A place where families die, where children are trapped in the holds of sinking ships, where men and women are shot in the back scrabbling for the only sanctuary they can find: a heartless, cold ocean. A place where they die for no reason other than that they are irritations and stumbling blocks.
Sachs stared at the ever-open eyes of Jerry Tang.
"Go there, Sachs," Rhyme murmured. "Go on. I'll get you back. Don't worry."
She wished she could believe him.
The criminalist continued, "You've found your betrayer. You're furious with him. What do you do?"
"The other three men with me tie Tang to a chair and we use knives or razors on him. He's terrified, screaming . . . .We're taking our time. All around me--there're bits of flesh. What looks like part of an ear, strips of skin. We cut his eyelids off . . . . " She hesitated. "But I don't see any clues, Rhyme. Nothing that'll help us."
"But there are clues there, Sachs. You know there are. Remember Locard."
Edmond Locard was an early French criminalist who stated that at every crime scene there's an evidence exchange between the victim and the perpetrator, or between the scene itself and the perp. It might be difficult to identify the evidence that's been exchanged and harder yet to trace it to its source but, as Rhyme had said dozens of times, a criminalist must ignore the apparent impossibilities of the job.
"Keep going--further, further . . .You're the Ghost. You're holding your knife or razor."
Then, suddenly, the phantom anger she felt vanished, replaced by an eerie serenity. This shocking, yet oddly magnetic, sensation filled her. Breathing hard, sweating, she stared at Jerry Tang and was possessed fully by the foul spirit of Kwan Ang, Gui, the Ghost. She did feel what he had experienced--a visceral satisfaction at the sight of his betrayer's pain and slow death.
Gasping, she realized she felt a deep lust to see more, to hear Tang's screams, watch his blood spiral down his shaking limbs . . .
And with that thought came another: "I'm . . . "
"What, Sachs?"
"I'm not the one torturing Tang."
"You're not?"
"No. I want the others to do it. So that I can watch. It's more satisfying that way. It's like a porno tape. I want to see everything, hear everything. I don't want to miss a single detail. And I have them cut his eyelids off first so Tang has to watch me watch him." She whispered, "I want it to keep going on and on."
A whisper. "Ah, good, Sachs. And that means there's a place you're watching from?"
"Yes. There's a chair here, facing Tang, about ten feet away from the body." Her voice cracked. "I'm watching," she whispered. "I'm enjoying it." She swallowed and felt sweat pouring from her scalp. "The screams lasted for five, ten minutes. I'm sitting in front of him all that time, enjoying every scream, every drop of blood, every slice." Her breathing was fast now.
"How you doing, Sachs?"
"Okay," she said.
But she wasn't okay at all. She was trapped--in that very place where she didn't want to be. Suddenly everything good in her life was negated and she slipped further into the core of the Ghost's world.
You're looking like it's bad news . . .
Her hands shook. She was desperate and alone.
You're looking like it's bad--
Stop it! she told herself.
"Sachs?" Rhyme asked.
"I'm fine."
Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about the bits of curled flesh, the smears of blood . . . Stop thinking about how much you're enjoying his pain.
Then she realized that the criminalist wasn't saying anything.
"Rhyme?"
No answer.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Not really," he finally answered.
"What is it?"
"I don't know . . . . What good does knowing where he sat do us? He was wearing those fucking smooth-soled shoes. It's the only place we know the Ghost himself spent any time but what kind of evidence is there?"
Still feeling nauseous, tainted by the Ghost's spirit within her, she glanced at the chair. But she looked away, unable to concentrate.
Discouraged, angry, he continued, "I can't think."
"I . . . "
"There's got to be something," he continued. She heard frustration in his voice and she supposed he was wishing he could come down and walk the grid himself.
"I don't know," she said, her voice weak.
She stared at the chair but she saw in her mind the knife working its way up and down Jerry Tang's flesh.
"Hell," Rhyme said, "I don't know either. Is the chair upright?"
"The one the Ghost sat in to watch from? Yes."
