by Jack Dey
*~*~*~*
Grandma hadn't said two words to An-Dung since the episode with the pirates. She sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning her back against the side of the boat, while her face appeared pale and drawn. Mot Lang Quen sat close by, also silent.
An-Dung's mind drifted back thirty years, to when he was a small child. The communists had invaded his beloved South Vietnam and although the Americans had resisted the North Vietnamese push to make Vietnam a consolidated communist nation, they had opened the door to a war no one could win. Recognising the difference between a democratic Vietnamese and a communist was hard enough for the local people, let alone strangers who had come in to fight a war. In the end, the Americans conceded defeat and withdrew, leaving the south to be swallowed up by the communists. In the thirty or more years of communist occupation, his people were just as poor, and most of the population lived in makeshift housing left over from a forgotten era.
An-Dung's gaze rested on Mot Lang Quen. The scar, which took in the side of his face and his weatherworn exterior, made it difficult to tell whether he was truly Vietnamese. Mot Lang Quen's body was brown, like his, from too much tropical sun exposure. His greying hair was the only thing that gave away any indication of age, but he was as strong, agile and fit as any young man. He began to stare at the man so many of his people held up as a hero and a legend.
Thoughts of the last time he had seen his parents began to cloud his mind. This was the time when he had first met Mot Lang Quen. The Americans had given up the fruitless war and withdrawn, allowing the communists to move in quickly. Saigon had fallen and was in the death throes, while foreign militaries sent in their aircraft to evacuate their embassies. Under pressure from the United Nations, some members had sent in military aircraft under a humanitarian banner, to help evacuate South Vietnamese women and children not wishing to be caught up in a communist bloodbath.
If a Vietnamese was seen to be an American sympathiser, their life was snuffed out, quickly and brutally, by the invading communist forces. An-Dung remembered the ratatatat sound of distant machine gunfire and being herded with his sister, by his parents, toward a waiting military aircraft. Suddenly, a large explosion hit them from behind and An-Dung's parents disappeared, forever, in a cloud of smoke and debris.
Mot Lang Quen had also been seriously wounded in the incident, trying to get the stragglers aboard. As the last fully laden aircraft made a successful escape, Mot Lang Quen took the remaining women and children and hid them until the takeover was complete, saving many lives.
In the process, Mot Lang Quen’s injuries had nearly killed him. Sympathetic and thankful villagers did all they could to hide their hero from the Viet Cong and nurse him back to health, but a raging brain fever, associated with his injuries and badly burned face, had stolen his memory forever. If it wasn't for Grandma’s undivided attention, he would have lost his life, as well. Grandma doggedly took it upon herself to look after Mot Lang Quen and provide for his needs, while the man without a memory became a local legend. Though the communists were aware of the people’s hero and searched for the legend man who had dealt them such a disturbing blow, he’d simply disappeared into a maze of faces and was never heard of again.
As An-Dung stared at Mot Lang Quen's scar, he thought about the small tattoo of a dragon he had received to his right shoulder blade, identifying him as a pirate. When he’d received the tattoo, he’d been proud of his mark and even a brief, public display of the dragon brought immediate respect. Now, the dragon tattoo was a death mask and knowing the pirate creed, it would be considered a privilege among pirates to do away with a turncoat. He was a marked man and he would always be on the run.
"Swimming in the miseries of the past, does not help the future, An-Dung," Grandma's voice interrupted his thoughts. She had been watching him for several moments, as the memories, etched in pain, scrolled across his face.
His mind suddenly snapped back into the present, at the same time the loud popping of the exhaust verified his presence, and he was embarrassed that he had been caught staring at Mot Lang Quen's scar.
"If I cannot figure out how to make two sets of documents stretch to three, then there will be no future," he said sarcastically, trying to draw Grandma’s accurate assessment away from further attack.
Grandma and Mot Lang Quen stared at An-Dung.
"What do you mean?" Grandma quizzed.
"When I booked your passage," An-Dung joked, "I also bought two sets of forged immigration documents, so you could live in Australia. As I am a late arrival onto this voyage, I didn't have time to get another lot of documents and the Australian Government will probably send me back to Vietnam... and to Cong."
Grandma sat staring at An-Dung in disbelief. "Surely you can apply on arrival there?"
"Once they find out that I am an ex-pirate, they will not waste time in deporting me and even if I live in another part of Vietnam, the pirate spies are everywhere and Cong will finish what he set out to do."
Squashed in between a man and a woman, a small figure sat, straining to hear the conversation going on between Grandma and An-Dung. The exhaust made it difficult to understand the discussion, but he had heard enough key words to know that these were people who could make his life a whole lot more pleasant.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 36
Tom Henderson unlocked the front door to Leanne's Bates’ duplex and let himself in. Lord Nelson rubbed at his heels, obviously hungry and wondering why his food bowl had been empty for so long. Tom measured his steps throughout the duplex, checking every nook and cranny, making sure Leanne's home was secure. Jessup was with them and stood guard while Tom checked the house.
