White Tiger

CHAPTER 12

The flight from Narita to San Francisco took nine hours and seven minutes, arriving on the same day as when Manning left. As the Japan Air Lines 747–400 descended through the marine layer which shrouded the airport, Manning prepared himself, straightening up in his business class seat and slipping on his shoes. Outside the window, misty gray cloud swirled past, featureless even though the airplane was flying at more than 200 miles an hour. It touched down at half past eleven that morning, and with the wail of thrust reversers, braked to a relative crawl in less than six thousand feet.

The jet lumbered its way to the taxiway and finally came to a halt at Gate A4. Manning joined the rest of his fellow passengers in unbuckling their seatbelts and setting about to disembark. As they filed off the aircraft, Manning nodded to the flight attendants and walked down the skyway, heading to the International Arrivals Hall, where he went through the usual customs proceedings. As an American citizen with nothing to declare-and who ever declared anything, anyway? — he breezed right through. He stepped through the glass doors leading to the bright and wide arrival hall, his bag in his right hand, a light leather jacket in his left.

There was a plastic basket of mail waiting for him in the lobby of his Lombard Street apartment, as he had restarted the mail service over the internet before leaving Japan. Manning picked through it for a moment, marveling at all the credit card offers he’d received, as well as some unwanted but regrettably unavoidable correspondence from the Internal Revenue Service. Also some mail regarding the disposition of his military benefits, which he had not yet started drawing. He decided he would go through it another day; after all, it had been there for almost four months.

The apartment itself was much as he had left it: sparsely furnished, comfortable but still mostly utilitarian, devoid of any real decoration save a few pictures of the family he had once had. He ignored the photos for the moment; there would be time for that later. He dragged his suitcase into the bedroom and unpacked it quickly. The digital alarm clock on the cheap nightstand next to his king-sized bed was flashing; apparently, the apartment had lost power at some point while he was away. Manning sat on the edge of the bed and went through the process of resetting it, checking it against his watch to make sure the time was correct. He then picked up the cordless telephone and dialed his voicemail; most of the messages there were from solicitors of one variety or another. Nothing important, and nothing he decided to save.

He treated himself to a shower to clear some of the post-travel fuzziness in his mind, then pulled a pair of worn jeans from the closet and tugged them on. After that came a T-shirt, over which went a denim shirt which he tucked into his jeans. He then headed down the stairs to the single-stall garage allocated to his unit.

The 1970 Pontiac GTO was in perfect shape. It had been in almost mint condition when Manning had purchased it almost two years ago. When he had first relocated to the city, he had been driving a GMC 2500 crew cab pickup; while the rig had perhaps reflected the more austere aspects of his personality, it was hardly the easiest vehicle to navigate through the streets of San Francisco. Not that the starlight black GTO was much easier-it was almost as long as the truck had been-but at least it fit in the garage. Manning ran his fingertips along the car’s flank as he walked toward the driver’s side door; the car was a little dusty, but the wax still made the paint feel as smooth as silk. Manning smiled to himself wryly as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Driving the Goat would be one of the pleasures of coming home.

He started the car and the garage was almost overwhelmed by the basso rumble. Manning tapped the button on the remote clipped to the passenger side sun visor, and the garage door rolled up on its tracks. As the GTO’s big 455 cubic-inch engine warmed up, Manning opened the cabinets at the rear of the bay. He pulled out his drip pan, a funnel, a new oil filter, and several quarts of oil. Once the engine had warmed up enough to loosen whatever sediment might be in the engine’s crankcase, he switched the engine off and went to work.

Less than half an hour later, Manning was done. He went back upstairs and washed his hands and arms in the half-bathroom across from the kitchen, then went back to the garage. He started the GTO again, checked for any leaks, then pulled the car out of the garage. The cloud cover had burned off at last; the day was bright and sunny, the air clear and cool. As Manning turned down Lombard Street, he found himself hoping the highway was clear. Both he and the GTO needed to run a bit.

He caught the 101 heading southbound and found that the afternoon traffic was already starting to mount; commuters were beginning to head back to their homes in the Santa Clara valley. Manning decided he would take the I-280, the freeway which ran down the peninsula’s left side. It would make for a longer trip, but speed wasn’t exactly of the essence at the moment. Driving on the right side of the surface streets and the freeway felt proper, and Manning had no problems falling back into the old rhythms of driving in California. As he goosed the Goat toward the merge with 280, he felt good. Real good. Japan was a complex and at times difficult society to traverse, with more dead-ends than one would experience in America, from finding a restaurant that would serve a gaijin to just braving the flow of traffic. Here in California, Manning felt as if a ponderous weight had been lifted from his chest. He dropped the GTO into third and gunned the engine; the GTO fairly leapt forward as it responded with a throaty bellow and relentless, almost intoxicating power. Manning caught himself grinning in the rearview mirror as the speedometer’s needle wound past 90 miles per hour. He felt like a kid again.

