Changes (28 page)

She’d been little more than a child.

Carrying a child.

I pressed my palms hard against my eyes but, hard as I pressed, it still came – memories that raked my mind like bits of broken glass - sable hair, lovingly braided and tipped with pink bows; delicate eyes, almond-shaped like her mother’s but grey like mine; tiny giggles like the sound of wind chimes in spring.

So many times, I made her cry. 

Pick up your goddamned toys.  I’m not going to ask you again.
 

Quiet, you don’t have anything to cry about.

Do not make me repeat myself.  Sit still, dammit.

Daddy’s busy, go watch TV or something.

Listen to your mother.

I’m too busy.

Later.

I’m busy.

So many times.  Too many times.

And in our final moments together, in the quiet, clean place, she looked so very small tucked under the sky blue sheet. 

Here, she was perfectly behaved.  Here, she was quiet, and polite, and she never interrupted or caused trouble.  Here I could be bothered to be with her.

I cannot recall the face of the coroner.  In my mind I see only his white coat and his hands – thick, with tufts of grey hair sprouting from the backs and from the fingers.  I remember the cheap gold watch on his wrist, and the green-stained skin peeking from underneath it.

I remember him drawing back the sheet.

Covering her forever.

And the world did not end, though it should have.

There, there’s and a truckload of condolences.  Acquaintances that look away or downright ignore your existence.  Because tragedy could be contagious.  Sedatives and pain killers and sweet, sweet liquor.  And the unbearable emptiness and silence that is the reward at the end of the day.

There’s too much quiet, though, too much space – more than two people can take, especially when any feeling for each other has leaked out of the gaping hole that lies where their life used to be.

I have forgiven Miranda for nearly everything, but there is one thing I can never absolve–

She never had to see.

She can remember Grace as she was.

For that, I hate her.

I’m good at hating.  In the purity of the moment, I had wanted nothing more than to hit the streets; to search, to hunt, to ask around… anything.  I wanted to find Ang Su Chan.

Instead, I asked Tracy to get me another drink.

Something stronger.

And I sat back, and I drank, and I did what cowards do.

I did nothing.

88

After watching the sky’s colors change from gunmetal grey to peach and salmon and crimson, I slid out from the warm comfort of the bed and showered.  I felt every scrape, every bruise, and every cut under the barrage of hot water.

Ain’t life grand.

Tracy slept; I envied her.

My hair was still wet when I arrived at Master Cheng’s fifteen minutes later.

The old man rubbed his bleary eyes with a liver-spotted hand and said, "What the hell?"

"We need to talk."

He waved me in and retreated into the house, the plastic bottoms of his pajamas slapping the floor like duck’s feet.  I followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he took a two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator and poured some into an old Big Gulp cup.  He took a sip and offered me some.

I nodded.  While he poured my drink, he said, "What is the problem now?"

"You found him.  How?"

He turned, a plastic cup in each hand, and waddled to the table.  With a groan, he sat, smacked his lips, and said, "Who, Ang Su Chan?"

"Yes."

"He find me.  Call on telephone."

"You run a closed school."

"Closed to idiot Americans, sure.  Last thing I need is flabby yuppie girls in my basement.  Talk Yoga.  Talk Oprah.  Aiya.  Mr. Ang, he is a colleague of sorts.  His reputation was good."

"So you invited him based on his reputation."

"And background.  That he teach Chen style seemed curious."

"You had some suspicion, then."

"Always.  Old Chinaman here in America?  Suspicion becomes closer than your own underpants."

"When did you know?"

Cheng drank some soda and reached across the table for a half-full bag of Cheetos.  He crunched on a handful before speaking.  "He ask too many questions… want to know all about my students.  You come, suddenly he want to know all about you.  Questions, questions, questions… worse than my wife, rest her soul.  Finally, I tell him to practice with students if he so interested… the rest you know."

He grinned; orange film crusted his teeth.

"You set me up," I said.

His smile faded.  "In China," he said, "this is the way – a challenger approach, the master sends top disciple to fight.  Nobody calls that a set up."

"So, I’m your top disciple?"

