Peter May - Snakehead

The deputy warden smiled. ‘Well, I’ll leave you good folks to it,’ she said, and she locked the gate behind her, and started back along the corridor, leaving Margaret feeling very alone out there in the rain with this stranger who was her lover’s sister.

She pointed to her wrist watch and made a circling motion with her finger, hoping to indicate passing time. ‘Li Yan. Houston. Later,’ she said.

Xiao Ling looked at her blankly. Margaret was starting to lose patience, getting wet standing there as the rain got heavier. She took the girl by the wrist and started leading her toward the Bronco. But Xiao Ling resisted. ‘No,’ she said again, pulling her wrist away.

Margaret snapped, ‘Well, have it your own fucking way. You can stay here in the rain if you want, but I’m going to Houston.’ And she ran, sheltering her head with her purse, toward the Bronco. Something in her tone must have communicated more than her words — or maybe it was the rain — for when she reached the driver’s door she turned to see Xiao Ling hurrying meekly after her. And then she regretted her anger and impatience, trying to remember just how frightened and disoriented the girl must be. But always getting in Margaret’s way was an image of Xinxin, the daughter from whom Xiao Ling had simply walked away. Her own child, a child that Margaret had grown to love. Whatever else Xiao Ling might have done in her life, whatever pain and indignity she might have suffered, Margaret found it almost impossible to forgive her that.

Billboards on stalks grew like weeds along either side of the freeway, increasing in density the closer they got to Houston. Fast food joints jostled for space, shoulder to shoulder, like so many immigrants — Chinese, Mexican, Italian — fighting for custom against such well-established American citizens as McDonald’s and Cracker Barrel. A battle between burgers and Beijing duck, French fries and fajitas. Margaret and Xiao Ling drove in a silence broken only by the windshield wipers, a distinct tension between them. Traffic flow on the interstate artery carrying them into the heart of the city was slowing down in the rain, like blood thick with cholesterol. Margaret was distracted by a car tailgating her, about two feet back from her rear fender. If she had to brake suddenly she knew its driver would have no time to slow down, especially in the wet. It would certainly plough into the back of her. She saw a gap on the inside lane, flicked on her turn signal, and swung into it, leaving space for the car behind to pass. But when she checked her mirror, she saw that it had followed her and was still occupying the same space on her tail.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ she muttered, drawing a look from Xiao Ling who immediately saw her preoccupation with the rear-view mirror and turned to look at the car behind. But she had no clear view of its driver through the rain-spattered rear windshield. Margaret indicated again and pulled out to the middle lane. The car behind followed. Margaret did not even have time to form an oath before Xiao Ling screamed, a shrill exhalation of fear that was almost deafening in the confined space.

Margaret looked at her. She was sitting rigid, staring straight ahead at nothing, all colour drained from her face. Beyond her, something caught Margaret c’s eye and she jumped focus to see a green Lincoln travelling level with them in the inside lane, its driver grinning at them through his window, a mouthful of bad teeth in an unpleasant Chinese face.

‘Ma zhai,’ Xiao Ling whispered. She was clutching her seat, rigid with terror, afraid to look out of the side window.

‘What the hell’s ma zhai ?’ Margaret said, and she had to make a fast steering correction to avoid crossing lanes. For a split second she almost lost control of the Bronco. ‘Jesus!’ Heart pounding, she glanced in the mirror and saw that the car behind had gone. And then almost immediately she was aware of it sitting level with them, at her side. A white Chevy. She flicked the passenger a quick glance. Another Chinese. But this one wasn’t smiling. He drew a finger from left to right across his throat. Now Margaret shared Xiao Ling’s fear. She clutched the wheel tightly. This was ridiculous. They were in the middle of a freeway driving at fifty miles an hour into the fourth largest city in America. What could these people possibly do to them? What did they want to do to them? And why? Xiao Ling seemed to know who they were, but Margaret wasn’t going to get any sense out of her. As long as they didn’t stop, she figured, they would be safe.

They covered the next mile flanked by the two cars, Xiao Ling whimpering in the passenger seat, frightened to look left or right. Finally, Margaret could stand it no longer. ‘What the hell do these people want?’ she shouted at no one in particular, and jammed on her brakes. She heard a squeal of tyres behind her, followed by the piercing blast of a horn. The Chevy and the Lincoln shot several car lengths ahead of them, and Margaret swung the Bronco violently across two lanes. More horns sounded as she squeezed into the exit lane, just in time to get on to the slip road that took them down on to the four-lane highway that ran parallel to the freeway.

Breathing hard, Margaret took them into the inside lane and slowed down to a sedate forty miles an hour. She checked both mirrors, and glanced over to the traffic speeding past on the 45. There was no sign, through the spray, of either of the cars whose presence had been so intimidating on the interstate. Margaret glanced over at Xiao Ling and saw that she had relaxed a little, and she let a tiny jet of air escape through her pursed lips in relief.

They continued parallel to the freeway for several more miles, through junctions and under flyovers. Eventually, when there was still no sign of the Lincoln and the Chevy, Margaret began to relax, too. As they approached the next junction, she indicated left and pulled across to the exit lane that would take them back on to the interstate, and they picked up speed again, the cluster of glass tower blocks that was downtown Houston appearing now on the horizon. The sky overhead was so swollen and bruised, it had almost turned day into night. The headlamps of the traffic reflected off the wet surface of the road. Forked lightning lit the blue-black void beyond the skyscrapers. Fifteen minutes later, the road took them around the centre of the city, past Sam Houston Park and down to a huge intersection where they turned off on to the 59 and then the 288. Shortly after, they left the freeway altogether and drifted down on to North MacGregor Boulevard, overhung by the dripping trees of Hermann Park. They curved gently through lush, manicured lawns on to Braeswood and the stop lights at Holcombe. Rain drummed on the roof of the Bronco.

Margaret glanced at the car in the outside lane, and felt fear like a blade pass through her. It was the white Chevy, and the Chinese who had made the slash-throat gesture with his finger. She looked in her rear-view mirror and saw the green Lincoln on her tail. It flashed its lights, just to let her know it was there. Xiao Ling had not seen them yet. Margaret looked up at the traffic lights overhead. They were still at red. And then back at the Chevy. The passenger opened the left-hand side of his jacket and started drawing what looked like a gun out of a holster. Margaret jammed her foot on the accelerator, and the Bronco lurched forward, snaking through the red light, wheels spinning in the wet. Xiao Ling let out a yelp of surprise and clutched the edges of her seat. Horns blared as cars crossing the intersection swerved to avoid her. She heard more squealing tyres, all the time expecting someone either to hit her, or for a bullet to come crashing through the window. She cleared the lights and accelerated down Braeswood, looking in her mirror to see if anything had followed them, and when she saw that the road was empty, allowed herself to draw breath. Xiao Ling looked terrified.