The vibrations coming from the floor beneath me created a steady buzz in the back of my head. It echoed in my skull like the white noise of a television on a nonexistent station, all angry static and no sense at all.
While I waited, I started to wonder about what I was really doing there. I knew my role in the grand scheme of things and it did not include getting in the middle of a fight that wasn’t mine. The problem was that I couldn’t seem to figure out whose fight it was. If I could just decipher that little part of the problem, I’d know where to deliver my message of gloom and doom. I shifted a little and then had to stifle a sneeze from the dust I’d stirred around me.
In the end, I was no better than the vamps or the wolves. I didn’t want this to be my problem. I wanted to hand it off to someone else. Maybe Ted Goodnight. He’d be a possibility if I could determine who the dudes in the Navigators were.
I didn’t have much more time to ponder. I had apparently timed my visit well. In less than forty minutes, I heard cars pulling up behind the temple. The men in black suits with their neatly combed jet black hair filed into the sanctuary, herding in front of them a group of men in orange robes. The robed men looked nervous. The suited men looked calm. One was even smoking a cigarette.
“Good evening, George,” said the suited man who had walked in first.
“Good evening, Henry,” replied the young priest who had kicked me out of the temple on Friday.
“How is my brother tonight?” Henry said; his tone was fake jovial, the kind that always sets my teeth on edge. Any second now he was going to ask if George was working hard or hardly working.
“I am well,” George said. “Please stop this.”
His voice was so even, so calm. Still, I could hear the urgency in his plea.
“You know I can’t do that, brother,” Henry answered. “I have a lot riding on this now, and it’s all working out better than I could possibly have dreamed.”
“Henry, these are people’s lives that you are taking.” George’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
Henry snorted. “Lives? What lives? Do you know what the average life expectancy is of one of those cockroaches that I’m exterminating? Twenty-seven years. And most of that will be spent stealing, raping, lying and dealing drugs. That’s not a life.”
George’s head bowed. “It is not our place to judge which lives are worthy enough to keep and which are not.”
Henry shook his head and leaned against one of the intricately carved pillars that soared up to the ceiling of the sanctuary. “You are too soft, George. You always have been. That’s your problem.”
“And you, Henry, what is your problem?” George countered.
From up in my post, I could feel the rise in tension between the two brothers, but before Henry could answer, things began to stir in the dug-up areas of the sanctuary. I felt them more than I saw or heard them. The buzzing in my head had been reaching a crescendo during Henry and George’s exchange. It was so loud now that I wanted to grab my head and hold my hands over my ears. As if that would help. I knew it wouldn’t make any difference, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have the urge. I knew the
kiang shi
were on the move.
The smell of the river grew stronger, and I saw a greenish hand with long fingernails reach up out of one of the middle ditches. Henry nodded at one of the other men in suits. That man, in turn, nudged one of the monks forward with the gun he held in his hand. That man moved tremblingly forward. George had slunk back away from the gravelike holes in the floor.
As another greenish-taloned hand emerged from the hole in the tile floor, the man in the orange robe pulled a long, thin yellow strip of paper from a teak box on the altar. As the creature in the hole came up out of its makeshift grave, the orange-robed man stuck the piece of yellow paper on the
kiang shi
’s forehead. The
kiang shi
froze.
As the five other
kiang shi
began to climb out of their graves, each one was met with a reluctant frightened-looking man in an orange robe bearing a long, thin yellow paper with red writing on it. Each one froze as the paper was affixed to its forehead.
Henry, still nonchalantly leaning against the pillar, looked over at George. “Brother?” he said quietly. It was phrased as a question, but I could hear the command behind it.
George shut his eyes.
Henry shook his head again as if at the foolishness of a child. He looked over at one of the men in suits and gave the slightest of nods. That man turned his gun around and with as much emotion as someone swatting a fly, pistol-whipped the robed man in front of him. The man made a strangled noise and sank to the floor, blood streaming from his temple.
No one moved. The man with the gun raised it again.
