Skinner's Box (Fang Mu (Eastern Crimes)) (49 page)

BONUS

Fang Mu

——Eastern Crime series Book#3

The Blade of Science

"Whoever has lived for the future and has fallen for its beauty, is a figure hewn in stone."
——
Julius Fucik, September 8, 1943

PROLOGUE
Caught in the Trap

G
etting out of the car, the tall man took his first glance down the shopping alley. It was as narrow as an alley generally was, but apparently wide enough for the wheels of commerce. Even the meager space between the storefronts was filled with small merchant stalls.

He fought his way through the clutter of bargain phone straps and cheap plush toys. Halfway down the alley, he stopped. He had found his destination: The King of Sichuan Grill Fish. The man stepped up to the window and took a careful look inside the restaurant, and then he pushed the grease-stained glass door open.

It
was 3:30 in
the afternoon and the place was all but deserted. The electronic door chime's "Welcome" roused the woman behind the counter. She drowsily raised her head to greet the guest. As she rubbed her eyes, she shook the waitress who was comfortably sleeping to her right.

Still standing in the doorway, the tall man took a final sweeping glance of the restaurant. His eyes came to rest on the woman behind the counter. "I booked a table," he noted.

"Oh," she said as she flipped through a small book lying on the counter. "You are Mr. Xing."

He nodded ever so slightly.

"Table seven," she instructed.

The waitress pushed herself to her feet and led the guest to his table. "Do you want to order now or should I come back?" she asked after handing him the menu.

"Come back in a minute," the guest replied. He seemed far more interested in the round contraption sitting on the table than in the menu. 

Either the waitress had not heard his answer or she did not care. "Our specialties are Sichuan grilled fish, cranberry and pear—"

"Please, give me a minute," the guest repeated, more softly than before. Somehow, it sounded like a command this time. "And bring me a glass of plum juice," he added.

With a curl of her lips the waitress scooped up the menu and stomped off. The guest was occupied with other things. He had picked up the contraption on the table and was now intently studying it. The round plastic case was divided into twelve slices, each with a sign of the Western zodiac. Below each sign, there was a coin slot. The instructions were to put in a one-yuan coin, flip a switch and a little paper slip with lucky numbers, a favorable color, and other helpful horoscope advice would pop out of a hole on the bottom.

With a smile, the guest muttered, "That brat sure likes to play." He fished a yuan coin from his pocket and pushed it into the slot under the sign for Leo. He flipped the switch. Immediately a small paper roll dropped out the bottom with a
flup
sound.

The guest carefully picked the roll off the table. The paper was encapsulated in a thin plastic tube. Another piece of paper had been stuffed into one end of the tube. With pinched fingers, he retrieved the hitchhiking note. He unfolded it and revealed a name and a number: "Bay City Hotel, 624".

There was something else on the lower right corner of the note: A tiny red cross. It was faint enough to be easily missed, but the guest knew to look for it. The moment he saw the marking, he felt the blood rush to his head.

When the waitress returned to table seven with the plum juice, the guest was nowhere to be seen. He had left ten yuan and a small, unopened paper roll on the table. Muttering a curse under her breath, she pushed the money onto her serving tray. She was about to leave when curiosity got the better of her. She quickly put down the tray and picked up the paper roll. Unfurling it, she read:

"This month is under an ill-favored star. Beware…"

The Bay City Hotel was on the city's outskirts. It was a cheap, no-star establishment and now, in the off-season, virtually abandoned. The tall man had arrived early and so he waited in the car, smoking a cigarette.

A gentle breeze curled the smoke as it slowly raised roof-ward, past a small pendant hanging from the rearview mirror. Inside the pendant, the photo of a girl smiled happily. Swaying from the chain, she seemed not to have a care in the world.

The man did not look up at her. He focused all his attention on the cold, hard weapon resting at his waist. Gently, he drew the pistol for a final inspection. In the dying light of the afternoon sun, the well-maintained Type 64 Pistol glowed with dull blue luster. He released the magazine and carefully checked each bullet before reloading the gun. As the magazine snapped into place, he felt the cling of sweat on his palms.

I'm nervous now? No, you have to relax; let it all go. Don't mess this up
, his inner dialogue resolved, shoring up his confidence. He stepped out of the car.

He entered the hotel, walked through the main hall and took the elevator up. It all seemed perfectly ordinary. With every step toward Room 624 he felt his calm deepen. Perfectly at ease with what was about to happen, he stood at the threshold. Curiously, the door was ajar.

The kid was getting careless; he would give him a piece of his mind once it was done.

The room was empty, but he could hear the rush of water from the shower. This was getting ridiculous. He gave the bathroom door two solid raps before sitting down on the bed
.
He flicked on the TV.

On the screen, fat, giggling children were rushing toward a garishly-colored milk-tea drink filled with what looked like small black balls. Pearl milk-tea.
Those kids better be careful
, his mind silently warned;
that stuff was a choking hazard
. At that moment, he would have done anything to not think of what was about to happen.
No! Focus!
rang through his mind.
One more time: First who and how many, then decide, gun or no gun…

But how would he explain it? Self-defense or…

He realized that he had left an entire list of crucial decisions to the very last moment. This might turn out to be harder than he had expected.

