Chapter 5: The Dead Undercover (2)
As for her message—"There's a ghost from Black Moses inside our house"—I had a rough idea of what it meant too. But during more than half a year in Myanmar, I'd never heard a single thing about this "Black Moses."
Sylvie must have uncovered it, and then she died.
I couldn't help linking those two things, their cause and effect.
So: inside our house, there's a ghost from Black Moses.
Who was the ghost?
That day in Ho Pang, when I placed the call for help to Cang City, I later learned the content of my call was reported directly to H Province's intelligence division—the power circle of Director Lin, Captain Zhang, and their cohort.
Because it involved cross-border rescue, border police couldn't cross the national line. So over the next several hours, they conducted many rounds of negotiation, pulled every possible connection, and ultimately, high-level officials used personal relationships to ask the Sino-Myanmar Commerce Association for help, channeling through layer after layer until Wu Tao agreed to release me.
Too many people were involved in between. Someone had to be the thread connecting Little Golden Port, Northern Myanmar, and Wu Tao—tipping him off, giving him my full background during that single phone call, and compelling him to take a shot at me rather than let me go.
The variable that caused the situation to turn—could that have been Black Moses's ghost, hiding inside the system? They didn't want me coming back, because they couldn't be sure how much I knew.
Might expose their existence.
That shot woke me up—even after escaping Northern Myanmar, I still wasn't safe.
Back in China, I knew too little to navigate—effectively blind and deaf, unable to take a single step. So I gambled, taking a risk.
I bet that Zhou Mi and his partner weren't the ghost.
I won.
The fog lifted just a little.
Then, I deliberately concealed the fact of Sylvie's death. Because as long as I "didn't know" she was dead, I "couldn't possibly know" that she'd mentioned Black Moses—or... the ghost wouldn't lock onto me any further.
At the time, I was still nurturing a fantasy. I hadn't been involved in that much; maybe Black Moses would simply let me go?
But I lacked understanding of how intelligence operatives worked. I hadn't anticipated that the message Sylvie relayed already contained a coded death notification.
That was a step I lost.
Under the abnormal barrage of repeated interrogations, I knew the ghost had locked onto me completely.
At that point, I had no choice but to muddy the waters and hope the ghost had information asymmetry—it had orchestrated Sylvie's elimination, but it didn't know that Sylvie had already told me about Black Moses.
The problem was, with the provincial interrogation team now in play, the ghost might be among them. I couldn't speak the truth, and I was running out of time, running out of cards to play.
At that juncture, being identified as a black bird might actually be a good thing.
So I had to allow the accusation to stick—to swallow the injustice. Because the people who wronged you knew exactly how unjust it was. I needed to make the ghost confidently believe I was nothing more than an unwitting fish caught in the net, powerless to fight back.
It could use me to muddle the truth and cover up the real story of Sylvie's sacrifice.
Life and death hung in the balance. I didn't care if I was a black bird or a white bird. I just wanted to live.
3.
A few days later.
Strapped to the hospital bed again, I was gradually getting used to it. I let my mind wander wherever it pleased, suffering the various aches in silence—shoulder pain, headaches, and now throat pain too.
What a miserable woman I was.
This was the rose-red skirt hem flashing past, Sylvie like a wild rose, mocking me. I laughed tolerantly and decided not to bicker with a short-lived dead ghost.
I could now distinguish hallucinations from reality with great accuracy. They really didn't need to keep tying me up—slashing my own throat with glass was the kind of thing a person wouldn't do twice.
It really hurt, after all.
They must have genuinely taken me for a lunatic.
I didn't know what karmic affliction I had with madness—why could I never be a normal person anywhere? I sighed at the ceiling, lamented for a while, then entertained myself by reminiscing about the days before Shane.
The days of being a free, normal person—finishing classes, working part-time jobs. A bit poor, but enough for tuition and food.
Why had I ever felt unhappy?
People are too greedy for love.
I let my thoughts wander aimlessly for a long time, until the ward door opened softly. Measured footsteps stopped beside me. I strained to turn my head—Captain Zhou, tall and broad-shouldered, gazed down at me like someone observing a small animal, his eyes probing.
I couldn't help but laugh.
