Timothy Hallinan - The Man With No Time

“As I said, call her.”

“That's all right. You said you wouldn't take the key by force, and that was good enough for me.” She turned and beamed at Tran. “And this boy looks-well, different, lighter in spirit. He let me go off for a little cry when I needed one. A soul saved, even if it was at terrible cost.” Tran went scarlet and turned to the little ceramic Christ figure Eleanor had picked up, giving it all his attention.

Mrs. Summerson sipped her tea, the cup looking like a demitasse in her big hands. “Where was I?”

“Mechanics,” I said. “Lo let you know who was coming, and then he'd pay the first fifteen thousand-”

“Twenty,” she said, “and twenty upon their arrival. I paid him back when he arrived, of course.”

“Forty,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“You needn't look like that,” Mrs. Summerson said, laughing again. “Lo wasn't cheating me. Ten thousand went to his henchman. Is that the term? Henchman?”

“Henchman,” Tran said experimentally, trying it on for size.

“You know, the man who told you to come here to pick up the, um, swag.” She settled back, looking very pleased with herself. “The one who turned Lo in.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

Her fingers went to a button on the front of her dress and twisted it. “He's the one who told on Lo. They caught him with much more money than he should have had, and he told them all about our little sideline. They were so angry at Lo. It seems the man who runs it all has something against missionaries. Well, in mitigation, some of them are real sticks. Still, his grudge seems disproportionate. They beat Lo quite severely. He was lucky to escape with his life. And now, I don't know what's going to happen to Doreen.”

I passed on Doreen for the moment. “Forty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“It is, isn't it? Tea?” I shook my head, and she poured for herself. “For the longest time I had no idea where to get it.”

“Where did you?” It sounded rude, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

“I was just going to tell you,” she said reprovingly, “when you interrupted me.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, wondering when the Dormouse would pop out of the teapot.

“I was, as they say these days, sitting on it all the time. Do you have any idea what's happened to California real estate values?”

“I've heard something.”

“I paid- we paid-fifteen thousand dollars for this house. And we paid most of it in cash, too. Dr. Summerson didn't believe in debt. Usury, you know, is prohibited in the Bible.” She ran her fingers through her short, thick hair in a gesture oddly reminiscent of Eleanor. I wondered whether Eleanor had gotten it from her.

“Well, seven or eight years ago people started writing me letters about the house, wanting to sell it for me. I threw the letters away at first-they were from people I didn't even know, and they wrote to me by name, and I thought it was presumptuous.” She sipped her tea and made a face. “Cold. But finally,” she continued, pouring her cup into the pot and then tilting the pot into her cup, “I began to wonder. If all these absolute strangers were sending me letters about the house, what in the world could it be worth? So I invited one of them here, and I told him that I truly wasn't thinking about selling, but could he make a guess at what I would get for it if I did, and he said four hundred thousand dollars.” Her eyebrows went up. “We ran whole schools in China for ten or twenty thousand dollars a year, including food. Well, it seemed like a sin to let such a vast amount of money just stagnate when there was so much good that could be done with it.” She leaned toward me confidingly, about to share a secret. “Have you ever heard of a home equity loan?”

“Remotely.”

“It's like magic. The house becomes a big checking account. Now, whenever I want to bring someone out, I simply write a check against the house for forty thousand dollars and deposit it in my checking account. It's as easy as that.” Her big eyes were brighter than I'd ever seen them.

As easy as that. She must have made many bankers very happy. “How many times have you done it?”

“Four,” she said promptly. “And this time makes five.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I'm afraid I fibbed about how many times I've seen Lo.”

“This time,” I said, remembering the name she'd mentioned. “You mean Doreen?”

All the good feeling left her face, and she looked old and confused. “That's a problem,” she said, “now that Lo is gone. I really don't know what to do about Doreen.”

“Doreen. Does she have a last name?”

“Doreen Wing. A lovely girl, tiny and so smart. She spoke French, too.”

“And the problem?”

“Lo's gone, and Lo's henchman, the one who sent Tran here all those times-”

“Right,” I said.

“Well, even if the henchman is still in place, this young man,” she fretted, glancing at Tran, “isn't. Whoever replaces him won't know where to find me, where to send this boy's replacement to get the money. If the second half of Doreen's payment isn't forthcoming, they'll put her in some dreadful place. Lord knows what they'll do to her.” She had one hand to her mouth, as if she'd just said something unspeakable.

“Probably nothing,” I said with an assurance I didn't feel. “Put her to work for a couple of years, unless she runs away and comes to you.”

“She has no idea where I am. Lo brought them to me after the payment was made.”

“You're right,” I said, not particularly interested. “It's a problem.”

“It's ghastly. That poor little girl, all alone here with no one to help her.” In Mrs. Summerson's mind, Doreen Wing was eleven years old and would be until she showed up, graying, on the doorstep. I was trying to integrate Doreen into the plan, such as it was, when she added, “Of course, none of them will have anyone to turn to.”

I waited, hoping she didn't mean what I thought she meant. She just gazed at me, perfectly at ease with the silence. “None of them,” I said neutrally.

“The other two hundred or so,” Mrs. Summerson said. “It is two hundred, isn't it?”

“One hundred seventy-two,” I said. Everett had been firm about that.

Tran began to laugh.

“You think this is funny?” I demanded.

“Has to be sad or funny. I choose funny.” He thought about it and laughed again.

“What does he mean?” Mrs Summerson didn't actually sound very confused this time, and I wondered whether I was being manipulated by a seventy-some-year-old missionary. Still, I'd wondered about the hundred and seventy-two, too. Over and over. It was the reason we hadn't simply called the INS about the ship: that and the fact Charlie hadn't been aboard. I'd been poking at the thought of the hundred and seventy-two like a sun blister I was afraid might be malignant, afraid to go any deeper.

“If we can do anything,” I said hopelessly, “we will.”

She looked from me to Tran and back again. For a moment I thought she was going to smile. “What do you mean, if you can do anything?”

“We, um, we plan to put a little crimp in their operation.”

“Good. Then you can rescue them,” Mrs. Summerson said, sipping her tea at last.

“We're not set up,” I protested, “to rescue the entire adult population of China.”

“Well, surely that's figurative,” she said.

“Where could I put them?” I asked, just to slow her down.

“A church,” she said. “I have one you could use.”

“Swell,” I said. “A church.”

“Simply deliver them to me. 'Deliver the little children unto me,' as Jesus says in one translation.”