“I understand.”
The call was temporarily cut off.
Huo Ranyin hung up and sat back down. Zhao Wu had called early; he had just woken up and brushed his teeth. He hadn’t changed, still wrapped in a hotel bathrobe that had no buttons, only a belt tied at the waist. When its wearer wasn’t standing straight and tall, it became loose and cavernous. But at this moment, neither person in the room noticed it.
“He was a crew member on an ocean-going vessel, not an employee of the Huo shipyard. That old man—damn him for shifting the goalposts.”
The last remnants of sleep in Ji Xun’s mind were stirred away by Zhao Wu’s call. He cursed under his breath, rolled off the bed, and quickly organized a chain of logic:
“Hu Kun is related to your grandfather; Hu Kun’s locker had a Mazu statue that looked like you; Hu Kun told us a story… not the story of the corpse in the Buddha statue, nor the story of the mass sacrifice relayed by Lan Lan. It was the story of the ‘Blue Tears’.”
Huo Ranyin naturally remembered that story. It came right on the heels of the corpse-in-the-Buddha tale—first, Old Hu told them the gruesome story to get them up the mountain, then he spoke of his “first love,” a girl he saw in a crate at his workplace, a girl like a bright pearl, a gem, a tear on his heart.
“He described the location of that story as if it were a normal warehouse. But combined with his behavior of hiding in shipping containers by the sea and placing a wooden ship embedded with blue crystals at sea… that location could easily be a ship’s hold. He saw this girl in the warehouse of a ship.”
“My mother?” Huo Ranyin whispered.
This layer wasn’t hard to deduce. Before this clue surfaced, Ji Xun and Huo Ranyin had already considered the possibility, but without concrete evidence, it remained mere speculation. Now that they had corroboration, a new problem arose: The timing was wrong.
“The Dingbo incident happened in 1976. That was 40 years ago. How old was your mother 40 years ago?” Ji Xun asked.
“My mother was eight that year.”
Eight years old. Unless he was a pedophile, no normal man would feel that way toward a little girl. Plus, in their interactions with Old Hu, they hadn’t detected such tendencies. When describing the story, Old Hu had used the word “maiden” (少女), never “little girl” (女孩).
The ages didn’t match. It wasn’t Huo Ranyin’s mother. But this shouldn’t be; if it wasn’t his mother, who was it? And if it wasn’t his mother, why did Old Hu treat Huo Ranyin differently, telling him stories and giving him a brooch?
“Is there any other woman in your family?” Ji Xun recalled another possibility. “Based on Old Hu’s age, maybe someone closer to your mother’s mother? How old was your grandmother in ’76? Or perhaps a young relative of your grandmother’s?”
“…” Huo Ranyin’s expression was subtle for a moment. If a child can remember their mother in her prime, it is often difficult to remember that their grandmother also once had a youthful, beautiful prime. It wasn’t about human nature, just the distance of time. But just as everyone ages, everyone was once young.
“I have no memory of a grandmother,” Huo Ranyin said. “Heaven did not grant her long life. By the time I was born, she had already passed away, seemingly heartbroken by the death of my uncle. I remember she was born in 1937; in 1976, she would have been exactly 39.”
A woman who took good care of herself and cared about her appearance could certainly be described as “still charming” at 39. But it returned to the same issue: Age aside, would one describe a woman nearing 40 as a “maiden”?
The two stared at each other for a moment. Huo Ranyin said, “My grandfather only had one son and one daughter. What Old Hu said might refer to a relative on my grandmother’s side. We’ll have to check later.”
When speaking about his own family, perhaps the criminal investigator didn’t notice it himself, but almost every time, Ji Xun could detect a quiet wavering and hesitation hidden beneath the other man’s confident facade.
Huo Ranyin lowered his head for a moment. “Remember our deduction about this case last night?”
“Which aspect are you referring to?”
“The connection between Old Hu and the corpse in the Buddha statue—that’s why he was at the scene, knew everything, and told us this true story.”
“Yeah,” Ji Xun nodded.
“But now we’ve found that Old Hu also has a close connection to my family,” Huo Ranyin said, his words crisp. “Connections between people, aside from direct ones, can also be indirect. Assume the victim, Wen Chenghu, was also related to my family. Then, two unrelated people could have been linked years ago with my family as the tether…”
He sat in the chair for two or three seconds. A silent two or three seconds, like a statue, letting the light from the window illuminate his cold profile, letting the dust motes swimming in the light extend their feelers to climb his cheeks.
