Jeffery Deaver - The Stone Monkey

"I understand," the woman said. Her voice was clipped and he realized that though she appreciated the gratitude she was uneasy receiving it. She dropped into the seat of her car, wincing slightly from a sore joint or pulled muscle. The engine fired up with a powerful rattling noise and she drove quickly out of the parking lot, spinning the tires as she accelerated.

In a moment the car was out of sight.

The family was due soon at a funeral home in Brooklyn, where the body of Chang Jiechi was being prepared. But Sam Chang remained where he was, gazing at the complex of gray courthouses and office buildings around him. He needed a moment of solitude, this man caught between the yin and the yang of life. How badly he wanted to slough off the hard, the masculine, the traditional, the authoritarian – the aspects of his past life in China – and embrace the artistic, the feminine, the intuitive, the new: all that the Beautiful Country represented. But how difficult it was to do this. Mao Zedong, he reflected, had tried to abolish old customs and ideas with a simple decree and had nearly destroyed his country as a result.

No, Chang reflected, the past was with us always. But he didn't know, not yet, how to find a place for it in his future. It could be done. Look at how close in proximity was the Forbidden Palace with its ancient ghosts to Tiananmen Square with its very different spirits. But he suspected that this reconciliation would be a process that lasted for the rest of his life.

Here he was, half a world away from everything familiar, steeped in confusion and beset by challenges.

And pummeled too by the uncertainty of life in a strange land.

But some things Sam Chang did know:

That at the autumn tomb-sweeping festival he would find comfort in tidying his father's grave, leaving an offering of oranges and conversing with the man's spirit.

That Po-Yee, the Treasured Child, would grow up to become a woman in complete harmony with this remarkable place and time: the Beautiful Country at the start of a new century, easily embracing the souls of both Hua and Meiguo , China and America, yet transcending each.

That William would eventually get a room of his own and discover something other than his father to be mad about but that little by little his anger would lift away like a phoenix rising from cooling ash and he too would find a balance.

And that Chang himself would work hard at his job, continue his efforts as a dissident and on his days off would enjoy modest pleasures – strolling with Mei-Mei through their neighborhood, visiting parks and art galleries and passing hours in places like The Home Store, where they would make their purchases or just walk up and down the aisles, examining the bounty on the shelves.

Finally Sam Chang turned away from the tall buildings and returned to the van, summoned by his desire to be with his family again.

Still dressed for her undercover work as a Manhattan businesswoman, Amelia Sachs strode into the living room.

"So?" the criminalist asked, wheeling to face her.

"A done deal," she answered, disappearing upstairs. She returned a few minutes later, as jeans and sweats as she could be.

He said, "You know, Sachs, you could've adopted the baby yourself if you'd wanted." He paused. "I mean, we could've done that."

"I know."

"Why didn't you want to?"

She considered her answer then said, "The other day I laid some brass on the deck with a perp in a Chinatown alleyway, then I went swimming ninety feet underwater, then was point on a takedown team… I can't not do things like that, Rhyme." She hesitated as she thought of how best to summarize her feelings then laughed. "My father told me there're two kinds of drivers – those who check their blind spot when they change lanes and those who don't. I'm not a checker. If I had a baby at home I'd be looking over my shoulder all the time. That wouldn't work."

He understood exactly what she meant. But he asked playfully, "If you don't check your blind spot aren't you worried about an accident?"

"The trick is just to drive faster than everybody else. That way there's no chance anybody'll be in your blind spot."

"When you move they can't getcha," he said.

"Yep."

"You'd be a good mother, Sachs."

"And you'll be a good father. It'll happen, Rhyme. But let's give it a couple of years. Right now we've got a few other things to do with our life, don't you think?" She nodded at the whiteboard, on which were written Thom's charts for the GHOSTKILL case, the same whiteboard that had been covered with notations from a dozen prior cases and would be filled with those from dozens of future ones.

She was, of course, right, Lincoln Rhyme reflected; the world represented by these notes and pictures, this place on the edge that they shared, was their nature – for the time being, at least.

"I made the arrangements," he said to her.

Rhyme had been on the phone, making plans to have Sonny Li's body shipped back to his father in Liu Guoyuan, China. The arrangements were being handled by a Chinese funeral home.

There was one more task attendant to the death that Rhyme needed to do. He called up a word processing program. Sachs sat down next to him. "Go ahead," she said.

After a half hour of writing and rewriting he and Sachs finally came up with this:

Dear Mr. Li:

I am writing to express my heartfelt condolences at the death of your son.

You should know how thankful my fellow police officers and I are for the privilege of having been able to work with Sonny on the difficult and dangerous case that resulted in the loss of his life.

He saved many lives and brought a vicious killer to justice – an accomplishment we alone could not have achieved. His actions have brought the highest honor to his memory and he will always have a place of great respect within the law enforcement community of the United States. I truly hope you are as proud of your son for his courage and sacrifice as we are.

Lincoln Rhyme, Det. Capt., NYPD (Ret.)

Rhyme read it and grumbled, "It's too much. Too emotional. Let's start over."

But Sachs reached down and hit the print key. "Nope, Rhyme. Leave it. Sometimes too much is a good thing."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Sachs set the letter aside for Eddie Deng to translate when the young cop arrived later in the day.

"Want to get back to the evidence?" Sachs asked. Nodding toward the whiteboards. There was much preparatory work that needed to be done for the Ghost's trial.

But Rhyme said, "No, I want to play a game."

"Game?"

"Yeah."

"Sure," she said coyly. "I'm in the mood to win."

"You wish," he chided.

"What game?" she asked.

"Wei-chi. The board's over there. And those bags of stones."

She found the game and set it up on the table near where Rhyme was parked. She glanced at his eyes, which were examining the grid of the board, and said, "I think I'm being hustled, Rhyme. You've played this before."

"Sonny and I played a few games," he said casually.

"How few?"

"Three is all. I'm hardly an expert, Sachs."

"How'd you do?"

The criminalist said defensively, "It takes a while to get the feel for a game."

"You lost," she said. "All of them."

"But the last one was close."

She looked over the board. "What'll we play for?"

With a cryptic smile Rhyme replied, "We'll think of something." Then he explained the rules and she leaned forward, raptly taking in his words. Finally he said, "That's it… Now, you've never played so you get an advantage. You can make the first move."

"No," Sachs answered. "No advantages. We'll flip a coin."