Free More Deaths Than One by Pat Bertram Page B

stolen antiquities had become severe in an
attempt to stem the flow of Thailand’s heritage out of the country,
and jealous business rivals would be glad of an opportunity to turn
him in.”
     
    “But he only pretended to sell stolen
anti-quities,” Kerry said.
    “It didn’t matter. He became too successful,
and he made enemies.”
    Kerry shivered. “Maybe his enemies are your
enemies.”
    “I suppose it’s possible,” Bob said slowly,
“but the men I saw in my room were Caucasian, and definitely
American. You’ve got me thinking. I wonder if someone got wind of
Hsiang-li’s gold Buddha and figured I know where to find it.”
    Kerry’s eyes grew enormous. “Gold Buddha? It
sounds to me as if your life wasn’t so quiet and uneventful after
all.”
    “This isn’t my story,” Bob reminded her.
“It’s Hsiang-li’s.”
    “Well, do you know where to find the
Buddha?”
    “No, and neither does Hsiang-li, but he sold
his restaurant and went in search of it.”
    “All by himself? If you were so close, I
would have thought you’d go with him.”
    “He wanted to go alone. A personal quest.
Also, I have the feeling that one way or another he doesn’t plan on
returning to civilization.”
    “Jeez. Where did he go to look for the gold
Buddha?”
    “In the jungles of Northern Thailand and
Burma.” Bob closed his eyes. “I dream of the jungle sometimes.
Hsiang-li is lost, and I have to find him. As I push my way through
the foliage, vines strangle me, snakes entwine themselves around
me, clouds of insects envelop me. Then I’m hurt, I don’t remember
how, and I have to pull myself along on my belly, but the jungle
goes on forever.”
    He rose and paced the room. A minute, two
minutes ticked by.
    Finally, Kerry patted the couch next to her.
“Why don’t you come back here. Maybe if you finish telling the
story, you can get it out of your system and out of your dreams. I
know he’s your friend and you’re worried about him, but he made his
choice.”
    Bob’s steps slowed. A minute later he settled
beside her. She took one of his hands in both of hers, and he felt
her warmth seep into him.
    “Two months ago we were in the secret room.
We had sold off Hsiang-li’s inventory and all that remained were
the tan and sepia figurines I mentioned. ‘I found these figurines a
long time ago during a period of great sorrow,’ he said, and
explained that he had not been prepared for such sadness. He’d
lived in Ch’engtu, the largest city in Szechuan Province, which is
the most densely populated province in China, but his own world was
tiny, centered around his family’s restaurant. He went on to tell
me about his robust baby boy, about his beautiful wife who had a
laugh like the tinkling of bells, and about how happy and complete
they made his life.
    “Then a high-placed friend warned him about
his name on Mao’s purge list, and his wife decided they should
escape. They hired a guide to take them through the mountains and
across the border into Burma, then on into Thailand. Although
Thailand curtailed Chinese immigration, Hsiang-li figured they
could blend into the Chinese community there with no one being the
wiser. Before they left, his wife set her pet finch free. She could
no longer stand the idea of any creature living in captivity.”
    Feeling Kerry moving restlessly next to him,
Bob said, “Maybe I should tell you the story some other time, let
you get some sleep.”
    She shook her head; strands of her hair
brushed against his cheek. “This is daytime to me. Normally, I’d be
in the middle of the bar rush, being run off my feet. Besides, no
one’s told me a story since I was a little girl sitting on my
grandfather’s lap.” Kerry moved closer to Bob and curled up against
him. “You don’t smell the same, though. He smelled of pipe tobacco
and horses and old leather. You smell like Rimrock’s meatloaf. You
don’t feel the same, either. He felt safe and secure. Settled. You
feel . .