Aftershock & Others (37 page)

“I’ve run into a
blank wall,” Brannigan said.

“And so you’ve come to me for help.”

Looking at Detective Sergeant Hank Sorenson now, Brannigan wished he’d gone elsewhere.

He’d had a nodding acquaintance with Sorenson at the station, but the figure pressed between the sheets in the hospital bed before him was a caricature of the man Brannigan had known.

He tried not to stare at the sunken cheeks, the glassy, feverish eyes, the sallow, sweaty skin as pale as his hospital gown. The slow smile that stretched Sorenson’s lips and bared his teeth was ghastly.

“You mean to tell me you walked up to Chinatown residents and asked them what they saw?”

The whole afternoon had been a frustrating progression of singsong syllables, expressionless yellow faces with gleaming slanted eyes that told him nothing.

“I didn’t see that I had any other option.”

“You can’t treat chinks like regular people, Brad. You can’t ask them a direct question. They’re devious, crafty, always circling.”

Brannigan bristled at Sorenson’s attitude, like a teacher chiding a student for not knowing his lesson.

“Well, be that as it may, no one saw anything.”

Sorenson barked a phlegmy laugh. “Oh, they saw all right. They’re just not going to tell an outsider. Not if they know what’s good for them.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The Mandarin. You do not cross the Mandarin.”

Sorenson went on to explain about Chinatown’s lord of crime. Then he added, “If this Kachmar girl is a blond, you might be dealing with a white slave ring. The Yan Yuap Tong—also called the Dragon Tong because their symbol is a dragon—has been involved in that before. The tongsters probably have your missing girl’s photo on its way back to Singapore already, to get the bidding started.”

Brannigan had heard of Oriental rings that abducted white women for sex slaves, but he’d never expected that Margot Kachmar—

“Check Oakland and Marin and maybe San Jose,” Sorenson was saying. “See if they’ve had a blonde or two gone missing recently.”

“Why there?”

“Because police departments don’t communicate nearly enough. Someday they will, but with things as they are, spreading out the abductions lessens the chances of anyone spotting a pattern.”

Oakland…San Jose…that seemed like a lot of legwork with slim chance of turning up anything useful.

“Why don’t I go straight to the source? This Mandarin character…where do I find him?”

Sorenson began to shake with ague. His head fell back on the pillow. When the tremors eased…

“No one knows. He hides his identity even from his fellow Chinese. Just as well—you don’t want to find him. I came close and look what it got me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was homing in on the Mandarin’s identity, getting closer than anyone before me, and then, a week ago, something got into my house and bit me.”

“Something?”

“A giant millipede, bright red, at least eight inches long, crawled into my bed and bit me on the shoulder. I managed to smash it with a shoe as it raced away, but only got the back half. The front half broke off and escaped. Bug scientists over at the university say it only exists in Borneo.”

“But what’s that got to do—?”

“It was
put
in my house, you idiot!” Sorenson snapped, a faint tinge of color seeping into his cheeks. “By one of the Mandarin’s men. And look what it’s done to me!”

He pulled the hospital gown off his left shoulder to reveal a damp dressing. He ripped that off.

“It’s due for a change anyway. Have a look.”

Brannigan saw an ulcerated crater perhaps two inches across penetrating deep into the flesh of Sorenson’s shoulder. Its base was red and bloody. A quick look was more than enough for Brannigan, but as he was turning away he thought he saw something move within the bloody fluid. He looked again—

And jumped back.

Many
little things were moving in the base of the ulcer.

“What—?”

Sorenson’s expression was bleak. Brannigan could see he was trying to keep up a brave face.

“Yeah. The bug didn’t poison me. I wish it had. Instead it laid a bunch of eggs in me, a thousand, maybe a million of them. And they keep hatching. I think they’re getting into my system, eating me alive from the inside.”

“Can’t the doctors stop it?”

He shook his head. “They’ve never seen anything like—”

He clasped a hand over his mouth as he broke off into a fit of coughing. The harsh barks seemed to be coming from somewhere around his ankles. With a final wet hack he stopped.

A look of horror twisted his features as he stared at his palm. It was filled with bloody phlegm, and Brannigan could swear he saw something wriggling within the glob, something with many, many legs.

“Oh, God!” Sorenson wailed, his composure finally broken. “Call the doctor! Get the nurse in here! Hurry!”

Brannigan turned and ran for the hallway. Behind him he heard the wrenching sound of a grown man sobbing.

Jiang could not keep
his body from shaking as he knelt with his forehead pressed against the cold stone floor. The Mandarin stood over him, eerily silent. Jiang had told him what had transpired on the street. It had been hours ago, but he had come as soon as he could get away.

At last the master spoke, his voice soft, the tone sibilant.

“So…Yu Chaoyang has disobeyed me and endangered all we have worked for here. I half expected this from such a man. The Japanese are overrunning our China, slaughtering its people, and Yu thinks only of adding to his already swollen coffers.”

“Venerable, I tried to dissuade him but—”

“I am sure you did your best, Jiang Zhifu, but apparently it wasn’t enough.”