The wound on Leanne's neck worried him. Someone had been inside her home, without her consent and attacked her. But why? She was a nice young woman. Apart from her differences with her strange neighbour, she had no enemies. The young detective didn't think this was the work of that maniac who was preying on women in the area, either. It just didn't make sense.
Satisfied there were no threats to her safety, Tom walked back to his car and opened the passenger door and helped a very stiff, frightened woman slowly amble back into her home. Tom supported her as she took her first steps inside and he felt her stiffen slightly in fear, as she navigated her way through the front door and into the lounge room. Lord Nelson mewed around her feet rubbing his ginger fur against her ankles.
"Hello, baby," she said shakily, relaxing slightly at the sight of her old friend.
"I am going to stay with you tonight," Tom proposed determinedly.
Leanne was about to object, hoping he would override her polite facade. She just couldn’t face a night alone here, while the frightening memories were so fresh. She felt a crushing sense of relief when he raised his hand to stop the objections.
"You need a nurse and I am afraid I'm the only applicant for the job."
Leanne put her hand on his arm and reached in and kissed the old man on his cheek. "I would be grateful for your company, Tom."
Leanne's complexion was pale and she shook nervously, while she stood looking around.
"I need to put you to bed," Tom said gently, sitting her on the lounge, while he prepared. He knew that her bedroom was a mess from the police forensic investigation and quickly found blankets and sheets and made up her spare room. Once it was ready, he guided her to her made up room and as she passed by her bedroom, he felt her stiffen again. She was one frightened woman.
Leanne climbed into the spare bed and her gaze met Tom's. "I am sorry for being such a child, Tom."
"Nonsense. You have every right to be frightened. I am going to set up on the lounge and if you need anything, just holler, okay?"
"Okay..I..I never had a proper dad." Leanne whispered, while her helplessness dismantled her usual disguise.
Tom glanced into her vulnerable eyes, watching pools of tears forming and took her hand. "Well, it looks like ya got one, now."
For a moment, Leanne imagine
d growing up in Tom's home, under his love and care and a warm, secure feeling swept over her. As he left Leanne, to take care of things requiring immediate attention in the house, a large rogue tear ran down her cheek and dropped unseen onto her pillow. Human beings were capable of the vilest atrocities and the deepest kindnesses. She shifted her position in the bed to try and get comfortable, while her stomach felt like it had been punched.
*~*~*~*
Ryan was starting to come around to Dulcet's way of viewing this case. The two men sat at the usual table at Sygh's, drinking strong, black coffee.
"I tell you, the wound on Leanne Bates' neck was exactly the same as the one on Samantha Young's. For all intents and purposes, these two cases have at least enough similarities to point to the same perpetrators. I believe that the Magician was involved in Sam's case, but was outclassed by someone else with a superior motive... a-n-d… the Magician had nothing to do with Leanne's case... b-u-t... whoever attacked Leanne, tried to frame the Magician."
Dulcet continued, "If the Magician is as clever as I think he is, he will be monitoring the papers to see what effect his games are having. He has been beaten on Sam's game and if I were him, I think I would be getting rather peeved at being blamed for Leanne Bates' attack, as well. That makes me think that he will either be planning a 'Magician surprise' to bring the game back into his court, or he will try to make contact with your people through some kind of trickery, to draw your attention back to the game rules."
Ryan swallowed hard at the inferences Dulcet had just advocated.
"So, you think we have two competing groups of criminals, one trying to frame the other?" Ryan conferred.
Dulcet played his ace. "No... I think there are three."
Ryan slumped forcefully back in his chair, causing the chair to scrape along the concrete footpath. Blowing out his breath, he ran his hand through his black locks, before bringing his attention back to Dulcet.
Ready for more revelation, Ryan conceded defeat. "Okay, Dulcet, tell me how you came to that one!"
*~*~*~*
The C-17 banked sharply in the dark sky, while the old professor squirmed in his seat behind the pilot and checked his watch for the thousandth time. He peered over the pilot's shoulder and checked the altimeter: 30,000 feet, but he couldn’t understand what the all the other instruments meant. They had been flying now for 17 hours and the professor was getting stiff and bored. Meanwhile, he’d tried to strike up a conversation with the pilot, but to no avail. The pilot had been ordered to keep his mouth shut and the penalty for disobeying orders was a court martial. The professor wasn't allowed to get up and wander around either, and his legs were getting sore from lack of blood flow.
A crew member opened the cockpit door and a crescendo of noise blasted in. As the door closed behind him, the noise dropped off sharply; and at the same time presenting a tray, balancing cups of hot coffee. The professor nearly fell over himself getting to the tray and the sweet smell of fresh coffee, while the pilot received his coffee next, and then the co-pilot. For the first time since starting the flight, there was an unspoken camaraderie in the cockpit; the suffering silent, drinking sweet, hot coffee together.
Glancing out through the windshield past the pilot, the professor could see the horizon growing lighter. He commented to himself out loud, "It's getting light."
The pilot glanced over at the co-pilot, with a look that said, we're late.
The professor intercepted the glance and guessed they would be in trouble for landing in the daylight hours; and at the same time, the pilot pushed the throttles open and the aircraft gathered airspeed, confirming the professor’s suspicions; while the darkness quickly gave way to a shadowy, morning glow.
