Hanging the Devil, page 4
“Philosophy,” said Sally.
Grace started as she felt something brush against her legs.
A cat looked up at her, tail raised. Grace dropped to her knees.
The cat was entirely black save for a white streak along its right foreleg. Its green eyes were expectant, and Grace held out her right hand and tentatively scratched behind its ears. A deep purring filled the room.
“Does he belong to you?”
“Of course not,” said Sally. “He’s a cat.”
Grace sat on the floor, and the cat climbed into her lap. “What’s his name?”
“I haven’t asked.”
Grace looked at the streak on the cat’s leg, a jagged scar covered by fur that had lost its pigment. “This looks like lightning.”
Sally glanced from the cat to the young girl, hearing echoes from her own childhood. “I had a teacher with a scar like that.”
“What was his name?”
“I’ll tell you another time.” Sally extended a hand to help Grace stand. The cat hopped from her lap and padded across the floor. “We need to rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“That’s what tired people always say,” said Sally. “Come, I’ll make us tea.”
They passed from the main room into a short T-shaped hallway with doors on the right and left. Sally turned right to open another shoji screen which revealed a small chamber whose floor was covered in tatami mats. A low table sat in the center of the room, and a small kitchenette was visible through an adjoining door.
“Sit.”
Grace sat by the table as Sally took a cast-iron kettle from a shelf near the sink. Soon the rich aroma of matcha filled the air along with the familiar sound of a whisk. The rhythmic swish swish was hypnotic, and Grace felt herself falling through time.
Her father carried Grace over his shoulder to her bedroom, her head resting in the crook of his neck. She could feel him breathing in time with her. Grace wondered how she could be so light that he could carry her and yet feel so heavy at the same time.
Sally laid Grace on the small bed in the last room at the end of the hall. She brushed the girl’s hair away from her eyes and pulled the covers over her legs. The cat snuck into the room and climbed onto the low mattress, then circled around before finding the perfect spot near Grace’s head, where it curled into a ball and started purring.
Sally remembered the simple wooden cot she had at Grace’s age. Her roommates sleeping only a few feet away. Classes began at dawn and instructors kept them training into the night.
Lessons that lasted a lifetime. Scars that would never heal.
Sally had been up all night but felt restless. She poured herself a cup of tea and brought it to her room. A long sword that looked like a spear was mounted on the wall above her bed. It was a naginata, a cavalry weapon eight hundred years old.
Sally sat cross-legged beneath the sword and drank her green tea, its sharp bite a bitter taste of memory. She pulled the layers of Grace’s story apart again and again. She was looking for the ghost, but he disappeared before she could see him clearly.
Rumors and whispers from her days in Hong Kong clouded her memory and obscured her vision. She knew the answers were hidden in the shadows of the museum.
Sally wondered what Cape was doing to find them.
8
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The uniformed policeman spotted Cape as he ducked under the yellow tape. The officer was too far away to stop him. Cape deliberately picked a spot in the perimeter guarded by the greenest-looking cop, and without breaking stride flipped open his wallet to flash his license. He snapped it closed with a wave that he hoped was both assertive and reassuring.
Cape climbed the stairs two at a time, hoping the rookie might conclude he was with the Feds. Halfway up the steps, Beau spotted him and scowled.
Cape wondered if his old friend would wave him up the stairs or arrest him. With a look of exasperation, Beau gestured for Cape to join the circus.
Beau said something to a uniformed cop nearby. The officer hurried to the top of the stairs and pulled another patrolman from the door before going inside the museum. Now the only person next to Beau was the woman Cape had seen from across the street.
Cape didn’t recognize her and definitely would have remembered if they’d met before. She was probably five-six but was close to five-nine in a pair of boots that looked both elegant and dangerous. The heels could definitely be weaponized. Her profile was a smooth line with gentle curves. The rest of her clothes looked like the national debt put to good use.
Her skin was olive, eyes chocolate, her hair a blend of caramel and licorice. Cape couldn’t decide between cherry or strawberry for the lips and realized he was getting distracted. Either way, Willy Wonka would approve.
She was half a head shorter than Beau but had him on his heels. Very few people could get Beau to take a step back, which he did as Cape joined them.
Beau gave him a considered look before glancing at his watch. “You’re up early.”
Cape pointed at the flexi-straw tail of the wrecked helicopter. “I wanted to see the new exhibit.”
“Museum’s closed.” Beau tilted his head toward his visitor. “I was just explaining that to—”
“Isabella Maria Diaz y Angelos.” She extended a hand as her eyes gave Cape a head-to-toe appraisal. Her voice was deeper than he’d expected, and the way she said her name suggested her Spanish was much better than his. “Call me Maria.”
“Cape.” He shook, noticing the callouses on her thumb and forefinger. “I’m a p—”
“—pain in the ass,” said Beau. “And a private investigator.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“That we are,” said Beau. “Which is why you’re standing on this side of the yellow tape.”
“My supervisor calls me that all the time,” said Maria. “He says I’m a stone in his shoe.”
