Bamboo and Blood by James Church Page B

Hedidn’t bother to look. That wasn’t what generals did. Other people, guards at the gate, checked IDs.

    “We didn’t talk long.” He was changing the subject. “She just wanted to know if I would send her something.”

    “What was that?”

    “Got your attention now, don’t I?” He went silent, so I waited. I could wait as long as he could. We stared at each other for a couple of long minutes. Finally, he walked into the next room and emerged with a book. “She wanted one of these. One of her books.” He held it out for me to see. “Something about music. By the time I found someone to carry it out to her, she was dead.” He felt bad about that, I could tell, but he wasn’t going to say to me that this or anything else on earth bothered him. “Dead,” he said again. “I don’t remember where I put the damned book, if that’s what you’re going to ask me next.”

    “That’s not the book?” I pointed to the one he was holding.

    “I told you, I can’t find that one now. I put it somewhere when I heard she was dead. I have this one, that’s all. It was hers. I look at it sometimes.”

    Time to change the subject. If he sank any deeper into melancholy, I’d never get him back on dry land. I should have seen it coming as soon as he said he’d told her to be careful in New York. “You still go to the office? I thought you were retired.”

    “How long you been at this job, Inspector?”

    “A while.”

    “A while. You were in the army?”

    “I was.”

    “They boot you out?” The melancholy had been vaporized.

    “No.”

    “Why’d you leave? Army not interesting enough? Too tough?”

    “Maybe I should go out and come back in, so we can start this all over.”

    “Maybe you should just go out and not come back.”

    I looked around the room. “No, I don’t think so. I think I have some more questions to ask, and I think you’re going to answer them.”

    “If I don’t?”

    “But you will. Sit down, General. I don’t really want to be here, and you don’t really want me here, so we’re on equal footing. I said sit down.”

    The old man squinted at me. When he was younger, it was a steely look; now it was just a squint. “You have a hell of a nerve.” He paused. “No, I’m not going to sit. But I’ll answer three questions. Then you’re done. And don’t think I’m not serious, because I am. People in the army still stand at attention when I break wind.” He grinned. “You want to test me?”

    “No. Three questions are fine, for now.” I let that sink in for a moment. “First, when you spoke to your daughter, you said she sounded excited. Do you mean agitated? Did she sound worried about anything, anything seem to be bothering her, any concerns she voiced to you about her personal safety? That’s all one question, by the way.”

    “No, she said everything was fine.” I thought he might just shrug off the question again, but he seemed to take it seriously. “Something funny that I recall: When she called from New York, she said she’d walked in his footsteps and now she could die happy. That’s all she said before we were cut off. The second time, it was a few months later. It wasn’t a good connection, but I’d say she sounded tired. Trouble sleeping. The chants or singing, whatever it was, woke her early. It made her edgy, she said, everything being so foreign. One more thing, she said that fool husband of hers was going to get her in trouble with the locals. I’ll save you a question. No, she didn’t say why and I didn’t ask.”

    “You saved me two.”

    The old man grunted and walked over to the window. He moved one curtain to the side. The light didn’t exactly spill into the room—it was already late afternoon and there wasn’t much left—but the gray from outside crept along the walls until I could see that the place hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. We fell back into silence. I figured I’d give him a chance to say something else,