And that felt good, too.

As the news of Lin Dan’s death spread, James Lin had left instructions that he would accept personal calls from only the mayor and the chief of police. All other calls were screened by Han, who would express gratitude for the caller’s offered condolences, and promised to pass on the message as soon as it was convenient. The list of callers had grown to fill an entire page. Lin mentally segregated them into two groups: those who warranted his personal attention and whom he would call back later, and those who would instead receive a thank-you card delivered by courier. What irritated him was how quickly the news had spread across the city. He imagined that if he were to open the windows of his study he would hear the beat of drums, broadcasting his personal misery to the world. The mayor had warned him that the story had leaked to the media despite attempts to have it suppressed. Television news channels were already featuring Lin Dan’s murder as their third or fourth item. Their speculation on the “mysterious assault and murder” was supported by information from “an unnamed source,” thought to be a hotel employee. Lin knew that as other news items lost their impact, the murder would slowly rise until it became the leading story of the day. He prayed for an airline disaster, or for a new hurricane to form in the Gulf of Mexico with unexpected speed and fury. But his fatalistic side knew that such a miracle would not come. They never did.

“Lin Yubo?” Han’s voice tore Lin from his thoughts. He stood in the study doorway, a shadow within a shadow, his hands clasped before him.

“Yes.”

“I have received a telephone call from the Medical Examiner’s office. They say the preliminary report is available. But they cannot release Lin Dan’s body until tomorrow.”

“I would like to see my son.”

“Lin Yubo, forgive me. I believe that would be inadvisable at this time. Let us remember Lin Dan as he was. The undertaker will inform us when he is prepared for his onward journey.”

Lin thought about that, and nodded. Han was taking care of the funeral arrangements. He’d recommended a small family business that exclusively served the Chinese community, and which could be trusted never to divulge private matters. Lin still wasn’t sure whether he would prefer Lin Dan to be laid to rest here in the United States, or shipped back to Shanghai for burial beside his brother. While family tradition demanded the latter, the fact was that his sons, Lin Jong and Lin Dan, had never liked each other. There had always been conflict between them. To place their remains and thus their ghosts in close proximity was to invite eternal unrest. Not that Lin believed in ghosts. Communism had all but stamped out such ideas, together with ancestor worship. Nearly fifty years ago Lin had been swept up and swept along by the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. As much as he hated to admit it, it had changed his way of thinking forever. But he’d been younger and more foolish then, at twenty-five years of age one of the youngest political officers in the region, granted enormous power in addition to the influence already enjoyed by the Lin family as ranking members of one of Shanghai’s most notorious Tongs. Of course the Tongs had gone underground for a period, until Mao’s raging storm passed by and it was safe to come out again. But their strangle-hold upon crime remained, and they were canny enough-with Lin’s help of course-to prosper at a time when the country teetered on the edge of almost total self-destruction. So long ago….

Bu zhan bu he.

No war, no peace.

It seemed almost laughable now, a distant memory, a confused dream. His campaign for political reform had demanded absolute obedience and a willingness for every man and woman and child to question their own worth. Changing one’s appearance and verbally expressing one’s loyalty to the Party wasn’t enough. Only by changing the inner self was it possible for someone to serve the Party and China better. That was the true meaning of Bu zhan bu he. “If you never go to war with yourself and reinvent yourself as a better citizen of the State, you will never know peace.” The young political officer known as Lin Yubo had presented his reform to the Politburo, which immediately endorsed the plan and promoted him again, giving him everything he required to carry it through. He had traveled from town to town and from village to village accompanied by two regular companies of Red Guards, soldiers who had much experience in suppressing civilian populations, and who carried out their duties with exuberance.

Boxes within boxes, locked and pushed to the back of his mind. Reopened now by the deaths of his sons on two different continents, and a message written in blood.

“The Medical Examiner refuses to send the report by courier,” Han said. His expression remained unchanged but his tone conveyed a subtle irritation which, Lin imagined, few people would have picked up. “They say it is too late in the day. I told them I would collect it personally.”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Lin said.