“Stop,” George said, his voice half-strangled. “Stop.”
Henry smiled. “It’s entirely up to you, brother.”
George pulled a bell from the sleeve of his robe and rang it. The
kiang shi
all turned as one and jumped. George rang the bell again. The
kiang shi
jumped again.
George kept ringing his damned little bell, and the
kiang shi
kept jumping toward the door. They would have been funny if I hadn’t seen them feasting on human flesh. Somehow the memory of them massacring the Norteños leached all the humor from the situation.
I slipped from my alcove and slid back down the hallway to the office. I climbed back out the window, dropped to the Dumpster, ran down the alley and made it to the Buick as the Navigators pulled out from the alley behind the temple. I slid into traffic behind them and followed.
It was full dark now. The streetlights were on. Old Sacramento was starting to fill up with tourists and twenty-somethings all looking for a good time. There was enough traffic not to worry about the mean men in the shiny suits and the even shinier Navigators getting wise to the grandma car on their tail. I was relieved.
The next hour played out exactly the way it had the last time I’d followed the
kiang shi
and their masters. They drove to a street corner. This time it was down Highway 99. When we exited on Twelfth Avenue and then headed north on Thirty-sixth Street, I suspected we were headed for McClatchy Park. I wasn’t disappointed. The Navigators pulled into the parking lot. A group of young men sat on the picnic benches under the live oak trees. I stayed across the street. My heart was in my throat. I knew what was going to happen next. I didn’t need to stay around and see it. I slid the Buick into drive and hightailed it to the lights on Broadway, where I was sure I’d be able to find a phone. As I pulled away, I heard the faint tinkle of George’s bell. Moments later, I heard the first agonized scream. I shoved the accelerator toward the floor, knowing that no matter how fast I went now, I was already too late.
OVER AT THE CIRCLE K ON BROADWAY, I GRABBED A BASEBALL cap off the floor of the Buick—there are advantages to never cleaning out your car—and pulled it low over my face. If I slunk up to the pay phone from the side, kept my back turned and the baseball cap pulled low, no one would be able to ID me from the security cameras this time. See? I’m totally teachable. I also grabbed a tissue from the box on the floor and used that as I held the phone and dialed. I didn’t think Ted would go to the trouble of dusting the pay phone for prints, nor did I think he’d get a hit off mine, but I didn’t want to take the chance.
I made my 911 call and went back to the park. My night was far from over.
The
kiang shi
were hopping back into the SUVs and I could hear the sirens off in the distance when I got back to the park. Even with my particularly acute eyesight (another benefit of the Messenger gig), I couldn’t see much of what was left of the young men at the picnic benches. I could make out Henry standing, legs spread, hands joined behind his back as he surveyed what he had done. He watched the
kiang shi
hop back toward the Navigators, his expression smug. I could only barely make out George inside the first SUV. His cheeks shone as if they were wet. I think he may have been crying. Listening to the moans that came from the area by the trees, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be sick or cry with him.
I looked back at Henry and felt my anger rise.
This wasn’t the
kiang shi
’s fault. They were just doing what came naturally to them. They were tools. You don’t throw the hammer in jail when someone uses it to brain someone else. They didn’t have much more control over themselves than hammers as far as I could see.
Henry, however, was a whole other piece of business.
Once the
kiang shi
had all hopped back inside, the SUVs pulled out of the parking lot. I swung a U-turn and followed them back toward the interstate. I was pretty sure they’d head back to the temple before going anyplace else, so I hung back. My heart was still beating too fast, and my breathing was still way too shallow and rapid. I needed to get hold of myself if I was going to accomplish the rest of what I needed to do tonight.
What I needed to know was who were the dudes in the SUVs? I looked at my watch. It was already past ten o’clock. I was going to be late for work. Again.
