Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Page 23

  The vehicle was a white station wagon. Missouri plates. The silhouette in my rear view mirror lacked any identifying traits, but I was certain it was not a well-wisher. I didn’t particularly care. I took the exit for the hotel, and watched the station wagon pull off behind me. I let the valet park my shitmobile, and I went inside before my shadow got too close.

  In the elevator, I started feeling strange. Sick.

  If it was Ang, he had no reason to follow me. Slick as he was, he could’ve gotten to me pretty much any time he wanted. So what was going on?

  It tickled the back of my brain and the elevator dinged as each floor passed. The sickness solidified into a ball of lead in my stomach as the elevator doors opened on our floor. I ran down the hall, to our room, and knocked frantically.

  When there was no answer, I fumbled the key card from my wallet and slid it in the lock. The strength vanished from my legs as soon as the door opened.

  A chair lay on its side in the middle of the room – the only thing really disturbed – but Tracy was gone. It wasn’t until I turned around, back toward the door, that I saw the gun.

  She must’ve tried to get it. Must’ve tried to use it.

  The paper bag lay, torn, beside the couch. The small pistol was twenty feet away, lying alone on the carpet. Somewhere, Tito mewled.

  The phone rang.

  94

  I picked it up. My hand felt ready to crush the receiver.

  "Dr. Lee?" Ang said in Cantonese.

  "Ang Su Chan," I said.

  "I tried to make you stop, Doctor. I am sorry that it has come to this."

  "You have Tracy?"

  "As I said. I am sorry."

  My stomach dropped.

  "Is she alright?" I asked, my voice quivering.

  Silence.

  "Is she, you fuck?" I screamed.

  More silence.

  Then, "Let us be civilized, Dr. Lee."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want what you want, Doctor. I want this to end."

  "Alright, Ang. How do we end this?"

  "I think you know how this ends, Dr Lee."

  Yes. But if there was to be a meeting, I would – at least – choose the place.

  "You know Millar Park? Off of Olive?"

  "Of course."

  "Meet me there, in twenty minutes."

  He hung up.

  I hurried to the car and drove to the park where I first met Master Cheng. Set back from the street, I found an area far from the streetlights, and parked in the darkness. I got out and moved to a grouping of small pine trees fifteen feet from the car.

  And waited.

  And watched.

  Headlights rounded the bend and approached slowly.

  I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets for warmth and shivered a little. The air carried the steam of my breath in billowing clouds. The station wagon parked next to my car, and the headlights turned off.

  I thought of Tracy, and felt the sickness return. Whatever had happened to her… I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected her.

  Not the first time for this, my mind said. You’re not too great with the whole protection thing, are you?

  The door opened and the driver emerged. The natural grace of his posture, the loping sort of stride, the harsh sharpness of his movements – I wouldn’t have searched so hard for my enemy if I had only known he would come to me.

  He peered into my driver’s side window, opened the door, and cursed under his breath.

  My stomach roiled.

  What has he done to her?

  He looked around, cursed again, and checked the back seat.

  Was she suffering, was she crying out for me to save her?

  My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. My jaws clenched so hard that my teeth ached.

  I called out his name.

  Turning, he sank into a defensive pose like a cat. I watched his head sway back and forth, searching the darkness. I stepped out of the trees slowly, without making a sound. He could not see me but, backlit from the streetlights, I still saw him.

  "Why don’t you come out in the open?" he said in Cantonese.

  "First tell me about the girl. Why did you kill her?" I replied.

  I could not make out his features, but his swaying stopped.

  "What does it matter?" he said.

  "I have to know," I said.

  He seemed to shrug. He walked toward my voice and said, "Duty, though that word means nothing to you, I’m sure."

  I stayed on the move, flanking him to the right in case he had a weapon. "I understand duty. I don’t understand murdering a pregnant woman. I don’t understand terrifying her with damnation before killing her like a coward…"

  "You think I enjoyed it? You are wrong, boy. You do not understand duty… in life we must sometimes do things, horrifying things… not because we wish to."

  "And this ‘duty’ makes it okay? It makes what you did right?" I said.

  He laughed a short, harsh laugh and said, "No. Never right. There is a special hell reserved for men like me."

  "So now you’ve come to kill me, now. To clean up one more loose end?"

  "I come to put an end to this," he said quietly.

  95

  I took a deep breath and stepped into view. Ang Su Chan remained a shadow silhouetted by the street lights. He surprised me by raising his right fist and covering it with his left palm – a traditional salute among martial artists – and bowing slightly.

  I returned the gesture and waited, unsure of what would happen next. The old man exploded into action, arms coiling and twisting. In one second, the strikes were loose, whip-like tentacles, in the next moment, they were solid, thrusting punches.

  I let him come, deflecting the lashing barbs and cannon fists. The strikes slammed against the wounds in my arms, sending jolts of pain through my body. I felt something tear, and a warm wetness began to seep into the sleeve of my jacket. Fear tugged at my mind. Fear, and doubt.

  I can’t do this.

  No. You have to. For her. For them.

  Why?

