Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

“We’re looking for an ancient Chinese sword, and she just happens to have one.”

“That sword you took from her isn’t the one you’re looking for. Yes, the blade’s edge has nicks and scars from use, but the etchings and blood grooves are too distinct. Also, the handle appears to be original to that weapon. A wooden handle crafted in the Ming dynasty wouldn’t have survived all these centuries in such good condition.”

“So this sword isn’t old?”

“It’s certainly well made, and it has the proper heft and balance of a Ming dynasty saber. But that sword is just a very good reproduction. At most, it’s maybe fifty, seventy-five years old.”

“Why didn’t you say any of this while we were there?”

“Because it’s clear that she believes it’s real. She believes it was passed down from her ancestors. I didn’t have the heart to disillusion her, not when it means so much to her.” He looked toward the paifang gate. It was now late afternoon, and dinnertime visitors were descending on Chinatown, roaming its narrow streets, staring at menus in windows. Dr. Cherry surveyed the crowd with a look of sadness. “At the museum where I work,” he said, “I’m often asked to evaluate family heirlooms. People bring in all sorts of junk from their attics. Vases and paintings and musical instruments. Things that come with all sorts of mythology attached to them. Almost always, my verdict is disappointing for them because what they bring aren’t treasures, but worthless reproductions. It forces people to question everything they were ever told as children. It destroys their personal mythologies, and I hate having to do it. People want to believe they’re exceptional. They want to believe their family has a unique story to tell, and for proof they point to Grandma’s antique ring, or Grandpa’s old fiddle. Why force them to hear the brutal truth, which is that most of us are utterly ordinary? And the hand-me-down relics we cherish are almost always fakes.”

“Mrs. Fang believes she’s descended from warrior women,” said Frost. “Do you think that’s just another family fantasy?”

“I think it’s something that her parents told her. And they gave her that sword to prove it.”

“So it’s not true. About General Washi.”

“Anything’s possible, Detective Frost. You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on believing that. Because family mythology has far more meaning to us than the truth. It helps us cope with the sheer insignificance of our own lives.”

Jane snorted. “My family mythology was all about how much beer Uncle Lou could chug at one sitting.”

“I doubt that’s the only lore you heard,” said Dr. Cherry.

“I also heard that my great-grandma gave a whole wedding party food poisoning.”

Dr. Cherry smiled. “I’m talking about heroes. There must be at least one of those in your family. Think about it, Detective. Think about how important those heroes are to the way you view yourself.”

Jane did think about it as she drove home, but the first personalities that came to mind were the roguish and the ridiculous. The Rizzoli cousin who tried to prove Santa Claus really could make a traditional entrance, resulting in the emergency dismantling of his mother’s chimney. Or the uncle who livened up a New Year’s party with homemade fireworks and left the hospital minus three fingers.

But there were also stories of quiet dignity, told about a great-aunt who was a nun in Africa. Another great-aunt who struggled to feed eight children in Italy during the war. They could be called heroes, too, but of a quieter kind. Real women who endured, nothing like Iris Fang’s legendary ancestor who fought with two sabers and led soldiers into battle. A fable was what that sounded like, no more real than Sun Wukong the Monkey King, who protected the innocent and battled demons and river monsters. Iris was living in just such a fairy-tale world, where a lonely widow could believe herself a swordmaster with the blood of ancient warriors in her veins. And who could blame her for retreating into such a fantasy? Iris was dying of leukemia. Her husband and daughter were gone. Alone in her sad home, with that sad furniture, did she dream of battlefields and glory? Wouldn’t I?

As she braked at a stoplight, her cell phone rang. Without looking at the caller’s number she answered it, and was treated to an angry voice blasting in her ear.

“What the hell, Jane? Why didn’t you tell me?” said her brother Frankie. “We can’t let her do it.”

She sighed. “I take it this is about Mom’s engagement?”

“I had to hear the news from Mike.”

“I was going to call you, but I’ve been kind of busy.”

“She can’t marry that guy. You gotta stop her.”

“You wanna tell me how I should go about that?”

“She’s still married, for Chrissakes!”

“Yeah. To a man who left her for a bimbo.”

“Don’t talk about Dad like that.”

“Well, he did.”

“That’s not gonna last. Dad’ll come home, you’ll see. He just needs to get out his ya-yas first.”

“Tell that to Mom. See what she says about it.”

“Fuck’s sake, Jane, I can’t believe you’re letting this happen. This is the Rizzoli family. Families oughta stick together. And what do we really know about this Korsak guy, anyway?”

“Come on. We both know he’s okay.”

“What does that mean, he’s okay ?”

“He’s a decent human being. And he’s a good cop.” She paused, struck by the fact that she was defending the same man whom she had not particularly relished as a stepfather. But everything she’d said about Korsak was true. He was a decent human being. He was a man you could count on. A woman could do much worse.

“And it’s fine with you that he’s boinking Ma?” said Frankie.

“You have no problem with Dad boinking the Bimbo.”

“That’s different. He’s a guy.”

Now, that pissed her off. “And Mom’s not allowed to boink?” Jane shot back.

“She’s our mother. ”

The light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she said, “Mom’s not dead yet, Frankie. She’s good-looking and fun and she deserves another chance at love. Instead of harassing her about this, you go talk to Dad. He’s the reason she went out with Korsak in the first place.”

“Yeah, I will talk to him. Maybe it’s time he took control of this situation.” Frankie hung up.

Control? It was Dad’s lack of control that got us here .

She tossed the phone on the seat, fretting over how her dad was going to react to the news. Angry that this was yet one more thing to worry about, one more ball to juggle when she already had a dozen whirling in midair.

The phone rang again.

Abruptly she pulled over to the curb to answer it. “I don’t have time for this, Frankie,” she snapped.

“Who the fuck’s Frankie?” came an equally irritated retort. “Listen, Rizzoli, I’ve had enough of this Red Phoenix crap and I want you to make it stop.” There was no mistaking Kevin Donohue’s gravelly voice. Or his delightful vocabulary.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Donohue,” she said.

“I got another one this afternoon. This time they shoved it under my windshield wiper. Can you believe they had the nerve to touch my fucking car ?”

“You got another what?”

“Another copy of Joey’s obituary. Enjoyed basketball and target shooting, survived by his loving mother and sister , blah blah blah. And there’s a message on the back.”