by Greg Dragon
Her bag lay on the bed, its contents disgorged. She knew instinctively that her laptop was gone. The cheap little point-and-shoot camera she’d bought in the hotel lobby as a backup for the camera on her cell phone was on the floor, its access panel torn open and its insides ripped out. She hadn’t even used it. Her lithium pills had been dumped out, the plastic bottle tossed carelessly against the wall. Her clothes had been rifled through; all of the pockets had been turned inside out.
She didn’t know what they were looking for, or even if they’d found it, though she suspected what it was. She ran into the bathroom and tore through her toiletries bag, dumping everything out in a mess into the sink. She pulled out travel-sized containers of lotion, makeup, and acne medicine, scattering them across the counter and onto the floor until she found what she was looking for. The tampon looked intact, the ends of the paper still twisted like a piece of candy. She tore at it and threw the wrapper behind her. She ran her fingers along the white cigar-shaped object and could feel the tiny disk inside, exactly where she’d hidden it. She slipped it into her back pocket.
DeBryan!
She was running before thinking about what she was doing, pushing her way up the hall and back into the main room, then up the entryway. She felt slow, like the air had suddenly gotten denser. She yanked the door open, stepped out and heard it click shut behind her before remembering she’d left her card key inside.
The door to DeBryan’s room was shut. Not a sound emanated from within. Angel stepped across the wide hall and raised her fist, but the door flew open so quickly that she nearly fell in.
A shape filled the doorway, and it took her a split second to realize it wasn’t the photographer. This man was younger, mid-twenties perhaps, Asian. His head was clean shaven. Both his scalp and face were darkly tattooed, the design a pattern of black flames which rose from beneath the collar of his gray shirt and a smattering of Chinese characters. The flames swirled around and over his eyes.
“What—!”
It was all she managed to get out before he grabbed her by the collar and shoved away. The air exploded out of her as she slammed into the wall beside her own door. Her head hit and stars filled her vision. The world tilted. She half-slid, half-fell to the floor, and shouted for him to stop. The attacker ran away, bypassing the elevator and slamming through the exit stairwell at the far end of the hall before she could even get back to her feet. A door opened as she stumbled past. She cried out to the woman to call the police, call security.
She could hear him pounding down the stairs, jumping at each landing and coming down hard, gasping for air. She ran as fast as she dared to try and catch him. Down a story, then another, spinning around each flight with her hand locked onto the metal railing to keep her from losing her balance. He reached the lobby level, yet kept going. Down two more flights until he reached the garage. He was three floors ahead when he exited, and she feared she’d lose him now for sure.
The echo of the man’s pounding feet reached her ears when she burst through the garage door and stopped. She heard no car engine, no screech of tires, just that steady drumbeat. A fist crashed into the side of her face, knocking her down again, and as she went she realized that the noise had been her own heart slamming inside her chest.
“What do you want?” she screamed, and lashed blindly out with one hand, protecting herself with the other.
Her attacker wheezed heavily as he kicked her in the side, grunting with the effort. It wasn’t a very strong kick, but it caught her just under the ribs and sent a jolt of pain racing up into her jaw. He coughed and spat a thick wad of phlegm onto the cement beside her. He’d run her all the way down here not to escape from her, but to quickly finish her off in private. By the labored sound of his breathing, she guessed he was sick with some kind of lung disease and knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun her.
He tried to push away, but she had a hold of something. It took her a moment to realize it was DeBryan’s pack. He yelled and tried to wrench it out of her hand, nearly yanking her off the ground.
“Let go!” she screamed.
Instead, he slammed his body into hers, crushing her against the concrete wall of the parking structure. A knife appeared in his other hand. Angel shrieked and raked her nails at him, catching his cheek and neck. And then the blade was a flashing silver arc, rising above them, ready to be brought back down and across her neck.
“Stop!” came a shout.
Her attacker hesitated, his dark, sunken eyes flicking away for just the fraction of a moment. Angel didn’t wait. She twisted out from beneath him and scurried sideways along the wall.
“You there!” the shout came again. “Get away from her!”
And now the man was running, sprinting across the parking lot. Angel tried to locate her rescuer, but the sounds were distorted as they echoed off the walls. “Stop him,” she croaked. Then again, louder. But no one answered.
She stumbled to her feet, collected the knife her attacker had dropped, and gave chase.
Chapter Seven
If the streets hadn’t been as empty as they were, Angel might have lost the thief immediately, but her luck held and she guessed correctly which way he’d turned exiting the parking garage. She remembered being told once that, if given an equal opportunity to turn left or right, an individual in flight would be more likely to turn in the direction opposite his dominant side, pivoting on his strong foot. She didn’t know if it was true, but she did recall that the man had held the knife in his left hand, so she turned right the moment her feet hit the sidewalk outside. A quick glance to the left as she did so confirmed only that the street behind her was indeed empty. But so was the street ahead.
She kept running, accelerating to as much of a sprint as she could manage in her pumps, casting her eyes into each doorway that she passed.