  Because you’re the only one who can. And because this fucker deserves to die.

  I thought of Tracy. I thought of Mei Ling and her child, of Madame Chong, and Jade. I thought of Jimmy Yi Lau and Samson, of the policemen who fell.

  I thought of Grace.

  And I howled as I rushed in for the attack. I saw Ang’s teeth in the streetlight; a smile. He easily parried my strikes, opening up my chest, and struck out with his fingertips.

  I leaned back and rolled away from the strike. Ang managed only a glancing hit, but it was enough to make my heart skip a beat. He moved in again, and the back of his wrist cracked my cheek.

  He’s too strong. I can’t fight him.

  The words of my teacher echoed in my mind as Ang’s blows tested my abilities. I fended off the strikes as best I could, but my body felt heavy, tired.

  I breathed in the cold night air and said a silent apology. To Tracy, to Knox, to Mei Ling.

  To Grace.

  Because, just for now, I couldn’t hold on to them anymore.

  I exhaled.

  I let go.

  My body relaxed, and, as Ang moved in with renewed attacks, I began to parry him with touches light as the flecks of snow that began to fall. And with every point of contact, I stuck to him, following his movements, smothering them. His fury was a terrifying thing, a physical presence, and his every movement then was designed only to kill.

  The space around me was mine, though, however much the old man tried to take it. His punches and kicks became deadly feints, they were supposed to make me react, make me move. I was supposed to attack or retreat; I did neither.

  Instead, I played.

  The old man presented an opening in his stance – an obvious trick to get me to attack low; I slapped him in the face. He reeled and covered himself clumsily, expecting me to follow up with another strike; I didn’t. He lunged, stabbing fingers toward my vital po
ints.

  I shifted my weight backward, just out of his reach. In his anger and overconfidence, he overextended by perhaps an inch.

  Capturing his wrist with my left hand, I stepped backward and pulled him into my right knifehand strike – a technique from the form known as ‘Repulse the Monkey.’ I had done so playfully, but as I struck his right shoulder at the joint, I felt it separate. He howled from the pain and shrank away.

  I let him.

  He stumbled and, with deceptive speed, lashed out with a kick to my ankle. I winced and barely dodged a wide, arcing strike aimed at my eyes; his knuckles glanced off my split cheek, sending sparks of white heat through my face.

  Shaking off the pain and anger and fear, I realized I had become perhaps a bit overconfident as well. Ang Su Chan circled, pacing, looking for an opening. His right arm hung uselessly; his eyes flitted around, huge and panicked, wild.

  Ang made snarling whines of pain between his teeth as he struggled to breathe. Blood and saliva trailed from his lip and fell to the ground to freeze.

  His feet shifted, rooting.

  His stance deepened, solidified.

  In the madness of his eyes, I saw Mei Ling.

  And in Mei Ling, I saw Grace.

  Cold and blue.

  Lifeless.

  So small, tiny fingers and toes.

  Those eyes, just like her mother’s…

  It would be so easy. No more pain. No more guilt.

  All I had to do was nothing.

  The man before me moved, his fist shooting out like an arrow. Something in it glittered in the dim light.

  I regained my center and shifted, sitting back on my left leg. I avoided the incoming attack by inches.

  In that timeless time I thought of nothing – not Mei Ling, not Grace, not winning or losing or living or dying.

  There was only the game: this dance, this moment.

  The palms of my hands connected to his arms, one in front of his elbow, and the other on his tricep. I felt the chi of his attack, the black surge of anger and hatred fired toward me through that arm. I turned my waist; my arms followed the motion, palms sliding in opposite directions down the length of Ang’s arm, redirecting – reversing – the flow of poisonous intent back upon its wielder. Ang Su Chan’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat.

  And He fell.

  Snowflakes lit upon his open eyes, melted, and trickled to the ground. A small, thin-bladed knife glinted from the palm of his hand.

  I called Knox.

  96

  There would be no need for an in depth investigation. It was a clear cut case of self defense. That a 68 year old man would have a massive heart attack in the midst of a fight was not suspicious.

  I kept it together okay until Knox told me that they’d found Tracy.

  In the back of Ang’s station wagon.

  Alive.

  And pissed.

  Ang hadn’t wanted to hurt her, not really. She’d been simply bait.

  Unwilling bait.

  At least she hadn’t made it easy on him.

  97

  On the drive from the police station to the hotel, my muscles began to tighten and lock up. It was to be expected; my body had absorbed more abuse that month than the previous ten years combined. The pain at least kept my mind off of things.

  Killing an old man, murderer though he was, did not make me feel like a tough guy. It did not make me feel very smart either, considering I still didn’t know the why of everything.

  A small voice in the back of my head seemed to suggest that I did, but it was the same voice that suggested I’d like the movie Moulin Rouge, so I didn’t take it very seriously.

  I parked and took my time getting out of the car. Tracy helped as much as she could, but she was pretty battered herself.

  We needed a vacation.

  On the way to the room, every minute of every year of my life weighed on the muscles of my back and legs; each cut, bruise, burn and scrape sang; the lanced wounds on my forearms throbbed.

