“Farmers,” said Chen. “Farmers kill with snakes. By the way, the water on the floor was laced with insecticide.”
“As a backup,” asked the coroner, “in case the snake got tired or something?”
“The snake wouldn’t get tired. It would have been starved for days to get it ready to kill on sight,” said Chen.
“Snake through the wall, insecticide through the bars,” Fong said softly.
“What’s the sense in that?” asked the coroner.
“Hesheng was ready to talk. He had fear in his eyes when I interrogated him.” Fong failed to mention that he hadn’t insisted on being alone to interview the man. Others had seen Hesheng’s fear. The politico, Chen, the warden and the thug. Chen had just saved his life so Fong was disinclined to finger him. The warden was just a labourer in a uniform. That left the politico and the thug. The old team reunited.
“What, Fong?” asked the coroner.
“Snakes from outside, insecticide from within. Dead bodies set up to be seen, but the boat torched,” thought Fong. “Parallel patterns,” he muttered.
Before anyone could comment, Lily snapped into the phone, “Are you sure?” That drew every eye. She nodded her head. “Thanks. As long as you’re sure!” She waited for a moment, nodded again then hung up.
“What is it, Lily?” Fong demanded.
She raised her shoulders with a “here’s another mystery” look on her face. “The two American lawyers specialized in patent law dealing with DNA.”
Chen asked Lily to clarify what she had said, but Fong wasn’t paying attention. He was staring out the grime-encrusted windows. The sun was fading. Another day was ending. More questions had presented themselves. Good questions. But it was a bad day. One more dead body. One more soul on his conscience.
Fong divided up the assignments for the next day and retired to his sleeping mat. From his time west of the Wall he was used to falling asleep shortly after dusk and rising when the sun came up. But Lily had seldom been outside of Shanghai. Her day was only beginning when it got dark.
She wandered around the grimy, emptied factory unable to find sleep. Somehow, the men had all managed to drift off without a problem. Their snores attested to that.
Without thinking about it, she found herself in the far corner of the factory, where Fong had laid out his mat. She sat on the floor beside him and watched. He slept with his lids slightly open. It was eerie when his eyes began to move rapidly beneath. Eerie, but beautiful.
She still remembered the day he had held her in his arms after she’d been assaulted. She remembered how he had tried to help. His rough, tactless kindness.
She reached out and moved a strand of hair away from his forehead. Her nail traced a thin red line that appeared and then disappeared into his skin. Like love, she thought.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He looked up at her. “Thanks for the telegram,” he said. Then his lids closed and his breathing deepened.
“He looks older,” she thought. Then she reached out and touched his face. His head rolled over, nestling his cheek in her palm. As she watched him sleep, she had only one thought in her head: “Why had they let that telegram get through. She’d sent many others and all had been turned back. But that one got through. Why?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The vigorous old man shifted on his sitting mat and stared through the open doorway at the terraced fields of the island. He and his had built those terraces from nothing. Brought something – wealth – from barrenness. Every ridge they had built. Every water barrier. Every path hewn from the stone. Even the soil they had made. They had put into the land and then reaped from that land. And they had kept to themselves. For centuries they had kept to themselves. Unwanted by their Han Chinese neighbours on the mainland, they had turned inward. For their sustenance. For their mates. For their lives. The wind off the lake momentarily swirled into the hut. The dense aroma from the fermenting pails of human fecal matter wafted into the room. “Must never forget that we are nothing more than the stuff that passes through us,” he thought. Then he laughed. His many, many years entitled him to laugh without explaining why. The others waited.
Finally he spoke. “You’re sure it was necessary, Jiajia?”
“Hesheng was losing hope, Iman,” said his first greatgrandson.
“And it is now done?”
“Yesterday, Iman.” The old man looked at Jiajia. Many years divided them. Many years. But Iman felt for this one above his many other progeny. He had insisted at the boy’s birth that he be placed on the highest, most exposed, hill of the island for a full day – sundown to sundown – his life or death to be determined by his own strength. And Jiajia, unlike many others, had survived – without a whimper – just as Iman himself had done all those many years before.
Like him, Jiajia had made contacts on the mainland as faraway as Xian. He was a patient learner and had a keen ear and sharp eye. He was even able to break down the sullen barriers of secrecy erected by the devious fishermen who lived on the island’s south shore.
Then Chu Shi, Jiajia’s intended, became infatuated with the off-islander, took him as a lover, became ill and suddenly died. It had changed Jiajia – made him stand up to Iman on that matter of taking her from the Earth. Made him almost uncontrollable. But he had come around lately. Although his face was now hard and almost unreadable, Iman believed his first great grandson to be loyal, and reliable, and resourceful, and smart. “Like me,” Iman thought, “like me.”
“We must collect Hesheng’s body,” Jiajia stated. “He must be buried with us.” Then he added, “Especially at a time like this.”
Everyone in the room knew what that meant. A long silence entered the room like an unwelcome guest. Finally the old man spoke, “I will see to this.” He held Jiajia’s eyes.
“It is the least we can do,” spat back Jiajia.
Iman was shocked by the openness of the challenge in the younger man’s voice. Was it what happened or the unearthing of his beloved Chu Shi that bothered Jiajia most? It was the unearthing. The other seemed to have brought him back to life. A cold, angry life, but one that Iman understood. Loss did that to young men.
Jiajia broke the silence. “Will Madame Minister . . . ?”
“We are not slaves!” Iman shouted, furious that Jiajia dared to presume. “We made our island. We make our own choices. We will act in our interests, not those of any minister in Beijing. Is that clear, Jiajia?”
Still stone-faced, Jiajia got to his feet and leaned against the mud wall of the hut.
The old man shifted in his squat and waited until all eyes turned back to him. “Is everyone prepared for the arrival of this policeman?” Affirmative grunts in many forms came from around the room. “Good. The everneighbourly townsfolk of Ching will no doubt point him in our direction shortly. More now than ever be wary of the fishermen; they are never to be trusted.”
Many nods. “We believe that others have arrived from Shanghai to help this police officer.”
The old man nodded slowly, “He’s amassing his forces.” Iman didn’t bother saying out loud, “just as I would.” He grunted then asked, “What’s this policeman’s name?”
“Zhong Fong, Iman.”
“They brought this man here then drugged and beat him?”
“So it seems, Iman, but he appears to be in command now,” his youngest great-grandson replied. The other men in the hut nodded agreement.
“Fong?” They nodded. “He’s got a simple man’s name?”
“Yes, Iman.”
“I’d like to know more about him.” He tilted his head.
A middle grandson looked at a first cousin. “It will be done.” The two men left.
“Do we go for Hesheng’s body now, Iman?” asked his first-born.
“No,” the old man replied and pushed himself to his feet. “Now we plant.” He strode out of the hut with remarkable agility and unhooked the two metal cans of shit on his doorposts and then slung them over his shoulder. “Six days of fermenting is enough. Now even this works for us,” he announced. His large brood laughed and grabbed their farm implements. They fell into line behind him, shovels, rakes, hoes and a collection of small hand-forged tools slung over their shoulders.