Gideon's Sword (25 page)

This was clearly a topic dear to her heart. But in an odd way, Gideon found himself genuinely impressed. There might actually be something to this; he had felt it just listening and watching the movements. “Is it open to anyone?”

“Of course. We welcome everyone. As you saw, we have all kinds of practitioners, from every walk of life and background—in fact, here most of our practitioners are Westerners. Would you like to join a session?”

“I would. Is it expensive?”

She laughed. “You can come, listen, do the exercises as long as you like. Most of our English-language sessions are in the evenings. If in the future you feel it is helping you, then of course we would welcome support for the center. But there are no fees.”

“Does it originate in China?”

At this, the woman hesitated “It’s connected to ancient Chinese traditions and beliefs. But it’s been suppressed in China.”

This would be an extremely interesting thread to follow up on. But right now he had to find the older woman—the grandmother. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he said. “I’ll certainly join a session. Now, getting back to the school: they mentioned Jie had a grandmother he’s very close to.”

“That might be my mother. She’s the founder of the Bergen Dafa Center.”

“Ah. May I meet her?”

Even as he asked it, he realized he had pushed a little too far. Her face lost a bit of its openness. “I’m sorry, she’s working on other Dafa business and is no longer involved on a daily basis with the center.” She paused. “If I may ask, why would you want to meet her?”

Gideon smiled. “Since they’re so close…and she takes him to school…well, I just thought it would be good to meet. But of course it’s not at all necessary…”

Now he realized he had made another mistake. The woman’s expression grew a little chilly. “She never takes him to Throckmorton. I’m surprised the school even knows of her.” A pause. “I wonder how
you
know of her?”

Sink me,
Gideon thought ruefully. He should have shut up while he was ahead. “They mentioned her at the school…Perhaps Jie’s talked about her?”

Her face softened just a bit. “Yes. I imagine he would.”

“I don’t want to take up your time any longer,” said Gideon, backing off and giving her an innocent smile. “You’ve been most kind.”

Mollified, she fetched him a brochure. “Here’s the schedule of introductory sessions. I hope to see you soon. And I’ll tell Jie about your son Tyler. Maybe we can have him over for a playdate before school begins in the fall.”

“That would be most kind,” said Gideon, with a final farewell smile.

48

O
rchid stepped out of the 51st Street deli and marched quickly down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue, opening the pack of cigarettes she’d just purchased and tossing the wrapper into the trash. Instead of going back to her apartment, she’d just walked the streets, her mind whirling. She was furious and determined. Gideon was just awful, a real bastard, but at the same time he was in desperate trouble. She realized that now. He needed help—and she would help him. She would save him from whatever was chasing him, tormenting him, driving him to do all these bizarre things.

But how? How could she help?

Swinging around the corner, she charged up Park Avenue. The uniformed doorman at the Waldorf opened the door for her as she swept in. She paused in the stupendous lobby, breathing hard. Finally getting herself under control, she went up to the reception desk and used the fake names they had registered under. “Has Mr. Tell returned? I’m Mrs. Tell.”

“I’ll ring the room.” The receptionist placed the call, but no one answered.

“I’ll wait in the lobby for him,” she said. He’d have to be back sometime—all his stuff was still here. She opened the pack of cigarettes and shook one out, stuck it between her lips.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tell, we don’t allow smoking in the lobby.”

“I know, I know, I’m going outside.” She lit the cigarette on the way out, just to spite them. On the sidewalk in front of the hotel she paced back and forth, smoking furiously. When the cigarette was done she threw the butt on the sidewalk in front of the doorman, fished another out of her purse, and lit it. She could hear the faint sound of guitar music from that bum in front of Saint Bart’s. To kill time, she crossed the street to listen.

The man, dressed in a thin shapeless trench coat, strummed on his guitar and sang. He was sitting cross-legged, plucking the strings with his fingerpicks. His case lay open beside him, and a number of crumpled bills lay within it.

Meet me Jesus meet me

Meet me in the middle of the air

If these wings should fail me Lord

Won’t you meet me with another pair

This guy was pretty damn good. She couldn’t see his face—it was bowed over his old guitar and he wore a brown fedora—but she could hear his voice, kind of gravelly, full of sorrow and the hard life. She could identify with that. It made her feel sad and happy at the same time. On impulse, she reached into her bag, pulled out a dollar bill, dropped it in the case.

He nodded, not interrupting his music.

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up my dyin’ bed

The last mournful chord sounded and the song was over. He laid the guitar aside and raised his head.

She was surprised to see he was Asian, and young, quite handsome, his face lacking the usual signs of alcoholism or drug addiction, his eyes clear and deep. In fact, despite the shabby outfit, her own street instincts told her he wasn’t a street person at all—probably a serious musician. The raggedy clothes and filthy old fedora were for show.

“Hey, you’re pretty good, you know that?” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“I’m a disciple of the Blues,” he said. “I live the Blues.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I feel that way myself.”

He gazed at her until she began to flush. He then began to collect the pile of money from his guitar case, stuffed it in his pocket, and put away his guitar. “Done for the day,” he said. “I’m going to grab a cup of tea at the Starbucks around the corner. Would you care to accompany me?”