Beau held up a hand. “Turns out Ms. Diaz—”
“—Maria.”
“—Maria came all the way from Spain,” said Beau, “to visit the museum on official business. Except it’s not official—”
“—yet—”
“—because her supervisor put her on an unpaid leave of absence.”
“A vacation,” said Maria.
“She works for Interpol.”
“Cultural heritage crime division,” said Maria.
“Art heists.” Beau jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Except nothing was stolen.”
“Mierda,” said Maria. “I assure you, something was stolen.”
“Someone was killed,” replied Beau.
“A Buddha,” said Cape. “And a security guard?”
Maria and Beau both stepped sideways to stare at Cape, who shrugged.
“Just a hunch.”
Beau did the math. “You have a client.”
“No comment.”
“My ass,” said Beau. “Why else would you be here…at this hour?”
“I’m an art lover.”
“Uh-huh.” Beau gestured past the security tape at a van from one of the local television stations. “Even the press doesn’t know anything—they just think a helicopter crashed.”
“It looks like they’re right.”
“What did happen inside the museum?” asked Maria.
“Maybe we should go inside and find out,” said Cape.
Maria smiled. “What a good idea.”
“You are not going inside,” said Beau. “Neither one of you. The medical examiner just got started on the bodies.”
“Bodies,” said Maria. “was that plural?”
“I forgot about the pilot,” muttered Cape.
“Dammit,” said Beau. “Can I get back to work?”
Cape turned to Maria. “How do you like San Francisco?”
“I thought it might be boring compared to Barcelona, but so far…not bad.”
Beau rubbed his temples. “Maria told her boss the museum was going to be robbed—”
“—but he said I was paranoid,” said Maria. “I bet him a hundred euros I was right.”
“What’s that in dollars?” asked Cape.
“About the same,” said Maria. “The EU’s in a slump.”
“Since she’s on leave,” said Beau, “my chief of police did not get a phone call from her boss, which means I can’t let her into the museum—”
“—yet.”
“Yet.” Beau nodded. “And since you clearly didn’t come to our fine city to sightsee, I’m sure we will talk later.” Beau’s onyx eyes bored into Cape. “As for you—”
“It’s been too long.”
“Not long enough,” said Beau. “On your last case, you destroyed half of Pier 39.”
Maria gave Cape another appraisal. “You don’t look that dangerous.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Beau, eyes still on Cape. “What I’m saying, you seem to know an awful lot about this train wreck—”
“—it’s a helicopter—”
“—that just happened,” said Beau. “So what I’m asking is…who’s your client?”
Cape cocked his head to one side. “Sorry, I’m a little deaf in this ear.”
Maria gave Beau a thousand-kilowatt smile. “Maybe he could hear better inside the museum.”
“What a good idea,” said Cape.
Beau looked from Cape to Maria and back again. “So that’s how it is.”
Cape and Maria shrugged simultaneously.
“I’m going inside the museum,” said Beau. “Alone. By myself…to talk to my partner and see what’s going on.”
“Tell Vinnie I said hi,” said Cape.
“We can talk later,” said Beau, “as long as you don’t do something stupid like talk to your pals in the press.” He turned to Maria. “I want to hear all about your conspiracy theory.”
“It’s not a theory,” said Maria.
“We’ll see,” said Beau.
Cape turned to Maria. “May I buy you breakfast?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
9
“Never ask about the monkeys.”
Wen didn’t immediately respond to Bohai. He kept his eyes on the macaque as they trudged along the perimeter fence. The monkey hopped from one fencepost to the next, skipping over strands of barbed wire, all the while keeping its yellow eyes on the prisoners below.
“They give me the creeps,” said Wen.
“That’s their job,” replied Bohai. “Keep your voice down.”
“Job?” Wen made a face. “You talk as if—”
“—one of the other prisoners kept asking the guards about the monkeys,” said Bohai. “The next day he got sent to Doctor Loh for a physical.”
“So?”
“We don’t get physicals,” said Bohai. “The only reason we see Doctor Loh is if we’re too sick to work or injured. Anyway, this fellow wasn’t the same when he came back.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was…docile.” Bohai ran his index finger across the top of his forehead, near the hairline on the right side of his skull. “And had a little scar right here.”
Wen didn’t say anything for a few paces as they approached the corner of the fence.
“You recognize the doctor’s name?” asked Bohai.
Wen shook his head.
“Over a year ago, a doctor by that name made international news by successfully creating the first transgenic primate.”
“Which means—?”
“—he spliced human genes into a monkey’s brain.”
Wen almost stopped in his tracks but knew dropping out of line would attract the guards’ attention. “I never saw that story.”
“Most Chinese papers didn’t carry it.” Bohai shrugged. “One of the perks of running my own bookstore was carrying foreign papers. The experiment was a collaboration with Western scientists, including one at a Texas university who condemned Loh, but only after it worked. Everyone backpedaled from the backlash.”
“Why would anyone—”
“—to make them smarter.” Bohai shrugged. “More useful maybe.”
“And Loh came here?”
