The Westminster police wouldn’t give him Minh’s home number. After pleading with the watch commander, Frye left his own, then hung up and waited on a callback.
It took less than a minute. Minh was calling from Eddie Vo’s house.
“Detective, I know you’d rather see me in jail than talk to me on the phone, but I know where they took Li. And I know where Eddie Vo went after I let him get away.”
“Tell me where, exactly.”
“I can’t. It might take some finding. But I’ll take you there if I can. You game?”
“Yes, I’m game.”
“Meet me at the Dream Reader’s in twenty minutes.”
He rang off, dialed the prefix to Bennett’s number, then hesitated. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m right and it doesn’t amount to jack? Okay, brother, I’ll stay out of your head. I’ll do it your way.
He locked up and walked outside to the Cyclone, tapping the flashlight against his leg.
Chapter 18
Little Saigon was deserted until he came to St. Bartholomew’s Church, where cars were still jamming into the overfilled parking lot. Caught in the stalled lane of traffic, Frye could see through the open parish doors hundreds of Vietnamese packed into the small church, more in the vestibule, more trailing across the lawn from the lot. The marquee said MIDNIGHT MASS FOR TUY XUAN — MONSIGNOR DINH HO HANH. There were two cop cars parked in front, an NBC News van, a station wagon from KOCE TV in Huntington Beach. A photog that Frye recognized as a Times staffer stood near the church steps, composing a shot of parents and two tiny boys in suits. The strobe raked them; the photographer waved them inside.
Another block down Bolsa he turned left under the archway of Saigon Plaza and passed the two snarling lions guarding the entrance. Both were plastered with posters of Li’s face — announcements of a CFV “Freedom Rally” set for Friday. He slowed, pulled one off, and put it on his seat.
The parking lot was almost empty. A few small sedans were huddled near the noodle shop. The owner of Ban Le Cafe hosed off the walkway in front, where the outdoor tables were pushed against the wall and stacked with chairs. Frye parked in front of Siêu Thi Mỹ-Hoa Supermarket. The lights were still bright, and a few shoppers came and went.
Frye got the flashlight, stuffed it in his belt, pulled his shirt down, and locked up the Cyclone. He could feel the sticky sweat on his back and smell the high, thin stink of fear on his body
Minh was waiting for him.
The Dream Reader’s light still glowed over the sidewalk in a purple-pink wash. He pushed on the door but it was locked. Inside it was dark. He cupped his hands, looked through the glass and saw the wide old woman making her way toward him. She opened the door and regarded him with a suspicious, tired expression. “Bad visions?” she asked.
“Uncertain visions,” he said.
She looked at Minh. “I am not open for business.”
“You are now.” Frye pushed past her and into the front room. The smell of incense hit him. Minh and the Dream Reader conversed in Vietnamese while Frye scanned the carpet. She took her seat and opened her box.
“Fifty dollar.”
Frye counted out the money and handed it to her.
“Tell me of your dream.”
“Mind if I walk while I talk? I’m nervous.”
She eyed him, then Minh, who was standing against the wall with his arms crossed. She nodded.
“I have this dream over and over that I’m in a small dark place and I can’t get out. I wake up sweating, and my heart’s ready to blow up.”
“Small dark places frighten us all.”
Frye continued to walk the room, testing the floor for consistency, sound feel. I know it’s here somewhere, he thought. “Sometimes I dream I’m in the ocean.”
“The ocean can be a dark place when you’re under the water.”
“Exactly.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“I see helplessness in your dream. You are dreaming of death.”
How true, thought Frye. He tapped the floor with his foot.
“What are you doing?”
Minh spoke sharply to her, then to Frye. “What in hell are you doing?”
“Lighten up. I could have called the FBI. You’ll see.”
The Dream Reader fidgeted on her chair. “Have you lost a loved one to death?”
Frye looked at her. A chill rippled up his back. He felt the Dream Reader, sucking out his thoughts. “My sister.”
“In the water?”
“Yes.”
“You relive her death. You wish to join her.”
He stopped, knelt down and rapped his knuckles on the floor. Nothing.
Where?
Frye moved to the wall, feeling along with his hands now, tapping, listening. He had covered every foot. Every foot of floor except...
He stood over the woman. She looked up at him with contempt. Her thick hands were folded on the table, her huge bosom tight within the ao dai.
“You may leave now,” she said.
“Get up, please.”
“I stay.”
“Up, doll.”
She sat back and glared at him.
He stepped around her, took the back of her chair and towed it away with her in it. She grasped the arms like a frightened airline passenger and cursed him in Vietnamese. Then he pushed the table aside and ran his hands over the carpet. Nothing but a scrap of string.
A loop.
He slid his flashlight through it and pulled.
The trapdoor rose. It was roughly square, the same size as the Dream Reader’s table. The smell of earth wafted up. Minh jumped to his side. When Frye shined his light down he could see the rounded sides of the tunnel and a ladder made of rope. “I knew I’d get my fifty-bucks’ worth,” he said.
She stared at him, still and silent.
Minh smiled. “I’ve heard rumors of a tunnel, but no one could ever find an entrance. This is quite impressive, Chuck.”
“That was the truth I was telling, about small, dark places, Detective. If I start to freak, I’m coming up.”
“You’ve got the light. You first.”
Frye considered the Dream Reader. “What about her?”
Minh snapped something at the woman. She talked rapidly until he cut her off. “She says she’d have told me sooner, but she was afraid of the gangs. She’ll stay right where she is,” said Minh.
Frye shoved the flashlight into his belt, then lowered himself down one rung at a time — nine in all — until he found himself stooping in a small earthen room. It was cool and damp, and the ceiling was too low for his head. His first instinct was to scramble back up and get the hell out of this place. He breathed deeply — a loamy, ancient smell, like the cave-house’s, but stronger — and tried to slow his galloping heart. Above him the round shaft of light diminished, and he could see the Dream Reader’s thick face gazing down before she shut the door. It was totally black inside. He held a hand in front of his face and saw nothing.
He could hear Minh breathing beside him.
Using the flashlight now, he saw that two tunnels led off in opposite directions, right toward Bolsa and left toward the inner part of Saigon Plaza. He looked at Minh, who shook his head. He went left.
The tunnel went straight for nearly fifty feet, then bent to the right. It was impossible to judge, but Frye had the feeling that he was moving deeper. With the walls close around him, he could feel the first quivers of panic spreading up his back, that feeling of being trapped, of never getting out, of losing direction. He stopped, turned off the light, and closed his eyes. Breathe deeply. Control.