Chapter 6

The chapelin the north wing of St. Agatha's convent looked more like a war-torn fortress or the castle of a mad scientist than a place of quiet prayer. The bricks were cold and crumbling; the stained glass windows were chipped and covered in cobwebs. The wind howled down the spiral staircase in the far corner that led all the way up to the steeple overlooking the convent, and the roof was filled with holes where the pigeons made their way in and out, building their nests in the rafters and sheltering from the storms that so often ravaged Hell's Bells.

The wind was unusually still on the night Harry dragged me into the deserted chapel by the hand, two little boys hiding in the shadows and under the pews.

"What are we doing here?" I whispered in a barely audible voice. The air was so still I was terrified my words would carry for miles. "It's lights out in ten minutes. If Sister Rose-from-the-Dead finds out we're not there, she'll kill us. Or worse! We have to go back now."

Harry just shook his head. "We're never going back, Buck."

"What do you mean?"

"They're taking me away tomorrow."

"Who?" I shrieked so loud that Harry had to cover my mouth with his hand. A pair of pigeons flapped in the rafters, startled by my voice. Harry waited before he replied; listening for footsteps until he was sure none would come.

"A married couple arrived today. They want to take me away. They're coming back for me in the morning."

I tried to protest, but Harry's hand smothered my words before he assured me by saying, "Don't worry. You and me got bigger plans than that."

Harry took his hands away from my mouth and peered around the end of the pew under which we were hiding, and I gazed in the same direction. "See that confessional booth over there?" he asked.

I stared at the dark wooden booth and shrugged. "So?"

"You ever been in there?"

I shook my head.

"That's because nobody has," Harry said. "Nobody except the pregnant mothers, who come in through the front door, then leave through that confessional without their babies."

"I don't get it."

"I been sneakin' in here, watchin'. There's a tunnel below that confessional booth that leads to the cemetery. When the nuns wanna get rid of those single mothers, they take them down that tunnel, out to the cemetery, and send them on their way in the dead of night." He took my hand then and said, "Tonight, you and me are gonna do the same thing, and kiss this place goodbye forever. If we cover our tracks, we'll be miles from here by the time they figure out we're gone. Are you with me?"

Was he crazy? I would have followed that kid to the moon. "You betcha," I nodded.

We both grinned at one another, then hand in hand, we scrambled under the pews and reached the confessional. Harry opened the door slowly. It creaked loudly, and we both froze. Again, no footsteps came to hunt us down. We stepped quickly into the confessional, and Harry dropped to his knees, his fingers outlining a trapdoor in the floor until he found the handle and hauled it open. We both stared into a pitch-dark hole in the floor. Running down one wall of the shaft were a number of rungs, which disappeared into the blackness.

"Come on," he whispered confidently.

He went first, descending into the dark. I followed as close behind as I could without stepping on his fingers.

We reached the bottom of the shaft, then took each other's hand once more and held on tighter than ever, before feeling our way along the cold, wet walls of a crudely bricked tunnel. We staggered blindly, stumbling into potholes, tripping over rocks and loose bricks. At one stage, I stepped on a rat, and it squealed so loudly I thought it would wake the devil himself. Eventually a sliver of moonlight appeared up ahead. Harry and I quickened our pace, moving faster and faster toward the light until we reached two heavy iron doors. We pushed on them, one of us on either side, and with a groan of rusted hinges, the doors swung open to reveal the cemetery, its gravestones and marble statues ice blue in the light of the moon.

We quickly realized we were standing in the alcove of a large crypt—a fake one that posed as a fa?ade to hide the tunnel. As we stepped out into the moonlight, we looked back to see a statue of St. Agatha atop the crypt, all seeing, all knowing. The sight of her and the convent beyond sent me cold. I had hoped it would be the last time I'd ever look on that wretched place until—

"The door!" Harry whispered. "We didn't close the confessional door!"

"Forget it," I told him, grabbing his hand and tugging at it. "Let's just go. Let's get the hell outta here. You and me."

"We can't. They'll find us before we get to the cemetery gates if we don't cover our tracks." He was already pulling out of my grip.

