"Quiet down, Ernie," I said. "The assholes might still be in the area."
"No way," Ernie said. "We lost 'em. Once I pulled out this baby.." he patted the AK-47, "… no way they were going to follow."
I wasn't so sure about that. "You didn't kill any of them, did you?"
"Naw. Shot over their heads. But I should've blown a few of them away." He mimed firing the automatic weapon once again. "Rock and rolll"
What Ernie needed was a sedative. Or a couple of shots of bourbon.
Lady Ahn tugged on my arm. "We must leave. Quickly!"
"Yes," I agreed. "But they'll be watching the bus station. And there aren't any taxicabs way out here."
"We will find a way," she said. "I will show you."
Twenty minutes later, we stood inside a tin-roofed shack peering at a small tractor with a square wooden platform bolted behind the driver's seat. Designed for transporting fifty-pound bags of grain.
A snaggle-toothed farmer grinned at us. He'd never in his life seen such an entertaining display as the three of us. "How much does he want?" I asked.
"Ten thousand won," Lady Ahn answered. Twenty bucks.
"And he'll take us all the way to Taejon?"
"On the back roads only. He'll let us off near the outskirts. Not in the town itself."
"Okay," Ernie said. "It's a deal."
The farmer also threw in three bowls of rice gruel and some turnip kimchi, which we ate while hiding inside the tin shack.
When night fell, the moon rose almost full but not quite. If we were going to save Mi-ja, we had to reach Seoul by tomorrow. The three of us crammed ourselves into the back of the tractor, the cackling old farmer at the wheel. The farmer fired up the engine and we drove off down the bumpy country road, heading once again toward the provincial capital of Taejon.
My legs had cramped into knots and my butt was as sore as a bad boy's rump at a corporal punishment convention. The ancient tractor bounced up and down with every rut. The straw-hatted farmer stared straight ahead into the night. Ernie kept up a steady stream of cursing.
To make matters worse, the heavens opened up as if they had only one last chance to water a parched planet.
Lady Ahn snuggled up against me, clutching the skull in the soaked burlap bag, and I held a plastic sheet over our heads. Ernie had lost everything in the fight in the fish market and sat with his arms crossed, hugging the AK-47. Rain ran in rivulets down his straight nose and puddled on cursing lips.
I had offered him the use of my shirt or the underwear in my bag but stubbornly he had refused. Finally, he gave in and grabbed my overnight bag and set the whole thing atop his head. It didn't provide much shelter.
I thought about the Mongols who had attacked us, trying to bring the memory of their faces vividly into my mind.
They were tough rascals. Dark-skinned and wiry and with an apparent relish for combat that only men long used to violence could attain. They held Mi-ja, and she was totally at their mercy.
The tractor slammed down hard into a pothole. Soil reeking of septic tank splashed up and engulfed us in a rancid wave. Ernie emitted a particularly colorful series of expletives but the old farmer just kept churning forward.
Soon the rainwater had washed much of the mud off of us. Through it all, Lady Ahn sat next to me. Uncomplaining. As long as she held the skull in her hands, she seemed happy.
Streetlamps started to appear at the side of the road. And then huts and buildings and even a two-story yoguan with a rain-soaked wooden sign over its door.
The farmer stopped the tractor, turned off the ignition, and the engine coughed, sputtered, and died.
"Yogi isso," he said, still smiling. Here you are. "Taejon."
I unraveled my legs in sections, stepped out onto the pavement, and shakily brought myself to the standing position. Ahead in the distance lay a sea of more lights and even high-rise buildings. Bright blue and yellow neon sparkled through the rain and I could make out the tiny letter- ing atop one of the skyscrapers. The Pyong-an Tourist Hotel.
Luxury. But much too far away. We'd settle for this small establishment in front of us. The Somun Yoguan. The Westgate Inn.
I paid the farmer. He started up the engine of his tractor, and waved to us as he drove away. Still grinning.
Easy money, he was probably thinking. If we were foolish enough to offer it, he was damn sure going to take it.
We pushed through the heavy oak door of the inn. After a couple of minutes, the chubby woman who owned the Somun Yoguan overcame her shock at seeing two rain-drenched Americans accompanied by a soaked-to-the-skin Korean woman of regal beauty. We paid for two rooms. The owner led us down creaking wooden hallways. Rounding a corner, she slid back a paper-paneled door.
It was a little square room with no beds, just folded sleeping mats and wood-slat floors heated by steam ducts running beneath the foundation.
The owner left Ernie and me, guiding Lady Ahn to her quarters. She returned a few minutes later with a metal tray piled high with hot rolled hand towels and steaming cups of barley tea. When I rubbed the towel on the back of my neck and sipped on the tea, a semblance of color started to return to my shriveled skin.
Ernie was the last to use the byonso. While he was gone, Lady Ahn tiptoed down the hallway. Without a word, she took me by the hand and led me to her room.
We slid the door shut and turned off the light. The rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to disperse. Beams of moonlight drifted through an open curtain. Instead of appearing beautiful, the light from the almost full moon filled me with dread. Dread for what would happen to Mi-ja if we didn't reach Seoul soon.
Lady Ahn sensed my discomfort. She undressed me and wiped my cold skin with a warm towel. I forgot all worries and did the same for her.
I knelt in front of her. Ministering to royalty. Ministering to beauty.
The next morning Ernie wasn't exactly morose, but he wasn't happy either. Usually, he's the one who makes it with the chicks. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because he doesn't try. He just does whatever crazy thing comes into his demented mind and women find it exciting. Unpredictable.
Personally, I could live without the unpredictable part.
We ordered breakfast in the room: jiggei peikpan, white rice with kimchi and bean curd soup. After we ate, we stuffed the AK-47 into my overnight bag and stepped out into the already bustling city of Taejon. Our clothes were still damp.
We waved down a cab, clambered in, and Lady Ahn gave directions. The Rising Phoenix Antique Shop in the district of Chungku.
When we pushed into the shop, the familiar bell tinkled above us. The same young clerk Ernie and I had frightened last time stepped out from behind the still-splintered glass counter. Wide-eyed, she bowed at the waist.
"Kang oddiso?" Lady Ahn asked. Where's Kang?
The clerk stood upright and raised her fingertips to her lips. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Mullasso, onni?" You don't know, older sister?
"What?" Lady Ahn asked. "What is it I don't know?"
"The Widow Kang was found in her apartment." The young clerk turned her face, tears streaming easily down the soft skin of her cheeks. "She had been tortured. And cut many times."
"Cut? Is she still alive?"
"No, older sister. They cut her throat." The young woman clutched at her thin neck convulsively. "Cut it so deep the policeman said they carved into the bone."
I translated for Ernie but somehow he'd already figured out what was going on. "It's Fifi, right?" I nodded. "I think we'd better get out of here," he said. "Now."
Lady Ann's face was blank from shock. I grabbed her and the three of us slipped out the back door and down the alleyway.
No one followed. At least I don't think they did.