‘What the hell’s ma zhai?’ Margaret said, and she had to make a fast steering correction to avoid crossing lanes. For a split second she almost lost control of the Bronco. ‘Jesus!’ Heart pounding, she glanced in the mirror and saw that the car behind had gone. And then almost immediately she was aware of it sitting level with them, at her side. A white Chevy. She flicked the passenger a quick glance. Another Chinese. But this one wasn’t smiling. He drew a finger from left to right across his throat. Now Margaret shared Xiao Ling’s fear. She clutched the wheel tightly. This was ridiculous. They were in the middle of a freeway driving at fifty miles an hour into the fourth largest city in America. What could these people possibly do to them? What did they want to do to them? And why? Xiao Ling seemed to know who they were, but Margaret wasn’t going to get any sense out of her. As long as they didn’t stop, she figured, they would be safe.
They covered the next mile flanked by the two cars, Xiao Ling whimpering in the passenger seat, frightened to look left or right. Finally, Margaret could stand it no longer. ‘What the hell do these people want?’ she shouted at no one in particular, and jammed on her brakes. She heard a squeal of tyres behind her, followed by the piercing blast of a horn. The Chevy and the Lincoln shot several car lengths ahead of them, and Margaret swung the Bronco violently across two lanes. More horns sounded as she squeezed into the exit lane, just in time to get on to the slip road that took them down on to the four-lane highway that ran parallel to the freeway.
Breathing hard, Margaret took them into the inside lane and slowed down to a sedate forty miles an hour. She checked both mirrors, and glanced over to the traffic speeding past on the 45. There was no sign, through the spray, of either of the cars whose presence had been so intimidating on the interstate. Margaret glanced over at Xiao Ling and saw that she had relaxed a little, and she let a tiny jet of air escape through her pursed lips in relief.
They continued parallel to the freeway for several more miles, through junctions and under flyovers. Eventually, when there was still no sign of the Lincoln and the Chevy, Margaret began to relax, too. As they approached the next junction, she indicated left and pulled across to the exit lane that would take them back on to the interstate, and they picked up speed again, the cluster of glass tower blocks that was downtown Houston appearing now on the horizon. The sky overhead was so swollen and bruised, it had almost turned day into night. The headlamps of the traffic reflected off the wet surface of the road. Forked lightning lit the blue-black void beyond the skyscrapers. Fifteen minutes later, the road took them around the centre of the city, past Sam Houston Park and down to a huge intersection where they turned off on to the 59 and then the 288. Shortly after, they left the freeway altogether and drifted down on to North MacGregor Boulevard, overhung by the dripping trees of Hermann Park. They curved gently through lush, manicured lawns on to Braeswood and the stop lights at Holcombe. Rain drummed on the roof of the Bronco.
Margaret glanced at the car in the outside lane, and felt fear like a blade pass through her. It was the white Chevy, and the Chinese who had made the slash-throat gesture with his finger. She looked in her rear-view mirror and saw the green Lincoln on her tail. It flashed its lights, just to let her know it was there. Xiao Ling had not seen them yet. Margaret looked up at the traffic lights overhead. They were still at red. And then back at the Chevy. The passenger opened the left-hand side of his jacket and started drawing what looked like a gun out of a holster. Margaret jammed her foot on the accelerator, and the Bronco lurched forward, snaking through the red light, wheels spinning in the wet. Xiao Ling let out a yelp of surprise and clutched the edges of her seat. Horns blared as cars crossing the intersection swerved to avoid her. She heard more squealing tyres, all the time expecting someone either to hit her, or for a bullet to come crashing through the window. She cleared the lights and accelerated down Braeswood, looking in her mirror to see if anything had followed them, and when she saw that the road was empty, allowed herself to draw breath. Xiao Ling looked terrified.
‘Ma zhai,’ Margaret said, still with no idea what it meant. But Xiao Ling nodded.
Margaret took a left into William C. Harvin Boulevard. Flanked by trees and puddles in sprawling parking lots, she felt the almost overwhelming relief of getting on to home territory. At the end of the boulevard, in the middle of the road opposite the entrance to the Joseph A. Jachimczyk Forensic Center, she saw the glass security booth with the silhouettes of two armed officers inside it. She rounded it, cutting left across the central reservation and into the car park on the south side of her office building. There was a space there reserved for the chief medical examiner. She drove into it and cut the engine. For a moment she just sat there, and then leaned forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel. Her legs and hands were trembling. Xiao Ling was looking at her in a state of high anxiety. She had no idea that they were safe here. Margaret exhaled slowly, and then took a long, deep breath and sat up. As she opened the door and stepped out on to the wet tarmac, she saw the Lincoln and the Chevy pull up on the other side of the boulevard.
‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered, almost frozen to the spot by fear as the car doors opened, and four young Chinese in dark suits stepped out on to the road. She flicked a glance at Xiao Ling who had climbed out of the car and stood on the far side of the Bronco looking at them, a creature immobilised by fear, capable neither of action nor reaction. Her hair was streaked down her face by the rain, her dress soaked already and clinging to her slight frame.
The security guards in their glass booth were engaged in some private conversation involving much laughter. They were oblivious to what was going on outside.
The four Chinese simply stood there in the rain, their car doors wide open, looking across at Margaret and Xiao Ling. They gave no indication of wanting to do anything other than stare, and something in Margaret finally snapped.
‘What the hell do you want?’ she screamed through the rain. And she started across the car park toward them. Her first few hesitant steps turned into a brisk walk and then, as all four Chinese turned and got back into their cars, a positive run. Doors slammed shut as she sprinted through the downpour, and even as she made it to the boulevard the Lincoln pulled away from the far side, followed by the Chevy, and they headed off at speed toward the junction with Old Spanish Trail.
Margaret stood, dripping, on the sidewalk, tears of rage and fear streaming down her face. She felt almost as if she had been violated by their silent intimidation and frustrated by her inability to confront them. She knew what she had done was crazy. What if they had simply pulled out guns and shot her? And yet, she also knew that if you didn’t confront your fears then they could crush you.
‘You alright, ma’am?’ It was one of the security guards calling over from the shelter of his booth.
‘No thanks to you,’ she shouted, and turned and strode back to where Xiao Ling stood waiting for her, marvelling either at her bravery or her stupidity.
Chapter Nine
I
Giant windows threw long arches of light across the marble floor. White pillars rose high into a vaulted ceiling lined with guastavino tile. Where once the smoke and steam and shrill whistle of freight and passenger trains had filled its vastness, only three solitary sets of footsteps now echoed across the concourse of what had been the elegant Union Station. The tracks beyond the terminal were long gone, replaced by a diamond of grass, the rumble of wheel on rail supplanted by the thwack of leather on wood and the roar of forty thousand baseball fans. Designed by the firm that built the Grand Central Station in New York City, and with a one-time reputation as the finest station in the South, this monument to the heyday of the American railroad was now home to the Houston Astros. Minute Maid Park.