White Ginger by Thatcher Robinson

cautiously opening the door to the basement. He slipped swiftly and silently through the entry. She followed, dogging his footsteps as he moved rapidly down crude wooden steps.
    Reaching the foot of the stairs, Bai stepped off onto soft soil. Light filtered down through cracks in the porch decking overhead. As she looked around, Bai realized the girl had been wrong in calling it a basement. It was a tall crawl space. The house was supported by thick brick columns eight feet high and spaced roughly ten feet apart.
    Cautiously slipping around the stairwell with Jason, she spied a light at the far end of the crawl space near the back of the house. Two men, framed by the glow of an electric torch, held a conversation. One leaned against a brick column and talked, as the other man, standing knee-deep in the ground with a shovel in his hand, listened.
    Jason motioned for her to stay behind him as he crept in the direction of the diggers. The ground rolled and swelled gently like waves on open water. The single bulb of the electric torch cast deep shadows, creating the impression the ground reached up to meet her. She concentrated on her footing while, at the same time, trying to keep an eye on the men under the light.
    The man standing in the hole and leaning on a shovel saw them first. He picked the shovel up to point it at them and yelled, “Who are you?”
    Jason ran forward to stab the barrel of his gun against the other man’s head before the dazed gangster could figure out what was going on. Bai stood between the digger and the stairwell. She slipped the knife from the sheath on her arm. The digger froze. His eyes darted around furtively while his mouth hung slack.
    Bai realized immediately the hole was a grave. Next to the grave lay a black plastic garment bag stuffed to the point of bursting. Her heart sank. She motioned for the grave digger to put down his shovel. When he’d tossed the potential weapon aside, she walked over to kneel down next to the garment bag and slit it open with her knife.
    The stench of voided bowels made her head jerk back. The person stuffed in the bag was familiar. Standing up in shock, she took a step back and put a hand over the opening in her stocking cap to cover her mouth.
    Bai motioned to the grave digger with her knife and took her hand from her mouth. “Sit down! And keep your hands in the air where I can see them.”
    Jason shoved his hostage toward the grave. He gestured with the barrel of his gun for the man to take a seat next to his friend. “Sit.”
    The gangsters did as they were told. Deep frowns etched their faces. Bai could empathize. She wasn’t enamored of the situation either.
    â€œWho’s in the bag?” asked Jason.
    â€œMrs. Yan.”
    â€œI thought she went back to China.”
    â€œIn spirit only, it would seem.”
    Bai’s mind whirled with questions. She knew a mother’s instincts to protect her young were strong and wondered what Mrs. Yan had gotten herself into. Did Jimmy Yan know his mother was dead? What had happened to Jia? The woman’s death posed more questions than answers.
    She caught Jason’s eye and motioned in the direction of the men sitting in the partially dug grave. “Keep an eye on them for a minute. I need some time with Mrs. Yan.”
    He acknowledged her request with a nod then turned back to watch their prisoners. Bai returned to the garment bag with the sleeve of her leather jacket pressed against her nose. She sliced the bag wide open with her knife then tried to move Mrs. Yan’s arm to the side. She wanted to see what kind of wounds, if any, the woman had suffered.
    When she touched Mrs. Yan’s clammy skin, she gagged. She had to hold down her bile as she pulled on the arm. The woman was stiff. Rigor had already advanced, which meant the woman had been killed more than three hours, but less than three days, ago. Bai’s eyes were tearing as she tugged Mrs. Yan’s