The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [82]
She never changes, he thought. How long had it been? Ten years? Eleven? She still wore the Maoist clothes, the baggy green fatigues and the cap. But no red armband—those were gone with the Red Guard. Her hair was tied in two pigtails held with red ribbon—her sole affectation. She was still lovely.
She bowed deeply.
He did not return the bow.
He said it before he could lose his nerve. “I am going to release you soon.”
He saw her eyes widen in surprise. Or was it dismay?
“You cannot release me.”
“It is within my power.”
“I mean that I am a prisoner of my own crimes. No one can release me from them.”
Perhaps that is true, he thought. Indeed, I have tried and tried, and I have been unable to forgive you. And it is eleven years, not ten. How could I have forgotten?
“Your release does not come from my mercy, it comes from my need.”
“Then I am grateful to serve your need.”
“How long have you been a prisoner?”
“Eight years.”
“A long time.”
“You have been gracious enough to visit often.”
Gracious, he thought. No, not gracious. I have visited you to struggle with my own soul. To see if I could overcome my own hatred. I have kept you as a mirror in which to view myself.
“My needs may require you to exercise some of your former skills. Can you?”
“If it serves you.”
“It is dangerous.”
“I owe you a life.”
Yes, he thought, you do. He studied her closely, studied her as he had so often. He wanted to reach out to her, to share the pain, but instead he stiffened and said, “Be ready, then. I shall call.”
She bowed. He turned on his heel and signaled the guard to lock her back up, lock up this woman who had killed his wife.
12
Ben Chin watched the gorgeous Shaolin nun beat up on the evil mandarin and then got up from his seat. He would have watched more of the film, but his neck still hurt from when that bitch had tried to kick his head off, and besides, it was time to get back to work.
He didn’t have to look behind him to know that his new crew was following him up the aisle. His old crew, the useless old women, had been demoted to running errands, and now the Triad bosses had sent him a sleek, new gang of stone killers straight from Taiwan. They’d also given him an assignment: Go into the Walled City and do the job right this time. Do what you have to do. Use money, drugs, fists, knives, or guns, but get it done.
Fine. He was looking forward to the reunion. And it was close, so close. Almost two months of hard work—two months of well-placed bribes, of threats, of dangerous reconnaissance missions into the Walled City—had finally yielded a reward. Getting in was another problem, getting out a bigger one yet. But the job itself would only take a minute: have one of his new boys make the buy, then take the merchandise into an alley somewhere and put one in the back of his head. It wouldn’t be as good as slicing up the bitch, but still …
His crew was following him as he hit the street and the goofy little kid got in his way.
“Superman twenty-fifth anniversary issue? Very cheap?” the kid asked, holding some raggedy-looking comic books in Chin’s face.
“What the—?”
The kid threw himself to the sidewalk, and Chin saw the car across the street a half-second before the rounds from the AK drilled through his chest.
His body toppled to the pavement. The neon of the theater marquee flashed on his blood soaking into the covers of Superman, Batman, and The Green Hornet.
Simms shook the cylindrical can until a prayer stick fell out. He took the stick, wrapped a crisp American hundred-dollar bill around it, and handed it back to the old monk in the booth.
It was costing him a hell of a lot of money to locate Neal Carey, but it was worth it. There was no telling what could happen if somebody else got to him first and heard the story he had to tell. Simms didn’t know what Neal did or did not know, and he