marveling at all the credit card offers he’d received, as well as some unwanted but regrettably unavoidable correspondence from the Internal Revenue Service. Also some mail regarding the disposition of his military benefits, which he had not yet started drawing. He decided he would go through it another day; after all, it had been there for almost four months.
The apartment itself was much as he had left it: sparsely furnished, comfortable but still mostly utilitarian, devoid of any real decoration save a few pictures of the family he had once had. He ignored the photos for the moment; there would be time for that later. He dragged his suitcase into the bedroom and unpacked it quickly. The digital alarm clock on the cheap nightstand next to his king-sized bed was flashing; apparently, the apartment had lost power at some point while he was away. Manning sat on the edge of the bed and went through the process of resetting it, checking it against his watch to make sure the time was correct. He then picked up the cordless telephone and dialed his voicemail; most of the messages there were from solicitors of one variety or another. Nothing important, and nothing he decided to save.
He treated himself to a shower to clear some of the post-travel fuzziness in his mind, then pulled a pair of worn jeans from the closet and tugged them on. After that came a T-shirt, over which went a denim shirt which he tucked into his jeans. He then headed down the stairs to the single-stall garage allocated to his unit.
The 1970 Pontiac GTO was in perfect shape. It had been in almost mint condition when Manning had purchased it almost two years ago. When he had first relocated to the city, he had been driving a GMC 2500 crew cab pickup; while the rig had perhaps reflected the more austere aspects of his personality, it was hardly the easiest vehicle to navigate through the streets of San Francisco. Not that the starlight black GTO was much easier- it was almost as long as the truck had been-but at least it fit in the garage. Manning ran his fingertips along the car’s flank as he walked toward the driver’s side door; the car was a little dusty, but the wax still made the paint feel as smooth as silk. Manning smiled to himself wryly as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Driving the Goat would be one of the pleasures of coming home.
He started the car and the garage was almost overwhelmed by the basso rumble. Manning tapped the button on the remote clipped to the passenger side sun visor, and the garage door rolled up on its tracks. As the GTO’s big 455 cubic-inch engine warmed up, Manning opened the cabinets at the rear of the bay. He pulled out his drip pan, a funnel, a new oil filter, and several quarts of oil. Once the engine had warmed up enough to loosen whatever sediment might be in the engine’s crankcase, he switched the engine off and went to work.
Less than half an hour later, Manning was done. He went back upstairs and washed his hands and arms in the half-bathroom across from the kitchen, then went back to the garage. He started the GTO again, checked for any leaks, then pulled the car out of the garage. The cloud cover had burned off at last; the day was bright and sunny, the air clear and cool. As Manning turned down Lombard Street, he found himself hoping the highway was clear. Both he and the GTO needed to run a bit.
He caught the 101 heading southbound and found that the afternoon traffic was already starting to mount; commuters were beginning to head back to their homes in the Santa Clara valley. Manning decided he would take the I-280, the freeway which ran down the peninsula’s left side. It would make for a longer trip, but speed wasn’t exactly of the essence at the moment. Driving on the right side of the surface streets and the freeway felt proper, and Manning had no problems falling back into the old rhythms of driving in California. As he goosed the Goat toward the merge with 280, he felt good. Real good. Japan was a complex and at times difficult society to traverse, with more dead-ends than one would experience in America, from finding a restaurant that would serve a
And that felt good, too.
As the news of Lin Dan’s death spread, James Lin had left instructions that he would accept personal calls from only the mayor and the chief of police. All other calls were screened by Han, who would express gratitude for the caller’s offered condolences, and promised to pass on the message as soon as it was convenient. The list of callers had grown to fill an entire page. Lin mentally segregated them into two groups: those who warranted his personal attention and whom he would call back later, and those who would instead receive a thank-you card delivered by courier. What irritated him was how quickly the news had spread across the city. He imagined that if he were to open the windows of his study he would hear the beat of drums, broadcasting his personal misery to the world. The mayor had warned him that the story had leaked to the media despite attempts to have it suppressed. Television news channels were already featuring Lin Dan’s murder as their third or fourth item. Their speculation on the “mysterious assault and murder” was supported by information from “an unnamed source,” thought to be a hotel employee. Lin knew that as other news items lost their impact, the murder would slowly rise until it became the leading story of the day. He prayed for an airline disaster, or for a new hurricane to form in the Gulf of Mexico with unexpected speed and fury. But his fatalistic side knew that such a miracle would not come. They never did.
“Lin Yubo?” Han’s voice tore Lin from his thoughts. He stood in the study doorway, a shadow within a shadow, his hands clasped before him.
“Yes.”
“I have received a telephone call from the Medical Examiner’s office. They say the preliminary report is available. But they cannot release Lin Dan’s body until tomorrow.”
“I would like to see my son.”
“Lin Yubo, forgive me. I believe that would be inadvisable at this time. Let us remember Lin Dan as he was. The undertaker will inform us when he is prepared for his onward journey.”
Lin thought about that, and nodded. Han was taking care of the funeral arrangements. He’d recommended a small family business that exclusively served the Chinese community, and which could be trusted never to divulge private matters. Lin still wasn’t sure whether he would prefer Lin Dan to be laid to rest here in the United States, or shipped back to Shanghai for burial beside his brother. While family tradition demanded the latter, the fact was that his sons, Lin Jong and Lin Dan, had never liked each other. There had always been conflict between them. To place their remains and thus their ghosts in close proximity was to invite eternal unrest. Not that Lin believed in ghosts. Communism had all but stamped out such ideas, together with ancestor worship. Nearly fifty years ago Lin had been swept up and swept along by the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. As much as he hated to admit it, it had changed his way of thinking forever. But he’d been younger and more foolish then, at twenty-five years of age one of the youngest political officers in the region, granted enormous power in addition to the influence already enjoyed by the Lin family as ranking members of one of Shanghai’s most notorious Tongs. Of course the Tongs had gone underground for a period, until Mao’s raging storm passed by and it was safe to come out again. But their strangle-hold upon crime remained, and they were canny enough-with Lin’s help of course-to prosper at a time when the country teetered on the edge of almost total self-destruction. So long ago….
No war, no peace.
It seemed almost laughable now, a distant memory, a confused dream. His campaign for political reform had demanded absolute obedience and a willingness for every man and woman and child to question their own worth. Changing one’s appearance and verbally expressing one’s loyalty to the Party wasn’t enough. Only by changing the
Boxes within boxes, locked and pushed to the back of his mind. Reopened now by the deaths of his sons on two different continents, and a message written in blood.
“The Medical Examiner refuses to send the report by courier,” Han said. His expression remained unchanged but his tone conveyed a subtle irritation which, Lin imagined, few people would have picked up. “They say it is too
