FUJIAN PROVINCE, CHINA
THE SWEET SCENT OF INCENSE WAFTS ACROSS THE COURTYARD where Bella and I stand before the tomb of her father’s ancestors. It is an ancient cemetery. For at least a thousand years, generations of the Wu family have been interred here, and now Wu Weimin’s ashes lie joined with his forefathers. No longer does his tormented soul wander the spirit world, crying out for justice. Here he will finally lie, for an eternity, in peace.
As the shadows deepen to night, Bella and I light candles and bow to her father’s memory. Suddenly I sense the presence of someone else, and I turn to see a figure step through the courtyard gate. Although I cannot see his face in the gloom, I know by his silent approach, by the easy grace with which he moves, that it is Wu Weimin’s son by his first wife, the son who has never forgotten him and has continued to honor him. As the man moves into the glow of candlelight, Bella nods to her half brother and he returns the greeting with a sad smile. They are so alike, these two, both as unyielding as the stone that entombs their father’s ashes. Now that their duty has been fulfilled, I wonder what will become of them. When you have devoted half your young life to a single goal, and you finally reach it, what is left to be accomplished?
He gives me a respectful bow. “
I study his face in the candlelight and I see more than fatigue in the worry lines around his eyes. “Are there problems in Boston?”
“I believe she knows. I feel her watching and probing. I sense her suspicion every time she looks at me.”
“What will happen now?”
He gives a long sigh and stares at the burning candles. “I think-I hope-that she understands. She wrote me a glowing commendation. And she wants me to work with her on another Chinatown investigation.”
I smile at Johnny Tam. “Detective Rizzoli is not so different from us. She may not agree with the way we accomplished our objective, but I believe she understands why we did it. And she approves.”
I touch a match to the courtyard fire pit, lighting the tinder. Flames leap up like ravenous teeth, and we feed them joss papers of spirit money. The fire consumes them, and as the smoke lifts, it carries comfort and fortune to the ghosts of those we love.
There is one final item we must burn.
As I pull the mask from its sack, the silvery hair reflects firelight and suddenly seems alive, as if the spirit of Sun Wukong himself has sprung from the shadows. But the mask hangs limp in my grasp, merely a dead object made of leather and monkey fur, a moldering prop that I bought years ago from a Chinese opera company. All three of us have worn the mask. All three of us have shared the role. I, while defending myself on the rooftop against a woman assassin. Bella, while saving a policewoman’s life. And Johnny last of all, when he fired the bullet into Patrick Dion’s head, completing the circle of death.
I drop the mask into the flames. Instantly the hairs catch fire and I smell sizzling fur and charred leather. In one bright flare, the mask is consumed, returning Sun Wukong to the spirit world, where the Monkey King belongs. But he is never truly far away; when we need him most, each one of us will find him within ourselves.
The flames die down and the three of us stare into the fire pit, seeking in those glowing ashes what we each want to see. For Bella and Johnny, it is their father’s smile of approval. They have done their filial duty; now their lives are their own.
And what do I see in those ashes? I behold the face of my daughter, Laura, whose remains were recovered ten weeks ago from a vine-choked corner of Patrick Dion’s property. I see the face of my beloved husband, still young, his hair as black as the day we married. Though they do not age, here I linger on this earth, my health faltering, my hair turning silver, the years etching their lines ever more deeply in my face. But with every year that I grow older, I also draw closer to James and Laura, to the day when we will once again be together. So I march through the deepening shadows, serene and unafraid.
Because I know that, at the end of my journey, they will be waiting for me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No novel I’ve written has been quite as personal as this one. The story was inspired by my mother’s tales of growing up in China, tales of ghosts and mysterious martial arts masters and, yes, the heroic Monkey King. So thank you, Mom, for introducing me to the wondrous world of Chinese fables.
Thanks also to Tony Yee and Boston PD officer Tommy Yung for their insights into Boston’s Chinatown; to Halford Jones for long encouraging me to write a story about martial arts; to my son Adam Gerritsen for his help with Mandarin words and obscure firearms; to Dr. Reena Roy, associate professor at the Penn State University Forensic Science Program, for her invaluable help on primate hair analysis; to John R. Michaud, assistant professor of legal studies, and his Criminal Justice Club students at Husson University for their advice on the metal analysis of ancient swords; and to Detective Russell Grant, Boston PD, for always being willing to field my questions. Any errors I’ve made in this novel are mine, and mine alone.
Then there’s the stalwart team that has been behind me every step of the way with advice, encouragement, and sometimes a much-needed martini: my peerless literary agent, Meg Ruley, of the Jane Rotrosen Agency; my Ballantine editor, Linda Marrow; my Trans world champion, Selina Walker; and the man who keeps me safe and sane while I’m on the road, Brian McLendon.
Most of all, thanks to my husband, Jacob, who so cheerfully endures the trials of being married to a writer. After spending all day with people who exist only in my head, I’m so grateful to have a real flesh-and-blood hero to return to.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TESS GERRITSEN is a physician and an internationally best-selling author. She gained nationwide acclaim for her first novel of suspense, the
www.tessgerritsen.com
