Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

‘‘Only in terms of pay days.’’ He smiled at this mountain, whose features began to melt like wax too close to the fire.

‘‘You see, the Chinese pay particular attention to the calendar. Take the phases of the moon for instance. Important to crops, the cycle of the woman, the seas. Extremely important in warfare. No? The darkness of the new moon is every general’s ally.’’ Her emphasis was not

missed on him.

He searched her eyes. ‘‘I’m listening.’’

She frowned, not wanting to be so direct. ‘‘These people delivering the new citizens, they consider themselves at war with the government. No? Do not forget, Mr. Both, the storm they call Mary caused much delay at sea. You said so yourself. Run out of food and water.’’

Then Boldt saw it: The arrival of the Visage had been targeted to coincide with a new moon when the resulting darkness would help hide the transfer between the crane and the barge. It was at once both simple and convincing. ‘‘A time schedule,’’ the cop suggested optimistically.

‘‘There you have it,’’ she agreed, opening her huge, rubber hand as if offering its invisible contents.

‘‘The new moon.’’

‘‘I believe you find it upon us shortly,’’ she said. She rummaged in a purse at her feet and withdrew a complex wheel of Chinese characters, numbers and windows. She spun the various elements of the wheel to the desired setting and said, ‘‘Thursday, two days from now.’’

He glanced at his watch, every passing minute carried weight. ‘‘Just like that?’’ he asked, surprised by her cooperation. Or was she intentionally misleading him?

Anticipating his suspicions she said, ‘‘No want TV story. True. But more than that, Mr. Both. A woman’s body is God’s treasure. Its magic makes children, bears milk, delivers life. To violate this. . to enter a woman unwanted is the most unforgivable sin in all God’s creation. I would rather be killed than succumb to this fate. You tell me on last visit about violation of woman found buried. Ifind out what you tell me is true. No food, water, even illness, is regrettable but understandable conditions of any such a war. This other violation, unforgivable. Must stop.’’

He suggested, ‘‘Two days is not much time.’’

‘‘Ship sail from Hong Kong in time to reach Seattle on new moon. How many ship can there be?’’ She stared at him like a disapproving teacher. ‘‘Police make much trouble about rental of crane,’’ she observed, intriguing him. ‘‘Your doing, Mr. Both. If no crane rented, what option left?’’

Boldt digested her message. ‘‘The container will have to make shore.’’

‘‘You good listener.’’

Boldt pulled out five dollars to leave for the soup. She waved him off, but he left it anyway.

She said, ‘‘I make exception, watch television news tonight.’’ She shoved the video back toward him. ‘‘The past have no place in present. Keep the past where it belongs.’’

‘‘I’ll see what I can do,’’ Boldt said. He caught himself as he bowed slightly.

‘‘And as to that other matter you raised, Mr. Both,’’ she called out after him, stopping him. ‘‘You have good instincts. The Chinese never trust anyone in government.’’

He hurried, feeling crushed by time. Another shipment of illegals was due. What that meant for Melissa was anybody’s guess.

Had Boldt not requested Stevie to repeatedly review Melissa’s digital tape, perhaps she would not have done so, too upset at those darkened images of the sweatshop and the horrid conditions described in the close-up interviews. But his suggestion that Melissa might be not only alive but undiscovered by the enemy charged her with a renewed hope that sputtered and flickered inside her, giving off light like a lamp with a bad wire.

She attempted to deal with her mood swings, for the dryness in her throat and the stinging in her eyes. She could not recall her last meal. She found it impossible to sleep, the hotel room offering her no feeling of safety despite the presence of hotel security. Nor did she understand why it was so difficult for her to remain focused. She constantly caught herself stuck in some memory of Melissa, her vision clouded by it, her senses stolen from her. She had been robbed of her existence, denied it. She needed out of this-no longer simply for Melissa’s sake, but for her own. If she failed, she would fail completely, would crumble, unable to work, unable to live; she felt absolutely certain of this.

In one of her wanderings, her immediate task dissolving behind this curtain of regret and anger, her eye fell onto the frozen image of a city bus on the video. Not the bus in particular, but its route number, posted electronically on its side. The route number, glimpsed briefly as Melissa boarded the bus in her attempt to follow the big man wearing the hooded sweatshirt. Mexican? Chinese? She couldn’t be sure. But that route number! The man’s destination was somewhere along that bus route. A quick review of the other video confirmed that he had changed buses at least once. Melissa had followed him into the bus on her second try. Had he transferred to the same route both times? What if he’d ridden the bus to the sweatshop? What if she compared that particular bus route to the list of vacant structures that Boldt had confirmed the police were investigating? What if they could follow the rat to the nest?

She trembled with excitement, suddenly feeling fully awake and invigorated. It seemed so obvious to her. So overlooked. What could it hurt if she checked it out on her own? What damage could be done by a simple bus ride around town? What if she could bring Boldt the location of the sweatshop?

She clicked off the monitors, removed the tapes and hurried to lock them in her office despite the fact they were only copies-the originals safe with Boldt.

She had a bus to ride.

Fall was a time of dying, the annual ritual of transition from summer’s lush wealth to winter’s bleak bankruptcy. Volunteer Park sat poised behind an affluent neighborhood’s three-story colonial homes. The park housed the Asian art museum and a stone water tower. At night it played host to hard-core drug use. All walks of society appreciated a good view.

Boldt met his wife in the museum’s parking lot from where the hill spilled down and away from them toward the intrusion of high-rises and the gray-green wash of the Sound. Late afternoon, the first day of September, it was busy with in-line skaters and baby strollers. Boldt smelled fall in the air. It brought a pang of anxiety. He didn’t need any more change right now. Liz’s invitation to meet away from downtown implied trouble. She knew it was more difficult for him, especially midday.

‘‘Everything okay?’’ he asked.

She made every effort to return the weight savaged by the chemotherapy, but all these months later, she still looked the same-a piece of dried fruit, the juice of life sucked out. He loved her, appreciated her, and yet did not accept her as fully healthy in part because of her appearance, in part a resistance to the idea of sharing management of the family with her. Her sickness had put Boldt in charge of the kids, the schedule, even the meals and menus. And though he welcomed the relief from his duties, he also felt a bit like a dictator, unwilling to recognize the democracy.

‘‘Where are you?’’ she asked accusingly.

‘‘I’m here.’’

‘‘You were off somewhere else.’’

‘‘I’m right here, Liz.’’

‘‘You’re slipping back into it, you know? The twelve-hour days. The leaving before they’re up and coming home after they’re asleep.’’