She skidded to the corner and looked right again. Then left. The man was a tiny figure in the distance, running a zigzagged course, his jacket flapping at his sides and his feet smacking the pavement. He was limping slightly and straining to maintain his pace. The pack in his hand was further slowing him down, dragging on him. Adrenaline coursed through Angel’s body and she immediately took off after him. She was certain she could catch up, as long as he remained in sight.
He turned left again at the next corner, as if sensing that he’d been seen, and by the time Angel reached the spot, perhaps fifteen seconds later, he had vanished. Her feet slapped to a stop, and she looked desperately about her, hoping for a sign to tell her where he’d gone.
There was an alleyway here, too narrow and cluttered to allow a car to pass through it. Some of the doors were flush with the buildings’ walls, others were recessed. Some stood atop a handful of steps, some at street level. Only a few were lit by overhead bulbs.
A truck rumbled past on the street behind her, splashing through puddles from an earlier rain. Somewhere off to the right, two or three blocks away, a pedestrian walk signal chirped with merry abandon. She turned toward it and stared, peering into the white mist drifting up from the wet roadway. But the intersection was empty.
Deep in the alley a garbage can lid clattered to the ground. A cat meowed and emerged out of the shadows into the glow of a lamp. Something fluttered in the darkness high above, a pigeon disturbed by the noise, perhaps.
Angel peered balefully at the cloaked doorways and barred windows. The air was laden with warm humidity and smelled of packed dirt, rotten garbage, and fried pork. Beneath it all was a hint of ginseng and clove. The man could be hiding anywhere along the alley’s length. Or he could be long gone.
He’s here. He’s waiting for you.
A neon sign for a massage parlor hummed several doors down, signaling in both Mandarin and English that the establishment was open and taking walk-in customers. She was tempted to check it out, as it seemed a likely route of escape for the man, but warning bells clanged inside her head.
She took a tentative step forward.
The pedestrian cr
ossing signal began to chirp again. Angel didn’t bother looking this time. She knew the street would be empty.
Where had he gone? Why had he broken into their rooms? Did he find whatever he’d been after? The questions were only the latest in an expanding list now crowding her thoughts.
Sighing resignedly, she turned around. It wasn’t worth the risk. And now that she’d decided against it, the adrenaline of the pursuit began to dissipate. Her injuries now drew her attention. The back of her head pounded from being slammed into the wall and her face ached terribly from where the man had punched her. Her whole body throbbed from the force of her blood pulsing through it.
She raised a hand to check the nail she’d torn away from the bed as she tried unsuccessfully to take DeBryan’s pack from the thief, the same one she’d broken earlier. The fingertip was bleeding, coating her hand and the knife, which she still held. She pried her fingers apart and slipped the weapon into the back pocket of her slacks.
A few bumps and scrapes were no worse than she’d experienced in the past. It went with the job sometimes. The psychological injuries would trouble her longer, the pain of realizing how much her safety and security had been violated. She was more than familiar with those things. That pain, she knew, would never quite go away. Her body would heal after an injury, might even scar, but the mind never cured completely. It would always bleed a little from every wound inflicted ever upon it and never fully scab over.
Fine, she thought bitterly, let him have the damn laptop. And whatever else he managed to swipe. She curled her aching fingers into a fist, nestling her throbbing finger tightly inside, and headed back to the hotel.
* * *
An officer from the Shanghai City Police Force stopped Angel the moment the elevator doors opened on the eleventh floor, shouting from the middle of the hallway in broken English not to step out as an active criminal investigation was in progress.
“I know that!” she replied, trying to keep her voice from shaking, and stepped out anyway. His eyes widened at the sight of her, but he didn’t move to block her way.
She pointed at the woman who’d poked her head out of her room as she ran past earlier. The elderly lady was speaking with another officer. Her carefully coiffed hair had begun to unravel and a forgotten cigarette dangled from her lips, ash longer than the talons on her fingers drooping toward the floor and smoke curling in the opposite direction.
Hearing their voices, the man attending to her looked over. He spoke a few more words, and then the woman turned and her face went pale. She nodded anxiously. The officer immediately left her side.
“You know man in room 1137?”
Angel nodded and turned toward him. It was DeBryan’s room. “He can vouch for m—”
The officer placed his hand on his service revolver and said something to his partner. The first officer nodded and demanded to see her papers.
“They’re in my room across the hall. 1138. I don’t have my—”
“What your name?”
She told him, adding that she was a reporter.
“You know man in 1137?”
“Yes. I said I did. Bring him out here. He’ll tell you—”
“He no help you.”
“What are you talking about?”
The officer gestured at her blouse, and she saw for the first time the dark red spots on it, as if she’d spilled wine on it. Her nose had bled, and she hadn’t even noticed. “Why you bleeding?” he demanded.
“I was chasing a man. He punched me. I tried to stop him, but—”
“Why?”
Angel was getting frustrated with the officer not letting her finish.
“He broke into my room and stole my computer laptop.”
“Your room? Why you go into other room? American’s?”
“What? I didn’t. The man, the thief, he was in there.”
“In your room, in other room. Which one? Why you leave? Why you run away?”