The light didn’t burn him, but the spark of inspiration ignited in that instant scorched him. He stood up abruptly and strode toward the hotel door. The wavering and hesitation that had appeared on him vanished again—they appeared and disappeared suddenly, like bugs hiding in the dark, watching for opportunities to gnaw at this tree that had struggled to grow but finally stood tall.
Ji Xun watched Huo Ranyin silently. He saw the other man walk forward hurriedly, then suddenly stop and look back. Look back at him.
“I’m going to my home.” The word “home,” when spoken by Huo Ranyin, felt raw. “Some of my parents’ old things are still inside. Among those things, there might be a clue.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go together,” Huo Ranyin said.
“Of course.” Ji Xun’s lips curled up. “I am your carry-on luggage, after all.”
Tenants come and go, but the trees remain. The Meili Lane where Huo Ranyin used to live was much the same as when Ji Xun last visited, and likely much the same as it was in Huo Ranyin’s memory. When they reached 7#501, the captain subconsciously reached for his pocket. Of course, there were no keys in his pocket. It seemed no one was willing to prepare a key for the black box in their mind.
If there were no keys…
As soon as Huo Ranyin turned his head, he saw Ji Xun spinning a piece of wire between his fingers. Ji Xun met Huo Ranyin’s gaze: “Need help?”
Huo Ranyin seemed to smile and stepped aside. “You carry that around?”
“To be a proper treasure chest,” Ji Xun said, “you must have everything when you need it.”
He pried the door open in a few swift motions.
The door swung wide, and the air of stagnation rushed out. Huo Ranyin held his breath, his hand moving to grab Ji Xun, who was standing right beside him. Ji Xun let his wrist be grabbed, and as he was grabbed, he leaned into Huo Ranyin.
He pressed close to him.
Huo Ranyin’s face was a stiff white—a paleness lacking vitality and health. The disgust for this deathly white, like wall paint, reached its peak when Ji Xun couldn’t feel Huo Ranyin breathing.
He bit Huo Ranyin’s lips. Amidst the other man’s surprise, he pushed open the tightly sealed lips and blew a long breath into them.
A breath of aid, a breath of support. A breath to pass on life.
A peach-blossom flush rapidly rose onto Huo Ranyin’s deathly white face. He closed his eyes; the invisible chains constricting his breath loosened gently around his neck. The cut-off oxygen began to grow and reconnect within the breath Ji Xun passed to him, reaching his brain like a soothing coolness, easing his tensed nerves and quietly fading the past memories that had been flashing through his mind.
When Huo Ranyin could breathe normally again, Ji Xun ended this unconventional kiss, then took the initiative and stepped into this world of white.
Admittedly, if given a little more time, Huo Ranyin would certainly have overcome the obstacles in his heart and faced his past with the most objective, professional attitude—he was that kind of man, exceptionally cruel to himself. But that wasn’t strictly necessary, was it? If Huo Ranyin could do everything, why call him here?
He wanted to, and indeed should, become Huo Ranyin’s anchor.
Ji Xun entered the room and communicated simply with Huo Ranyin: “If Wen Chenghu is indeed related to your family, the evidence that remains would be either letters or photographs. Are these still here?”
“They are all here,” Huo Ranyin said.
“Do you remember where they were put?” Ji Xun asked.
“The cabinet… the study, or the master bedroom,” Huo Ranyin replied.
Ji Xun pulled Huo Ranyin toward the study first. Searching for evidence in a room that had already been sorted through once and left empty for a long time wasn’t too difficult. Ji Xun opened the study desk drawers and bookcase drawers, checking them one by one, but found nothing. He turned toward the bedroom. As they entered, Ji Xun, holding Huo Ranyin’s hand, could feel his footsteps freeze—as if stepping into semi-dry cement, dragging and sinking to the point of exhaustion.
It seemed that in this house that was so hard to face, there were certain places that were the terror of terrors, the avoidance of avoidances.
Ji Xun tightened his grip on Huo Ranyin’s hand. It was just a subconscious act, but Huo Ranyin seemed to draw more courage from this applied force. He lifted his feet abruptly and stepped inside. Then Huo Ranyin said, “It’s okay. Not all the memories here are terrible.”
Indeed, not all of them. There were times when his father would stroke his head with kindness or laugh heartily at his academic achievements. Some times.
There were fewer cabinets in the bedroom than in the study. After opening just a few, Ji Xun found photo albums in the bedside table drawer. There were two, one large and one small. Both had gray covers and looked like they had been bought as a set.
Ji Xun opened the large album first. Inside were old photos, meticulously arranged and pasted onto khaki inner pages. There were photos of Huo Ranyin’s father, Huo Ranyin’s mother, and Huo Ranyin as a child.