No-no-no! cried a terrified voice within Jiang. Let him not be angry!

But Jiang’s outer voice was wise enough to remain silent.

“However,” the master said, “I will allow you to redeem yourself.”

“Oh, Illustrious! This miserable offspring of a worm is endlessly grateful.”

“Rise.”

Jiang eased to his feet and stood facing the master, but looked at him only from the corner of his eye. The man known throughout Chinatown as the Mandarin—even Jiang did not know his true name—was tall, lean, high-shouldered, standing bamboo straight with his hands folded inside the sleeves of his flowing turquoise robe; his hair was thin and covered with a brimless cap beaded with coral. He had a high, domed forehead and thin lips, but his eyes—light green, their color intensified by the shade of his robe—were unlike any Jiang had ever seen.

“Where is the child now?”

“Yu has her in the tonghouse, but soon he will head for his ship and set sail. Shall I stop him? Shall I see to it that he suffers the same fate as that too-curious detective?”

The master shook his head. “No. Did the child see you?”

“No, Magnificent. I took her from behind and she was soon unconscious.”

“Then she cannot point a finger of blame at a Chinaman. Good. You will return to the tonghouse and light a red lamp in the room where the child is kept. I will send a few of my dacoits to see that she is returned to the streets. You must be present so that no suspicion falls on you. Then let Yu go to his ship and set sail with the rest of his cargo. He will never see home. He—Jiang, you are bleeding.”

“It is nothing, Eminent. The child’s dog bit me as I pulled her into the car. It is nothing.”

“The red-haired little girl had a dog, you say? What kind of dog?”

“A scruffy mongrel. May this unworthy snail ask why such an Esteemed One as you would ask?”

When the master did not answer, Jiang dared a glance at his face and saw the unimaginable: a look of uncertainty in those green eyes.

“Exalted…did this miserable slug say something wrong?”

“No, Jiang. I had a thought, that is all…about a certain little red-haired girl who must not be touched…ever.” He turned and stepped to the single high small window in the north wall of the tiny room. “It could not possibly be she, but if it is…and if she is harmed…all the ancestors of all the members of the Yan Yuap Tong will not save it from doom…a doom that could spread to us as well.”

Brannigan leaned against the
center railing of the hospital’s front steps and sucked deep draughts of the foggy night air.

Sorenson…a tough, no-nonsense cop…reduced to a weeping child. It gave him a bad case of the willies. Who was this Mandarin? And more important, was he involved in Margot Kachmar’s disappearance?

Feeling steadier, Brannigan stepped down to the sidewalk and headed for his radio car. He needed to call in. A catchy song by Frances Day, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” echoed unwelcomed his head. From somewhere in the fog a newsboy called out the headlines of the evening edition. As he passed a silver Rolls Royce its rear door opened and an accented voice spoke from the dark interior.

“Please step inside. Someone wishes to speak to you.”

Someone? That could very well be the Mandarin. Well, Brannigan damn well wanted to speak to him too, but on his terms, not in the back of a mysterious limousine.

He backed away. “Have him meet me down at the station,” he said. “We’ll have a nice long chat there.”

Brannigan jumped at the sound of another voice close behind him, almost in his ear.

“He would speak to you now. Into the car, please.”

Brannigan reached for his pistol but his shoulder holster was empty. He whirled and found himself face-to-face with a gaunt Chinaman dressed in a black business suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. A black fedora finished off the look. His expression was bland, his tone matter-of-fact, but his features had a sinister, almost cruel cast.

He held up Brannigan’s .38 between them but did not point it at him. He gestured to the car with his free hand.

“Please.”

Brannigan’s first instinct was to run, but he figured all he’d gain by that was a slug in the back. Probably better than a millipede in his bed, but he decided on the car option. Maybe he’d find an opening along the way to make a break.

With his bladder clenching, he ducked inside. The door slammed behind him, drenching him in darkness. He could sense but not see whoever was seated across from him. As the car began moving—the thin chink was also the driver, it seemed—Brannigan leaned forward, straining to see his host.

“Are you…?” His mouth was dry so he wet his lips. “Are you the Mandarin?”

A soft laugh. “Oh, no. I would not serve that one.”

“Then why do you want to speak to me?”

“It is not I, Detective Brannigan. It is another. Hush now and save your words for him.”

The glare from a passing streetlight illuminated the interior for a second, leaving Brannigan in a state of shock. The other occupant was a turbaned giant who looked as if he’d just stepped out of Arabian Nights.

The car turned west on California, taking them away from Chinatown. A few minutes later they stopped at a side entrance to the Fairmont Hotel, perched atop Nob Hill like a granite crown. The driver and the giant escorted Brannigan to an elevator in an empty service hallway. Inside the car, the driver inserted a key into the control panel and up they went.

After a swift, stomach-sinking ride, the elevator doors opened into a huge suite, richly furnished and decorated with palm trees and ornate marble columns reaching to its high, glass-paned ceiling.