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Slowly, the polyps drew the newcomer along with them, rolling into the depths, and vanishing.
Heng stared after them. He remembered the Aboriginal legends told by Kadir, concerning how such creatures could plant tiny seeds into a body, and how those seeds helped the afflicted be born anew, to ready them to be carried to the sleeping giant under the earth.
Where life became an endless Dreaming.
Heng didn’t know how much of Officer Wong still persisted, but he prayed there was some part of the man still present, who could live forever.
At least, long enough to forgive me.
7:06P.M.EST
Takoma Park, Maryland
Seichan battled demons inside her living room.
She had pushed aside the sofa and coffee table. She stood barefooted in a black sports bra and shorts. Her taut skin shone as if she were carved of stone. She balanced on the ball of one foot, her other knee held high. She carried the Chinese saber low at her hip in a two-handed grip.
With each breath, she moved through a set of moves in the Qingping Jian-style of sword combat:Beng, Ci, Mo, Gua, Lan...She dropped, stabbed, pressed, parried, and blocked. She moved faster and faster. The ancientdaoblurred into a steely haze around her. She lined up the sequences into their ancient forms:Angel Threads the Spindle,Sun Moon Exchanges the Rays...
She kept her lips clamped and worked until her limbs trembled. She finally collapsed into a panting hunch, the saber across her knees.
Enough.
She stepped away and returned the blade to its matte steel scabbard. It was not a decorative covering. In battle, such sheathes were weapons themselves. She rested the scabbard atop a rosewood stand next to a bowl of white chrysanthemums. To the side, a single candle burned in front of a framed photo of Zhuang.
A week ago, Seichan had returned from the lieutenant’s funeral in Macau. The affair had spanned seven days. The entireDuàn zhiTriadhad been in attendance. Even the Blue Lantern boy, Bolin Chén—who had been initiated into the triad fold, rewarded for the bravery he had shown. Yeung had also been elevated to a lieutenant, standing now at Guan-yin’s right side.
During those somber days, Seichan had done her best to console her mother. Guan-yin had put on a stoic face to the public, gowned in white. A sweep of silk across her features had helped to maintain her façade.
But behind doors, she was a broken woman.
In the quiet of the night, her mother had shared Zhuang’s past. It was Zhuang who had taken Guan-yin in after she had fled her Vietnamese persecutors. He had been raised by a Buddhist monk after his own family had been killed during the Maoist siege of the city of Changchun. Nearly two hundred thousand civilians had died, including his parents and a younger sister. All he had of his family was his father’sdao, which he had used to kill a soldier to flee the siege and survive.
Sharing a root of pain and loss, Zhuang and Guan-yin had found a common spirit in each other. They both burned with the same righteous fury, eventually founding theDuàn zhiTriad. Over time, while he remained fierce, he had eventually reached a calmness that still escaped Seichan’s mother. Guan-yin expressed regret that because of her position she had kept him at arm’s length. They were intimate in private, loved each other, but there had always remained a veil between them.
After the funeral, Guan-yin had sent Seichan home with Zhuang’s sword. It had been something Zhuang had asked her mother to do. He had wanted the sword kept in the family. While Seichan was not his daughter, he had taken her into his heart. He had taught her the sequences that she had just practiced with the ancient sword. As it sang through the air, she had heard his voice, still teaching her one last lesson.
She touched her fingertips to the photo and readied herself.
With time running short, she quickly showered and donned a black silk dress embroidered with gray roses, each petal outlined in silverthread. She dabbed drops of jasmine on her wrists and pinned her hair back.
She went downstairs and opened a bottle of pinot noir and lit the candles on the table. Jack was spending the night at Monk and Kat’s.
Behind her, a key turned in the front door lock. She stiffened, having failed to hear the throaty engine of the restored Thunderbird. A part of her wanted to bolt, but she centered herself, mentally sweeping steel around her.
She checked everything one last time.
As Gray opened the door, she glanced to the memorial table and gave Zhuang a small bow of her head, for teaching her this one last lesson.
Gray called to her. “Why are all the lights out?”
He stepped into the living room and spotted her in the dining room, bathed in candlelight. He stopped in confusion. “What are you—?”
She dropped to a knee and pressed the detonator in her hand.
Out in the backyard, seen through the dining room window, a cascade of fireworks burst into a brilliant splendor, booming with small explosions.
Kowalski—Sigma’s demolition expert—had helped set it up.