Within minutes, the C-17 began to descend. The professor gazed over the pilot's shoulder and peered out of the windshield into the gathering dawn. The Globe Master did a series of spiralling turns, shedding airspeed and altitude, while a string of coded messages barked over the aircraft intercom, presumably to guide the aircraft in. Just as the aircraft banked again, the co-pilot approached the professor with a blindfold.
"What's this for?" the professor protested.
"Sorry, Professor… orders," the co-pilot apologised.
Within ten minutes, the C-17 Globe Master bumped onto the landing strip. The engines roared, brakes were applied sharply and the C-17 ground to a walking pace. Through his blindfold, the professor sensed a change in light intensity, as if they had parked in front of a strong spotlight, followed by the unmistakable sound of large, metal doors grinding along heavy tracks and banging closed. The old professor guessed they had made their intended destination and judging by the distance they had flown, they were no longer in the United States either.
"You can remove your blindfold now, Professor," the co-pilot stated. "Welcome to your new home."
The arduous task of resetting up his laboratory, was just about to begin.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 37
Charmigan Grey traced her stunning features in her makeup mirror. At thirty eight, she could still turn a man's head with her clear, smooth complexion, sky blue eyes, blonde hair and athletic figure. She hated her name and preferred Megan, to Charmigan. Although she had never known her father, and her mother had all but deserted her at birth, she was raised by her grandmother, until she’d died just before Charmigan left her teens. In the absence of parental love, she found whatever strands of affections she could from hollow relationships that all ended in disaster.
She had married an abusive man who had more emotional baggage than she did, and the marriage only lasted two years. She’d found him overdosed on drugs, on their small bathroom floor and he’d died a few days later, in hospital.
She scrutinized her reflection in the mirror; her vacant eyes told her story at a glance. Megan was attracted to strong, abusive men and all her friends were weak females, mostly addicted to cocaine, but cocaine did nothing for her. She’d tried it on a number of occasions but for some strange reason, it didn't give her the effect her friends described. Although she was an attractive woman, she wasn't weak and could stand up for herself, as some of the would-be abusers found out.
Feeling a sudden pang of frustration, Megan threw her makeup kit onto an empty chair, ran her hand through her long blonde locks and dropped down into a nearby seat and sighed. She was all dressed up in party mode, but didn't think she could handle another night, in another nightclub, being hit on by the same sort of bozos.
She began to reminisce on the early part of her childhood, when Grandma was still active, and before her disease stole the last remaining relative Megan had. A pleasant thought passed across her mind and chased the looming blues away. She remembered going to a church with her grandma and listening to a sermon on people's love tanks.
The preacher had kept young Megan’s attention and espoused that children were especially susceptible to the syndrome he had called, the empty love tank. He went on to say, as parents, God expected them to add, every day, into their children's love tank, filling them with affection, self esteem and wisdom from the reserves of both parents. When a child is neglected, then their love tank remains empty and they have nothing to draw on for life's journey. The words of the preacher seemed to echo through the years, and Megan dropped her face into her hands and began to cry.
"My love tank is so empty," she sobbed dejectedly, while the freshly applied makeup began to run down her face. She tried hard to picture what it would be like to be loved and wanted by her parents, but she had no memory of either. In a bitter moment, her grandma once described her mother as a defeated woman, with nothing to offer her child. After that, Grandma determinedly refused to speak anymore of her wayward daughter.
Meanwhile, Grandpa died a few weeks after Grandma had brought her home from the hospital, so she’d never known the influence of a father. When she’d asked about her own father, she was met with such a strong silence that Megan never asked again.
Since Grandma h
ad died and left her all alone in a turbulent and abusive world, she’d been in and out of many strange relationships with men, hungry for the love of a father figure, while the ache in Megan's heart was all consuming.
Why didn't anybody want her, for her, and not for what they could get out of her?
Feeling the onslaught of depression, she decided to go to bed instead of going out. Seemingly she couldn’t escape her feelings of loneliness and abandonment and the tiny, dingy flat she lived in didn't help either. That night, the preacher and his little church came into her mind and she dreamed of a full love tank and families and happy people holding out their hands to her.
In the morning, when the warmth of the sun melted away the looming blues, a tender thought crossed her mind. Maybe she could track down the little church and find some connection with normal people and possibly find a substitute family that could love her and guide her. As the thought took root in her mind, she found a new sense of purpose and a feeling of hope pervaded her outlook. She had no idea where to start looking to locate the church, or if the preacher was still preaching there if she found it, but she had a desire to connect with some part of her life that made sense and she would seek them out.
Megan's week passed by quickly, while happiness seemed to follow her and even her work colleagues noticed the change. The thought of reacquainting herself with something of her limited, happy past brought a deep sense of purpose.
After a great amount of searching, Megan finally located the little church and the excitement of her find suddenly made her nervous about going. Sunday butterflies floated around the walls of her stomach, while nerves and joy collided with each other. Unsure of how to dress for church, she opted for conservative, and even done out in conservative, she was stunning.
