Burning Moon

by Richard Barre

  Less than a week and already feeling like two.

  By eight-thirty, the natural light was gone. He was about to pack it in when headlights rounded the east-bound approach leg: a squat coupe, that hatchback look they’d all assumed. Fifty yards from the gate, it pulled over and stopped, as though trying to decide. Seconds passed, the driver’s foot still riding the brakes, twin red blooms. Then the coupe went for it, the occupant getting out to say something into the two-way, enter a code on the keypad, wait while the gate was swung wide.

  Wil saw Mia Tien get back into her Honda, drive to where Robb stood at the ported guard station, saw her get out and enter the house without so much as a look at him. He watched Robb get into the Civic, swing it into the multi-bay garage, the taillights lost from view as the door rolled down in sections.

  By then it was so dark Wil couldn’t see his notebook without the flash.

  24

  First light after hacking his way through impenetrable undergrowth, the dream close to matching his and Matt’s return trip, Wil let his thoughts coalesce around an early beach run and a lapsang brewed almost black. First up: What to do about Mia’s visit to Uncle Luc, somewhat out of character unless he’d missed something. In for a sheep, in for a lamb, he’d decided to stick around and see if anything came of it. But by midnight, the Civic was still in Luc’s garage, and apart from a brief appearance on the patio followed by a figure that had to be Luc detaching itself and going inside with her, that tied it for one evening.

  Wil’s guessing-game thoughts on the drop-in ranged from innocent to any number of sinister things. Ergo, Plan A: Talk to the kid before letting her father into the loop, enough pain there without adding to it. Or was that jumping the gun on her?

  Which led to Plan B: Lorenz and Maccafee—about the only other means of penetrating the nothing-nowhere fog—find a way to use them as they’d intended to use him. That avenue of approach: ferret out what they had in mind, sniff around the beartrap, hijack the bait.

  Only not just yet.

  Of course, there was always Plan C: Bang on the gates until Luc had to do something about him, and in the doing, inadvertently reveal a piece of the puzzle. Not this guy, Wil agreed with himself, more like tipping everybody off as to how empty Wil’s hand was of trump. Plan C rejected until he’d exhausted everything else.

  Wil was watching a school of dolphins roll their way toward the Rincon, when John Pereira called regarding the Harmony findings. They’d gotten them in, he was welcome to peruse the report, but that on initial blush nothing presented itself as either unusual, untrod by the investigators, or unseemly in finding.

  “Just the view from here, you understand,” he said

  “Thanks John. I’ll swing by later and pick it up.”

  “You making any progress?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “It’s possible I missed something between the lines.”

  “Lawyers write the lines.”

  “Great mood you’re in,” Pereira said before hanging up.

  As he cradled the phone, Matt was looking at him.

  Wagging his tail and pawing the air.

  “That mean you liked last night?” Wil said to him. “Huh?”

  Matt came closer; Wil knelt to remove a burr he’d missed earlier, got a lick for it. He’d changed clothes and was about out the door, when he looked back and caught Matt’s expression, his still-lifted paw.

  “Okay, Orphan Annie,” Wil said to him, for which he got an immediate rush to the door. “But save the look, okay? We might need it.”

  By Fernauld Point the day began to look promising, the ocean more green than slate. Traffic was even light. At UCSB, Wil snapped on Matt’s leash, but it was unnecessary, Matt heeling despite the kinesis of hurriers and cyclists, Wil mentally thanking Leora for the training she’d given him. They were early for the materials lab, so he checked classrooms through their door slots, spotting Mia not at all and no empty chairs. Finally spotting familiar hair in Advanced Quantum Theory.

  He and Matt parked themselves until the class ended and Mia’s lab partner exited. Immediately her eyes went to the bandanna Wil had draped around Matt’s neck. Up to Wil, then.

  “Australian shepherd isn’t he?”

  Such a good idea bringing Matt.

  “He is,” Wil said, nodding. “You know the breed?”