“With respect, Lin Yubo.” Han bowed his head to take the sting out of his disagreement. “It may tell us something we do not already know, however unlikely that may be. The police will undoubtedly be given a copy. We should share their awareness.”

Lin admitted that Han had a point, but a suspicion had been growing in Lin’s mind ever since the policeman Ryker had brought him the news of Lin Dan’s death. “I am not at ease,” he said. “First, Lin Jong was executed in Shanghai. Now Lin Dan, here in San Francisco. Perhaps the killer, whoever he is, will come after me next? Then again, perhaps not. It occurs to me that perhaps he has not finished delivering his message?”

“I have had the same thoughts, Lin Yubo,” Han said. “Tao Baozong and Fan Guolong are waiting for me in the car.” Lin knew the names, both men were members of the select bodyguard cadre that Alexsey had personally trained, and were highly competent. Han patted his jacket, beneath his left armpit. “And I am taking an old friend with me. Its familiar weight brings back memories.”

Lin gave an involuntary bark of laughter. Han had served his family for decades, but he had also worn the uniform of the People’s Army. Alexsey, upon witnessing Han’s shooting skill on the firing range, had declared there was no need for him to adopt the cadre’s methods lest Han’s natural ability become impaired.

“I should have known your instincts would alert you,” Lin said. “But, be careful, won’t you? Call me when you get there, and when you leave to return.”

“As you wish, Lin Yubo.”

Han bowed and withdrew, leaving Lin to his thoughts, which turned now to business, and specifically to his latest dealings with his American partners, which could not be ignored. The investment was huge, the stakes enormous, and if an unknown enemy hoped that these petty distractions would incapacitate Lin or sway him from his path, then they would be sadly disappointed.

Han relaxed as best he could in the rear seat behind Tao Baozong, who confidently maneuvered the sedan through San Francisco’s swollen traffic stream en route to the Medical Examiner’s office. Han didn’t expect to find any surprises in the M.E.’s report. After all, there was little doubt that Lin Dan had been murdered by the same hand that had slain his older brother. As Lin Yubo had intimated, the killer could still be in the city of San Francisco, planning further mayhem against the Lin family, and its adopted members. Han found this possibility unsettling. They were dealing with an unpredictable psychopath, the worst kind of enemy, against whom ordinary security precautions might well prove useless, unless the Russian and his men maintained round-the-clock vigilance. Which, as Han knew only too well from personal experience invited tiredness, disorientation, and fatal error.

“We should be there in another five minutes,” Baozong said over his shoulder.

“Traffic could be a lot worse,” Fan Guolong, in the front passenger seat, said.

Han’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and opened it. He expected to see Lin Yubo’s name on the display, but instead “Caller unknown” showed. “Hello?” he said cautiously.

“Ah, Mr. Han? This is Michelle Huang in the Medical Examiner’s office.” He recognized the woman’s voice; they had spoken half an hour ago. Evidently she had stored his cell phone number, an impertinence. “I’m really sorry to bother you again, Mr. Han. There’s been a mix-up here.”

“What kind of mix-up, Miss Huang?” He detested the Americanization of Chinese names, the willingness to blend into the alien environment. Lin Yubo himself used the pseudonym James Lin when dealing with American politicians and businessmen, which was necessary, but what Chinese family would willingly name their daughter Michelle?

“The report, Mr. Han,” the woman said, sounding distressed. “It’s been sent to our offsite records facility by mistake, along with some other stuff. I’ve been trying to contact the driver, but I can’t get hold of him. You aren’t on your way to the M.E.’s office, are you?”

“As a matter of fact I am.”

“Oh dear. Mr. Han, would it be an inconvenience if I asked you to meet me at the records facility instead? I’m on my way there now to find that report.”

Han considered the request. It was not too outrageous, although clearly the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s administrative procedures were inadequate, oand the staff incompetent. “Where is this facility?” he asked.

She gave him the address, which he repeated to Baozong. The driver nodded and immediately moved into the right-hand lane. “No problem,” Baozong said. “Another couple of minutes, that’s all.”

“I will see you there, Miss Huang,” Han said.

“My car’s a red Toyota hatchback. It’ll be parked outside the rear entrance.”

“Thank you.” Han hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Aiyah. The stupid whore has managed to misplace the Medical Examiner’s report,” he told the two men. “We are to meet her at this other address. She drives a red Japanese whorehouse. A Toyota hatchback.”

Guolong said, “I bet she fucks with the hatch wide open. She likes the cool breeze on her ass.” They laughed, and Han conceded a smile.

