14
Keppel Shipyard / Lian Shan Shuang Lin Monastery
August 28, 2:00 a.m. SGT
The sensation of falling was a rush of terror and freedom, lit only by the green afterimage from the dazzle gun.
I arched my back to keep from rolling forward and, when I judged the water was near, straightened and pulled in my arms.
I struck the depths and plunged into the bathwater-warm blackness as the bay’s brackish water swallowed me with violent force. Immediately I spread my arms and legs to slow my descent, then let buoyancy pop me back to the surface.
Green rings pulsed in my stunned field of vision. Another burst of green light flared overhead. I dived and groped my way toward Red Dragon ’s hull, then pulled to the right, still underwater, heading for the next quay and a place where I could haul myself out of the bay and run for cover.
Once clear of Red Dragon , I surfaced for air. I strained my ears for sounds of movement on the boat, but the slosh of water against the hull—generated by my own dive—drowned out everything else.
There were no more laser bursts.
I paddled and blinked in the dark water, relieved when the blinding green rings began to fade. After a few minutes, as the afterimages continued to dim, I dived again. When I next surfaced for air, I could see that a smaller yacht, 120 feet or so, occupied Number 3 Quay next to Red Dragon . It looked quaint beside the superyacht. I dived a final time and swam to the smaller yacht. Hoping the boat’s alarm system didn’t blare out news of my presence, I hauled myself up onto the dive platform and ran along the length of the yacht to the gangway.
I’d lost my slippers in the dive. With a murmured apology, I helped myself to a pair of deck shoes and ran down the passerelle to shore. Without pausing, I darted to the nearest set of buildings. A peek through a lighted window revealed a hull-fabrication area.
I crouched and waited for my furious heartbeat to slow enough to allow sounds to trickle in.
Crickets. The buzz of nearby security lights. A huff of wind in the still-oppressive heat.
I pushed my wet hair from my eyes and peered around the corner. I made out Red Dragon on the far side of the nearer yacht. From my vantage Red Dragon appeared dark and empty, brooding, suddenly sinister.
I ducked back down and did a quick self-survey: I had a sore jaw, a painful back, and a headache from hitting the water. I still had my waterproof pouch with my room key and passport. My half of Cassandra’s yin-and-yang necklace was still tucked inside my sports bra. The hotel flashlight had fallen out of my pocket and would be at the bottom of the bay.
I hurt. But I was in one piece. At least so far.
I pulled up my mental map of the shipyard and plotted a course back to the gate that would leave me hidden from view for most of the time.
I ran.
When I arrived at the security guard’s booth, he took in my wet hair and sopping clothes.
“Get lost?” he asked wryly.
I was still breathing heavily. I gripped my side where a painful stitch had formed. I should never have given up my morning runs. Or the push-ups, crunches, lunges, and everything else that had once been part of my daily routine.
“Took a wrong turn,” I said. “Short pier.”
He chewed his lip for a moment. Settled on, “I suppose my Maglite is gone.”
“It’s on Red Dragon . I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”
“I see.”
I tugged back my wet hair. “I was supposed to meet Emily Tan on the boat, but she didn’t show. Did she come in?”
A slow nod. “She and her security guy. Forty minutes or so after you did. They’re still in the yard. Want me to call them?”
“Did you tell them I was here?”
He scratched a grizzled jaw. “I don’t remember saying anything. They didn’t ask.”
So how had they known that I was on Red Dragon ? The location finder on my phone would indicate I was still at the hotel. Had Dai Shujun been watching for me at Raffles, then followed me here and called Emily?
“Then I’d rather they didn’t hear about my little accident,” I said. “It’s embarrassing.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “To be honest, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention that you saw me tonight.”
“Saving face?”
“Trying to.”
Another nod. “I’d rather they not know about it, either. Me letting a young woman roam around the yard by herself, and she didn’t even bring a flashlight. I’ve got my own face to think about.”
His words were hard, but he grinned at me. I grinned back, although God alone knew how I managed to summon the energy.
“I’ll bring a flashlight next time,” I said.
“And pack a dry suit.”
He winked.
I winked back.
“Want me to call you a taxi?” he asked.
“Please.”
While I waited, steam rising off my clothes, one thought claimed my mind.
These men Emily spoke of had killed my sister. Whether they’d pushed her or she’d jumped, they’d killed her.
After an hour of nightmare-shattered sleep, during which Emily shouted for me to run, I rose—grateful to be alive—at 4:30 a.m. for my meeting with Inspector Lee. Other than a bruise along my jaw, I’d survived my plunge into the bay intact.
I made coffee and downed a protein bar, dressed in casual clothes and my second pair of sneakers, then crept along the hotel’s groomed grounds, watching for Dai Shujun or one of his comrades. Spotting only hotel staff, I headed for the metro, my eyes scanning the quiet world around me as I zigged and zagged and periodically changed directions. A few early-morning joggers appeared out of the dark and fell away without giving me a second glance. The neighborhood of Raffles still slept.
When I reached the City Hall MRT station, it was empty save for a pair of security guards, who nodded at the tourist seemingly eager to start her day.
I purchased an EZ-Link card at an automated kiosk, walked across a floor so immaculate it gleamed, and followed the bright-white arrows and well-marked signs to the escalators and the belowground platform for the North–South Line. One thing I had to give the Singapore government credit for—they had cleanliness and signage down like no other place I’d been.
A young Chinese woman dressed in a white lace blouse and jeans waited for the train along with her infant, who was snugged comfortably in a stroller. I offered a smile while we waited behind the taped lines; her return smile was subdued. The baby cooed. When we boarded, there was no one else in our car or in the cars on either side. A sign on the wall warned against smoking, eating, or drinking on the train and listed fines and jail time.