  “A little,” she said. “What’s his name?”

  Wil told her, pausing so she could pet Matt, smooth his ears as he pinned her with a look that said, You and me for all time, kid.

  “You’re Mia’s friend,” he said as if suddenly placing her.

  “I might be.” Her guard coming up. “Why?”

  “Wil Hardesty—outside the lab?” Extending her his card. “I really need to talk to her. Did I get the wrong class?”

  She looked at him before answering, at his card again, then, “She’s not in this one.”

  “Boy,” Wil said, “I must have the days crossed. Now what, Matt?” Getting just the right look back, Milk Bone coming up.

  “You’re the guy working for her folks?”

  “Not to the point I tell them everything.” Mr. Intrigue.

  “Why the interest?” she asked, rising to it. “Are you worried about her?”

  “For heaven’s sake don’t tell her that. You know how she is.”

  The girl checked her watch, said, “Look, I’m Jordan. I have to run, but I guess it’s okay to tell you I’m worried, too. She just isn’t herself lately. Like majorly distracted.”

  “Derek?”

  “Oh, God, no. He’s just to jerk her folk’s around. Such a dork.”

  “If not him, then, any idea?”

  She brushed back red hair from a march of freckles. “Promise you won’t tell her I told you?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  She hesitated, then, “It’s unlike her to skip, let alone ask me to cover for her. And she’s never, I mean never, missed a lab, and that’s two in a row. Her folks are so strict. That’s why I asked you not to say anything.”

  “This afternoon’s lab—she called you about it?”

  Nod. “Late yesterday. She said she didn’t know when she was coming back, that she had something to do and she’d pay me for covering. Bullcrap, I told her, friends don’t do that. We’re not kids anymore. You either want to be here or make room for somebody who does.” Flush reflecting the thought and muting her freckles. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

  Blowing Matt a kiss, she headed off down the hall.

  ***

  Wil picked up the findings report from John Pereira’s receptionist, who was about out the door, then continued on the Mia thing at home, Jordan’s comments making him increasingly uneasy.

  It’s unlike her to miss classes…

  Her folks are so strict…

  Late yesterday…

  Which would have been after Mia talked to him, the nothing conversation. Way to go, Hardesty, he thought, drive the wedge right in there.

  Family business, she’d said…Butt out.

  Bet me—not for our hero.

  Still seeing her red Civic hesitate before entering Luc’s gate, he remembered an unfinished piece of business he could do something about. “Wil?” Lisa said when his call found her. “I’m in the middle of something. Later okay?”

  “Just wanted to know if you were all right,” he said.

  Pause. “All right referring to what?”

  He let go a breath. “Frank said he and Andrea saw you downtown. He said you looked a little frayed—his word. Put together with the way you were the other day and—”

  “You came up with what?” Strangely lacking the usual fire when he’d crossed a line with her, real or imagined. Distracted…if he hadn’t seen her handle eight things at once and give each its due.

  “No more than you would for me,” he said.

  “Well, I’m fine.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Is it
?”

  “And where is that coming from?”

  “Nowhere, Wil,” she said, tired-sounding. “Thanks for taking the time.” There was another pause, then, “Wil, I mean that.”

  25

  Luc Tien snapped off the low-profile HDTV, the satellite dish bringing in, among its zillion options, the stations out of San Francisco. He stuck his head out, spotted Robb lounging in front of a baseball game. “Sonny around?” he asked him.

  “Checking the market, Anh hai.”

  “Sonny trades stocks?”

  “E-trade,” Robb responded. “He’s been showing me in his spare time.”

  Luc shook his head at the thought. “Well, you’re both braver than I am. Get him and come in here.”

  “Right away, Anh hai.”

  As Robb went for Sonny, Luc put together finishing thoughts. He was looking into the enclosed terrarium that formed one wall when they appeared in his office, seating themselves as he continued to stare at the jungle, its miniature temples, ruins, and ponds.

