SES Chapter 11

Chapter 11

That night, Mu Dai suffered from insomnia.

Around 1 a.m., she got up from her bed, put on a robe, and went downstairs to check all the doors and windows carefully. A few times, she even reached outside to tug on them.

Fortunately, everything was secure.

Mu Dai took a bottle of whiskey and a wine glass from the bar and walked over to a corner seat by the window. There were no lamps, but it wasn’t completely dark; a few steps down the road, neon signs glimmered, casting shimmering light across the water in the canal outside. The waterweed below merged into clusters of black shadows.

Slowly, Mu Dai poured herself a drink. She wasn’t particular about her whiskey; not like 13, who insisted it be chilled just right and tasted a certain way. To Mu Dai, alcohol was meant to be drunk, pure and simple.

As soon as she received Li Tan’s message, she called him back immediately. Li Tan said it all started near the Xiaoshang River in Yinchuan.

But to get to the bottom of it, you’d have to go back more than two years, to Luoma Lake.

Li Tan remembered it well. That day marked the 20th anniversary of the Luoma Lake incident. The sky was overcast, clouds gathered thick on the horizon, and the elderly locals said it might snow.

Li Tan opened a small grocery store after losing his job, but his mind was never in it; it barely kept him fed.

He closed up early that day and walked toward the old building where Li Yaqing once lived. Halfway there, it started to snow.

Twenty years had gone by in a flash. The old building was abandoned, its cement walls a dull, barren grey against the snow-flecked sky. At first sight, it seemed profoundly desolate.

Li Tan walked through Li Yaqing’s home. The other apartments were all empty, but in her home, furniture remained. Probably because her whole family had gone at once, and nobody cared about their earthly possessions afterwards.

The bloodstains were gone, but the wall was riddled with dark, piercing holes from nails, like countless eyes peering through.

Feeling short of breath, Li Tan walked into the corridor for a smoke. Just as he put the cigarette to his lips and struck a match, hollow footsteps came up the stairs.

As if driven by a ghost, Li Tan darted into the neighboring room and opened the door a crack to look.

The person was of medium build, wearing a heavy overcoat, thick-soled shoes, a hat with a small brim, a wool scarf, and a face mask. The snow must have gotten heavy outside because snow fell from his shoulders as he walked by.

He paused briefly in front of Li Yaqing’s door, then walked in.

Li Tan’s pulse skyrocketed. Over the years, though not a professional, he’d read numerous books on criminology. He remembered a pattern—that some killers, especially those with psychological disorders, will return to the scene of their crimes on the anniversary, to relive their actions and sensations.

He held his breath and followed quietly, trying not to make a sound. His view fell upon a shock of white hair beneath the hat. His age seemed about right.

But the man was more vigilant than Li Tan expected. After a few blocks through the alley, Li Tan lost him. He asked around in the neighborhood. An elderly man making wooden barrels said the stranger had gone from place to place asking questions about Li Yaqing’s family. His accent was not local.

This made Li Tan realize something—the outsider was not meant to stay. There was only a small bus terminal in Luoma Lake. If the stranger was gone, the terminal was the place to wait.

Li Tan withdrew some cash, packed a small bag, and spent the next few days at the bus station. Finally, the man appeared again.

Li Tan followed him on the bus, trying several times to get a view of his face, but the man kept his hat low and mask up. After many exchanges and bus switches, Li Tan’s luck seemed to hold—that is, until Small Shang River in Yinchuan, where the trail went cold.

Mention the Small Shang River, and you have to bring up the Tengger Desert — the fourth-largest in China.

The Tengger lies between Helan Mountain and Yabrai Mountain, at about 1,200 to 1,400 meters above sea level. The landscape isn’t pure sand; it’s dotted with hundreds of lakes that have remained for millennia. The barren, majestic sand merges gracefully with the lakes — a unique scene — and locals naturally settled nearby.

The small Shang River was such a place — a small town, simple in lifestyle, yet bustling in its way.

Li Tan believed the stranger was somewhere nearby. He stayed in a hotel in town and walked around the Small Shang River daily. Here, sandstorms frequently blew in; scarves and masks were a necessity, and many people were of medium height. His target seemed to blend into the sandpile — elusive and hard to find.

After days of searching in vain, Li Tan hadn’t gotten close to him, but he’d gotten to know Small Shang River fairly well.

Most houses there were flat-topped and made of rammed earth — a reflection of scarce stone and frequent sandstorms. There was, however, a fortified courtyard home that stood apart — a rich person’s place in a poor town. Li Tan grew curious and snuck a look. Inside the courtyard was a black Hummer H2.