"Not after that piss-poor showing.  I see I have wasted my time with you."

"What?  You said yourself that he was good…"

Cheng threw down the bag of Cheetos.  "I said his
reputation
is good.  His skill is shit," he spat.  Cheeto bits flew through the air, narrowly missing me.

Must be my lucky day.

Turning my attention back to the old man, I said, "He seemed pretty damned good to me."

"Of course.  You are two peas in pod.  Two dummies trying to out-dummy each other.  Not a glimmer of Tai Chi Chuan between the two of you.  Embarrassing."

"Listen, you old bastard, I was fighting for my life out there… He damn near killed your students, and he damn near killed me.  He’s better than me, alright?"

Cheng’s face became deadly serious.  "This is exactly what I say.  You were
fighting.
  You cannot fight this man.  How did I best him?  I care not for his hatred.  It means nothing to me, so it cannot cling to me. 

"Ang Su Chan is nothing. A child.  No… a beaten dog who only know how to snap.  You, Randall, are a
man
.  A man does not soil himself in the presence of a child or froth at the mouth to prove something to a beast.  You must be better than this.  Your master did not teach you to be nothing more than a clenched fist, capable only of lashing out.  Whatever this darkness is that you feel, you must let go of it, boy.  If you do not, then you are correct:  You will fight for your life, and you will certainly lose."

89

"No fucking way."  Tracy backed away as if I were trying to give her a flaming bag of poo.

"C’mon… I’m told it’s very easy.  Point and shoot.  That’s it."

"No, Randall.  I’m not taking that thing."

"Tracy…"

She walked away to the bedroom, leaving me holding the ‘gift’ I’d bought her – a Smith and Wesson 36LS Ladysmith revolver.  It wasn’t as well received as I’d hoped.  Not that I blamed her, really.  In the store, I’d looked at several firearms for myself, but I was surprised by how unnerving it was to hold one of those things, how final.  A gun just wasn’t for me, but I wanted Tracy to have
some
thing.

Just in case.

With a sigh, I put the pistol back into the brown paper bag I’d transported in and tossed it onto the couch.

And the phone rang.

"Got our boy," Knox said.  "Seems he’s at the airport, attempting to get a ticket back to Hong Kong… under the name Jakob Smith.  He’s with a group of – I quote – ‘unsavory Chinamen’… I’m thinking maybe the crew that set the ambush for the cops…  Anyway, I’m meeting Janik’s team at the airport.  Thought you should know."

"I’ll be there in ten minutes.  Which gate?" I said.

"Whoa, it wasn’t an invitation, partner.  Might get ugly.  No civvies allowed, man, sorry."

"You’ll still need a translator," I said, hurriedly, frantically, "And with Ang, you don’t know what you’re dealing with.  Don’t get in close.  Don’t let him touch you.  If you have any  reason to at all, just shoot the bastard."

"Listen Lee, I appreciate the concern, but I think we can handle an old man, alright?  I’ll call you when it’s done."

And he hung up.

I dropped the phone and grabbed the keys to my loaner car – an 89 Ford Escort from the used car lot. 

"Trace?  Gotta go.  Stay in, lock the doors.  Gun’s on the couch.  See you later."
Tracy peeked out of the bedroom looking confused.

"Wha-?" she said.

I pulled on a jacket and said, "Off to catch some baddies.  Stay safe."

With a quick kiss, I left the hotel.  The drive should’ve taken ten minutes.  With my speedster it took closer to twenty.

90

I parked in the 5 minute passenger pickup lane, ignored the screaming parking attendant, and ran inside.  The woman at the information booth was very friendly.  She was also old enough to personally remember the Wright brothers.  In the time it took her to locate the map on her console, I spotted a directory across the way.  I thanked her and jogged over to the display.

It didn’t tell me anything.  Looking around frantically, I realized Info Booth Lady was my only choice.  Four and a half minutes later, I knew that a) there were no direct flights out of St. Louis, b) Continental flight 214 left in twenty minutes for Newark and caught a connecting flight to Hong Kong, and c) Eunice – the Info Booth Lady – had Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

There must just be a sign on my forehead, I swear.