"Harry, don't go."

He turned before heading back into the crypt and said, "I'll come back. I promise." With that, he vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.

A chill instantly took hold of me. I turned away from the crypt and looked down the hill of the cemetery, past the black silhouettes of the headstones to the bright lights of Wilde City far beyond the grounds of Hell's Bells. At the age of seven, I had never been to the city before, having spent every day of my life inside the prison that was St. Agatha's. From there, the sight of that busy, bustling town filled me with excitement… and terror. I wondered if terror was what they had felt, all those young mothers forced to give up their children before being cast out into the night like rotten food, spoiled and tarnished in the eyes of God.

From behind me, I heard the rusty groan of the crypt doors and turned, excitedly blurting, "Come on, Harry. Let's go before they—"

But I froze when it was not Harry who emerged from the tomb.

It was Sister Rose-from-the-Dead.

She stepped out of the crypt like a creature of the dark, announcing with a wicked grin on her thin lips, "I'm afraid Harry has other plans. You'll never see him again as long as you live. And as for you, Master Baxter, you're not going anywhere for a long, long time."

I turned to run, but her arms were long and strong. Her right hand seized me by the shoulder, her nails digging into me so hard they punctured the skin. Her left hand grabbed me by the ear and yanked so hard I couldn't hear in that ear till I was eleven.

My screams filled the night.

My kicking feet dug into the dirt and left drag marks leading back to the crypt.

Sister Rose-from-the-Dead was right. I never saw Harry again.

He never again slipped into my cold and lonely bed at night and held me tight and safe.

He never came back. Like he promised he would.

I needed a fix. Whenever memories of the past plagued me, I needed something to escape. Madame Chang was already on my list, but as I made my way from the Mews of Muses to the canal-laced mouth of the West River—with the hauntings of my childhood brewing in the back of my brain like an approaching storm, no doubt conjured up by today's news of Sister Rose-from-the-Dead's apparent murder—I yearned for a hit more than ever.

The West River was home to Wilde City's Little Chinatown, where hundreds of immigrants had come to Wilde City during the days of the river's gold rush, set up their tents, and stayed. Over the years, tents turned to shacks, shacks became homes and businesses. Tailors set up shop. Chinese restaurants opened their doors. Temples were built with dragons carved into their archways, and red lanterns were hung from every doorway and lamppost.

Despite the heat of the day, the temperature along the West River always seemed to drop, inviting a midnight mist as if on cue, as if for nothing else but sheer dramatic effect. It worked. As the fog rolled in, it was easy to get lost in the maze of alleys and walkways, bypaths and bridges, which made up the West River district. During the day, market stalls, merchants, and cyclists ringing their bicycle bells filled these narrow cobblestone corridors. By night, these streets were quiet and empty, still and silent beneath a veil of mist and mystery.

I had never been to Shanghai or Peking or Hong Kong, but I imagined mapping my way through those cities was nothing compared to this labyrinth. Many a tourist had been lost, never to be found again, in these twisting, turning, watery byways. Some had willingly chosen to become lost in these dark alleys of oriental iniquity. Others had no doubt met a fate not of their choosing.

Me, I knew this place… and knew it well.

I knew its bends and curves, almost as though it were my lover. In many ways, it was.

When I reached the ninth pier of the left bank of the river, I walked its boards through the thickening mist, over the still, black waters below. At the end, I stopped, and there I waited until the lights appeared in the fog.

At first, they were hazy and small, like fireflies hovering above the misty river. But slowly they grew larger and closer, multiplying until suddenly they revealed themselves to be lanterns adorning the hull of a giant red Chinese barge, which materialized through the mist and drifted toward the pier, sending small waves lapping against the pylons. As the barge approached, an Asian man in a black silk shirt appeared at the railing and began lowering a gangplank for me.

I walked up it, and he greeted me.

"Mr. Baxter," he said with a bow, his hands together as though in prayer. "Welcome back aboard The Peking Empress."

"It's good to be back, Wuzhou. Is Madame Chang taking visitors tonight?"