He saw it once more on the road afterwards. The rear window was slightly lowered, revealing a young woman’s face. She turned her head slightly; her eyes were red, as if filled with a deep sadness.

But everyone has their disappointments in life. Li Tan, with his greying hair, failed career, and years of loneliness, crossed countless miles in search of something—or—someone.

That night, at a small restaurant on the main road, Li Tan drank himself into a stupor. He demanded a pen to draw a portrait; then, all of a sudden, he fell into tears. Near midnight, the restaurant owner forced him outside.

Li Tan staggered forward and fell against a garbage bin on the side of the road.

Footsteps walked past him. Li Tan mumbled and forced his eyes to half-open. From this angle, all he saw were a pair of heavy leather shoes, gloved hands, and — a bundle of fishing line.

Suddenly, a rush of cold swept through him, and Li Tan opened his eyes in shock. The alcohol seemed to evaporate in an instant, replaced by icy fear.

“Fishing line!”

He staggered to his feet and tried to pursue the silhouette in the dark. The small Shang River was different from the city; once night fell, everything fell into deep shadow. Li Tan turned this way and that under dim lamps, then walked into a narrow alley.

There was only a single household with a light on. The rich smell of mutton soup wafted through the crack in the door, overpowering even its gamier notes.

As Li Tan passed, his nostrils flared. There was something else beneath it… the smell of blood.

Heart hammering, toes barely touching the ground, Li Tan peered through a small high window. Inside, a person stood stiffly with an arm raised, as if about to cut something. His silhouette trembled against the wall, a thread-like shadow tying him to another person. It seemed a man was manipulating him by a literal thread — a macabre scene.

Li Tan cried out and kicked in the door.

He’d regret it later; a more careful approach might have been wiser — a phone call to the police first. But in that moment, driven by years of frustration, his mind was blinded by rage.

He wrestled with the man, tying the string; the two fell to the ground in a bloody scuffle. The corpse fell alongside them; the pot of soup tipped over, and dishes fell and broke. The fire from the stove hopped to nearby furniture. At last, Li Tan pressed the monster to the ground, one hand on his neck, the other tearing away his mask.

Then a heavy blow fell upon the back of his head.

Li Tan fell, breath shaky, view blurring. The last thing he saw was a face — growing more and more distant.

When he came to, it was in a dune outside the Small Shang River. The night was still deep, a corner of the Small Shang River glimmering under a raging fire.

Later, he heard that the people in the mutton restaurant hadn’t noticed the stove catching fire and spreading. The fire, fanned by a strong, dry wind, nearly destroyed an entire block. When it was put out, everyone in the restaurant was charred black, barely more than sticks of charcoal.

So…burned to death.

In this world, only Li Tan and the criminal knew strings were tying the people together in that room.

Li Tan stood for a long time in front of the tiny police substation in Small Shang River, unsure, then quietly walked away.

The fire had erased everything — there was no proof, and it seemed all the suspicion might easily fall on him.

But there was something else, a hidden, more bitter consideration — if the man were turned in and convicted under the law, it would be much too lenient a punishment.

Countless nights afterwards, Li Tan would hammer his head in frustration. If only he could remember the face of that accomplice…

Wan Fenghuo suggested trying hypnosis.

“Hypnosis?” Li Tan thought it seemed more like a cinematic trick than a real-world practice. There probably weren’t many psychologists in all of Luoma Lake, much less a trained hypnotist.

But with a sliver of hope — just a one in ten thousand chance — he went to Beijing. Trembling, he entered a dimly furnished, luxuriously understated office filled with leather-bound books in a dozen languages.

The person sitting quietly at the desk — a supposed GPST-IH certified hypnotist — nodded briefly in acknowledgement. “Please, sit.”

When Mu Dai called him, Li Tan was sitting on the steps of the fountain in the square, staring at a pen-and-ink portrait. The people flowed past him — countless faces, countless pairs of eyes.

How many of them were watching him with ill intentions?

Li Tan said, “I came to in a dune outside the Small Shang River. That person must have tossed me there. My wallet was still on me, and my IDs were all there. He must know everything about me already.”

“If he’s a suspect, then we, the ones investigating, must be a threat to him. Cen Chunjiao lied… but there might be a kernel of truth in her story. Could she be bait… a piece meant to draw us in?”

“Mu Dai… be careful.”

In the stillness of the night, Mu Dai raised her glass and drained it in a single gulp.

Originally, she’d meant it this way: If you come, come. Brandish your blade, show me your worst. Let’s see who blinks first.

But after finishing her drink…

Damn it, 13. Did you take me for a fool? Was this whiskey even real?