Up ahead, I could see the SUVs exiting on Richards. I flicked on my directional and changed lanes to the right. I decided there was nothing to be done about the late-for-work factor. In the grander scheme of things, I was pretty sure that stopping whoever was using the
kiang shi
to rip gangbangers to shreds was more important than filing insurance forms and patient questionnaires. In the less-grand scheme of things, my supervisor Doreen was going to be none too pleased. Since that was pretty much her constant state of being, however, I could feel only so much guilt over that.
The SUVs turned down the alley behind the Bok Kai Temple. I cruised by in what I hoped appeared to be a case of extreme vehicular nonchalance. I went down the block and then made a series of left turns so I was positioned to follow the SUVs when they came out of the alley and either headed back toward the interstate or out onto the surface streets. I am nothing if not strategic.
I sat in the darkened Buick, slunk low in the seat, the baseball cap still pulled low over my face just in case, and waited. I didn’t wait patiently though. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and tapped my foot. Exactly how long did it take to unload a bunch of Chinese vampires from some vans? And how many of them would it take to screw in a lightbulb? Or more to the point, how many did it take to start a gang war in Sacramento?
The answer to that question was apparently six.
Eventually the SUVs made their appearance at the mouth of the alley. I turned on the engine of the Buick, grateful for the low-key purr of its engine, but left the lights off until the SUVs had turned onto Third Street and wouldn’t be surprised to see cars behind them. I merged into the traffic heading back to the interstate with them, and then followed them as they headed south on I-5.
I didn’t have the luxury of following loosely this time. I had no idea where we were going. I was grateful they hadn’t gotten on I-80 and headed into the Bay area. I’d have lost them for sure there.
Instead, we headed south through the suburbs that string along I-5 like so many pink-stuccoed, red-tile-roofed pearls on a string. In my continuing run of luck, since the SUVs were traveling in a caravan, they were even easier to follow.
The lead SUV began to move to the right at Laguna Road and then exited onto Elk Grove Boulevard. We all turned left off the exit ramp. We still weren’t alone. A Toyota Camry, a Ford Escape and a late-model sedan in a baby-shit brown color that should have been illegal all exited at the same time, and we all headed toward the strip malls that lined Elk Grove Boulevard on both sides.
The boulevard is wide. It has two lanes in each direction with right- and left-turn lanes at the lights and a well-landscaped median in between. The SUVs hung in the left lane. I stayed a car behind them and in the right lane as we passed by drive-thrus and chain stores and nail salons and into a heavily residential area. As a result, I missed the turn when they swung into a subdivision on the left. Cursing, I sped up and made a U-turn as soon as I could. By the time I’d swung around, the SUVs had already pulled through. I watched the gate to the community swing shut. I pounded my dashboard in frustration.
Okay. Deep breaths, I told myself. There’s a way through this. I pulled up to the gate and contemplated the panel in front of me. I hit the button to bring up the subdivision directory and selected a name at random.
“Hello?” said a sleepy female voice after four rings.
“Hey, it’s Julie,” I said, trying to sound cheery.
“Who?” the voice asked.
“Julie. From the meeting the other night,” I said, attempting to maintain that bright tone. It so does not come naturally to me.
“I don’t . . . I mean, I’m not sure . . .” the voice continued, confused.
“You didn’t mean it when you said we should get together?” I tried to make my voice sound hurt now.
“Oh, no. Sorry. You just caught me off guard.” The intercom made a buzzing noise and the gate slid open. I drove the Buick through.
It’s amazing how often people don’t want to be rude. You can’t count on it, but it often comes in handy.
The subdivision was basically one big well-lit, wide-streeted, carefully landscaped squarish loop with a cul-de-sac off each corner of the square. The houses were huge with Palladian windows, three-car garages, approximately six inches between lots and front yards the size of postage stamps. That was okay. The ten-foot fences would keep the yards private and, of course, give all who entered the feeling of being in a prison or perhaps a cattle pen. There were at least seventy houses, but it would take less than ten minutes to cover the whole place, even driving at a Buick-appropriate fifteen miles per hour. I considered turning off my headlights but decided it would make me more conspicuous rather than less.
