“You need to fill me in on these things, okay?”
“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
“That line doesn’t apply to teenage girls.”
A tiny smile. “Come on.” She started down the hallway. “You have guests to entertain.”
Brad arrived at the small country gas station on the isolated road that skirted along the edge of the Quantico Marine Corps Base.
He parked the car.
Astrid had wanted an unforgettable climax to this crime spree, and so he’d suggested leaving the FBI a little surprise in their own backyard. She’d seemed pleased by the idea, and considering where he’d left the laptop, this gas station was in the perfect location.
There were no other cars on the road, none at the gas station.
Seclusion was another reason he and Astrid had chosen this place.
He turned his attention to the man behind the counter in the gas station-Hispanic, mid-twenties, bored, alternating between texting and talking on his cell phone.
Then Brad organized his things and prepared the needle.
69
By consensus the four of us agreed not to talk about dead bodies or blood or, as Tessa put it, “anything even remotely gross,” and the conversation wandered through the topics of where we’d each lived, our hobbies, and embarrassing stories from high school.
Safe territory.
The places you go when you need to set the dark things aside. However, the more we spoke, the more the three of them seemed to jump from topic to topic without any discernible links between the subject matter. I was caught constantly playing catch-up while none of them seemed to have any trouble at all following the conversation. I finally commented that women do this all the time but that guys can’t keep track of where the discussion is going because the thinking isn’t linear.
The three women stared at me.
“Chauvinist,” Tessa said, not completely seriously.
“No. I’m not. You know that. I’m just saying-”
“It’s okay, Pat,” Cheyenne said. “I’m glad you’re aware there’s a difference between men and women.”
Actually, I’m aware of several of them…
“Yes, exactly,” I said. “That’s my point.”
“And you’re right. We are different-physiologically, chemically, hormonally, psychologically, emotionally. The way we think, prioritize, remember, construct knowledge, and process information-all different.”
Good. A way to salvage things.
“There you go,” I said. “Men and women think differently. Men are more logical, women are more-”
Lien-hua raised an eyebrow. “Careful, now.”
Tessa signaled her agreement. “I second that.”
“I’m just saying-” By the looks on their faces I decided I’d better try a different tack. “However, you do know that some feminists might argue that masculine and feminine roles are simply social constructs and not physiological traits.”
“Then they’re ignoring the research.” Cheyenne shook her head. “But that’s no surprise. In one of the tragic ironies of the twentieth century, feminists never fought for women to become more feminine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Instead of celebrating what it means to be a woman, to be feminine, to be an empowered female, they fought for women to act and be treated more like men. That’s why I call them masculinists.”
“You call feminists masculinists?” I said.
“That’s right.”
She must have noticed the surprise on all of our faces because she went on to elaborate, “Yes. Masculinists. Because in their fight for more rights, they ended up devaluing what it means to be a woman and emulating the very things they criticized most in men-imperialism, identity confusion, militaristic propagandism, dehumanizing competition, careerism.”
Lien-hua, Tessa, and I glanced at each other. I had the sense that all of us were unsure what to say.
Cheyenne set down her chopsticks. “Women should be extended the same dignity, opportunity, and respect as men but shouldn’t be treated in an identical way: equality without uniformity. I want to be treated like a woman, not a pale imitation of a man.”
“You go, girl,” Tessa said.
Cheyenne took her up on the offer. “Women should never be ashamed to be feminine. Strength comes from conviction, not from acting like a man. Being feminine doesn’t mean you’re weak, it just means you’re proud to be a woman.”
All three of them looked at me as if they were daring me to refute her. I had the sense that if they were guys they would have pounded fists with each other, but I decided this might not be the time to point that out.
“Feminine is good,” I said at last.
Cheyenne stood. “I’ll be right back. I need to use the ladies’ room.” She’d smiled as she said the words and offered a warm emphasis to the word ladies. She left for the hall.
Lien-hua and Tessa watched her sweep away. When she was out of sight, Lien-hua said, “She’s not subtle is she?”
Nope, I thought.
“Nope,” Tessa said.
“I’m glad she’s on our team,” Lien-hua said evenly. Then she went back to her meal.
But I noticed that she avoided eye contact with me as she did.
70
After dinner and dessert, we gathered in the living room, and when Lien-hua noted the chess set, Cheyenne complimented Tessa’s skill. “She’s quite a player.”
“Not compared to you,” Tessa said. “Just to Patrick.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Lien-hua picked up the black queen. “I learned to play years ago, but I’ve never been very good.”
“I’m sure Detective Warren could teach you some moves to improve your game,” Tessa said.
“I’m sure she could.” She set down the queen.
A touch of silence.
“So,” Cheyenne said, “your name, Lien-hua, it’s lovely.”
“Thank you. It means lotus.”
“The flower.”
“Yes.”
Though there was no outward antagonism in their words, I had the sense that the two women were verbally fencing.
Cheyenne looked reflectively at the far wall. Then, concentrating on remembering the words, she said, “Flowers are the hieroglyphics of angels. Loved by all men for the beauty of their character, though few can decipher even fragments of their meaning.”
“That’s beautiful,” Lien-hua said, clearly impressed. “What’s it from?”
“I’m not sure, exactly; it’s a quote I read once by Lydia M. Child. I’m not a huge reader, but I sometimes stumble across something that’s worth holding on to, and I make sure I don’t let it slip away.” As she said the words, she was looking at me, leaving me to interpret them on more than one level. Then she glanced at Lien-hua. “I like the line about deciphering fragments of their meaning.”
“I’d love a copy of it.”
“Absolutely.”
But at the moment Cheyenne didn’t take the initiative to write it down.
More fencing. This time with silence.
“So, speaking of lotuses,” Tessa said, “the Lotus Sutra is a teaching, a discourse of Buddha.” She paused as we all gave her our attention, then added, “Which brings up the .”
“N gas?” Cheyenne said.
“According to legend,” Tessa explained, “the Lotus Sutra was given by Buddha himself and kept hidden for five hundred years in the land of the N gas until humans were finally ready to understand it.”
“What are N gas?” asked Cheyenne.
With a glance, Tessa deferred to Lien-hua, who answered, “A N ga is a serpent. The word is typically translated dragon, but a better translation would probably be cobra. Usually, N gas are kind to humans, unless they’re provoked. Then, they can be truly malicious. They guard treasure and represent immortality.”
“Yup,” Tessa said. “You wouldn’t want to cross a N ga while it’s guarding its treasure.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cheyenne said.
With all of the subtext shooting through the room, I wondered how that meal last night between the two women had really gone.