“I didn’t run away! Ask that woman. She saw the man. He broke into our rooms and stole things. I was chasing after him trying to stop him.”
The officer turned and translated to his partner, who spoke once more with the woman. She shook her head and said something back.
“She no see man.”
“He was there!”
Angel glanced over his shoulder to where the door to DeBryan’s room stood open. She could just make out the back of a third officer standing inside. Now he turned, and she saw that he was wearing latex gloves and shoe covers.
“Just, please,” she said, but it seemed to her that the world was closing in, the walls crowding her. Her words sounded like they were coming from somewhere far away. “Mister DeBryan will confirm what I’m telling you.”
“He won’t,” the officer replied, and his words also sounded too faint. He grabbed her arm.
“I don’t understand.” But she did, and the officer’s next words only confirmed it:
“American is dead.”
Chapter Eight
The police finally released her shortly after two the next afternoon, following a long, exhausting night of questions.
The detectives had been relentless, asking about her relationship with the murdered photographer, the missing items from their rooms, the reason for their stay in Shanghai. When she told them about investigating the tragedy at Huangxia, they left the room for several minutes, then returned even more suspicious, insisting that she was lying. There was no tragedy on the resort island, nothing reported anywhere about it. She was using the earthquake in the region as a distraction.
“It’s true!”
“There no tragedy on Huangxia!”
She couldn’t tell if they were genuinely ignorant of the situation there or part of the cover-up. When she told them she’d been there herself less than twenty-four hours before and seen the devastation with her own eyes, they screamed at her in frustration, slamming the table with their palms and ordering her to stop lying and tell the truth.
“The place was empty! Everyone’s dead or gone. I saw the bodies, hundreds of them. We both did. The soldiers made us leave.”
It was off season, they said. No tourists, only locals.
She had no photographs, nothing to prove her assertions. Not that she thought it would help. They would simply claim the images were fake. The officers seemed determined not to believe her.
She had considered telling them about the tiny memory disk DeBryan had given her, the one wrapped inside the tampon. The police had confiscated it before interrogating her, along with anything else she’d been carrying or allowed to retrieve from the room, once the hotel manager gave her access to it. It had all been sealed inside a plastic baggie before being catalogued and whisked away. The disk remained undetected. And without knowing exactly what was on it, she decided there was too much at stake to risk letting them have it. She knew she was innocent. She had to have faith that her innocence would eventually force them to release her. Surely the hotel security cameras would substantiate her story.
“Camera video will be checked,” she was told, “once we have warrant. It not like United States. People have rights to privacy. Must follow protocol.”
DeBryan’s backpack had finally been recovered in the alleyway, right where she’d told them the attacker had led her. It was covered in blood, which she was certain their analysis would show belonged to him. “And blood on knife we found in pocket?” they demanded.
“I don’t know! I suppose it might be his, but also mine.” She showed them her finger.
“Blood on clothes?”
She was certain that belonged only to her. She had bled, she told them, not from a struggle with DeBryan, but with the attacker.
“Laboratory test will prove if you are telling truth!”
The rest of the pack was of little help. It had been emptied of everything but a few useless notes, DeBryan’s identification papers, and a pair of dirty socks. Several more items were found in a trashcan a block away, but when they
were shown to her, Angel couldn’t confirm that any of it was his. Neither laptop had been located, nor the phone Cheong had given DeBryan to replace the one he’d lost on Huangxia.
At half past one the chief of the Criminal Investigations Division interrupted the interview to tell her she was free to go. Hotel security cameras confirmed her story, he said. He spoke quietly but with emotion.
Exhausted, hungry, and slightly hungover, Angel wanted to lash out at him. Why had it taken so long to review the camera footage? How had hotel security been so lax? What were they going to do to recover the missing laptops? But before she could say anything, the chief brusquely pushed his detectives from the room before shutting the door behind them and turning to her.
He stood for a moment and studied her with such intensity that she found herself unable to move. Finally, he threw the bag with her belongings onto the table and told her that he wanted her out of his city that very day. “I don’t care where you go, just leave.”
“But—”
He leaned in over the table and spoke in a near whisper. “You will also not speak of Huangxia again. If you do, we may decide to reanalyze the evidence collected this morning and I am certain it will implicate you in your colleague’s death, you and no one else. I will then do everything in my power to make sure you answer for the crime. I don’t care who you know or where in the world you are.”
Angel was livid. How dare this man, this Inspector Liu, threaten her? How dare he censor her? He had no right! “The United States has no extradition treaty with your country,” she told him.
“But France does,” he replied, just as assuredly.
“The agreement was never ratified,” she countered. But the conviction had gone out of her. Despite the failure of the French parliament to ratify the treaty the president signed nearly a decade before, she knew it wouldn’t stop the police and the government from acting under the principle of aut dedere aut judicare if the Chinese demanded it. The subject had been in the news a lot lately, but mainly in regard to the extradition of terrorists and those accused of economic and cybercrimes. With some bitterness, she had to admit to herself that her own government would capitulate to a request made by Beijing. The French, her own people, more than deserved their reputation as pushovers.