Would you care to accompany me?
This guy was a student at Juilliard, probably, out here paying his dues, living the life. Yes, that had to be it. His formal way of asking pleased her, and she liked his semi-undercover shtick. Part of her was still mad at Gideon. She hoped he would see them together; that would teach him a lesson.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

49

N
odding Crane sat at the little table, sipping green tea and listening to the woman talk. This opportunity had been dropped right in his lap, and he knew exactly how to exploit it, to flush Crew out, to destabilize him, to throw him back on the defensive.

A marvelous opportunity, actually.

“You went by earlier today,” he said. “I noticed you immediately.”

“Oh well, yes, I did.”

“You were with a man—your husband?”

She laughed. “He’s just a friend.” She leaned forward. “And you. You’re no street person—am I right?”

Nodding Crane remained very still.

“You don’t fool me.” She winked. “Although, I must say, it’s a pretty good act.”

He sipped his tea as if nothing had happened. Inside, he was deeply perturbed. “A friend? Your boyfriend?”

“Well, not really. He’s kind of a weird guy, actually.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Said he was an actor, a producer. He gets dressed up in wild costumes, goes out and pretends to be someone else, drags me along. Totally crazy. He said he was a Method actor but I think he’s in some kind of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I wish I knew! I’d like to help him, but he won’t let me. He dragged me up to Riverdale to this really tony private school. We pretended to be parents of some genius kid and he stole some papers from the school—God only knows why. And we did this crazy room switch at the Waldorf in the middle of the night.”

“How strange.”

“Yeah, and then we went to visit this friend of his in the hospital and it turned out the guy had died.”

Nodding Crane sipped his tea. “Sounds to me like he might be involved in some sort of illegal activity.”

“I don’t know. He seems pretty honest. I just can’t figure it out.”

“Where’s he now?”

The girl shrugged. “He, like, abandoned me on the subway, just jumped out, said he’d call me later. He’ll be back. All our stuff is in the room.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. He carries around a suitcase full of disguises. And one of those hard cases, all locked up. No idea what’s in that one, he guards it pretty carefully.”

“A hard case? In the room?”

“Hard molded plastic. He keeps it locked up in the Waldorf’s baggage room.”

She chattered on, oblivious. When Nodding Crane had gotten out of her all the important information he needed, he brought the subject back to himself. “You implied you thought I was in disguise. What did you mean?”

“Come on. Look at you.” She laughed, teasing him. “I know who you really are.”

He rose and checked his watch. “It’s almost time for vespers at Saint Bart’s.”

“What? You’re going to church?”

“I go to hear the music—I love the Gregorian chants.”

“Oh.”

“Would you care to come with me?”

Orchid hesitated. “Well…sure. But don’t think this is a date.”

“Of course not. I would enjoy your company. As a friend.”

“All right, why not?”

A moment later they had entered the church. The doors were unlocked but the sanctuary was empty and, in the gathering twilight outside, it was dark.

“Where’s the music?” she asked. “Nobody’s here.”

“We’re a little early,” said Nodding Crane. He took her arm and gently led her down the aisle into the darkest of the choir stalls near the front. “We can get a good seat here.”

“Okay.” There was a doubtful sound in her voice.

Nodding Crane had kept his right hand buried in his coat pocket. The picks were still on his fingers. As they entered the shadowy chancel, he slipped his hand from the pocket.

“I can hear your fingerpicks clicking away,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m always hearing music. I’m always hearing the Blues.” He raised his hand, his fingers waving before her face, the picks gleaming faintly in the dim light, and began to sing ever so softly.

In my time of dyin’

Don’t want nobody to mourn

All I want for you to do

Is to take my body home

50

G
ideon left the center, but instead of returning to his car he strolled across the campus lawn toward the gatehouse of the old estate, now clearly a small private residence. Some sixth sense told him it was the house of an orderly old woman—with its neat brick walkway, the tiny flower beds flanking the door, the lace curtains and unusual ornaments visible through the windows.

He approached the door as nonchalantly as possible, but even before he reached it two Asian men in dark tracksuits appeared from nowhere.

“May we help you?” one asked as they stepped in front of him. The tone was polite, but they were careful to block his way.

Gideon didn’t even know the name of the grandmother. “I’m here to see the mother of Biyu Liang.”

“I’m sorry—is Madame Chung expecting you?”

He was gratified to see, at least, that he’d picked the right house. “No, but I’m the father of a boy starting at Throckmorton Academy this fall—”

They didn’t even let him finish. In the politest way possible, but without any ambiguity, they approached him and, taking him by the arms, began to escort him away. “Come with us.”

“Yes, but her grandson Jie will be in my son’s class—”

“You will come with us.”

As they started moving away, Gideon noticed that he was being taken, not to his car, but toward a small metal door in the side of the mansion. An unpleasant memory flashed through his head: waking up in a Hong Kong hotel, his bed surrounded by Chinese agents.

“Hey, wait a second—” He struggled, dug his heels into the ground. The two men stopped, tightened their grip, then began dragging him toward the door.

A voice sounded from the small house. The two stopped. Gideon turned to see an elderly Chinese woman on the steps of the gatehouse, gesturing at the guards with a withered hand. She said something in Mandarin.

After a moment, the guards reluctantly loosened their grasp. First one took a step away, then the other.