  “Change of plans,” he said turning toward them. “Guess whose pockmarked face I saw on television with a phone number under it?”

  “Fuck,” Sonny exclaimed. “Already?”

  Luc nodded. “It was to be expected, just not this soon.” He thought a moment. “Where is our dragon?”

  “Getting a massage,” Sonny answered, mouthing a silent Dao Hong to Robb’s expression. “He was looking pretty spent.”

  “Knowing what’s-her-name, that’s not surprising.”

  Robb said, “I wouldn’t mind having some of that my—”

  “Did I ask for your opinion?” Luc snapped.

  “Sorry, Anh hai. Not thinking.”

  Luc let a look suffice for displeasure. “All right, listen up. This is what I’ve decided.” Enjoying them leaning forward into his words, the power and respect that went along. Small in light of the risks that were his, but small things made an endeavor worthy. Even the most minor role carried its own weight, heart, pearlessence, let alone the part of the underdog. An underdog with fangs.

  “Dao Hong’s coup with the Po Sang is being handled by a San Francisco police detective named Terrence Leong,” Luc went on. Checking the pad on which he’d written it, he spelled it for them, watching them do the same on pads they’d brought. “What I want you to do is contact our lawyers up there, tell them to be ready. Is that understood?”

  Sonny nodded, then Robb. “Yes, Anh hai.”

  “I want them to surrender Dao to this Leong detective tonight. I’ll brief him on what to say, where he’s been, the people we have to vouch for him. To the police and the legal system, Dao Hong will act concerned and cooperative, but vehement regarding his noninvolvement. As far as Dao is concerned, Rising Dragon is myth—a straw man created by the Po Sang to shift attention from its own power struggle.”

  Nods again, this time in unison.

  “His will be the stance I conveyed to our lawyers—Vietnamese are the innocent scapegoats of Chinese-American racism, of lingering resentment from the war. If Dao Hong is not released immediately, civil rights charges will be filed with the United States Attorney.”

  Neither man spoke. Luc went on.

  “San Francisco already is preparing leaflets, Little Saigon also.” As an afterthought adding, “Why do you two think I open my home to the politicians, give them money? Smiles when I would as soon cut their throats?”

  Continued silence.

  Luc tapped the terrarium, where a tree frog was being stalked by a snake, the snake jerking back at the sound. “Because to succeed on this scale, we need what? Benefactors—those who comprehend goodwill relative to economic markets and voter blocs.” Trying to keep it simple, a point of pride with him, each point a pearl.

  “Money and power, yin and yang. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Clear, Anh hai,” Robb said.

  “And what face will we show the Po Sang?” Sonny.

  Luc smiled; buttoning the pockets of his silk shirt, he smoothed the material. “Not mine, if that is what you mean, not yet. Dao Hong will afford them our usual opportunity to sue for peace, the percentages I have laid out through our contacts. And they will agree. Why? Because they have much to lose and we have little.” Pausing for effect. “And because the Po Sang know the next incident will make this last look like something out of Mulan.”

  Respectful silence, exchanged glances, Luc only then getting it.

  “You did see the film, the animated story of…no, I suppose not.” His two lieutenants looking at each other as if they’d inadvertently touched knees.

  “Never mind,” Luc said with a sigh, a glance back at the snake, green legs disappearing. “Just bring the man to me on your way out.”

  26

  The man awoke dreaming of fire.

  Oily orange-black clouds, a storm rolling with apocalyptic speed toward where he stood rooted, feet seized by the jungle and his own horror at what he’d unleashed. Hell itself: billowing now—dwarfing the doomed silhouettes in its path, men not nearly fast enough to outpace it, their attempts consumed in mid-stride. Dead men running.

  Almost on him now.