As they navigated the streets their surroundings changed from a mix of stores and residential apartments to older office and utility buildings, some of which appeared empty. Traffic thinned, then became non-existent, with only a handful of vehicles parked in otherwise deserted alleyways. Baozong slowed while Guolong consulted a street map he took from the glove box. They reached agreement and the sedan entered a dark city of one-story buildings and tall warehouses. It reminded Han uncomfortably of times long past in his faraway homeland, of entire towns left populated only by ghosts.

The street narrowed so much that two cars would have found it difficult to pass. The shrinking dimensions gave Han an acute feeling of claustrophobia. “There,” Guolong said. He pointed to the alleyway directly ahead, in which a red car sat near a stairway that led up to a sheltered doorway.

Baozong said, “Is that it, Mr. Han?”

“It has to be,” Han said, irritated by the question.

“Maybe she’s fucking someone in the back seat, hey?” Guolong said.

“She can’t be, the hatch is shut,” Baozong said, cackling with amusement. But Han found himself focusing on something other than their asinine humor, something external and inexplicable that chilled his spine and caused his stomach to lurch.

Guolong leaned forward and twisted his head to look upward. A shadow passed over his face and he said, “What the fuck?” A heavy weight struck the sedan’s roof, the boom reverberating through the car like a gunshot. The windshield shattered a split-second later, showering Guolong with a storm of glass. Han, even as he reached inside his jacket to draw his pistol, a copy of the Russian Makarov, from its cracked leather holster, understood that someone had leaped from the roof of the warehouse. The analytical part of his mind calculated the height and distance, and told him that such a leap should not be possible.

Baozong’s side window exploded and the driver abruptly jerked sideways, his head dragged outside by his tie. He choked and fought back, pulling with all his strength. But then a knife descended and slipped so easily across his throat, opening Baozong’s carotid artery and windpipe in the same fluid motion, as if the tough cartilage of the throat posed no obstacle to the gleaming blade. Blood sprayed across the dashboard and Baozong began to die, his brain deprived of vital oxygen.

Han fired upward through the roof, five deliberate shots that drew a straight line from corner to corner. He didn’t wait to see whether he’d hit anything; while he remained inside the sedan with his back to the rear window he was at his most vulnerable. He kicked the rear door on the driver’s side open, a diversion, then opened the opposite door and threw himself from the sedan, trusting his fate and his life to the gods. He rolled as he landed and came up on one knee, facing the sedan with his gun in both hands, the hammer thumbed back, two rounds still in the magazine.

Guolong, his face cut to bloody ribbons by the glass, recovered sufficient presence of mind to pull an Uzi submachine pistol from inside his jacket and cock the weapon. Absurdly, Han wondered how he would have explained the Uzi if they had been stopped by the police for any reason and searched. So sorry, officer, I didn’t realize automatic weapons were illegal here, they’re all the rage in Shanghai, don’t you know? Guolong screamed his rage and blindly unloaded his Uzi into the sedan’s roof, even as Han realized there was no one up there.

Death came to Guolong not from above but from beneath the sedan, as a figure clad all in black slid out between the wheels, wrenched Guolong’s door open and, with a clinical precision that a surgeon might have admired, inserted the point of a long, straight sword into his exposed lower back. Han watched, utterly fascinated, as the blade slid up and completely disappeared inside Guolong’s torso. There seemed to be no resistance at all. Guolong threw both arms wide and arched his back, his mouth open but making no sound. Han could barely imagine his agony. The Uzi barked once more as confused nerves caused dying fingers to tremble. Brass cartridge cases pinged and bounced on the asphalt. Then the door was slammed shut and Guolong slid down out of sight, leaving bloody streaks on the side window.

Han’s eyes almost failed to pick out the black-clad figure crouched on all fours like an animal about to pounce. It blended into the shadows around the sedan-seemed to belong to a world of confused light and shade rather than be an individual human entity. And it was staring at Han over the barrel of his pistol. Han willed his finger to pull the trigger and send a bullet into the killer’s skull, but those eyes, those terrible eyes and the dark force behind them stopped the signal from passing along the network of nerves that connected Han’s brain to his hand. Try as he might, he could not pull the trigger. And for the first time in nearly forty years, Han Baojia experienced fear.

