Chapter 356: Washing the Undercarriage

The stove was cold. At 9:40 on the morning of March 20, Shen Zhixia bent down and slipped under the half-lowered roll-up shutter, pushed it up another foot. The room was still cold.

The dough on the cutting board sat under a damp cloth. The pot on the stove hadn't been lit. Two rough ceramic bowls lay upside down on the stove's edge. A rag hung over the door handle, half stiff. He Xiufen had left in a hurry.

She climbed the stairs. The window upstairs was open, and the wind had lifted one corner of a sheet of paper on the desk. Lu Jibai sat beneath the window writing, his left sleeve rolled up an inch, the edge of the gauze visible at the cuff. On the desk sat a plastic bag: two baozi, and a cup of soy milk placed on her side, the film seal still unbroken.

"Sugar?" She picked up the soy milk.

"The place at the corner didn't have any."

"Then why'd you buy it."

"I bought it, so you'll drink it."

She peeled off the film and took a sip, tore one baozi in half, and held it out to him. He pulled his left hand back slightly. She set the half at the corner of the desk, outside the stack of papers. Not a drop of oil touched the pages.

"What's on today?" she asked.

"Three things, all waiting. Ningchuan still has over a week. The notice for the second pretrial meeting hasn't arrived. And the sample-swap matter—on the eleventh they said the plates were cloned, and nothing since."

"So nothing today."

"Nothing today."

She didn't like days with nothing. When there was work, she could run, and running kept her from thinking. Sitting and waiting let that phrase—"stay off the night roads"—come back on its own, carrying the tone of the voice that said it. She pulled the third paper bag over and counted the three sheets inside again: one page of interview notes, one notice of case filing, one page of outpatient medical records, and at the very bottom, folded up, a signed receipt slip.

"Already counted," he said.

"Counting takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds buys not getting it wrong when I read it back."

"The signature's been checked too."

"Three times."

He said nothing more and went back to numbering the pages of the Qingshi Village stack, one by one. His right hand moved slowly. By the third page, he rested his left arm on the desk for a moment, then moved it off. Outside the window, someone pushed a cart through the alley, the iron wheels grinding over the dark stain in the pavement.

At 3:00 p.m., her phone rang.

"It's done." He Xiufen's voice carried wind in it. "It was windy up the mountain. I wrapped the scarf around her."

"The stone's up?"

"It's up. All four names are chiseled in, his own included. His strokes are shallower than the others—he did them himself with the chisel. Unpracticed hands."

"How is she."

"She didn't cry." A pause from the other end. "She took the ruling out of the cloth bag and read it through. She couldn't make out all the characters, so she asked me line by line. Halfway through she asked: does this mean they can't change it anymore. I said yes. Then she asked: is this paper for my mom to see, or for the court. I said, whoever you read it to, that's who it's for."

Shen Zhixia held her pen still on the paper. She remembered that mediation room, remembered the words "I didn't know what to say that day."

"What happened after."

"When she finished reading, she wanted to press it under the stone slab in front of the grave. I stopped her. Told her to take it home, make a copy, press the copy, keep the original. She asked why. I said: words are meant to be seen. Paper is meant to be kept at home. Your mother couldn't read, but your brother can, and your nephew can too."

"Did she listen?"

"She listened. She folded the original in thirds and put it back in the cloth bag. Said she'd bring a copy next time. When she left, she looked back at the mountain gate and told me she'd come again next Qingming. She asked why you weren't there. I said I was the one who kept you away: you were upstairs, and someone needs to be beside that arm of his." He Xiufen sighed, as if setting something down. "As for me—I've done my part. Carved it into the stone."

"Director He."

"Don't. I don't want to hear it." Something rustled on her end. "How's that arm of his."

"He changed the dressing himself this morning."

"Then don't you do it."

"Why."

"Your hands are heavy, and he won't say so."

Downstairs, someone was dragging something across the floor. Shen Zhixia looked out the window. The dried-fruit shop at the mouth of the alley had its shutter up; the owner was crouched by the door sorting cardboard boxes.

"The car?" He Xiufen asked.

"Not yet."

"Tell me when you find it. I'll fire up the stove at five-thirty. You two come down." She hung up, quick and clean.

"Stone's up." Lu Jibai looked up from below the window.

"You heard."

"She told Kang Wenying to bring a copy next time."

"Director He never leaves paper in someone else's hands."

He nodded and held the pen out to her: "This stack's numbered. You copy the index."

She was on her second page when the phone rang again. The screen showed a station number. She set the phone in the middle of the table and put it on speaker.

"We've found the car," the officer said.

"Where."

"A car wash on the edge of town. Parked in the back row, up against a wall. The plate's cloned—it's from an out-of-town vehicle. The owner is someone else. We're working on it."

"What's inside the car."

"I'll hold off on that for now."

"What did the car wash people say."

"The owner says it came in on the morning of the nineteenth. Asked for an undercarriage wash. Paid cash, then left. The plate had been removed at some point—all four screws are new."

"What did the man look like."

"Owner only remembers he wore a mask. Didn't move fast coming or going."

"What about the driver."

"We're working on it."

She asked everything she needed to, then said thank you. The other end hung up first.

She turned off the speaker, opened to a fresh page in her notebook, and wrote "washing the undercarriage." She circled it. Beside it she noted: March 20, 4:30 p.m., officer's call, car wash owner's account.

"He wasn't washing the dirt off the body," Lu Jibai said.

She looked up.