"But what do we do with that fact?" His voice was frustrated.
Well, this wasn't like him. Lincoln Rhyme had opinions about everything. And why was he sounding as if he'd failed? His tone alarmed her. Was he still brooding over his role in the deaths of the immigrants and crew on the Fuzhou Dragon?
Sachs focused again on the chair, which was covered with debris from the vandalism. She studied it carefully. "I've got an idea. Hold on." She walked closer to the chair and looked beneath it. Her heart thudded with excitement. "There're scuff marks here, Rhyme. The Ghost sat down and leaned forward--to see better. He crossed his feet under the chair."
"And?" Rhyme asked.
"That means that any trace in the seam between the uppers and his soles might've fallen out. I'll vacuum underneath it. If we're lucky we might find something that'll lead us to his front door."
"Excellent, Sachs," Rhyme said. "Get the Dustbuster."
Excited at this find she started for the CS kit near the door to retrieve the vacuum. But then she stopped. She gave a faint laugh. "You got me, Rhyme."
"I did what?"
"Don't sound so innocent." She realized now that he'd known there was trace beneath the chair from the moment she'd deduced that the Ghost had sat watching the carnage. But he'd recognized that she was still lost in the Ghost's terrible world and that he needed to get her to a better place--the haven of the job they did together. He'd pretended to be frustrated to draw her attention back to him and ease her out of the darkness.
A misrepresentation, she supposed, but it is in such feints as this that love is found.
"Thanks."
"I promised I'd get you back. Now, go do some vacuuming."
Sachs swept the floor under and around the chair and then removed the filter from the portable vacuum and placed it in a plastic evidence bag.
"What happens next?" Rhyme asked.
She judged the angle of the blood spatter from the bullets that killed Tang. "Looks like when Tang finally passed out from the pain the Ghost stood up and shot him. Then he leaves and the assistants trash the place."
"How do you know things happened in that order?"
"Because there was debris covering one of the shell casings. And there was broken glass and some torn poster paper on the chair the Ghost'd been sitting in."
"Good."
Sachs said, "I'm going to do electrostatic prints of the shoes."
"Don't tell me, Sachs," Rhyme muttered, being Rhyme once again. "Just do it."
She stepped outside and returned with the equipment. In this process, a plastic sheet is placed over a shoeprint and an electric charge is sent through the sheet. The result is an image, like a plastic Xerox copy, of a foot-or shoeprint.
It was as she was crouching down, her back to the dark warehouse, that she smelled the cigarette smoke. Oh, Jesus, she thought suddenly--one of the killers was back, maybe aiming his weapon on the radiant white suit.
Maybe the Ghost himself . . .
No, she realized, it was the missing bangshou!
Sachs dropped the electrostatic equipment with a crash and spun around, falling hard to the floor on her back, her Glock .40 in her hand. The notch and blade sight rested squarely on the intruder's chest.
"What the fuck're you doing here?" she raged, in agony from the jarring fall.
Sonny
Li, smoking a cigarette, was wandering through the office, looking around.
"What I doing? I investigate too."
"What's going on, Sachs!" Rhyme asked.
"Li's in the perimeter. He's smoking."
"What? Get him the hell out."
"I'm trying to." She rose painfully and stormed up to the Chinese cop. "You're contaminating the scene."
"A little smoke. You Americans are worry too much--"
"And the trace on your shoes, on your clothes, your footprints . . . You're ruining the scene!"
"No, no, I investigate."
"Get him out of there, Sachs!" Rhyme called.
She took him by the arm and walked him to the door. She called to Deng and Coe. "Keep him out."
"Sorry, Officer," Eddie Deng said. "He said he was going to help you run the scene."
"I am doing," Li said, perplexed. "What is problem?"
"Keep him here. Cuff him if you have to."
"Hey, Hongse, you got temper. You know that?"
She stormed back to the scene and finished the printing.
Rhyme said, "Is Eddie Deng there?"
"He's outside," Sachs replied.
