Chapter 446: The Car on the Night of the Tenth

At noon, He Xiufen set her cloth bag on the bench and spread it open. An aluminum lunch box, the rice packed down tight; a plastic bag of boiled eggs; a bag of steamed buns, the opening covered with a clean cloth; and an old plastic jug, filled with cooled boiled water.

"Eat." She pressed an egg into Zhi'an's hand. "Mountain roads, you get hungry fast."

The convenience store's fan turned halfway, then stopped. The shopkeeper was still tinkering with the dismantled rice cooker, twisting twice, glancing up at them once, then back down. Behind the counter, a small freezer hummed, then went quiet, then hummed again.

Zhi'an ate two steamed buns in quick succession, fast, then broke off another half and held it in her fist.

She peeled an egg, broke it in half, and nestled the remaining half against the edge of the lunch box. She spread her notebook across her knees and flipped to the July 1st page.

At the top it read: July 1st, 10:20.

Below were that day's notes, written fast, the strokes a little unsteady: A stone block at the door. Door faces east. Third house. A table in the middle of the room, an enamel mug on it. Stove against the east wall. The old man was inside the door, asked who it was first.

A large blank space stretched below that line.

"How should we look this afternoon?" Zhi'an said.

"Door, window, stove." She said. "Check them one by one."

"Check them for what?"

"Check them, and you'll know whether this household is still living here properly." She closed the notebook. "When someone plans to come back, they don't pack everything away neat when they leave."

He Xiufen swallowed her last bite of steamed bun, brushed the crumbs from her hands, stood up, and walked into the convenience store.

She bought a bag of salt. The cheapest kind, in a plastic pouch, the opening tied shut with red string.

"How much?"

"One fifty."

He Xiufen put the salt in the side pocket of the cloth bag and came back to sit on the bench.

"He bought a bag of salt on the morning of the tenth," she said. "Add one for him. When he comes back, the stove'll be hot, the salt'll be new."

At twelve forty, she called the tricycle driver from that morning. She'd gotten his number in the vehicle, written it on her palm, then copied it into her notebook. The driver was at the other end of the market, someone in the background shouting about loading cargo. She said four o'clock, the village entrance, three people, back to town. The driver said fine, I'll be there at four, don't be late, last bus is at four thirty.

"We won't be late," she said.

She set the phone face-down on the bench. The sun had moved past the awning; the bench was starting to get shade. Zhi'an crouched at the edge of the steps, untying and retying her shoelaces.

At 1:50, the phone rang.

The screen showed a string of digits, no name. She recognized the number: it had called once on the night of July 3rd, 8:10 p.m., and she'd called back twice after it rang out. No one answered either time.

She stood up. The bench scraped behind her legs.

"Hello."

"Lawyer Shen."

There was wind on the line, and the sound of passing cars, not close.

"It's me."

"I'm Old Pang's son."

She switched the phone to her other hand.

"How is he?"

"I've taken my dad out for medical treatment. We're staying with relatives out of town. Stop looking for us."

"Which relatives?"

There was a pause. Not long, not short—the kind of pause where the words have already been said and no more will be given.

"Stop looking for us." He said it again.

Then a stretch of soundless sound. The call ended.

"Hello."

She redialed the number. It rang twice, then cut off. She dialed again. A woman's voice: the number you have dialed is powered off.

She lowered the phone from her ear and looked at the screen. The string of digits was still there.

He Xiufen stood beside the bench, still holding the half-peeled egg.

"What did he say?"

"'I've taken my dad out for medical treatment. We're staying with relatives out of town. Stop looking for us.'" She recited it line by line, perfectly flat. "I asked which relatives. He didn't answer, hung up."

"And when you called back?"

"Powered off."

He Xiufen set the egg back in the bag and wiped her hand on her shirt.

"All these years, it's just been the two of them," she said to He Xiufen. "The old lady told us that."

"Mm."

"Medical treatment, leaving at eleven at night." He Xiufen said. "The headlights shone on someone's wall, a white patch."

Zhi'an put the half steamed bun back in the bag, pinched the opening twice, and stood up.

She looked down at her phone. On July 3rd, when his call had come in, she'd called back twice. No answer either time. Today's call—she hadn't recorded a single word.

On July 1st, she'd set her phone on the table and said, in front of the old man, I'm recording. He'd said go ahead, if it's recorded I won't change it; it recorded for forty-two minutes. "Moved" changed to "carried"—he'd said that himself on the spot, and put his thumbprint on the correction.

Today's call, she'd held the phone in her hand. She never touched the record button.

"What do we do now?" Zhi'an said.

"Go up first," she said. "Door, window, stove. Finish checking, then decide."

At two thirty, they walked up from the village entrance, past the old locust tree, down two stone steps, and in along the side wall of the village committee's two-story building.

Behind it lay a narrow strip of open ground, concrete, with a drainage ditch at the edge covered by half a broken cement slab. The sun poured over the roof, bleaching the whole area white. Two old bamboo baskets sat against the base of the wall, bottoms up.

A row of houses ran east to west: the first, the second, the third.

The third house's gate was still shut, that gleam still on the lock. The paper package on the stone block was still there, tied with red string, the paper gone soft in the sun. A thin layer of dust had settled beside it. No fingerprints in the dust.

