Forbidden City. Alex Archer
left his boat, knowing that no one would bother it, and walked up the embankment following the crooked steps with his guitar hanging over his shoulder. The walkways were made crooked because everyone knew that ghosts could only walk in straight lines.
Suen didn’t believe in ghosts, but he appreciated the craftsmanship that went into the building. As he trudged along, carrying the fish in the basket he’d brought, he looked out over the city. He was sixty-two years old. His daughter had come to him late in life, and she’d truly been a gift from the gods. But even in his lifetime, Shanghai had changed. He loved the history of the city, the good and the bad, and he hoped that it was never truly lost.
At the top of the hill, the Bund began in earnest. Shops and merchants’ pushcarts filled the thoroughfare. Voices carried an undercurrent of pleading and feigned insult, haggling and desire.
Suen lived a few blocks away. He was looking forward to his daughter’s visit. It had been almost two years. The last time she’d come, he’d had to nurse her back to health. Her work had nearly gotten her killed. He had asked her then to step away from it, but she hadn’t been able to.
Though he had never told her, he thought maybe her work was the result of the curse that had been put upon his family. It was the only thing that made sense to him. He had wanted to tell her about the curse, but he didn’t think she would believe him. More than that, the story had been passed through generations of his family. It was time for it to die.
Since that visit, there had been several phone calls and e-mail. Neither of them mentioned her work.
Suen was lost in thought when a van screeched to a halt on Zhongshan Road. He paid no heed because he knew he was safely out of the street.
Footsteps slapped the pavement, coming close to him. Suen turned, but by then it was too late.
Two men took Suen by the arms and lifted him from his feet. He tried to escape, but they were stronger than he was. Then a third man pointed a pistol at him.
“What are you doing?” Suen demanded. “I’ve done nothing to—”
The man shot him. Sharp pain spread out from Suen’s stomach, just below his breastbone. He looked down and spotted the small feathered dart jutting out from his body. Looking at the men, young and dressed in American clothes, Suen thought of Ngai Kuan-Yin and the document the man had wanted.
Suen tried to speak, but he was quickly sucked into a whirlpool of blackness.
5
“Why did you go up to Volcanoville, Miss Creed?”
Annja sat in the interview room at the ranger station.
“I’ve already told the ranger captain.” Annja sat across a Formica-topped table from the sheriff. Squeeze bottle condiments on the table reminded everyone that the room was more for socializing than interrogation. Topographical maps of the area were mounted under protective plastic on the walls. A lone bookcase was filled with pamphlets and novels ranging from Louis L’Amour westerns to Jeffrey Deaver thrillers.
“Maybe you could tell me again.” Sheriff Barfield was in his early forties and kept in shape. His tailored uniform was carefully pressed and the star on his chest gleamed in the light. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly clipped. “All Captain Andrews has to do is keep the park and countryside clean. I’ve got to explain to three sets of parents why their kids aren’t coming home ever again.”
Annja nodded. She’d had a hard time resisting the impulse to open her notebook computer and research the belt plaque. But she knew if she showed an interest in it the piece would have been confiscated. She was sure she could do more toward solving the riddle it proposed than the park rangers or the sheriff’s department.
“Could you answer a couple questions for me first?” Annja picked up the bottle of water she had been given and took a sip.
Sheriff Barfield sat in the straight-backed wooden chair across from her. His cologne was fragrant, Old Spice or something like it.
“Sure.” Barfield nodded. “If I can.”
“Have you found Huangfu?”
“No.”
“What about the helicopter?”
The sheriff hesitated for a moment, as if flipping a mental coin. “We located it outside of Sacramento. It had been abandoned.”
“Do you think the men left California?”
Barfield’s eyes were steady. “You know more about them than I do, Miss Creed. Do you think they left California?”
“I don’t know.”
Taking out a small notebook, Barfield glanced through pages of notes written in a clear, concise hand. “I talked with a New York Police Department detective named McGilley. He said he looked into Huangfu Cao for you.”
“He did.”
“McGilley also says he told you he thought you should stay away from Huangfu because he couldn’t find out much information about him.”
“I’m an archaeologist, Sheriff. Sometimes I don’t get to pick and choose who I deal with. Archaeologists have been dealing with grave robbers since the field of study began.”
“Is that what you think Huangfu went there to do? To rob a grave?”
“I don’t know. Right after we found the remains of the miners, we were held at gunpoint by those three men.”
“Do you think he’s a criminal?”
“Based on the skill and lack of qualms he showed in killing those men—and while trying to kill me— I’d have to think that, wouldn’t I?”
“Are you in the habit of dealing with criminals, Miss Creed?” Barfield’s voice was low and neutral.
“Not if I know they’re criminals. I didn’t know Huangfu was a criminal until he killed those three men. And tried to kill me.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to find his ancestor’s grave.”
“To rob it?”
“He said it was so he could take the bones home to be interred in a family graveyard.”
“That didn’t strike you as odd?”
“Different cultures practice different beliefs, Sheriff. I’ve got friends in New York who believe that everyone in California is involved in some kind of environmental protection group or practice strange religion.”
A faint grin tweaked Barfield’s lips. “Do you help people find their lost ancestors very often?”
“No.”
“But you did this time. Why?”
“Because of the story involved.” That was partially the truth.
“What story?”
“Ghost towns are always interesting.”
Barfield rubbed his chin. “Volcanoville isn’t really known as a ghost town in the area. It’s just another failed gold mining operation.”
“One person’s failed gold mining operation is another person’s ghost town.” Annja glanced pointedly at her watch. It was 2:18 a.m. With the three-hour time zone deficit, she was running on fumes.
“Did you know you were going to find Huangfu’s ancestor?”
“If he was out here, I was going to try.”
“What do you mean ‘if’?”
Annja folded her arms and regarded the sheriff. “Stories don’t always have truth in them. Huangfu had the diary of a family member that said Ban Zexu was murdered in Volcanoville.”
The