Chapter 445: A Padlock

At 6:20, the sky was already light enough to make out the steps. The breakfast stall at the mouth of the alley was up earlier than they were; steam from the bamboo steamers climbed the wall, reaching all the way to the windowsill on the second floor. Zhi'an carried her bag, two bottles of water tucked into the side pocket, clacking together as she walked.

She felt for the key in her pocket once before heading downstairs.

The line at Chengxi Bus Station was already long. He Xiufen stood at the end of it, one hand holding two bundles of dried noodles tied with red string, wrapped in paper; the other carrying an old cloth bag. When she saw them coming, she thrust the noodles into Zhi'an's arms. "Hold these. Don't bend them."

"Two bundles." She said. "Is that enough?"

"Enough." He Xiufen said. "He took some once before. If there's someone else in the family, one bundle wouldn't be."

The bus left at 6:50. An old coach, plastic sheeting over the seats, the windows rattling as it moved. He Xiufen sat by the window, resting the cloth bag on her knees, eyes fixed outside; Zhi'an sat beside her, laying the two bundles of noodles across her lap, one hand holding them down.

Out of the city heading west, the buildings grew shorter, the poplars along the road standing trunk to trunk. When the sun broke over the hillside, the plastic sheeting on the window caught the light, glaring so hard it made people squint.

"Ever been up the mountain?" He Xiufen asked.

"No." Zhi'an said.

"When we get there, don't start off asking where he is." He Xiufen shifted the cloth bag on her lap. "Look at the gate first. If it's locked, look at the windows; if the windows are shut, look at whether there's smoke from the stove. If someone's home, the pot's warm."

"What if no one's there?"

"Ask next door." She said. "When you ask, don't say 'Where's Old Pang?' Say 'When do his kids get back?'"

Zhi'an switched the noodles to her other hand. "Sis, when the court notice was mailed to the village, who signed for it?"

"If it's mailed to the village, someone signs." She said. "Only after signing does it move forward. If no one can sign, the court calls."

They reached the town at 9:20. A three-wheeled cart waited at the market entrance, an old cotton pad spread in the bed. The driver, in his forties, heard they were going to Baixi Village, said "Get on," then pointed at the noodles by her feet. "Put that inside. Don't let it get jolted to pieces."

The mountain road wound upward in sections, corn planted on the slopes on both sides, the leaves already yellowing at the edges. The cart crossed a stretch of newly resurfaced road, the concrete underneath still fresh; the wheels rolled over it with a different sound.

At 9:50 they reached the village entrance. The convenience store's door curtain hung limp; inside, an electric fan spun half a turn, stopped, spun half a turn.

They didn't stop, just kept walking up. Past the old locust tree, down two concrete steps, around the village committee's two-story building. Along this back row of houses, the sun had just cleared the rooftop, and the shadow still lay across the courtyard gates.

Third house.

The gate was shut.

Two wooden doors fitted tight together, a crack running from top to bottom between them. A padlock hung from the iron rings on the doorframe—brass, new, no rust on the shackle, a thin sheen of machine oil on the body. The red paper pasted above the lintel for New Year's had faded to pinkish white, its corners curling, fluttering with each gust of wind.

She stood below the stone steps and called out, "Uncle."

No sound from inside.

She called again, a little louder. "Uncle, it's Lawyer Shen."

Behind the back wall, a chicken scratched at the dirt—scratch, pause. A window upstairs in the village committee building wasn't fully latched, and the wind knocked the sash against the frame.

Zhi'an climbed the steps and peered through the crack in the doors. After looking for a while, she said, "It's dark in there. Can't see anything."

She went up too, putting her face close to the crack. The opening wasn't wide, and the room inside was darker than outside; her eyes needed a moment to adjust. The table in the middle of the room was still there, an enamel mug sitting at its corner, mouth up, no glint of water inside. The stove was on the left, the pot upside down, its lid handle sticking out a bit.

The stone stool sat below the steps, round, empty. A layer of dust covered it, the surface even and undisturbed, no marks at all.

He Xiufen took the noodles from Zhi'an, walked to the stone stool, and set the paper bundle down, straightening it.

"Back in June, I left them right here." She said. "When I came again, they'd been taken in."

She reached out and touched the lock. The shackle passed through both iron rings, locked tight. There were characters on the lock body; she leaned closer to read them. A manufacturer's name—she couldn't make it out.

"This lock is new." Zhi'an said.

"New." She said.

The door of the fourth house opened a crack, and an old woman emerged, her hair pinned back, wearing a blue cloth jacket, carrying an aluminum basin. She walked to the base of the wall, set the basin down, and looked over.

"Looking for Old Pang?" she said.

"Yes." He Xiufen turned. "Where's he gone off to?"

The old woman didn't answer right away. She looked the three of them over first—the noodles, Zhi'an's bag, then her face.

"Where are you folks from?"

"From the city." He Xiufen said. "I came twice in June, once in July. This is my sister's daughter, surname Shen, a lawyer."

"Lawyer Shen." The old woman repeated it quietly. "He mentioned it once. Said a lawyer named Shen from the city came looking for him."

She took a step forward. "Where is he?"

The old woman wiped her hands on her jacket and glanced at the gate.

"Gone."

"What day did he leave?"

"The night of the tenth." The old woman said. "Past eleven, I'd say. I got up to use the toilet. The light in their yard wasn't on—I just heard a car at the gate."

"The car drove all the way up here?"

"Drove all the way up. The headlights hit my wall, white for a good while." She raised a hand to gesture at her own courtyard wall. "I was standing behind the door. Didn't dare go out."

"How many people got out?"