"If it is you who is visiting, Madame Chang is always happy to receive."

I stepped aboard before Wuzhou raised the gangplank and the barge drifted away from the pier and was enveloped by the mist once more.

In the dense fog, the boat creaked softly, its enormous weight defying the water beneath it, which seemed so hungry to swallow it whole. Wuzhou led me across the deck and down a set of stairs I had descended many times before, into the belly of this floating beast. He parted a pair of red curtains, and smoke swirled from the vast cabin within. He led me no farther, instead gesturing for me to enter alone. I walked through the shroud of smoke, thick with Madame Chang's perfume of choice: opium. As I walked into the vapor-filled room, I could make out the glow of lanterns everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling were half a dozen cast-iron burners, each sending plumes of opium smoke up to the ceiling before sinking through the room, casting a falling veil over the cabin. I heard soft moans of pleasure, both male and female, and saw people strewn on cushions; Madame Chang's loyal following, dressed in silk robes, staring at the hypnotic glow of the lamps, smiling in a heady daze. Part of me wanted to make my purchase, go home, and get my fix. But part of me wanted to stay, just lose myself in this drifting den of pleasure.

"Mr. Baxter," came a voice with a melodic Chinese accent, snaking through the mist. "Always a pleasure to see you aboard The Peking Empress."

I knew the voice belonged to Madame Chang, but "seeing" was not something Madame Chang did. At least not the way most people define it.

I peered through the haze and saw a woman whose age was impossible to guess, adorned in white silks, draped over a plush red chaise lounge. In the distance between her and me, the tentacles of smoke twirled through the air, giving the illusion that her silks were rising and dancing around her, as though she were some mystical being. In this place, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her forbidden pleasures, it was easy to believe Madame Chang was indeed from a different spiritual plane than most of us.

I stepped closer to her, tripping as I did so, already feeling my head start to spin. I saw on either side of the chaise lounge were two large carved dragons on the floor. Madame Chang rested her foot on one of them, stroking the statue as though it were a large pet. Suddenly, the thing moved. I jumped and staggered backward a step. The second dragon stirred and growled.

Madame Chang laughed. "What do you think of my new additions? Komodo dragons, just arrived from Lombok. Don't worry, they're quite docile. They seem to like it here."

"That's because they're stoned. Who wouldn't like it here?"

She laughed again and gestured for me to step closer. I followed her instruction, and she looked me up and down. Again, I use the term "looked" loosely. Why? Because Madame Chang was born with no pupils or irises. Her eyes were flawless white marbles, completely unseeing. And yet…

"You look different, Mr. Baxter."

I said nothing. Madame Chang stood and glided toward me. It seemed like she wasn't actually walking, but floating. And I'll be damned if the ends of that silk gown weren't swirling into the air of their own accord. I put it down to the opium. Hell, that was strong stuff.

"Come closer," she urged, and I did as she commanded of me. Her completely blank eyes stared into mine. I could see her eyeballs moving, the tiny muscles around her eyes twitched, her eyelids fluttered. What she was seeing, I had no idea until she inhaled with surprise.

"Mr. Baxter, you are different. Something has changed in you."

"I can't stay," I said. "I just came to buy some cannabis." I took a step back. I felt exposed, as though she had just looked straight through me. And yet with another deep breath of that sweet smoke, I was curious as all hell to find out what Madame Chang could see in me that I couldn't.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

"Why?"

"Because they get in the way. Sometimes, we let too many things get in the way. Take away the clutter, and you can see. Too much clutter will cloud you."

"Cloud me? Have you seen how smoky this joint is?"

Madame Chang smiled knowingly. "There are good clouds, and there are bad clouds. Float here a moment, and the bad clouds will soon go away, I promise you. Now take off your clothes."

I took another deep breath of the opium-filled air. Since Madame Chang couldn't see—theoretically—and the others in the room were still lolling around in their doped-out haze, I figured what the heck. Before I knew it, I had stripped off my clothes from top to toe, and stood there stark naked in front of Madame Chang, swaying in my own giddy state of happiness.

