Free The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map by Donna Carrick

for his digital camera.
    He strode toward a tiny window, hoping to improve the light by pulling back the curtain.
    Long spoke to Shopei. She reached for Randy’s hand.
    “ Leave it closed,” she said.
    “ Very well.” It wouldn’t have helped anyway. The darkness was growing outside, and with no streetlights to help, they would have to make do with what light they had. Long pumped a small gaslight and struck a match to ignite it.
    Randy felt himself ageing as he gazed at the bed, no longer the optimistic American youth that had arrived in Shanghai earlier that day. He suddenly felt old, small, and poorly equipped.
    “ Can she speak?” Shopei asked Long.
    “ She can. However, please do not exhaust her.”
    Randy pulled back the thin blanket and photographed the woman. She appeared to be no more than a girl, thin and weak, much smaller than Shopei. Using his flash, he shot the bruises on her face and extremities. Then Shopei helped him to turn her carefully onto her stomach and lifted her nightshirt, peeling back the clean gauze bandages so he could see the damage on her lower back.
    He used the zoom function to capture the swelling and redness. The wound was badly infected. A sickly sweet smell rose, wafting to his nostrils through the humid air.
    Long reached for a mortar and pestle and some dried leaves in a jar that stood on a shelf. He chose three of the leaves and ground them into a powder, then mixed them into a salve. Using his fingers, he spread a small amount of the salve onto the wound, gently replacing the bandages. The woman moaned.
    “ Can you translate?” Randy asked.
    “ Yes,” Shopei said, nodding toward the woman. “She speaks Cantonese.”
    “ What is your name?” Randy asked.
    “ Wu Gui-Jing,” the woman answered in a pained whisper.
    Randy moved the recorder closer to the bed.

FOURTEEN
     
    Detective Wang Yong-qi held his recorder as near to his mouth as he could without swallowing it. As always, he felt self-conscious taping his own voice in front of Cheng. Cheng left the room and waited in the hallway to give him some space. Henry the concierge followed Cheng.
    “ Apparent suicide,” Wang said, reciting the details of the evidence into the machine. He was prudent in his choice of words, taking care not to commit his opinions to record. His thoughts were his thoughts — the facts were the facts. One never knew where the facts might lead. It was best to weave one’s way carefully through the net of evidence, so as not to become trapped in a solution that was unacceptable, especially in a case like this one.
    Wang had dealt with several similar deaths in the recent past. Falun Gong ‘suicides’ seemed to be occurring with greater frequency. He and Cheng never spoke openly about the situations, knowing even irrefutable proof would not necessarily lead to justice. They had closed the file on three such ‘suicides’. The uncharacteristic blankness of Cheng’s expression as he moved about the hotel room spoke volumes to Wang.
    Detective Cheng wanted badly to solve this one. He and Wang were of like mind on that subject. However, both men were painfully aware of the political dangers of defending so-called ‘enemies of the state’.
    The Communist government controlled the press. There were no official reports within China, no hints or rumours of foul play. Wang couldn’t be sure about elsewhere in the country, but in Guangxi Zhuang, the suicides were entered into the record without question. The fact that there was no pressure from his superiors to dig deeper into the cases indicated to Wang Yong-qi things were not what they seemed to be.
    Of course, that was common in the People’s Republic.
    Wang closed his eyes, plunging into a dangerous decision. He would speak to Cheng now, before he lost his courage. He would suggest they work together off the record, to discover what had really happened at the Golden Lion Hotel.
    Cheng’s eyes would light up at the prospect. Whether or not