I made my way to the gate – naturally, it was the one furthest from where I stood – and was about halfway there when a pack of uniformed cops ran past, hands on holsters, radios squawking.

I picked up the pace and followed.

91

The first shot rang out as I passed Starbucks.  It was quickly followed by screams.  Frightened travelers surged toward me.  I ducked into the coffee shop until they passed.  I heard someone bark an indistinct order; I heard snippets of Cantonese.

More shots. 

A scream.  This time it was filled with pain, not fear.

More sirens in the distance.

I slid around the wall and peeked carefully around the corner.  If ever there were a place for a stand-off, this wasn’t it.  The area was open; the only – limited – cover was the baggage carousel.  Cops stood together in a defensive cluster, guns drawn.  The "unsavory Chinamen" stood opposite them.  It was like the shootout at the O.K. Corral.

Except for all the luggage.

And the hostages.

There were six young-ish Chinese men in black silk suits.  Each had managed to snag their own human shield from the crowd.  Except for a seventh member of the group who lay in a pool of something dark on the floor.

It wasn’t Ang.  In fact, Ang was nowhere to be seen.

The kid in front – maybe 22, shoulder-length hair, Don Johnson style stubble – peered out from the elderly woman he was holding long enough to say something to the cops.

They didn’t understand, but I did.

I stepped out with my hands raised and replied, "Do not kill the woman.  I am the police translator.  They do not understand your demands."

In less than a second, I had a room full of weapons pointed at me. 

I could see where one’s bowels could get a little irritable.

Somebody said, "Aw, fuck."

I knew the voice.  In other circumstances I would’ve grinned.  At the moment, though, I was thinking that, out of all the stupid things I’d done in life, this was probably the stupidest.

Lambert Airport is a shithole.  I don’t want to die in a shithole.

Chinese Don Johnson called me over.  I went, since he made it clear that I’d be shot otherwise.

"Tell them to lower their weapons," he said.

I did.

The cops didn’t move.

"Work with me here, guys," I yelled.

A few lowered their guns.  Most didn’t.

It’s good to know you’re loved.

Chinese Don Johnson grinned and said, "Too bad for you, eh?"

He raised his gun.

I stripped it from his hand and shoved the barrel into his eye socket.  It happened so quickly that the others didn’t see it immediately.

"Let the woman go," I said.

He did.

The rest of the crew now saw, and they were pissed.  Guns waved, curses flew.  I pushed the gun deeper, enough to almost knock him down, and said, "Tell them they need to calm down.  They’re making me nervous."

He did.  He sounded a lot more nervous than I did.  That was okay by me.

"Tell them to let the hostages go," I said.

"They will not.  Not even for me."

I knew he was right.  I didn’t push it.  "Where’s Ang Su Chan?"

Something flickered in his eyes.

"Yeah, that’s right.  He’s the one I want.  I don’t give a shit about you or your buddies.  Where is he?"

"He left.  Just before the cops came," he said.

"What do you mean, he left?"

"We had our boarding passes.  He gave me his and said he’d be back.  I don’t know where he went."
Shit.

"Janik?" I yelled.  From across the room, the agent responded.

"You got guys at all the exits?"

"All secure, yeah."

"Ang’s here.  Somewhere."

"Lee?"

"Yeah?"

"You’re a real shithead you know that?"

"Yeah. I know.  Hey, any ideas of how I can get out of this?"

"Not especially.  Cool maneuver you did with the gun, though."

"Thanks."

The rest of the crew still had me in their sights, though.  As if he read my mind, Chinese Don Johnson said, "You cannot hold me here all day."

"That’s what you think, chief," I said, loud enough for the whole crew to hear.  "Besides, I won’t have to.  See the ugly dudes in the suits over there?  Feds.  Look up there on the balcony… Snipers.  You know why they’re here?  Look around you.  You’re in an airport.  You have guns.  You have hostages.  That means you’ve been promoted from low level thug to full-fledged terrorist.  That means the airport is surrounded by more cops than you’ve ever even imagined.  You’re not getting out of here.  You see that, right?  One of your boys shoots me or one of the hostages, and you all die.  You want that?"