Madame Chang gestured for me to lie on the cushions on the floor before her chaise lounge. I did so, more readily than I normally would, contentedly disarmed now and taken away by the moment. I lay face up and closed my eyes. I felt Madame Chang kneel beside me. I felt her lean close over my face. I smelled her breath.

I cringed.

"No offense, Madame Chang. But you might wanna see a dentist sometime soon."

"That's not me," I heard her say from farther away than I expected.

I opened my eyes, and my body jolted as I found myself face to face with one of Madame Chang's Komodo dragons, its head twice the size of mine. I froze as it sniffed at me, rubbing its nose against my cheek.

"They choose," Madame Chang said, kneeling above me and the dragon.

"Choose what?" I asked slowly, not wanting to make any sudden moves even in my drugged-out state.

"Life or death. Give or take. With a Komodo dragon, choice—timing—is everything. Unlike most predators, they do not devour their prey the moment they pounce upon it. Instead, they poison it. Their saliva is deadly. One bite and their prey becomes paralyzed by pain as the poison penetrates the body and slowly eats away at it, weakening its prey until eventually the prey can no longer put up a fight. There is no struggle. Simply a victim… and a victor. The Komodo dragon has remained unchanged, unchallenged in its natural environment, for almost four million years. Nature cannot change what it has already perfected."

With a brush of its snout against my ear and a gruff grunt, the dragon turned away and returned to its place beside the chaise lounge.

"It chooses life for you."

"Oh good," I exhaled, not realizing how long I'd been holding my breath.

I moved to get up. My head was spinning merrily, but I was no longer sure I wanted to stay to become dragon dinner. Madame Chang placed her hand on my chest and pushed me back down with more force than I expected.

"Poison chooses just like a dragon. It gives, and it takes. It can enlighten us and open our minds, or peel us open like a rotten pear. It weaves its way among us every day. Poisons choose us, and rightly or wrongly, we choose them. When they come in the form of hate, they will always unravel us. But every now and then, poisons come in the form of love. Sometimes love will kill. Other times…" She looked into me with those glassy white eyes once more. "Other times it will save."

I tried to struggle against the weight of her hand pinning me down, but in my giddy state, I quickly gave up and said, "All due respect, Madame Chang, but I ain't never seen love save anyone. I'm a detective. Every case that walks through my door is about cheatin' and lyin' and leavin' someone in tears. Broken hearts is my business. How can I believe love will ever save anyone when all I see are the pieces it leaves shattered on the floor? Do you know what it's like to tell a woman her husband's been cheating on her? Do you know what it's like to be the one to destroy a marriage, to be the one to bang the last nail in that coffin?"

Madame Chang smiled at me. "You're only seeing one piece of the puzzle, Mr. Baxter. You're only unraveling one part of the mystery. You see the hurt, but never the healing."

"What do you mean?"

"You are not the destroyer of love, Mr. Baxter. You do not create the pain. You free it. You open people's eyes to what they must abandon and leave behind. You show them the path to a new future. You do not destroy love. You create new opportunities for it to exist someplace else. You give love hope to live on. Don't you see? You are not simply a detective, Mr. Baxter. You are a love detective."

The smoke must have gotten to my eyes, because all of a sudden I had to blink away cloudy tears. "I never looked at it like that before."

Madame Chang laughed. "That's because you've never looked at the world through eyes like mine before. Take away the clutter… and you can see." She placed a hand over my chest then and held it there, feeling my heartbeat. "Love is looking over your shoulder, Mr. Baxter. It will find you again someday."

I stepped off the barge and down the gangplank of The Peking Empress more than a little lightheaded. Under my arm was my purchase from Madame Chang, a small box of cannabis that would keep me going for the next few weeks. But this time I was taking away more from The Peking Empress than just my supply of pot.

The moment I stepped off the boat and onto the pier, Wuzhou raised the gangplank.

The giant barge melted into the mist once more.

Its lanterns faded into the fog.

Somewhere in the east, the sun began to rise.

And I had a long walk home.