  Searing his eyes and skin, its roar like—

  Drenched, he jerked awake, pegging the sound finally as static on the hotel’s radio alarm. He snapped it off, sat on the edge of the bed, head bent almost to his knees, talking himself down with Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. The same one on and off for twenty years, the break as fresh as if he’d started the fire last night. Never imagining his captors had stashed napalm beneath their prison quarters in case they were discovered. Reduce all trace to ash should the need arise.

  Even as it was happening, the man knew it was a dream. Still, he was helpless to shift from the overdrive threatening to jam his heart like an engine drained of oil. Once going so far as to connect himself to a heart monitor, one with a memory: finally catching one of the nightmares in progress, the doctor’s eyes going wide when he saw the printout later. The fuck was that…

  But pills didn’t help; they merely slowed his reflexes to a near-defenseless state while creating a need for more pills and a fear of sleep. Only reprogramming, hypnosis, one of the shrinks he saw for it told him. A snowball’s chance in hell.

  For a long time the man stood in the shower, let it take his thoughts to waterfalls, streams, islands, rain forests. Blues and greens. Finally he toweled dry, shaved, walked over and parted the curtains to the night: San Francisco in full blaze, Bay Bridge its conduit of fire. Soundless pulsing light rising to a sheared skyline.

  Cracking open the courtesy bar, he sipped single malt until things sorted themselves, until he could close his eyes and taste ginger and frangipani, rain and passion fruit. He called room service, ordered up whatever the special was, then dialed again.

  “Yes?” a voice answered.

  “I’m here,” he said. “You have something for me?”

  “We were expecting this call sooner. Where were you?”

  “Setting up. More recently sleeping, or attempting to.”

  “Ah yes,” the voice allowed. “There is that, isn’t there?”

  “You plan to talk all night, or what?”

  “Why? You won’t sleep again, I know you,” the voice said. “Our man appeared at the Hall of Justice an hour ago. He was taken into custody by a detective named Leong, L-e-o-n-g. Four lawyers were with him. Their names are—”

  “Is this important?”

  “The lead is, a criminal defense attorney named Sanger, S-a-n-g-e-r. Evetta Sanger. A black of some talent.”

  He made note as the voice went on.

  “The Sanger woman drives a Range Rover, white with tinted windows, vanity plate #1GUN. We have arranged to have one exactly like it at your disposal.”

  “When?”

  “Soon after four this morning a parking stub will be slipped under your door. Present it at the hotel’s parking garage. Are you familiar with the Hall of Justice?”

  “No,”
he said.

  “A map of its location will be included, with the route you are to take. We anticipate no more than a twelve-hour hold in light of the political pressure.”

  When I see it happen. “You know for a fact this Dao Hong is your man.”

  “One of our sources puts him with the gunmen,” the voice said. “We expect his release to be the occasion for a press conference. While Evetta Sanger and her legal team are berating the police for their rush to judgment, Dao Hong will be hustled out the employee’s entrance on a side street.”

  The man checked his watch: just past midnight.

  “And you know this how?”

  “Sanger’s driver. He is scheduled to pick up Hong and take him to a prearranged spot. Only you will be behind the wheel.”

  “Where will the driver be?” the man inquired.

  “Far away. Spending his money.”

  “I swear you must be psychic.”

  The voice cleared its throat. “The other half of payment will be in your account at the first news report, followed by a call to confirm your clearance.” There was the sound of something swallowed. “Now, if there is nothing else…”

  “What time is the press conference?”

  The voice said, “We don’t have that information yet. If it is not included in the drop, stay by the phone. As soon as we know, you will know. As for the rest of the evening, there’s a TV film festival running Bullitt in twenty minutes. I thought you might appreciate the—”

  “Thanks,” the man interrupted. “I’ve seen it.”

  “As you wish.”

  The line went dead as dinner arrived, and he ate slowly with the news on. Which became mug shots showing a pocked and sullen face with dead-looking eyes, the man’s curiosity about this Dao Hong becoming speculation on an earlier comment the voice had made about him. Specifically, how much of this dragon was teeth and how much was brain.