  After promising myself that I’d cut down, all I could think about at that moment was a tall, stiff drink. We got into the elevator, pressed the button for our floor, and, when the doors closed, leaned against the mirrored walls for support. Talking took energy we didn’t have.

  My ankle wouldn’t accept my full weight; my cheek and jaw felt like an overcooked sausage. Ang hadn’t managed to strike any specific acupuncture points, but the effects of his rage were impressive. The elevator doors opened, and together we limped down the hall to our room.

  Once inside, we helped each other undress. I inspected Tracy’s bruises, gave myself a quick once-over and, convinced neither of us had been "Death Touch-ed," went to bed.

  Just before dozing off, I realized something.

  A drink would’ve been nice, but the only thing I really needed was her.

  98

  Sometimes life takes on a certain quality, a lucidity and clarity that encompasses and surpasses and crosswires the senses together. Moments we know will be cherished memories even as we live them.

  That night, at the hotel, was such a time.

  To hold and be held, silently, and to relish the silence as much as the touch… tracing the planes and lines of the one I know so well and yet hardly at all… night deepening, reaching its apex, and receding… drowsing through the dawn, entwined together as though fused…

  …even the peach fuzz gargoyle thing coiled upon my head…

  Moments in time, captured forever.

  This was home, here with her; this was peace.

  When at last we rose, we reached a decision. I gathered our things while Tracy snuck Tito out to the car. I paid our bill and turned in the room keys.

  They weren’t necessary anymore.

  99

  The next week or so consisted of attempts –- some successful, others not so much -– to return to normal life. Tracy returned to work, at first picking up only a few shifts until she was ready. I cleaned up the shop, checked my machine, and dutifully called back the patients who apparently thought I’d died.

  I had no patients. Really, though, that was okay. I wasn’t in the headspace to be much help to anyone anyway.

  Then there was the apartment. I’d missed it, of course, but now…

  I never thought I’d miss Tito.

  As for the case, Knox and Janik were still working hard to put together the pieces and figure out the missing bits. I left them to it. As far as I was concerned, my part in it all was finished.

  Mostly.

  100

  The ceremony took place outside, in the sun. 68 degrees in January. Even for California weather, it was exceptional. Massive sticks of incense burned at points around the area; a thick musky sandalwood that clung to the nostrils long after the smoke was gone. The priest paced around the perimeter, chanting mantras and waving a blessed mirror about. He wore a flatboard hat that Tracy said made her think he was graduating from high school.

  I stood near Tony Lau and Daniel D’Avila; their suits made me feel woefully underdressed. Tracy insisted that I looked perfectly respectable in black Dockers, a wine-colored shirt and black jacket, but I just felt shabby.

  So far, it was just the five of us; no one else had shown up yet. Tony glanced over at me and gestured slightly. He turned away and walked to the railing overlooking a small pond. I followed. We both leaned against the rail and looked out at the water.

  "I don’t know why you’ve insisted on this. I would’ve been more than happy to pay--" he said.

  "It’s just something I’d like to do," I said.

  He flashed me a look that said he didn’t understand.

  That was okay.

  Looking down again, he said, "It was an accident, you know…just… well, it’s amazing what tequila can do…" He laughed bitterly.

  "It was her birthday. Daniel went home. We all figured it would be good for me to be seen out with women… We were talking and drinking and it got late and there was more
drinking… I guess a part of me wondered if father was right… I don’t even really remember it. Just flashes, really. Horrible, clumsy flashes. For all the hurt it caused, you’d think it would be clearer. It should be, y’know? I should have to feel it…just like he did."

  "Daniel," I said.

  "He never complained. Never said a word. He knew… but he just wanted the best for me, you know?"

  I nodded.

  "I still can’t believe the one time she and I…" he shook his head, there were tears in his eyes.

  "Fathers everywhere have had that same feeling, believe me."

  He looked up again and said, "You have done so much for us, for her, you shouldn’t have to do this… please…"

  I shook my head. "Tony. I want to."

  Mourners began filtering in, finding seats near the gravesite.

  "Looks like it’s almost time," I said.

  He nodded and together we went back to our seats. I scanned the crowd. There was no one I knew. Yet.

  The priest chanted some more.

  Tracy put a hand on my wrist, leaned in, and whispered, "What’s he saying?"

  "He’s explaining to the gods that the grave is consecrated, the body is cleansed, and the offerings are in place. He’s asking that they welcome her home now."

  "Oh," she said, her eyes moist and shining, "…Baby too?"

  "Baby too," I said quietly.

  She nodded. I offered her a tissue. She took it and wiped her eyes. Traditionally, the bodies would be displayed; time had made that impossible. The casket stood before us – a small, grim reminder of the horrors of the world and the chance of redemption.

  I wasn’t sure of what I believed, but if Mei Ling’s spirit was around then perhaps she could yet find the peace she deserved.

  Perhaps we all could.

  He arrived just as Tony rose to say a few words. I recognized him immediately. Aside from the grey at his temples, he looked just as he had the last time I’d seen him. He stood far to the back of the gathering, well away from the rest of us.