The Night Tiger(47)

Fighting anxiety, Ren patiently shifts the glass specimen jars to peer behind them. They clink softly; it’s on this shelf, or maybe the next one. He can’t quite tell. He slides his hand in and scrabbles around. His cat whiskers twitch hopefully. Pulling his fist out, Ren opens it to find a glass vial. Inside is a finger, dried to a blackish color like a twig.

Heart pounding with mingled relief and horror, Ren climbs down and examines his prize. It’s almost exactly the way that Dr. MacFarlane described. “Preserved in salt,” he’d said. “It will likely be the only one of its kind—the other specimens should be in alcohol or formaldehyde.”

Ren stuffs it in his pocket. It’s the first act of theft he’s ever committed and he mumbles a guilty apology under his breath, though he’s not sure whether it’s to God, or Yi, or Dr. MacFarlane for taking so long to find the finger.

The shadows are darker now, heavy as though a veil has dropped on the room. The stolen finger is a dead weight in his pocket. He’s outstayed his welcome. Furtively, Ren shuts the door behind him, skin prickling, the short hairs standing up on the back of his neck. Once outside, he walks, then trots, and finally, when no one stops him, breaks into a run all the way back, down the covered walkways and long corridors, as though he’s fleeing for his life.





18

Batu Gajah District Hospital

Saturday, June 13th




“So, out of all the specimens in that room, only the fingers are missing,” I said.

After returning the bucket and cleaning rags borrowed from the janitor’s closet, Shin and I cut back between some angsana trees with their falling gold petals.

Shin frowned. “How many fingers were on the original list?”

“Fourteen.”

I didn’t want to say it was a bad number. Shin had no patience for things like that, but I could see from the brief twitch of his jaw that it had, of course, registered. For Cantonese speakers, thirteen was a good number. Sup sam sounded a lot like the words sut sang, which meant “always survive.” Fourteen, on the other hand, was terrible because it sounded like “certain death.”

“I should inform Dr. Rawlings,” said Shin. “It’s bizarre to have so many missing fingers.”

An orderly in a white uniform emerged from a distant building, carrying a tiffin container. Turning, he shielded his face against the low-setting sun. Something familiar about his gait and angular figure made my throat constrict. Nearer and nearer the white figure came. When he was about forty feet away, he lifted the hand that was shielding his face to squint at us. My heart sank as I recognized the slant-jawed man from the dance hall last night: Mr. Y. K. Wong himself.

Maybe he really was a demon, doubling himself so that everywhere I went, he followed me. But no—it was coincidence, a stroke of bad luck. Besides, there was no hint of recognition on his face, eyes screwed tight against the setting sun.

“Shin!” I choked back panic. “Who is that?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “That’s my roommate, Wong Yun Kiong. The one I told you about. We call him Y. K.”

“I thought Koh Beng was your roommate.” The cheerful, porky one.

“No, Koh Beng’s just a friend.”

We were out in the open, on the grass beneath the giant trees and there was nowhere to hide. If I made a run for it he’d surely recognize me. Or perhaps he already had.

“Please don’t let him see me!”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later. Please!” Squeezing my eyes tight, I buried my face in Shin’s chest. It was the only thing I could think of. For an instant, he stiffened. Then his arms slid reluctantly around me. Warm breath on my neck, the heat of his skin. It gave me a strange sensation, a light-headedness that I put down to anxiety. I’d danced with scores of strangers; this was nothing to get flustered about.

Footsteps crunching on dry leaves drew nearer. Then I heard a voice. I recognized it right away, though I’d only heard it once.

“Hey, Lee Shin! You brought your girlfriend here?”

I clutched Shin, feeling his shirt slide between my fingers.

“I’m off duty,” said Shin. “Come on, can’t you see I’m busy?”

The tread of feet, circling closer. Shin’s chest was broader than I remembered, harder to span with my arms. His heart was beating rapidly, or was it my own?

Y. K. Wong’s voice again. “I’ll let you off if you introduce me to your girlfriend.”

“She’s very shy and you’re embarrassing her—go away!”

A laugh, then the footsteps retreating. “Don’t forget to introduce me!”

I froze, counting the seconds. When I reached ten, I jerked my head up to see if he’d really gone, but Shin gripped me warningly. “Not yet!” he hissed. Then, “You’d better have a good explanation for this.”

The heat from Shin’s hand on the small of my back seeped feverishly up my spine. Releasing me abruptly, he said, “What was all that about?”

Red-faced, I gave a vague account of how Y. K. Wong had come looking for the finger. Shin’s jaw tightened. “How did you really meet all these men—first that salesman with the finger, and now my roommate? If you won’t tell me, I’ll ask him myself.”