"I know the company's supposedly clean but have him go through the files anyway--I assume they're in Chinese. See if he can find anything about the Ghost or smuggling, other snakeheads. Anything helpful."
Outside, she waved to Eddie Deng. He plucked a telephone earbud out of his ear and joined her. She relayed Rhyme's request and, as the Photo and Identification Units took over for Sachs, Deng dug through the desks and file cabinets. After a half hour of diligent work he told her, "Nothing helpful. It's all about restaurant supplies."
She told this to Rhyme and added, "I've got everything here. I'll be back in twenty minutes."
They disconnected the radio.
Massaging her sore spine, she reflected, And what about the Ghost's bangshou? Was he in the city? Was he really a threat to them?
Watch your backs . . .
She was just at the doorway when her cell phone rang. She answered it and was surprised, and pleased, to hear John Sung identify himself.
"How are you?" she asked.
"Fine. The wound itches some." He then added, "I wanted to tell you--I got some herbs for your arthritis. There's a restaurant downstairs in my building. Could you meet me there?"
Sachs looked at her watch. What could it hurt? She wouldn't be long. Handing off the evidence to Deng and Coe, she told them she had a stop to make and would be at Rhyme's in a half hour. They and Sonny Li got a ride back to Rhyme's from another officer. Li looked relieved he wouldn't be riding with her.
Sachs slipped out of the Tyvek suit and packed it away in the CS bus.
As she dropped into the driver's seat she glanced into the warehouse in which she could clearly see the body of Jerry Tang, his ever-open eyes staring at the ceiling.
Another corpse at the hand of the Ghost. Another name transferred from one balance sheet column to the other in The Register of the Living and the Dead.
No more, she thought to the ten judges of hell. Please no more.
Chapter Nineteen
Amelia Sachs, nursing the crime scene bus through the narrow streets of Chinatown, pulled into an alley near John Sung's apartment.
Climbing out, she glanced at a hand-painted sign in the florist shop on the ground floor of his building, next to the restaurant. NEED LUCK IN YOUR LIFE--BUY OUR LUCKY BAMBOO!
She then noticed Sung through the window of the restaurant. He waved, smiling.
Inside, he winced as he rose to greet her.
"No, no," Sachs said. "Don't get up."
She sat opposite him in a large booth.
"Would you like some food?"
"No. I can't stay long."
"Tea, then." He poured it and pushed the small cup toward her.
The restaurant was dark but clean. Several men sat hunched together in various booths, speaking in Chinese.
Sung asked, "Have you found him yet? The Ghost?"
Disinclined to talk about an investigation, she demurred and said only that they had some leads.
"I don't like this uncertainty," Sung said. "I hear footsteps in the hall and I freeze. It's like being in Fuzhou. Someone slows down outside your home and you don't know if they're neighbors or security officers the local party boss sent to your house to arrest you."
An image of what had happened to Jerry Tang came to her and she glanced out the window for a reassuring look at the squad car parked across the street in front of his building, guarding him.
"After all the press about the Fuzhou Dragon," she said, "you'd think the Ghost'd go back to China. Doesn't he know how many people're looking for him?"
Sung reminded, " 'Break the cauldrons--' "
" '--and sink the boats.' " She nodded. Then she added, "Well, he's not the only one who's got that motto."
Sung assessed her for a moment. "You're a strong woman. Have you always been a security officer?"
"We call them police. Or cops. Security officers are private."
"Oh."
"Naw, I went to the police academy after I'd been working for a few years." She told him about her stint as a model for a Madison Avenue agency.
"You were a fashion model?" His eyes were amused.
"I was young. Interesting to try for a while. Was mostly my mother's idea. I remember once I was working on a car with my dad. He was a cop too but his hobby was cars. We were rebuilding an engine in this old Thunderbird. A Ford? A sports car. You know it?"
"No."
"And I was, I don't know, nineteen or something, I'd been doing freelance work for a modeling agency in the city. I was under the car and he dropped a crescent wrench. Caught me on the cheek."