“You think that monkey is keeping tabs on us?” asked Bohai. “I suspect you’re right but don’t care enough to end up like that other prisoner.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died two weeks later.”
The line stopped as the guard at the front of the line raised his hand. The prisoners were handed shovels or pliers, the guards alternating tools as they walked down the line.
Bohai was given a shovel. Wen got pliers.
The nearest guard indicated a section of fencing about ten meters wide. Coils of wire were loose along the bottom, and one of the fenceposts listed to the left.
“Pangolins,” said Bohai. “They dig at night for termites, loosen the fence.”
“I thought the fence was electrified,” said Wen. “They told us that on our first day.”
Bohai glanced at the guard, who stood just beyond earshot. “Ever notice how the lights flicker at night, sometimes during the day in the factory? The power is erratic out here.” He kicked at the dirt, sending a clump through the fence. “But don’t be surprised if you find a dead pangolin.”
Two hours later they were still on their knees, rebuilding a fence designed to keep them inside. Wen reflected on the simple psychology of their task, its complete lack of subtlety. Their only choices were made for them.
Shovel or pliers.
Fingers raw from twisting wire, Wen sat back on his heels and noticed a dust cloud on the horizon. The ground trembled as the cloud became a cirrus smear across a clear sky. Wen and the other workers stared as a massive army formed in the distance. Even the guards stopped and stared.
The army was on horseback.
Red banners unfurled as riders galloped. Spears glinted in the sunlight. To Wen it looked like a scene from one of the fables he’d read to Grace at bedtime when she was little.
A helicopter roared overhead and broke his reverie.
The side door of the helicopter was open and Wen could see the cameraman in his harness. The camera swiveled on a rig as the helicopter banked toward the oncoming horde.
“It’s a movie,” said Wen. “They’re shooting a battle scene.”
“It’s not the first time.” Bohai rubbed his chin. “Big, open plain with natural light, a landscape that hasn’t changed for thousands of years.”
The approaching army split as the cavalry swept to the right and left, flanking the infantry as it advanced. Archers held their positions and drew back their bowstrings.
Horns trumpeted as a lone rider broke away from the main force.
It was a young woman on horseback, hair wild in the wind, sword raised defiantly in her right hand. The sun seemed to swell with pride as she galloped headlong toward the imagined enemy, the air around her shimmering with midday heat.
An air horn sounded abruptly and the infantry shuffled to a chaotic halt, horses circling back to their starting point. The sound came from somewhere behind the archers. The woman’s horse reared as she pulled the reins, then turned and trotted back toward the disbanding warriors.
A high-pitched squeal, electronic feedback from a bullhorn, then a sharp male voice echoing across the plain. Wen couldn’t make out the words, but as the army scattered he could see through the dust and glimpsed production vehicles and trailers.
“They’re filming a movie…here.” Wen shook his head in disbelief.
“You notice the cameras aren’t pointed in our direction.” Bohai smiled ruefully and jutted his chin at the helicopter as it banked over the plain. “Recognize the logo?”
Wen squinted against the sun and tracked the helicopter as it headed toward the trailers. On its tail was the name of a studio he’d seen at the beginning of countless American films.
“China’s a big market for Hollywood now,” said Bohai. “If the studio films here, or casts a Chinese star, it gets better distribution and guaranteed box office. A good showing in China can recoup production costs in a week, so the rest of the world is all profit.”
“But the helicopter,” said Wen, “they saw us…”
“Did they?” asked Bohai. “Or did they see a factory, or a training facility?”
Wen didn’t respond. He knew he was a prisoner but didn’t realize he was invisible. If he didn’t escape, he would be all but forgotten.
He thought about the woman warrior on horseback and knew the movie was based on the fable he’d read to Grace. A lone woman fighting impossible odds, her only weapons her sword and her bravery. Her loyal companion was a dragon sent by her ancestors to protect her. Grace loved that story so much.
Wen prayed she was safe and silently asked his ancestors for a dragon to protect her.
10
“I can’t protect you,” said Sally. “Unless you learn to protect yourself.”
Grace looked both sleepy and defiant as she rubbed at her eyes and yawned. “I just woke up.”
They stood in the center of the dojo, the large open space where Sally taught martial arts.
“Assailants usually come at night,” said Sally. “Besides, it’s the middle of the day.”
“I was up all night.”
“Do I care,” asked Sally, “if I’m a burglar?” She almost said ghost but knew that wouldn’t help. She would hold fear in reserve until it was needed.
“I took karate lessons after school,” said Grace.
“Show me.”
Sally took a step back, turned sideways and flexed her hand in a come-hither gesture. Grace adjusted her stance and raised her hands in a defensive position. She shifted her weight but remained where she was.
“Good,” said Sally. “You didn’t attack first. That’s smart when you don’t know the strength of your opponent, or if you think they’re stronger.” Sally lowered her hands. “But you already made your first mistake.”
The corners of Grace’s mouth contracted. “How?”
“You didn’t use your legs.”
Grace looked at her feet. “But you just said—”