He Xiufen walked over, took the salt from the cloth bag, set it next to the paper package, and nudged it with her fingers until the two lined up.

"Last time we left something, it got taken in afterward," she said. "This time, leave it. When he comes back, he'll know someone was here."

She stood on the open ground in front of the row of houses and looked up.

On the north wall of the village committee building, tufts of grass grew from the brick joints. A back door at ground level, an iron door, a lock hanging from it with rust on the shackle. Inside the iron door was that pump room, long abandoned—a small window above, the glass filmed with dust, a board nailed over the frame.

Nine years ago, that night, the car with its lights off had stopped outside the back door. Two people carried small buckets from the car into the room, then back out again, about twenty minutes. The sound of tape being ripped—the old man still remembered it after nine years.

On the night of the tenth, the car had driven up to the front row, both headlights blazing against someone's courtyard wall, a white patch, for a long while.

One was afraid of being seen. One wasn't.

"Nine years ago that night, there was also a car," He Xiufen said.

She turned her head. He Xiufen wasn't looking at her; she was looking at the row of houses. Her cloth bag hung from her arm, the strap already sagging.

"It took the road toward town," He Xiufen said. "This time, it took the road toward town too."

Zhi'an walked over to the back door and pushed. The iron door didn't budge; the rust on the shackle had fused into a solid mass. You couldn't tell what year it had been hung. He peered through the gap in the door, saw nothing, and turned back. "Locked."

"Come back," He Xiufen said. "Don't stand under someone else's doorway."

Zhi'an came back and stood beside her. She'd been holding that bottle of water since eleven in the morning, taken two sips; the condensation was long gone from the bottle. Zhi'an took it from her, unscrewed the cap, and handed it back.

She took a sip. The water had been in the sun half the day. It was lukewarm.

She went over the three pages from July 1st in her mind. Three pages, signature, thumbprint, which way the door faced, who spoke first—every word had been drawn out by her, one question at a time. That was paper. What did she have in her hands today: the old woman next door had called out from behind her own door, answered one question, but they couldn't hear clearly through the door; the convenience store owner said Old Pang came that morning to buy salt, and that was all that concerned his business; one phone call, one sentence, not even a name. The court's notice would reach the village in the next couple of days. Someone would have to put pen to the receipt line.

"If he comes back," she said, "and sees those two things, will he open the door?"

He Xiufen hitched the cloth bag's strap higher on her shoulder. "Last time, he didn't ask. This time, no need to ask either."

"What if someone else takes them?"

"If someone takes them, that means someone came." He Xiufen said. "Better than leaving them in the car and taking them home."

She looked at the door again. The red paper from New Year's on the doorframe had faded to a pinkish white; the corners fluttered when the wind passed. The threshold stone was worn down in the middle. No sound from inside, no smoke from the stove.

She opened her notebook, fished the pen from her bag, and held it ready.

"Writing it down?" He Xiufen asked.

"Later, when we're back."

She put the pen away, closed the notebook, and slipped it into the side pocket of her bag.

At three forty, the three of them emerged from the row of houses and walked down the concrete road from the village entrance. The convenience store's door curtain hung still. The shopkeeper sat on the bench, the rice cooker already reassembled, eating from a bowl. He lifted his chin in greeting.

The tricycle arrived at the village entrance at four, the same old cotton pad in the bed. The driver helped them put their bags up, said "hang on," swung the front around, and headed down the slope.

At four twenty they reached town. The market had broken up; vegetable leaves and water lay on the ground. He Xiufen bought three flatbreads by the station, still hot, wrapped in paper. Zhi'an finished one in a few bites, ate half of the second, and tucked the rest into her bag.

At four thirty, the last bus pulled in. Not many passengers: two elderly couples up front, a woman holding a baby in the very back. He Xiufen chose a middle row—Zhi'an by the window, her in the middle, He Xiufen on the aisle.

The bus left town, headed east, climbing slowly. The sun had gone over the mountain; the cornfields on the slope were half light, half dark, the leaf edges all yellow.

She took out her phone and glanced at it. The screen showed the time. No messages at all. She turned it over and set it face-down on her lap.

The sky dimmed; the bus began its descent. The slope was long, the curves many. The driver rode the brake a stretch, then let it go.

Zhi'an leaned against the window, head resting on the glass, bobbing with every bump. Later he rolled up his jacket and cushioned it under his face, asleep. His bag was hugged to his chest; of the two water bottles in the side pocket, one remained—empty, the plastic crushed a little flat.

The paper envelope in her bag was still wedged at the bottom: the photocopies of the three pages of interview notes from July 1st. She pressed her hand against the bag, but didn't take them out.

She spread the notebook on her knees and turned to today's page.

The July 1st entry was below. Two fingers of space above it. That was where she would write: 1:50 p.m., his son called. She would copy that sentence down exactly, word for word; then write the question she'd asked, write that he didn't answer, write that the call ended; write that she'd called back twice, powered off.

Pen in hand, the tip hovering over that line.

The paper was blank.

The bus descended, the rows of corn retreating behind them. Past the Qingshi Ridge curve, the city lay below, its buildings standing in the dusk, lights not yet on.

He Xiufen moved the cloth bag from her knees to the floor and leaned a little closer.

"Wake him when we get there."

She answered.