Too late, his troubled mind acknowledged the object that whirled through the air and struck the gun from his hand. Red-hot pain lanced up his arm. At least one bone in his hand had been shattered by the impact. He looked down and saw what looked like an iron rod, no more than six inches in length, lying beside his foot. Further back up the street, the way they’d just come, a car hissed by. Han clutched his hand to his chest and ran for his life. If he could find someone, if he could surround himself with witnesses whose presence might deter the killer, he might stand a chance. His footsteps echoed up the lonely street, vying with the thump of his heart against his ribcage and his laboring, wheezing lungs. He shifted left and right, hoping to avoid any thrown objects. Another car passed by only a hundred paces away, perhaps even less. The possibility that the killer had chosen not to pursue him grew in his mind, until the split-second when his ankles snapped together and he fell headlong, landing on his broken hand and smashing his face into the asphalt.

The numbness lasted for a count of five. Then agony tore through his body. Blood filled his mouth; he’d bitten the end of his tongue off. He curled into fetal position and suppressed the groan that sought to escape his lips. He became aware that his ankles were bound by a length of wire attached to teardrop-shaped iron weights at either end. He’d been tripped, brought down expertly like some jungle animal hunted for sport. Barbs fixed along the wire had torn his flesh to ribbons. He suspected their points might be grating against the bones of his ankles.

The killer bent over him and inspected him thoroughly. Hands grabbed hold of his jacket. Han was lifted and spun around and slung over the killer’s shoulder. He struggled to remember the term. Fireman’s carry. Han ground his teeth together, determined not to make a sound that would give the killer satisfaction, even though he had no idea whether that was what the killer sought from him. Only now, through the haze of pain, did he begin to perceive a true impression the killer’s size. He was not a large man. His frame was surprisingly small, his shoulders narrow, his arms wiry, his hands tiny. Was the killer a young boy? Could that be possible?

Small or not, the killer carried Han all the way back toward the sedan without any apparent effort. Keeping Han balanced on his shoulder, the killer opened the driver’s door and took the key from the ignition. He went to the back of the sedan and unlocked the trunk, which swung open to reveal the spacious interior, occupied only by a plastic box containing a flashlight, tire iron, and foot pump.

The killer twisted and dipped his shoulder, dumping Han into the trunk without ceremony. It was simply too much; a moan escaped Han’s lips. He instantly detested himself for exposing his weakness to his enemy. But the killer didn’t appear interested; he slammed the trunk shut. The light bulb dimmed, became a glowing pinhead, too small to illuminate Han’s surroundings. His ragged breathing filled the darkness. Now that he was alone he sucked air deep into his lungs and permitted himself a full-blown groan. Moving his legs proved impossible, the nerves refused to respond. His hand burned, distracting him further.

He sought, and found, the flashlight, which was made of tough plastic, with a handle above the body. He thumbed the switch on. When his eyes adjusted he played the light over his other hand. It was unnaturally twisted, the fingers bent backward, dislocated or broken, he couldn’t tell which. In terms of pain it probably didn’t matter, one was as bad as the other. He laid the flashlight on the floor. The beam waned and he thought the batteries might be drained, but the beam’s strength returned again without explanation. Han gripped his twisted forefinger and wrenched it straight. The pain made him weep. He spat blood that had pooled in his mouth, then pulled his other fingers straight in rapid succession. Three had been dislocated, and his smallest finger was indeed broken. He tried gripping the flashlight but it slipped from his numb fingers. He jammed his useless fingers between the flashlight’s handle and the cylindrical body, an exercise in self-mutilation, but it gave him a club that would, with luck, be enough to distract the killer for a split-second. He switched it off to preserve battery power. Next he searched for the tire iron and took comfort from the feel of the chill, hard metal. As soon as the trunk opened again he would turn on the flashlight and swing it at the killer’s head, masking his real attack, the pointed end of the tire iron which he would thrust at the killer’s solar plexus with all the strength and speed he could muster.

Thumping noises came from the front of the sedan. The car rocked on its suspension. The engine started. Han imagined the killer must have got behind the wheel, having pushed Tao Baozong over into the passenger seat with Fan Guolong. Their failure to safeguard his life angered Han. The ineptness of the Russian’s “special training” couldn’t be more obvious. Baluyevsky’s competence would be called into question as soon as Han saw Lin Yubo….

The sedan moved off. Han relaxed as best he could, conserving what strength he had. The numbness began to spread up his legs, to his knees. That suggested blood loss as well as nerve and muscle damage. After he dealt with the killer, assuming he could, what then? Somehow he would have to get out of the trunk and into the driver’s seat. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now his focus must be entirely upon the killer. Exacting revenge for the deaths of Lin Yubo’s sons was paramount. To Han, this objective was more important than his own life. He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer to all his ancestors. Let me perform my duty well.

