Bitter Spirits
Page 86
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“I didn’t. And you were in Hong Kong.”
“But my brother was not. He was detained on Angel Island for almost a decade before he died. He was jailed for no crime, but they treated him like a criminal.”
Aida certainly could empathize with grief for a lost sibling, but she didn’t lash out and kill people for revenge when Sam died.
Yip rocked his foot. “I am here now, ready to avenge my brother’s life and lead my people to reclaim what is theirs. But I will do it my way, by my own creed. My mission is a peaceful one, because the shen spirits have given me a prophecy: I will help my people gain control of the city without spilling one single drop of blood.”
It took several moments for this to sink in. Winter’s hauntings, the “voice of God” telling the bootlegger to turn himself in, the tipoff for the raid, all the unrest in Chinatown . . . her fire. And the way Yip had gotten upset when these two thugs had broken into his shop—he’d shouted at them not to spill blood, claiming his shop was holy.
“I’m a peaceful man, a healer—not a killer,” the herbalist said. “I have no blood debt on my hands. I am clean.”
“Just because you didn’t pull the trigger doesn’t mean you’re not guilty.”
He gave her a patient smile. “Death is part of war, Miss Palmer. That is hard to hear when you are on the losing side.”
“And on whose side are the tong leaders in Chinatown? Haven’t you halted their business?”
He rocked one bee slipper near her shins. “They were given a chance to be on the winning side, but they all chose money over honor. And regarding guilt, every soldier knows that there are both good and bad ways to kill. I am taking the higher path by avoiding death if possible. And if death is necessary, I arrange for the killing to be done by the victim’s own hands.”
“Like the fortune-teller?”
“Suicide was the only honorable option. Mr. Wu violated an oath of silence and betrayed his own people to the enemy.”
“And what about me, huh? That fire nearly killed me. How is that not on your hands?”
He sighed. “The fire was to scare you away from Mr. Magnusson. I only found out about the laudanum after the fact. They took it upon themselves to stray outside the guidelines of my orders and took things too far. Ah, look—we are almost home.”
The car slowed as they headed past a sign for Hunter’s Point, then another for a dry dock, where several massive ships sat inside channels, moored on land by networks of planks and stilts. “What is this?”
“Where unseaworthy ships are repaired. The rusting hulk in front of us is the ship that brought me over from Hong Kong. Unfortunately for the Royal TransPacific Steamship Company, the Jade Princess would not be able to make the return trip to China, because a strange and terrible fever struck her crew several days before entering port, and during that time her boiler went defective. The repair expenses were too high for the owners to manage, and permit problems seemed to plague them. Luckily I was there to pay the dry-docking costs, so she was signed over to me.”
In the moonlight reflecting from the dark bay water in the distance, the beached passenger ship looked like a great derelict beast. Faint lights flickered inside a couple of the port windows; someone was inside.
Ju’s former employees hauled her out of the car and shoved her toward a locked wooden fence that guarded entry to the dry dock. A foghorn wailed in the distance.
“We are quite invisible out here,” Doctor Yip said as he unlocked the gate, the planks of which were covered in Chinese characters and strange symbols. “You and I have similar talents, Miss Palmer. Rather infuriating for me, as you ruined my hard work. But now that I have you contained, my efforts with Mr. Magnusson will be more successful. And I have something very special in store for him. Would you like to see what a necromancer can do?”
TWENTY-NINE
WINTER STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF DOCTOR YIP’S SHOP, GLASS crunching below his shoes from where he’d busted the door open. His stomach was knotted, his chest tight with a dull, pulsing terror.
The shop was deserted.
Not a damn piece of paper with another address or phone number. No paperwork whatsoever: the desk in the back office was completely empty. The shop itself looked as it did when Aida and he first came—minus the broken door.
And the row of glass jars behind the counter, which Winter had smashed with the register.
He now stared at the dark spot on the counter where the register had been. A twenty-dollar bill sat there, both sides painted with red symbols.
“See if Bo’s done checking the alley, would you?” Winter said to Jonte. The driver stepped outside the shop and came back with his assistant, who’d met them there with a crew of men after Winter had called him from Gris-Gris.
“You know what any of this Chinese means?” Winter asked.
Bo strode to the counter and laid his gun down to examine it. “Black magic.”
“I know that much.” He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same bill he’d given Yip that afternoon. How many twenties would an herbalist get? Not many.
Then again, Yip was no herbalist.
Winter flipped open a matchbook, struck a match, and lit the bill on fire.
The rest of his men met them out front after canvassing the neighbors, which included an opium den, a locked warehouse, and one small well of apartments. No one knew where the herbalist lived. One lady said a black car dropped him off and picked him up every day.
