The Sister (88 page)

Carla's torch gave her away. The figure froze on seeing the pool of light, and made no attempt at escape, instead, a thin voice rasped, "Who are you?"
It was a woman!
She continued talking without waiting for an answer. "Every year on night of Ghost Day, I mark anniversary of death of my child in this place. When I hear of custom to tie rag wiped with hurt, and I see much old rag rot in the wind. I tear sleeve and leave there first time. After, I bring always finest silk. You know pain . . . It never go away."

She turned to face Carla and Miller. In the torchlight, she looked younger than her years. Miller did the maths; she had to be in her late seventies, but could easily pass for a woman in her sixties.

Carla spoke to her softly. "Are you Lei Liang's mother?"

"Yes, I am." The old woman said, proudly raising her chin. "You didn't tell me . . . who are you?"

"My name is Carla Black, and I'm hoping to solve the mystery of what happened to your daughter, and the other people that died here." She indicated Miller, "This man is an investigator, and I am a reporter. We are not far off catching the man who did this."

"You know Lei is not here. I do not know where is she, but not here. I am glad. My gift to her was Five Poison amulet. Here in body, but spirit free, saved by charm from water demon . . ."

Lei Liang's mother moved to the edge of the bank. Taking a telescopic pole with a hook, she extended it, hanging a small paper boat on the end. She lit a taper in the boat before pushing it out, placing it in the water, unhooking it with great care. The three of them stood silent, watching the ritual.

The flame in the tiny vessel flared and shooting upward disappeared into the gloom, leaving only ripples. The moonlight laid a path across the dark waters.

From the corner of his eye, Miller sensed movement. A shadow stepped from behind into his line of sight. Lei Liang shimmered in the moonlight in all her beautiful glory.

Her mother gasped at the sight and clasped her hands in joy. She spoke rapidly in a mixture of Chinese and English.

"Lei, is it really you?" She fell to her knees before the vision.

The projection lasted for several minutes as mother and daughter communed.

The manifestation was so strong that Carla saw it too.

Afterwards, Miller looked drained.

"You didn't tell me you could do that." Carla said.

"I didn't . . ." he replied. "Something used me…"

Miller's doorbell rang as he made himself a coffee. He checked his watch.
9:05 a.m.
Wiping his hands on a towel, he walked to the front door. The silhouette in the bulls-eye window revealed it was the postman. "Morning," he said as he opened it.

"Morning, I have this for you; it wouldn't fit through the box, and I didn't want to leave it on the step in the rain…"

"Thanks," he said, taking the parcel. "You don't need a signature?"

"No, whoever sent it, posted it first class. I checked the label. Only took two days." He grinned. "I've known second class post to arrive before first lately. Post office is going to pot! You have a good day."

"Thanks. You too."

The style of writing on the address label was broad and florid. He thought he recognised it. He picked up his coffee and took the parcel into his conservatory. Setting the cup down, he carefully unwrapped the package. Carla's face stared up at him from the back cover. He was familiar with the photograph; he remembered telling her when she'd first showed it to him and told him of her intention to use it for her book.
If you put that photograph on the cover of the book - it would sell millions.

He quickly scanned the words on the back and then turned the book over to read the front cover. The picture struck fear into his heart. It was of a man wearing a gas mask, dressed in a navy-blue boiler suit. The title read:

The Boilerman Killings -

The Life and Times of William Martin Boyle

By Carla Black

He smiled.
She has guts.
Picking up his coffee, he began to read.

He called her at around lunchtime. She couldn't keep the excitement from her voice. "Well, what did you think?"

"
It's very good," he said, hesitance dampening his enthusiasm.

"You don't have to say that if you don't mean it."

"I
do
mean it, it's very good, and I loved that photograph of you on the back."

"Thank you," she said. "You sound as if you're going to say, but…"

"I'm just not sure about the ending."

"How so?"

"He remains at large . . ."
He paused, "I prefer to think of him dead."

The sound of her sucking air between her teeth came down the line. "Miller, you must
know
he's still alive."

"Maybe. You know if he sees this, he'll come after you."

"I'm banking on it," she giggled. "Can you imagine what a story
that
would make?"

"Always the story, Carla. Don't you ever think about anything else?"

She laughed, "I think you know that I do. How about dinner tonight? We have a lot of catching up to do. Boyle's in Morocco. I think I know where to find him. We'll talk about it later, yes?"

Morocco
.
A voice inside told him not to go.

"Carla, not tonight. I'm busy. I'll call you tomorrow." He turned the phone off. His thoughts drifted.
I see three women. Only one is good for you…

Three women…
Who were they? He liked Carla a lot, but he knew they'd only find trouble together. He'd not had feelings for anyone since Josie the way he felt for Stella, but would she turn out to be wrong for him too? He didn't want to hurt, or be hurt. What if the yet unknown woman came along and blew him away.

He shook his head, and then grinned. In his heart, he knew the answer.

The End

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy, and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages, and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
—

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost (1874–1963) - Mountain Interval