The sedan slowed. How far had it been driven? He’d no idea. He thought it turned a corner, though his limited perspective from within the dark trunk couldn’t be entirely trusted. It slowed again, then stopped. The engine was switched off. The sedan rocked again. Had the killer got out? Han gripped the tire iron tight and placed his thumb over the flashlight’s switch.

The trunk opened! Han switched on the flashlight and swung his arm up and around. It seemed as if a sledgehammer struck his forearm, the force tremendous, the pain too much for any man to bear. The flashlight spun away, torn from his hand, and smashed itself to pieces. He screamed even as he rose up on his elbow and aimed the tire iron at an imaginary point where he imagined-hoped, prayed! — the killer must be standing. His makeshift weapon only found air before the sledgehammer struck again, shattering his hand. The tire iron made a clanging noise as it hit solid ground. Concrete? Could they be inside one of the warehouses?

The flashlight was gone. The tire iron was gone. All that remained was the pain. His arms were as useless as his legs. He lay on the floor of the trunk, gasping and helpless.

“How does it feel, Han Baojia?”

The trunk light revealed the killer, a black shape against a black background. Where were they? Han couldn’t hear anything above his own rasping breathing.

He shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate. What had he missed? Something important. Something his senses had tried to tell him before now, but he’d ignored the information, relying instead upon his misconceptions.

A woman’s voice. Muffled by her mask but nonetheless recognizable. She’d spoken in Cantonese. Her hands were empty. There was no sledgehammer. The truth stunned him. She’d broken his forearm and his wrist using only her hands.

“How does it feel to be helpless, and alone?”

He wanted to ask, Who are you? but suspected he would receive no meaningful answer.

“Does it bring back memories?”

Very probably a Michelle Huang did work at the Medical Examiner’s office, but she had not called Han about the preliminary report. No, the killer had called him, briefly assuming Michelle Huang’s identity. She’d lured him from a position of security and safety. Then she’d called again, with perfect timing, and asked him to meet her at another location. Like a fool he’d fallen for her trickery.

She knew his name. Evidence that she must have been gathering intelligence. Or had been given it by an unknown third party.

“Think back, Han Baojia. Think back to Shanghai.” She leaned into the trunk, so close to him that he felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Think back to Pudong. Does the name Shi mean anything to you?”

Her eyes, blacker than black, were only inches from his own. Power radiated from those orbs, a terrifying elemental power that seeped into him and made his heart flutter.

“Do you remember a boy? Twelve years old. Frightened of the People’s Army officer who shouted into his face. So frightened that he could not answer the officer’s questions.”

Han shook his head, denying the memories, but they insisted upon casting the earth aside and rearing up out of the ground like rotted corpses suddenly come to life. There had been a boy. Where? When? In the poorest quarter of old Shanghai. A village in its own right. Han had denounced the elders who were then displayed for all to ridicule. The boy, he’d been part of the crowd, standing near the front. No, not part of the crowd. He’d been in the crowd. But somehow detached, unresponsive to the emotion that hung in the air, showing nothing. Han had watched him until he felt sure the boy disapproved of what was happening. He’d called him forward. The crowd had pushed him into the center of the square.

He didn’t want to remember but the dark force behind those eyes pressed down upon him, allowing him no escape.

Han had questioned the boy but received only the most basic answers. He began to suspect the boy was retarded. When asked to explain why the Revolution was so important to the Chinese people, he could not. Han saw smiles appearing in the crowd, as if the peasants found the boy’s stupidity amusing. Those smiles had forced Han to punish the boy. The Party could not be seen to lose face. Stupidity was no excuse. If the boy was retarded then his family should have tried harder to educate him. The fault was entirely theirs. Han dragged a wooden box into the square, put the protesting boy inside, and nailed the lid shut. He then stood upon the box while he addressed the crowd, explaining the new policy and what it meant to every one of them. He was pleased with his impassioned speech and how it seemed to affect them. Only when he stepped off the box over an hour later did he realize it had no air holes.

The killer straightened. Han sighed with relief, glad to be away from her. She pulled off her mask. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders. Some might have judged her beautiful; to Han she was a demoness in human form, who had worked dark magic upon him.

“His name was Shi Jiawen. He was my brother. As Lin Yubo shall pay for the death of my father, you must pay for the death of my brother.”

She slammed the trunk shut.

He heard no footsteps, nor the sound of a door opening and then closing, entombing him within the building, wherever it was. But he knew she had left him here to die.

Han had always wondered what the boy’s name was. Now he knew.