“But my brother was not. He was detained on Angel Island for almost a decade before he died. He was jailed for no crime, but they treated him like a criminal.”
Aida certainly could empathize with grief for a lost sibling, but she didn’t lash out and kill people for revenge when Sam died.
Yip rocked his foot. “I am here now, ready to avenge my brother’s life and lead my people to reclaim what is theirs. But I will do it my way, by my own creed. My mission is a peaceful one, because the shen spirits have given me a prophecy: I will help my people gain control of the city without spilling one single drop of blood.”
It took several moments for this to sink in. Winter’s hauntings, the “voice of God” telling the bootlegger to turn himself in, the tipoff for the raid, all the unrest in Chinatown . . . her fire. And the way Yip had gotten upset when these two thugs had broken into his shop—he’d shouted at them not to spill blood, claiming his shop was holy.
“I’m a peaceful man, a healer—not a killer,” the herbalist said. “I have no blood debt on my hands. I am clean.”
“Just because you didn’t pull the trigger doesn’t mean you’re not guilty.”
He gave her a patient smile. “Death is part of war, Miss Palmer. That is hard to hear when you are on the losing side.”
“And on whose side are the tong leaders in Chinatown? Haven’t you halted their business?”
He rocked one bee slipper near her shins. “They were given a chance to be on the winning side, but they all chose money over honor. And regarding guilt, every soldier knows that there are both good and bad ways to kill. I am taking the higher path by avoiding death if possible. And if death is necessary, I arrange for the killing to be done by the victim’s own hands.”
“Like the fortune-teller?”
“Suicide was the only honorable option. Mr. Wu violated an oath of silence and betrayed his own people to the enemy.”
“And what about me, huh? That fire nearly killed me. How is that not on your hands?”
He sighed. “The fire was to scare you away from Mr. Magnusson. I only found out about the laudanum after the fact. They took it upon themselves to stray outside the guidelines of my orders and took things too far. Ah, look—we are almost home.”
The car slowed as they headed past a sign for Hunter’s Point, then another for a dry dock, where several massive ships sat inside channels, moored on land by networks of planks and stilts. “What is this?”
“Where unseaworthy ships are repaired. The rusting hulk in front of us is the ship that brought me over from Hong Kong. Unfortunately for the Royal TransPacific Steamship Company, the Jade Princess would not be able to make the return trip to China, because a strange and terrible fever struck her crew several days before entering port, and during that time her boiler went defective. The repair expenses were too high for the owners to manage, and permit problems seemed to plague them. Luckily I was there to pay the dry-docking costs, so she was signed over to me.”
In the moonlight reflecting from the dark bay water in the distance, the beached passenger ship looked like a great derelict beast. Faint lights flickered inside a couple of the port windows; someone was inside.
Ju’s former employees hauled her out of the car and shoved her toward a locked wooden fence that guarded entry to the dry dock. A foghorn wailed in the distance.
“We are quite invisible out here,” Doctor Yip said as he unlocked the gate, the planks of which were covered in Chinese characters and strange symbols. “You and I have similar talents, Miss Palmer. Rather infuriating for me, as you ruined my hard work. But now that I have you contained, my efforts with Mr. Magnusson will be more successful. And I have something very special in store for him. Would you like to see what a necromancer can do?”
TWENTY-NINE
WINTER STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF DOCTOR YIP’S SHOP, GLASS crunching below his shoes from where he’d busted the door open. His stomach was knotted, his chest tight with a dull, pulsing terror.
The shop was deserted.
Not a damn piece of paper with another address or phone number. No paperwork whatsoever: the desk in the back office was completely empty. The shop itself looked as it did when Aida and he first came—minus the broken door.
And the row of glass jars behind the counter, which Winter had smashed with the register.
He now stared at the dark spot on the counter where the register had been. A twenty-dollar bill sat there, both sides painted with red symbols.
“See if Bo’s done checking the alley, would you?” Winter said to Jonte. The driver stepped outside the shop and came back with his assistant, who’d met them there with a crew of men after Winter had called him from Gris-Gris.
“You know what any of this Chinese means?” Winter asked.
Bo strode to the counter and laid his gun down to examine it. “Black magic.”
“I know that much.” He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same bill he’d given Yip that afternoon. How many twenties would an herbalist get? Not many.
Then again, Yip was no herbalist.
Winter flipped open a matchbook, struck a match, and lit the bill on fire.
The rest of his men met them out front after canvassing the neighbors, which included an opium den, a locked warehouse, and one small well of apartments. No one knew where the herbalist lived. One lady said a black car dropped him off and picked him up every day.