One sign briefly lifted my spirits. No durians—the beloved and uniquely stinky fruit of Singapore—were allowed. The sign suggested no fines or jail time. Maybe the transit police merely threw you—and your smelly durians—off the train.
Safe for the moment, I relaxed into my seat and contemplated the day.
First was this morning’s 7:00 a.m. meeting with Inspector Lee. I couldn’t imagine what he intended to tell me. But a Buddhist monastery seemed as safe a place to meet as almost anywhere.
Afterward, I would go to Cassandra’s condo at Ardmore Park in Tanglin to learn what I could about the stranger my sister had become and to hunt for any evidence of the pressures Emily claimed Cass had been under.
In the afternoon I’d go into the office and work with our build supervisor and Andrew Declough to get Red Dragon back on track now that Connor McGrath’s security upgrades weren’t delaying us.
Of course, my plan for the day depended, in part, on what Inspector Lee wanted to tell me. And what I’d do with that information.
Do not trust anyone.
I stared down at my sneakered feet. It was hard admitting to myself that all I wanted was to take Cass back to Seattle and stay there forever. I knew what she would do for me: She would fight against every lie. She would fight to give me voice.
She wouldn’t stop until she’d uncovered the truth.
I touched the yin-and-yang necklace beneath my shirt.
I had neither Cass’s courage nor—perhaps—her desperation.
The predawn sky had been clear when I entered the City Hall station. When I emerged from the station at Toa Payoh, clouds had moved in, and the dawning day had turned close and muggy. The scent of approaching rain rode the air.
It was a twenty-minute walk to the monastery. Taking a bus would have shaved the time down to a handful of minutes. But I wanted to get a sense of the area and approach the temple grounds undetected.
I turned right into a residential area lined with apartment buildings.
Toa Payoh, like every other part of Singapore I’d been to, was clean and well kept. The pig and poultry farms that—according to my online research—had once surrounded the monastery had long ago been replaced by bright-blue public housing apartments and postage-stamp squares of grass boasting exercise equipment and playgrounds. Small signs advertised classes in English. I passed a few closed American restaurants—McDonald’s, KFC, Starbucks.
A cluster of trees amid the asphalt and high-rise condos suggested the monastery was nearby. I slowed. Lights shone in a few of the flats, but the neighborhood was otherwise quiet. A single car dawdled past.
A few minutes later, I stood across the street from the Lian Shan Shuang Lin Monastery.
The vast temple grounds—partially visible from the road—were walled and dark. What I could glimpse through the gate looked like something from Mulan or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon . A sea of red-roofed Buddhist temples with a courtyard that stretched beyond the gate. Elegantly trimmed bushes marched along the paved entryway, and immense white pillars held up a blue-and-clay-red arch bedecked with Chinese characters in gold. Eight stone lions guarded the entrance. On the far side of the monastery rose a many-storied pagoda. Its elegant carvings and gold chatra —the spire at the top—were incongruous against the backdrop of a high-rise apartment building.
A young woman pushing a stroller walked past the monastery’s driveway. I gave her a sharp glance, but she wore different clothes from the woman on the metro and pushed a different kind of stroller.
I’m getting paranoid.
To which Cassandra responded in my mind: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
I checked the time—6:50 a.m. The gate remained closed. The monastery’s small parking lot was empty.
At 6:58, I crossed the street and approached the pedestrian entrance.
A robed monk appeared, his head shaved, his saffron garment neatly draped around his slim form, one shoulder left bare. I expected him to tell me that I would have to come back at eight, but instead he smiled and unlocked the gate. He opened it just enough for me to slip through, then closed and locked it behind me.
“I’m here to meet Inspector Lee,” I said.
He beckoned for me to follow.
We walked through a second gate, past a jade-green pool where stone dragons spouted water, then across an intricately mosaiced courtyard and through a third gate. The monk moved like a ghost in front of me, his bare feet making no sound. The lowering clouds and heavily leafed trees obscured the surrounding city.
A mystical quiet lay upon the temple complex. I felt I’d gone back centuries in time.
I followed the monk up a set of stone stairs; he let me linger long enough to read the sign and realize we stood at the monastery’s main entrance, the Mountain Gate. Buddhist guardians—including the giant Four Indestructible Warriors—gazed down on us from the painted doors, their bearded faces fierce, their heavy armor intricately patterned.
The monk gestured for me to remove my shoes. I stepped over the raised threshold and followed him inside, where a gold Buddha sat atop an altar. On either side were other gold statues—deities, I assumed. Or assistants of the Buddha.
The air smelled of burning joss sticks and the offerings of ripe oranges and melons that filled the copper bowls. From somewhere music played, a low chanting.
The monk smiled at me again and held up a hand, indicating I should wait. Then he bowed and left. I stood in front of the altar and looked at the low, padded stool where worshippers would kneel before the Buddha. The vinyl covering was cracked and peeling, testimony to the weight of many prayers. A part of me wanted to kneel as well, to beg Buddha—since I was in his temple—to help me understand what had happened to my sister.
I took a step closer to the altar.
The chanting stopped, and a hush grew until it was a held breath.
A voice shattered the stillness.
“Welcome to the Lian Shan Shuang Lin Monastery,” said a man from behind me.
I turned, expecting Inspector Lee. But it was the man from the morgue. The man whom Emily had warned me against at the hawker center.
Charlie Han.
I took a step back, stumbling against the worship stool.
Han moved into the temple. The reflection of dozens of lit candles danced in the glass of his wire spectacles. He tapped his umbrella against the open palm of his hand.
“I am glad you came, Miss Brenner. We have much to discuss.”