And then I think, Great. I’m friends with a dog. What am I supposed to do with it?
An injured dog at that. I look at the shoulder, and it’s hard to see exactly what’s going on with the wound because of the fur, but it looks to me like the bullet went in and out and took out a small chunk of flesh with it, maybe the size of a quarter.
“Okay, dog,” I finally say. “I need to get going.”
I push myself to my feet and start walking.
The dog follows, at my side now.
Fucking great.
WE WALK A COUPLE of hours. The trail is rutted, steep in places. The weather’s okay at least, cool but not cold, with a breeze that gathers into gusts of wind sometimes. I get pretty thirsty, though. I’m guessing the dog does, too, its mouth open, its tongue hanging out, panting almost in time to its steps. Limping now, and I think, Ha-ha, of course I attract a limping dog.
Occasionally I glance at its shoulder. Rusted blood mats the yellow fur, with bright red seeping beneath it. I’d like to do something about that, I think. If I had a razor and some disinfectant and some bandages, that would help, and I could do the stitches if I had to. Could I get an anesthetic? Antibiotics are pretty easy to find here, if it needs that.
Just to be clear, it’s not that I really care about the dog. I’m not a dog person. Except it kept me warm last night, and I guess I feel a little obligated.
At last we make it down to the road.
Now that we’re here, I’m not sure what to do. We stand there, the dog and me, at the side of the road. Some cars rush past. A beater Chery. A Buick. A local bus.
Bus, I think. All we need to do is find a stop. Or maybe wave one down. That might work.
A part of me feels like, what’s the point? I’m going to get caught eventually. I always feel like I’m going to get busted for something, when it comes down to it.
Then I think, Get a grip. If this was the DSD or Creepy John doing some weird-ass shit, or even some of the other creeps I’ve butted heads with the last few years from my own country, I’d have plenty of reasons to freak. And this whole thing with Eos, and Hongxing, and New Century Hero Rice-something’s going on there. Something a whole lot bigger than me.
But Russell? Erik? Setting me up for some cheesy pot bust?
Don’t quit, I tell myself. Keep playing.
It’s a local problem, and local police in China are really bad at coordinating with different provinces, from what I’ve heard. All I need to do is get the fuck out of Dali and out of Yunnan and back to Beijing. I’ll deal with it there.
Or, maybe, head southeast to Shenzhen, then to Hong Kong. Get the fuck out of Dodge altogether, before the bust catches up to me.
Except there’s my mom, back at my apartment. With Andy, and a toilet that may or may not flush.
“Fuck, dog,” I mutter. “Why isn’t this shit ever simple?”
The dog sits back on its haunches and thumps its tail. I stretch out my hand. It pushes its nose into my palm, and I give it a scratch behind its ears.
“Oh, okay, I get it. It is simple. For you.”
We keep walking north. To the right is the lake, deep blue shifting to slate grey when the clouds blow over it, sunlight hitting the water in fan-shaped beams.
I’d heard there were lots of artists designing and building second homes around here, and now I get why. This would be a nice place to live.
That is, if I wasn’t wanted by the Dali police.
I’m thinking about all this, the dog on one side, the lake on the other, spacing out the way I tend to do, taking in the light glinting off little waves, the sharp blue of the sky, the panting of the dog.
I don’t take in the silver Toyota pulling up alongside me until it slows and the passenger window rolls down.
“Yili. Please get in the car.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MY HEART SLAMS INTO my throat. I don’t even know how I feel when I place the familiar voice and look over and see Creepy John leaning toward the passenger window from the driver’s seat.
He opens the passenger door.
“What do you want?” I manage.
He sighs through gritted teeth. “Just, please. Get into the car.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“Try to fix this mess you are in. For first thing. For second…” His eyes drift down. His head cocks back. “What is that?”
“A dog. Duh.”
The dog cocks its head back, too. Bares its teeth. A growl rumbles in its throat.
I’m liking this dog.
John does his squinty-eyed look, but this time it’s like he’s getting a headache, for real. “Why you have dog?”
“Long story.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he finally says. “Just get in car.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then maybe you get arrested here and go to prison,” he snaps. “You want to go to prison?”
I stand there at the side of the road, the dog pressing against my leg, the wind kicking up, carrying a smell that’s like a giant aquarium, moss or algae or something.
I mean, what am I going to do? What are my choices here, really?
“The dog comes too,” I say.
SO MAYBE I’M PUSHING it, but I honestly don’t give a fuck at this point.
“We need to go to… to a… an animal doctor,” I manage in Mandarin.
“Shouyi?” John supplies.
“Yeah. That.”
“Yili…” he starts.
We’re driving down the road along the lake. I don’t have a clue where John plans to take me. The dog lies in the backseat on one side, head resting on front leg, wounded side up, which is good because it’s not bleeding all over John’s new upholstery, which I have a feeling would piss him off.
“Or get me some drugs and bandages if you want,” I say. “Whatever. But I need to do something for him.” Or her. I still don’t know.
There’s no reason he has to go along. No reason he can’t stop the car and dump the dog by the side of the road. It’s not like I have any kind of power here. Not even a little.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. We find someone.”
WE DRIVE NORTH. MOUNTAIN on the left, lake on the right. Past little villages, creeks that empty into the lake, green fields, I don’t know of what.
I think about New Century Hero Rice.
“So how’d you find me?” I ask.
He gives a half shrug, like it’s not even worth answering.
“Come on,” I say. “My cell phone? My passport? How?”
“Not very hard,” he finally says. “We watch you, you go to train station, they see what ticket you buy, what train. Hotels report to local PSB. Easy for us to ask. We lose you a while in Yangshuo but find you again in Dali.”
“ ‘We’?”
“Just… you know, people. Some are… are officers. Others just… we pay them.” He shrugs again. “Many people work for DSD these days.”
“Huh. Like guys in polo shirts, driving a Buick?”
John frowns. “Buick? I don’t think so.”
Whatever.
“Why are you going to so much trouble? Don’t you guys have better things to do? Stop monks from lighting themselves on fire or arrest people cracking jokes on Twitter?”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You know why.”
“Lao Zhang? I told you, I don’t know where he is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving Beijing, then?”
He actually sounds hurt. Which is kind of funny and pretty bizarre.
“I can’t take a vacation with my mom?”
His head whips around, and he glares at me. “Vacation? You go to Guiyu for vacation? Without your mother? And she goes back to Beijing anyway.”
We hit something, a pothole, the car bounces and shimmies. John yanks the steering wheel to compensate. The tires squeal. The dog yelps from the backseat.