Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

I reach the final and thirteenth line of the sonnet. The phoenix returns to its nest . I stand at attention, my weapon finally at rest, sweat cooling my face. Only then do I turn to face him.

“That was beautiful, Mrs. Fang,” says Detective Frost, his eyes wide with admiration. “Like a dance.”

“A beginner’s exercise. It brings a calming end to my day.”

His gaze drops to the saber I’m holding. “Is that a real sword?”

“Her name is Zheng Yi. She was passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother.”

“So it must be really old.”

“And battle-tested. It was meant for combat. If you never practice with a combat sword, you’ll never learn to work with its weight, to know how it feels in your grip.” I make two lightning slashes through the air and he flinches away, startled. With a smile, I extend the handle to him. “Take it. Feel its weight.”

He hesitates, as if it might give him an electric shock. Cautiously he grasps the handle and gives the sword a clumsy swing through the air. “It doesn’t feel natural to me,” he said.

“No?”

“The balance seems strange.”

“Because it’s not merely a ceremonial sword but a genuine dao . A true Chinese saber. This design is called a willow leaf. You see how it’s curved along the length of the blade? It was the standard sidearm for soldiers during the Ming dynasty.”

“When was that?”

“About six hundred years ago. Zheng Yi was crafted in Gansu province during a time of war.” I pause and add ruefully, “Unfortunately, war was too often a normal state in old China.”

“So this sword saw actual combat?”

“I know it did. When I hold her, I can feel old battles still singing in the blade.”

He laughs. “If I’m ever attacked in a dark alley, Mrs. Fang, I want you by my side.”

“You’re the one with the gun. Shouldn’t you protect me ?”

“I’m sure you do a good job of that all by yourself.” He hands the sword back to me. I can see it makes him nervous, just being in proximity to that razor-sharp edge. With a bow, I take back the sword and look straight at him. He flushes at my directness, a reaction I don’t expect from a policeman, and certainly not from a seasoned detective who investigates murders. But there is a surprising sweetness to this man, a vulnerability that suddenly reminds me of my husband. Detective Frost is about the same age as James was when he died, and in this man’s face I see James’s abashed smile, his innate eagerness to please.

“You had more questions to ask me, Detective?”

“Yes. Concerning a matter that we weren’t aware of when we spoke to you before.”

“What would that be?”

He seems reluctant to say what is on his mind. Already I can see the apology in his eyes. “It’s about your daughter. Laura.”

The mention of Laura’s name is like a shocking blow to my chest. This I did not expect, and I sway from the impact.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fang,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “I know this has to be upsetting. Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”

“It’s just that…” I give a numb shake of my head. “I have not eaten since this morning.”

“Maybe if you ate something now? Could I bring you somewhere?”

“Perhaps we should talk another day.”

“It would only be a few questions.” He pauses. Adds, quietly: “I haven’t had dinner, either.”

For a moment his words hang in the air. It is a trial balloon. My hand tightens around the grip of my sword, an instinctive reaction to a situation fraught with uncertainties. In danger, there is opportunity. He is a policeman, but I see nothing about him to be wary of, only an attentive man with a kind face. And I want desperately to know why he is asking about Laura.

I slide Zheng Yi into its scabbard. “There is a dumpling house on Beach Street.”

He smiles, and the change in his face is startling. It makes him seem far younger. “I know the place.”

“Let me get my raincoat, and we’ll walk.”

Outside, we stroll together through a fine spring drizzle, but keep a discreet distance between us. I have brought along Zheng Yi because the sword is too valuable to leave behind at the studio. And because she has always been my protection, against all the threats I cannot see. Even on this wet evening, Chinatown is bustling, the streets crowded with dinner-hour patrons hungry for roast duck or ginger-steamed fish. As we walk, I try to stay focused on my surroundings, on every unfamiliar face that passes by. But Detective Frost, talkative and exuberant, is a continual distraction.

“This is my favorite part of Boston,” he says, throwing his arms wide, as though to embrace Chinatown and everyone in it. “It has the best food, the best markets, the most interesting little side streets. I always love coming here.”

“Even when you’re here to see a dead body?”

“Well, no,” he says with a rueful laugh. “But there’s just something about this neighborhood. Sometimes I feel like I belong here. Like it’s an accident I wasn’t born Chinese.”

“Ah. You think you’re reincarnated.”

“Yeah. As the all-American kid from South Boston.” He looks at me, his face gleaming in the dampness. “You said you’re from Taiwan.”

“Have you ever been there?”

He gives a regretful shake of the head. “I haven’t traveled as much as I’d like. But I did go to France on my honeymoon.”

“What does your wife do?”

The pause makes me look at him, and I see his head has drooped. “She’s in law school,” he says quietly. It takes him a moment before he adds: “We separated. Last summer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It hasn’t been a very good year, I’m afraid,” he says, then suddenly seems to remember who he’s talking to. The woman who has lost both her husband and her daughter. “I have nothing to complain about, really.”

“Loneliness isn’t easy for anyone to live with. But I’m certain you will find someone else.”

He looks at me, and I see pain in his eyes. “Yet you never remarried, Mrs. Fang.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“There must have been men who were interested.”

“How can you replace the love of your life?” I say simply. “James is my husband. He will always be my husband.”

He takes a moment to absorb that. Then he says: “That’s the way I always thought love should be.”

“It is.”

His eyes are unnaturally bright when he looks at me. “Only for some of us.”

We reach the dumpling house, where the windows are fogged with steam. He steps forward quickly to open the door, a gentlemanly gesture that strikes me as ironic, since I am the one carrying a lethal sword. Inside, the cramped dining room is packed, and we are lucky to claim the last empty table, tucked into a corner near the window. I hang the scabbard over the back of my chair and pull off my raincoat. From the kitchen wafts the tempting scents of garlic and steamed buns, painfully savory reminders that I have not eaten since breakfast. Out those kitchen doors come platters of glistening dumplings stuffed with morsels of pork or shrimp or fish; at the next table chopsticks clack against bowls, and a family chatters in such noisy Cantonese that it sounds like an argument.

Frost looks bewildered as he scans the long menu. “Maybe I should let you order for both of us.”

“Are there any foods you won’t eat?”

“I’ll eat everything.”

“You may be sorry you said that. Because we Chinese really do eat everything.”

He cheerfully accepts the challenge. “Surprise me.”

When the waitress brings out an appetizer platter with cold jellyfish and chicken feet and pickled pig’s feet, his chopsticks hesitate over the unfamiliar selection, but then he bites into a translucent chunk of pork cartilage. I watch his eyes widen with a look of delight and revelation.