"One driver got out, but didn't come over." The old woman said. "It was his son who helped him out of the house. The old man couldn't walk on his own. Lifting his leg over the threshold—he couldn't manage it. His son had to carry him through."

"Did they bring anything?"

"They did. A bag, bulging. His son carried it in one hand, and with the other supported him." The old woman thought for a moment. "The bag was blue or gray—I can't remember clearly."

"Which way did they go?"

"Toward the road to town." The old woman said. "The car backed out, turned around, and headed down. It went slow, no honking."

"What kind of car?"

The old woman shook her head. "It was pitch dark at night; couldn't tell. All I saw were the headlights, and the wall lit up."

"Big or small?"

"Small." The old woman said. "When the door opened, a person could reach the ground from inside."

She arranged the details in her mind: the night of the tenth, past eleven, a small car stopped at the gate, its front facing the courtyard. It backed out, turned around, and headed toward the road to town.

"When he left, did he say anything to you?"

"I called out from behind the door," the old woman said. "Asked where they were going. Someone answered, but through the door I couldn't make it out. Then the car was gone."

"Has his son been back?"

"Never came back. The gate's been locked like this."

"Who put the lock on?"

The old woman looked at the lock again. "I don't know about that. He never locks it when he goes out—just bolts the door from inside. I came over the next morning, and the gate was already locked."

He Xiufen stood by the stone stool, her hand still resting on the paper bundle of noodles. "Who else is in his family?"

"Just the one son. The son works at the plant." The old woman said. "All these years, it's just been the two of them."

"How's his health?"

"Earlier this year he had a bad coughing spell, got through it on his own, never went to the hospital." The old woman said. "Nobody in this village goes to the hospital."

She thanked her. The old woman picked up the aluminum basin, took two steps, then turned back.

"If you find him," she said, "tell him I've been watering the two scallions in his yard."

At 10:40 they emerged from the row of houses. The sun had settled onto the back wall, the shadows between the bricks shrinking row by row. She walked a few steps, stopped, and looked back at the gate—at the lock gleaming in the sun, a small bright point.

"The lock was fastened from outside." Zhi'an said.

"Mm."

"When he left, no one was left inside. The last person out pulled the gate shut and locked it from the outside." Zhi'an said. "They weren't planning to come back that day."

He Xiufen said nothing, walking slowly, her grip tight on the cloth bag's strap.

At 11:00, the convenience store at the village entrance. She went in first and bought three bottles of water. The shopkeeper, a man in his fifties, sat on a low stool beside the freezer, a disassembled rice cooker spread across his knees, screwing it back together. An old fan on the counter spun half a turn, stopped, spun half a turn.

"How much?" She placed the water on the counter.

"Four fifty."

She paid, but didn't hurry off.

"Boss, that Old Pang at the third house—has he been in to buy anything these past few days?"

The shopkeeper switched the screwdriver to his other hand and looked up. "Old Pang? Where's he gone?"

"That's what we came to ask."

"He didn't say anything about leaving." The shopkeeper said. "He came in a few days ago to buy salt. Just the once."

"What day?"

The shopkeeper thought. "The tenth. In the morning. It was hot that day—I'd moved the fan out."

"What did he say when he bought the salt?"

"Didn't say much. He wanted a bag of salt, the cheapest kind." The shopkeeper said. "He counted out his change, one note at a time, real slow. I told him, Old Pang, just give me a ten and I'll make change. But no—he had to count it all out bill by bill."

"Has he ever mentioned going away, or seeing a doctor?"

"No." The shopkeeper said. "That man couldn't say three sentences in a day. He bought his things and left, but on his way out he told me half a sentence."

"What did he say?"

"Said the weather was about to turn." The shopkeeper flipped the rice cooker over. "It never did rain that day."

She put the water into her bag—two bottles for Zhi'an, one for herself.

"The plant where his son works—it's up there?" she asked.

"Up there." The shopkeeper said. "That factory area. From the village entrance, look east—past two ridges."

"Has anyone from the plant come down asking about him these past few days?"

"About what?" The shopkeeper said. "I mind my own business."

She thanked him. When she came out, He Xiufen was already sitting on the wooden bench by the door, the cloth bag at her feet.

"Learn anything?" He Xiufen asked.

"Bought salt on the morning of the tenth." She said. "Didn't mention going anywhere."

He Xiufen nodded once, but didn't follow up. She sat for a while before speaking. "The day I left the noodles for him in June, he didn't even open the door. I set them down and left. Next time I came, they'd been taken in."

"He's lived alone all these years." She said.

"Living alone, and still won't take anything for free." He Xiufen said.

Zhi'an stood by the door drinking water, the cap twisted off and held in her hand, saying nothing.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, scrolling to that number from the night of July third. She hadn't deleted it, hadn't saved a name—just a string of digits, followed by a small line of text: Yesterday, 19:50, not answered.

She let her finger hover over the screen for a moment, then typed.

"I'm Lawyer Shen. Just one question—is the old man all right?"

She read it over, then pressed send.

Below the message, a new line appeared: Sent.

She turned the phone over, resting it on her knee. After a while, she turned it back.

11:20. 11:40. Twelve o'clock. The convenience store's fan still spun half a turn, stopped. Over by the village committee, someone was calling their child in for lunch, shouting three times; the child answered once and ran off from behind the wall.

He Xiufen stood, taking the cloth bag in hand. "It's noon. Let's get something to eat first. After lunch, we'll go over those two things again."

"Which two?"

"His gate, his windows, his stove." He Xiufen said. "The note in your book—the gate as of July first—whether it matches the way his place looks now."

Her phone lay dark on her knee.