The gurgling of water dwindled and finally died. When the bathroom door opened, the TV was still showing commercials.

The tall man's face remained impassive as he looked up. The remote control fell from his hand, clattering to the floor.

A woman stood in the bathroom doorway, stark naked.

He froze for one second, then two seconds of paralysis. His eyes, however, remained fixed and focused. The moment motion returned to his body, he drew his gun.

The woman was being choked from behind with a towel. The ends of the tightening towel were in the hand of a man, standing behind her. His short stature was almost entirely hidden behind the woman's body. The tall man could not see the shorter man's face, but he was sure that this was not whom he had expected.

The woman was an image of agony. Tears covered her face as her head was pulled back ever further by the towel. Her upper body was thrust forward at an unnatural angle; something was pushing against her back.

"Please…" the words softly slipped from her choking throat, "...help me."

The woman's face was distorted by terror and pain. Shame at her exposure completed her agony. She desperately attempted to cover her breasts and privates with flailing arms.

"Let her go!" The tall man's heart was pounding frantically. With a loud click, he pulled the gun's hammer. "Who are you?"

The sounds of agony, gurgling from the woman's throat, were the only answer he received.

"Let her go," he demanded, straining to reclaim his composure. He took a careful step toward the woman, raising his gun. "What do you want?" he snapped at the shorter man. "Talk to me."

The man remained silent.

"...Save me…" Purple crept up the woman's face as the words escaped her throat. Suddenly, her eyes bulged and a rattled breath forced its way past her lips. Then, the woman's body began to shake violently.

A flash of metal erupted from under her left breast.

The woman was thrust forward. The short man ran out from behind her and out of the room.

Eyes wide and mouth agape, the tall man watched the woman stumble toward him, her arms outstretched. She tried to speak, but her voice had already left her. Her eyes were full of pleading despair, relaying it all in a glance. After a single step, she collapsed.

It was a clean stab. She had not even had enough time to bleed. There was no doubt the woman's heart had been pierced.

There was no time to think. He gritted his teeth and leapt over the woman's still spasm-laced body. He rushed into the hallway, pistol at the ready.

The killer did not attempt to escape the hotel. Instead, he took the stairs up.

The taller man pursued; he wasn't finished yet.

The death of the woman had thrown his mind into chaos. Why had she been in the room? Who was the man with the knife? Why did he kill her? Countless questions overwhelmed him. Only one thing remained: The killer must not escape.

He rushed up the stairs. Reflexes and his second-nature training stopped him at every corner as he checked for an ambush before continuing up. It should have increased the distance between himself and the short man, but for some reason the killer seemed reluctant to escape. He could hear footsteps above him. And then the sound of steps above him completely stopped. A flight further and he saw the panting killer.

For the blink of one eye, he could see a deep sadness flash across the short man's eyes. Then it was gone, washed away by a longing for death.

The killer threw his arms up in the air and charged. For a second it just looked ridiculous; then the tall man saw something flash in killer's hand. Reflexively, he pulled the trigger.

The bullet's impact spun his assailant's body, dropping him to the ground with a sickening thud.

Pistol in hand, the tall man approached the fallen form. With a swift kick, he dislodged the weapon from the killer's hand. Again, he froze in shock.

It was no weapon; just a simple spoon.

He stared at the killer. The man was lying face up on the ground. A pool of warm blood was quickly expanding from under his body. His eyes lost all focus and every ragged breath came more rapidly than the last.

Silently cursing, the tall man squatted next to the body. He jammed the barrel of his gun under the killer's chin and loudly demanded, "Who are you? Who put you up to this?"

The response was a twisted smile, frothing with blood. The dying man stared right at him, his eyes full of cruel mockery. "You're..." He spat blood. "…finished."

Even though the killer's voice was weak, each word rang in his ears with perfect clarity. The tall man's mind went blank.

Suddenly he heard footsteps rapidly approach from above. He jumped to his feet and readied himself. The footfalls moved to the landing.

Shouts came fast and from all directions. "Don't move!", "Freeze!", "Put the gun down!"

Suddenly the chaos was over.

"Commissioner Xing, is that you?"

"Little Song?" As soon as he saw who it was, the tall man, Commissioner Xing, lowered his pistol. "What are you guys doing here?"

A hint of embarrassment played across Little Song's face as he, too, lowered his weapon. "We're reacting to a call. Someone reported lewd behavior on the twelfth floor, so ..." He stopped speaking as he saw the killer lying in his blood on the floor. He froze, staring at the corpse. He turned back to Commissioner Xing. "You shot him?"

"Yes," Commissioner Xing answered impatiently. "He just killed a woman in Room Six-Twenty-Four. Get a few of your people to cordon off the scene. And notify the Bureau; have them send backup. You," he said with a nod to one of the policemen and then toward another, "and you; check if we can still save him."