  He threaded his fingers together and cracked his knuckles, a habit he had had in his college days and one he’d long ago dropped.

  She stopped with her orange juice halfway to her lips. “I have this sick feeling we’re close to running out of time.”

  Andra put her glass down as the waitress delivered a plate of bacon and eggs for her and a scrambled egg with toast for Max.

  Max reached for a pot of marmalade as the waitress moved on to another table.

  She pulled her cell out and checked for messages. “Ana’s tech emailed.”

  “Already?”

  Her fingers flew over the small keys and then she leaned forward, reading avidly. “Says that he’s received the usual spam and cranks that were fairly easy to sort out. And one reply that he thinks might be worth following up on. Says she emailed from Beijing and left a contact phone number.”

  “Beijing? Don’t you think that’s a little too coincidental?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Okay, yes, maybe it is.” Andra put the phone away. “I’ll call the number he left later, from the hotel.” She pushed the remainder of her food around her plate before returning her attention to Max. “Look. I don’t know about you but I think Le knows more about the child than he admits.”

  “Such as?”

  “For one, he conveniently relocates us to Beijing, where it appears our missing girl may also be situated.”

  “And how would he know that? And if he did, why wouldn’t he have revealed the information to Fu while she was alive.” Max leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “To keep that kind of information to himself seems unnecessarily cruel to Fu, who we assume he may have loved.”