"Ouch."
A nod. "But the big ouch was when my mother saw the cut. I don't know who she was madder at--me, my father or Ford Motor Company."
Sung asked, "And your mother? Is she who watches your children when you work?"
A sip of tea, a steady gaze. "I don't have any."
He frowned. "You . . . I'm sorry." Sympathy flooded his voice.
"It's not the end of the world," she said stoically.
Sung shook his head. "Of course not. I reacted badly . . . . East and West have different ideas about families."
Not necessarily, she thought, but wouldn't let her mind go any further than that.
Sung continued. "In China children are very important to us. Sure, we have the overpopulation problem but one of the most hated parts of the central government is the one-child rule. That only applies to the Han--the majority race in China--so we actually have people in borderline areas claiming to be racial minorities to have more than one child. I will have more someday. I will bring my children over here and then, when I meet someone, have two or three more."
He watched her when he said this and she felt that comfort radiating from his eyes again. From his smile too. She knew nothing of his competence as a practitioner of Chinese medicine but his face alone would go a long way in calming a patient and helping the healing process.
"You know our language is based on pictograms. The Chinese character for the word 'love' is brushstrokes that represent a mother holding a child."
She felt an urge to tell him more, to tell him that, yes, she wanted children very badly. But suddenly she felt like crying. Then controlled it fast. None of that. No bawling when you're wearing one of Austria's finest pistols on one hip and a can of pepper spray on the other. She realized that they'd been gazing at each other silently for a moment. She looked down, sipped more tea.
"Are you married?" Sung asked.
"No. I have someone in my life, though."
"That's good," he said, continuing to study her. "I sense he's in the same line of work. Is he by any chance that man you were telling me about? Lincoln . . . "
"Rhyme." She laughed. "You're pretty observant."
"In China, doctors are detectives of the soul." Then Sung leaned forward
and said, "Hold your arm out."
"What?"
"Your arm. Please."
She did and he rested two fingers on her wrist.
"What?"
"Shhh. I'm taking your pulse."
After a moment he sat back. "My diagnosis is correct."
"About the arthritis, you mean?"
"Arthritis is merely a symptom. We think it's misguided to merely cure symptoms. The goal of medicine should be to rebalance harmonies."
"So what's unbalanced?"
"In China we like our numbers. The five blessings, the five beasts for sacrifice."
"The ten judges of hell," she said.
He laughed. "Exactly. Well, in medicine we have liu-yin: the six pernicious influences. They are dampness, wind, fire, cold, dryness and summer heat. They affect the organs of the body and the qi--the spirit--as well as the blood and essence. When they are excessive or lacking they create disharmony and that causes problems. Too much dampness must be dried out. Too much cold must be warmed."
The six pernicious influences, she reflected. Try putting that on a Blue Cross/Blue Shield form.
"I see from your tongue and pulse that you have excessive dampness on the spleen. That results in arthritis, among other problems."
"Spleen?"
"It is not just your actual spleen, according to Western medicine," he said, noting her skepticism. "Spleen is more of an organ system."
"So what does my spleen need?" Sachs asked.
"To be less damp," Sung answered as if it were obvious. "I got you these." He pushed a bag toward her. She opened it and found herbs and dried plants inside. "Make them into tea and drink it slowly over the course of two days." Then he handed her a small box as well. "These are Qi Ye Lien tablets. Herbal aspirin. There're instructions in English on the box." Sung added, "Acupuncture will also help a great deal. I'm not licensed for acupuncture here and I don't want to risk any trouble before my INS hearing."
"I wouldn't want you to."
"But I can do massage. I think you call it acupressure. It's very effective. I'll show you. Lean toward me. Put your hands in your lap."
Sung leaned forward over the table, the stone monkey swinging away from his strong chest. Beneath his shirt she could see the fresh bandages over the wound from the Ghost's gunshot. His hands found spots on her shoulders and pressed into her skin hard for five seconds or so, then found new places and did the same.
After a minute of this he sat back.
"Now lift your arms."