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The next several hours were crazy. She gathered some things from her office and made a few calls to wrap up her other cases, then Investigator Lo drove her and David back to the compound. While David threw some clothes in a bag, Hulan visited her mother and wrote out instructions for the nurse. When it came time for Hulan to pack, she found herself thinking again of Zai’s plan. There was such unease between her and David now, but the possibilities of this trip kindled the first sexual thoughts she’d had in a long time. She was embarrassed that Zai had even discussed her marriage with David and unsure whether David would be at all interested in her anymore, but there was something about the whole situation that made her feel…. She struggled to find the right definition for her state of mind. Finally, she told herself that she didn’t want anything to happen—how could it after everything that had passed between her and David?—but she owed it to Zai to try. When it didn’t work out, she would be able to tell him she’d done her best out of respect for him.
At 9:00 P.M., Investigator Lo picked up David and Hulan to take them to the airport. On the way, Hulan asked Lo to tell Pathologist Fong to go ahead and do further tests on the notebook paper found in Brian McCarthy’s pocket. Lo should also begin gathering data on all the foreigners and Chinese officials at the site. It wouldn’t hurt if he took a look at Director Ho’s dangan too, for he seemed overly concerned about his own position. Once Hulan got to Bashan, she would obtain a copy of the police report on Brian’s death from the local Public Security Bureau.
When she concluded, Lo glanced at her in the rearview mirror and said, “I still don’t understand why Vice Minister Zai has ordered me to stay behind. I should go with you.”
She sensed rather than saw David’s amused smile.
“It’s not our place to question the vice minister’s orders,” Hulan answered steadily.
Zai’s plans didn’t quite work out the way he’d envisioned. After landing in Chongqing at 1:30 in the morning, Hulan and David shared a double bed at the Holiday Inn. They both kept to their sides of the bed and managed not to speak of anything of consequence either then or a couple of hours later, when they got up to go to the Chaotianmen Docks to board the ancient-looking ferry that would take them downriver to Bashan. Their room was private and mercifully equipped with bunk beds. But as they slowly floated down the Yangzi, Hulan found herself thinking about her husband, and about Zai’s plan.
Around noon, Hulan and David went to the dining room and were lucky enough to get a window table. They’d left the city behind and were once again deep in the vastness of China’s interior. After lunch they stayed where they were, nibbling peanuts, sipping tea, and watching the world unfurl before them. They hadn’t spent this much time together in months. Hulan was nervous, but as David chatted idly about the river she found herself noticing how relaxed he seemed. He had always been a handsome man and easy to talk to. His brown hair showed just a trace of gray at the temples, and his blue eyes still looked at her lovingly. Here, away from Beijing and their sad memories, she caught glimpses of the person she’d fallen in love with.
Later, after dinner, they spent a little time on deck. The air was still warm, and the humidity settled on their skin in a soft sheen. When David took her hand, she didn’t pull away. But when they’d gone back to their cabin, he had undressed, gotten into the top bunk, and gone to sleep. She lay awake for a long while, feeling the gentle movement of the ferry on the water, listening to David’s breathing above her, and wondering if there truly was a way to cross the gulf that had formed between them.
But there was another thing to think about. She was afraid of this murder case. Seeing Brian McCarthy’s body had brought back memories of burning flesh, of screaming women, of lost lives. Did the events at the Knight factory have to end the way they had? Could she have done anything differently? These thoughts inevitably led her to Chaowen. Could Hulan have done something differently when Chaowen first fell ill? Wasn’t there something that could have been done? Hulan had failed as a daughter and failed as an investigator, but wasn’t it too cruel that she had failed as a mother too? These questions had tormented her for so long, and the feelings they stirred in her pushed her out of bed. As she took out her Luger, cleaned it, then repacked it, the recriminations and self-doubt seemed overwhelming. She didn’t know if she’d learned from her mistakes—any of them.
Just before dawn they were roused by a shipwide announcement that they were about to enter the Qutang Gorge, the first of the Three Gorges. David and Hulan hurried out onto the deck and stood at the prow looking downriver. The air felt as thick as a swamp. David’s shirt stuck to his skin, and dark, wet spots began to blotch the cotton. Hulan dabbed at her forehead and the back of her neck with a handkerchief. But this was a new day, and she took David’s hand. He was cautious enough not to risk looking at her, but he squeezed her hand to acknowledge her gesture. Each of them was making tentative steps. If they were at Zai’s suggestion, so be it.
The deck hummed with excitement. Even those for whom this trip was a daily or weekly occurrence pressed against the railings to watc
h as the ferry entered the gorge. Two large mountains flanked the river, forming the Kuimen Gate, its giant peaks hidden in mist. The water churned turbulent clouds of yellow silt as the ferry fought its way through the dramatic entrance. Precipices hung out high overhead. Rain and time had caused crevasses to form, and the limestone walls had been pitted into great spongy forms.
The voice on the loudspeaker recited, “The Qutang Gorge is eight kilometers long. It is the shortest but most majestic of the Three Gorges. The widest point is just one hundred and fifty meters and can be just as deep, making this part of the river one of the deepest in the world. The river has been known to rise from fifty to seventy-five meters during monsoon season.”
Two elderly women with thick Sichuan accents elbowed their way to the railing next to Hulan.
“Please note the old towpath,” the voice on the loudspeaker continued. “In olden days our countrymen pulled boats up the river by using ropes.” Static rendered the next part of the message unintelligible, but one of the women next to Hulan pointed up the cliff on the southern bank and jabbered animatedly. Toward the top were coffins that the Ba people had attached to the sheer rock face thousands of years ago. The static cleared, and the announcer directed passengers to observe other highlights. The ferry came around a bend in the river, and Hulan saw a painted line marking the future water level. The uppermost reaches of this gorge would still be here, but its grandeur would disappear.