This was Ji Xun’s first time seeing them. The grotesque, blurred images in his mind crystallized. They were not quite what he had imagined.
Huo Ranyin’s father, Xu Chengzhang, wore gold-rimmed glasses and parted his hair to the side, styled with wax, appearing shiny and meticulous. He wore a four-piece suit, every button fastened, as neat as his slicked-back hair. He sat on the armrest of a Western-style chair, one hand supporting the woman sitting in the chair—Huo Ranyin’s mother, Huo Qiyu. He looked at the camera with focus and passion; through the photo, one could feel his overflowing anticipation.
Huo Qiyu was undeniably a beauty. Petite, with delicate features, she wore a lace dress and hollowed-out white leather shoes. Sitting in the chair, she looked like an elaborately dressed doll. A pair of doe-like eyes, glistening with moisture, set off by her downward-sloping fine brows, seemed as if they could shed sad tears at any moment. This dejected doll seemed to be adorned with layers of melancholy, the more lace she wore, the more it clung to her. Compared to Xu Chengzhang’s focus, she seemed a bit spiritless.
Her misty eyes seemed to be looking at the lens, and yet not. That swirling mist could be interpreted as sadness, but perhaps, it could also be seen as a damp chill.
This photo was on the frontispiece. Below it, someone had written with a fountain pen:
“November 1989, photographed with my wife at the Baiyu Photo Studio.”
Huo Ranyin’s birthday is May 23rd, Ji Xun thought.
At this time, she should have already… He focused on Huo Qiyu’s belly, which hadn’t yet shown signs of pregnancy. He continued flipping down. This album seemed to be managed by Xu Chengzhang; there were many photos of him and Huo Qiyu, carefully organized and pasted. As time passed, the doll that had sat motionless seemed to blossom with a few smiles, releasing the vitality of youth in the sunlight.
However, in contrast to these, Huo Ranyin was almost entirely absent from the album. What his state was like then, and how he lived, remained unknown.
Ji Xun flipped for a while, and photos of people other than the couple began to increase. Marriage, marriage—as time went by, like the growth of a tree, more and more vines would spread out. Some vines were healthy, emerald green, and vibrant; others withered. The larger they grew, the more they lacked nutrients, and the more they were eaten away until, in the end, only a piece of deadwood remained, decaying for half a lifetime.
Ji Xun opened the smaller album.
This was no longer a couple’s family album, but Xu Chengzhang’s personal life album. It contained photos of him as a child, photos of his hometown… and a sudden vacancy.
A photo that had originally been pasted here had been torn away. It had been torn violently, leaving a tear in the inner page of the album, and even affecting the adjacent photos.
And a line of text originally written beneath this spot had been heavily smeared over with a black felt-tip pen.
Ji Xun looked thoughtfully at this spot for a while, then quickly flipped through the latter half of the album to see if there were similar cases of torn-out photos.
There were one or two more places. The text under these photos had also been smeared over, though not as thoroughly as the first. Through the messy horizontal lines, Ji Xun discerned the hidden text beneath:
“1981, Xiazhu Middle School graduation photo.”
“Wen Chenghu was from Xiazhu County,” Huo Ranyin said with his eyes closed. “I remember now. My father, Xu Chengzhang, was also from Xiazhu County.”
A possibility hidden beneath increasingly close connections seemed about to emerge…
Ji Xun flipped back to the vacancy that had been smeared over the most thoroughly. He held the page up vertically and used his finger pads to carefully feel the back of the inner page where it had been smeared black. He slowly read out the characters he felt:
“1991, photographed with friend Chenghu at…”
There was no need to feel further.
“…with friend Chenghu”
Wen Chenghu.
Wen Chenghu and Xu Chengzhang were close friends.
“Why did he tear this photo up?”
Indeed, why did Xu Chengzhang tear up the photo of himself and his friend in such a rage?
“The genitalia missing from Wen Chenghu’s corpse…”
If it were truly as the deputy had speculated, and it was done because of a man-woman relationship, then could Wen Chenghu be… one of the culprits who raped Huo Qiyu?
Ji Xun and Huo Ranyin looked at the album again. In the photos, the previously dejected and detached Huo Qiyu was already showing a joyful demeanor. It seemed that under Xu Chengzhang’s meticulous care, in this marriage that satisfied Huo Qiyu, the flower crushed by the wind and rain had blossomed once more, fragrant and delicate, nourished by love.
The suspicion that was about to emerge turned up an answer.
If Wen Chenghu raped Huo Qiyu, then the person with the greatest motive to kill him was, without a doubt—
Xu Chengzhang!