"The car wash people finish the undercarriage, but they don't go looking at the body." He laid his pen across the paper. "The side mirror scraped against the wall base—that would've left white dust. White dust sticks to the mirror housing. There wouldn't be any on the undercarriage."

"He knew the mirror hit something."

"He knew. That's why he went to wash it afterward. And specifically told them what to wash."

She stared at the words, pressed her finger against the page. "Then when he shouted 'next time I won't brake'—"

"That line was his own addition. The accent, the gesture, the way his voice rose three inches—that was what he wanted to say. As for the car wash trip, all I know is the day and the money. Whether someone sent him, I won't write that down."

"The car wash owner remembers what he said." She spoke slowly. "Remembers him asking for an undercarriage wash, remembers the cash, remembers the morning of the nineteenth. Those three things come right out when you ask."

"He washed away the mud under the car." Lu Jibai capped his pen. "He can't wash away the day."

She lowered her head and wrote line by line: the car wash's account, the day he came, the money paid, the removed plate, the new screws. After each line she noted the source—what the owner said, what the officer relayed. When she finished, she set the pen down and looked at her page: all hearsay. Not a single thing she'd seen with her own eyes.

"That's enough," he said. "Everything in our hands right now is what someone else said. Spoken things can go on paper too, as long as you write down who said them."

"You've told me that before."

"I have, and you still want to go see it yourself every single time."

At 5:30, the stove downstairs was lit. The smell of oil smoke drifted up through the stairwell, carrying scallions and soy sauce.

He Xiufen pushed a bowl of noodles in front of her, set one beside Lu Jibai's hand, and took a third for herself as she sat down. She put a head of garlic in front of Lu Jibai: "Peel it with your right hand."

"Director He."

"Peel. Don't leave your hands idle—idle hands start thinking."

Lu Jibai peeled two cloves and gathered the skins into a small pile. He Xiufen glanced at him, then at Shen Zhixia: "They found the car."

"They did. Cloned plate. A car wash on the edge of town. He took it in on the morning of the nineteenth for an undercarriage wash. Paid cash."

He Xiufen set her chopsticks down, said nothing for a moment. She looked toward the alley. The door was open; the alley had already gone dark.

"They haven't found the man," Shen Zhixia said.

"Then we wait." He Xiufen picked up her chopsticks again. "Waiting is a job too. Don't treat it like empty time."

"I'm afraid of waiting."

"Everyone's afraid of waiting." She lifted a mouthful of noodles. "People who fear it are mostly people who haven't finished their own work cleanly. Go back and check those papers over again, until you can close your eyes and tell me exactly where every page is. Then you won't be afraid."

After the meal, 7:40 p.m. They left the alley from the Zhongshan Road end. He Xiufen stood in the doorway, apron still on, and said: "Take that way."

The dried-fruit shop at the corner had a new bulb above the door. It was bright enough to see the white scrape on the wall base clearly—the patch that had been knocked off the night of March 18, still showing its faint diagonal streaks at the edges.

"You changed it," Shen Zhixia stopped.

"I changed it." The owner stood up from behind the cardboard boxes. "The old one was fifteen watts. Lit up about three steps. This one's thirty."

"How much? I'll pay you."

"Don't." He waved a hand. "Should've changed it long ago."

He pointed at the white patch on the wall: "I ain't patching that wall."

"Why not."

"Patch it up and nobody'll see it." He dragged the box half a step inside. "When you come back at night, come this way. The light stays on till ten—even after I leave, that stretch stays lit."

Shen Zhixia said thank you. It was only after they left the alley that she realized the bag of papers in her hand had been squeezed into a crease. Lu Jibai walked on her right, on the traffic side, half a step slower than usual, staying slightly behind her. She switched the bag to her other hand and said nothing.

March 21, 4:00 p.m., the phone rang.

"We've found the driver," the officer said. "This morning, in a rented room in Chengnan. He's in criminal detention—sent to the detention center this afternoon."

She made a sound of acknowledgment: "He was the one driving?"

"He admitted he was driving the car."

"What else."

"I can't say."

She pushed the phone half an inch toward the middle of the table, angling the speaker toward both of them. Lu Jibai asked: "Was it his own idea?"

A pause on the other end.

"Still asking."

"When will you be able to say."

"We'll say what needs to be said."

After the call, the room was quiet for a while. Downstairs someone was washing vegetables, the water running in fits.

"Why did you ask that," she asked.

"If it was his own idea, the trail ends with him." He spun the fountain pen between his fingers, then stopped it. "If he was doing it for someone else, the person who sent him will be coming here."

"Which do you think it is."

"I don't guess." He capped the pen. "If I guess, I have to write a name in my notebook. And once it's written, every word after has to argue for it."

She looked at him for a long moment, then lowered her head and turned to a new page. She wrote: The driver.

The pen hovered after that. The line stayed blank, blank enough to hold a name.

She didn't write one. She didn't know his name, and she didn't plan to ask—if she asked, that line would become her writing, not the officer's words.

[Thud. The driver has a name. You don't know it, so don't invent one for him.]

[Thud. Leaving a line blank is cheaper than writing the wrong name.]

"Tomorrow morning at eight, I'll go to the station with you," she said.

"What for."

"Ask one question: whether they've found out if it was his own idea."

"If they have, he'll tell us."

"And if they haven't."

"If they haven't," he said, closing the window halfway so the wind stopped at the glass, "then there's someone else behind it."

She closed the notebook and put it back in her bag. Before closing it, she flipped back to look at that page one more time—the blank after that line was still empty. Clean and empty.