“‘A bridge will fly to span the north and south,’” Hulan murmured.
“What did you say?” David asked.
“It’s a line from a poem by Mao. He envisioned the dam back in the fifties.” She looked at David and smiled. “Don’t expect any more poetry. You’ve just heard all I know.”
Although most Chinese of her social class were well-versed in both the classics and contemporary works, Hulan had great holes in her knowledge. Having been sent as a child first to the countryside, then to the States, she’d forgotten most of the folktales of her childhood and had missed the university courses in Chinese history and literature that others of her generation took.
A few minutes later, the ferry docked at Bashan Village—Bashan meant Ba Mountain—which lay about 130 meters above the waterline on the north shore. Boats—from small two-man fishing vessels to a bright white modern hydrofoil—bobbed in the waters along the pier, where passengers greeted family and friends. Bearers shouted out their best prices, then carried baggage, gifts, and goods like television sets and refrigerators bought in Chongqing up the steep stairs that led to the town itself. On the edges of the stairs the usual food and water vendors crowded together with women and children who sold homemade items—knit booties, fans, sandals, and woven straw hats.
Dr. Ma Zhongyan, the leader of the Site 518 excavation, was easy to find in the pushing, shouting, waving throng. He was dressed in khaki pants, a white linen shirt that had wrinkled in the humidity, and a Yankees’ baseball cap. His feet were planted apart, and his arms hung loosely at his sides. Ma’s English was as perfect and American as Hulan’s, showing not only that he’d been educated abroad but that he’d spent a great deal of time in the United States from an early age. Maybe he was a Red Prince, but if so, Hulan would have known who he was, and she definitely didn’t.
They climbed into Ma’s Jeep, and he beeped the horn to alert the crowds milling about at the top of the stairs that he was coming through, but the action was hardly necessary. The Jeep apparently had no muffler, and the engine itself rattled and groaned. Ma ground the Jeep into gear and, after a series of jerks, eased into traffic.
Bashan was a relatively small town by Chinese standards. The buildings by the dock were practical, with corrugated roofs and electrical lines hung in a jury-rigged jumble overhead. This town wasn’t large enough to merit a New Immigrant City, so everyone here would be moved and everything left behind would be inundated. A large placard on the central plaza declared the fact in huge red countdown numbers—423 days left. In the meantime, life in the old town continued as usual. They drove past open-air meat shops, vegetable stands, and kiosks for cosmetics, tires, hair cutting, tooth pulling, fortune-telling, and herbal remedies. The farther they got into the town, the older the buildings, which were constructed of homemade brick with old-style sloping tile roofs. Though this place was far off the tourist track, signs in Chinese and English welcomed all visitors and proclaimed Bashan’s hospitality.
“Our group has practically taken over the town,” Ma shouted above the roar of the engine. “It hasn’t been very developed or influenced by the outside, but we do have a good hotel for our foreign experts. The headman thinks our business is so important that he’s allotted electricity all day to the quadrant of Bashan that includes the Panda Guesthouse. Of course, promising electricity and providing it are two different things. Still, I think you’ll find the Panda Guesthouse quite nice.”
The words guesthouse and quite nice rarely found themselves paired together in China.
“Don’t worry,” Ma said. “The Panda Guesthouse was originally a courtyard home for a very wealthy family. All of our VIPers stay there. We can swing by now if you’d like.”
They didn’t, and Ma continued on. Billboards and posters advertised regional products—pickled mustard tuber, Magnificent Sound cigarettes, and canned lichee. There were also the usual one-child admonitions, as well as other government slogans promoting New Immigrant Cities in the Three Gorges. But here and there were crudely painted characters slapped onto rough walls: BE REVERENT, FOLLOW THE NINE VIRTUES, and BE CAREFUL FOR THE END AT THE BEGINNING. Hulan had never before seen such a blatant display of All-Patriotic Society slogans. The phrases contained nothing inflammatory—they were the usual exhortations for righteous living interspersed with meeting times—but practice of the religion was illegal nonetheless. Why hadn’t the local Public Security Bureau painted out these signs? Why hadn’t they made arrests during the advertised meetings? Once she’d dealt with Brian McCarthy’s murder, she’d investigate the local All-Patriotic Society’s movements.
The Jeep slowed as it approached a narrow bridge that crossed the river. There was considerable foot traffic here, and Ma explained that this old bridge connected the village to the countryside and served as the main artery for transporting produce and other materials in and out of Bashan. A few children hung over the guardrails, throwing rocks into the Bashan Stream, which ran below the pylons. The Jeep crossed the bridge and continued east along a dirt road that cut over the hills and followed the course of the Yangzi. Hulan saw no other cars, trucks, or bicycles. Cultivated terraces planted with corn rose above her as far as she could see and extended down to the river’s edge.
They traveled east another kilometer. The hillsides became steeper until finally they were no longer arable. Green gave way to dust and rocks. Every few meters they passed electric poles that teetered precariously on the side of the road. No wonder electricity and phone service were iffy at the site. A strong wind or a slight bump from a passing pedestrian could easily topple one or more of the poles.
Ma braked at a barrier made up of a two-by-four propped on two piles of stones and held in place by large rocks. He jumped out, moved the two-by-four, drove the Jeep through the gate, and jumped out again to replace the board. This security gate wouldn’t have been much of a deterrent for thieves whether from inside or outside the camp.