Captain Zhou pulled over a chair and sat down. His voice was unexpectedly weary: "What are you laughing at?"
I said slowly and quietly: "Captain Zhou, do me a favor. Untie me, will you?"
I sighed.
"The doctors aren't even human. They've had me trussed up for half the day."
He studied me and said: "Do I look like an idiot? If I untie you and you carve yourself up again, I'll catch hell."
Fair enough. They'd never believe me again.
How do you prove you're not crazy?
I laughed a few more times, softly.
That cut on the throat—it looked terrifying, but it wasn't deep. Just a bit taxing on the voice—talking too much was tiring—so I let myself fall silent.
Captain Zhou sat for a while, I don't know what he was thinking. But eventually, he reached over and unfastened the straps.
My body loosened. I let out a long breath, used my functional right hand to brace against the bed, and sat up.
My right hand was wrapped in bandages over every knuckle—the glass shards had been picked out, and now each finger joint was swathed in gauze.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I tore off the straps securing my legs.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood. I clearly felt Captain Zhou tense beside me—nearly rising, his voice carefully measured: "You—where are you going?"
He frowned again: "Look at all these injuries—where do you think you're going?"
I gave him a glance.
Making an officer look flustered was rather entertaining.
I asked him: "Captain Zhou, what time is it?"
He glanced at his watch and turned his wrist to show me—5:35.
I started walking slowly toward the door and told him: "The hospital hired a caretaker for me, but she has to look after four patients at once. The three upstairs include two high-needs cases. It takes her fifty minutes to get them fed. Then she needs to eat her own fast food, make hot water, and come check on me. Every day I don't eat until 7:30 PM."
I'd talked too much. I paused to catch my breath.
Captain Zhou was listening carefully. I glanced at him again and remembered that the day I called for help from Ho Pang, this same captain had taken the phone—he'd listened just as attentively while I delivered my entire statement.
And then I'd gotten a real rescue.
Captain Zhou thought for a moment and asked: "You mean—want a different caretaker?"
I blinked, shaking my head: "What I mean is, dinner is too late. I'm hungry."
I kept walking slowly toward the door. Nearly at the threshold, Zhou Mi stepped ahead and grabbed the handle.
He didn't say he'd let me out, and didn't say he wouldn't.
I looked up at him.
"Captain Zhou, I don't have a single penny right now. The hospital bills are being covered by the Chinese Commerce Association and the public security bureau together."
I pushed the door with my gauze-wrapped hand.
"I'm already in debt to you for a lot. I heard there's a really good rice noodle place in Cang City. Could you treat me?"
A gentle push, and the door creaked open. I smiled and stepped out.
4.
A hole-in-the-wall joint, ancient wooden table. The owner set down a giant bowl of rice noodles—rich broth, fresh flavors. I buried my face in it, spooning soup until I was drenched in sweat.
Captain Zhou gave me a look that was hard to read, offering napkins and water.
"Slow down. Who's racing you?"
Other diners glanced our way from time to time—they probably also thought a bandaged woman in a hospital gown, arm in a sling, covered in injuries, demolishing a meal was a rare sight.
My skin had grown thick in Myanmar. I didn't care who was watching. I finished the entire bowl, every last scallion, before setting down my chopsticks.
Piping-hot, everyday food has that kind of power. After this one meal, I felt like I had the strength to keep fighting Black Moses and their ilk.
"Want another bowl?"
Captain Zhou was handsome and had neat table manners, but he couldn't stop worrying even while eating.
I nodded enthusiastically: "Three bowls."
As the officer's eyes went wide in shock, I smiled—it was rare for me to be in good spirits—and stopped him from actually ordering three more bowls.
"Kidding," I said.
Captain Zhou finished too, neatly setting down his chopsticks, paying the bill, and offering on the way out: "Don't be shy. As much as you want."
The empty bowls and leftovers were cleared. The owner's wife even wiped the table and brought a pot of tea.
Zhou Mi lit a cigarette.
I ran my fingers around the scalding teacup and asked slowly: "Go ahead. What did you come looking for me about?"
Thanks for the rice noodles—I'll help with whatever I can.
Captain Zhou squinted through a stream of smoke, hesitated, took a few more drags, then crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray.
Oh, this must be difficult.