Dangerous Journey (mobi v.9/12) Read online

  Dangerous Journey

  Joanne Pence

  Copyright 2012 Joanne Pence

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any referenced to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition: November 2011

  Second e-book edition (Quail Hill Publishing): September 2012

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Hong Kong, British Crown Colony, 1978

  “You call yourselves police? What do you mean you still haven’t heard anything about my brother?”

  “Look, Miss…uh, Perkins.” The balding, ruddy-faced policeman slowly lifted his gaze from the newspaper on the counter and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a once-white handkerchief. “We are trying to be sympathetic, we are trying to be reasonable,” he droned, “but each year, hundreds of American tourists show up to peer from the Hong Kong border into the heart of Mao’s China, or to actually enter it in their well-guarded little tour groups. You simply cannot expect us to remember one individual. Good day, Miss Perkins.”

  C.J. Perkins folded her arms, one toe tapping as she glared at the man immersed once again in the latest round of tabloid scandals.

  Until a few days ago, everything C.J. knew about Hong Kong came from old movies like The World of Suzie Wong and Love is a Many Splendored Thing which she'd shed many a tear over. But they didn't prepare her for the real place. She learned that the Hong Kong British Crown Colony was made up of several parts: the island of Hong Kong, the mainland city called Kowloon, and to the north, the area called the New Territories. They were separated from Communist China by a well-patrolled border. Already, there was much talk and nervousness in Hong Kong about the British lease running out in another ten years, and that the colony would revert to the People's Republic of China. No one could believe that would ever happen, however.

  Now, C.J. found herself in the town of Luchow deep in the New Territories and near the Chinese border. As opposed to the modern, high-rise filled Hong Kong and Kowloon areas, the New Territories were old, comparatively barren, ramshackle and laden with yellow dust.

  At midday the Luchow police station was quiet, the heat and humidity high enough to keep troublemakers comfortably indoors and the border town relatively crime-free. Only the rhythmic whirring of the ceiling fans and the patter of insects hitting the window screens broke the soporific silence.

  The policeman raised one eye in her direction, a look of disdain on his face, and returned to his reading.

  Frowning, she remained where she was, waiting for him to do something. Anything. Hot and tired, she angrily shoved a frizzy, humidity-crinkled lock of brown hair behind her ear. Her frustration soared at the heat-induced lethargy surrounding her.

  There was only one way to deal with these people, she decided. After all, her brother was missing. She had tried sweetness, patience and understanding, and had gotten nowhere. She hadn’t tried to be flirtatious. She was well aware she wasn’t the type to pull that off.

  It was time to be tough.

  She linked her thumbs in the belt loops of her white cotton slacks and squared her shoulders under her red plaid blouse. She spread her feet apart, the small stacked heels of her white sandals adding two inches to an already tall frame, and took a deep breath.

  “I am an American citizen.” Her voice was low, well-modulated and controlled as she spoke, even though she knew her statement didn’t mean as much throughout Asia as it had before the recent pull-out from Vietnam. She continued. “My brother, Alan Mansfred Perkins, has been missing for three weeks, his papers show that he planned to come here, and now, he's disappeared.” When the officer still didn’t move, her fury boiled over. “I demand that you do something!”

  He looked up, his eyes half-closed. “So you’ve told us, over and over. But you still haven’t told us why. Why did he want to come to Luchow? What was his reason?”

  The same unanswerable questions again and again, she thought, as her fists clenched. “I’m not a mind-reader! I don’t know! I don't care!”

  He slammed his hand on the counter and pushed his round, pugnacious face toward hers. “Well, neither do I! And he’s your brother!”

  "He's your missing person! I want you to try to find him!"

  "If he shows up, we'll let you know."

  His breath was hot and smelled revolting. C.J. spun around hugging her arms, her cheeks burning and her chest heaving. This was the same annoying claptrap she had received for days. And she was still no closer to finding Alan.

  She shut her eyes for a moment as a wave of despair and worry filled her, but she fought against it and turned again to face the epitome of bureaucratic implacability. “I must speak with your chief.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, although he sounded quite the opposite. “He’s away at the moment, and I’ve no idea when he will return.”

  “May I wait?”

  “My pleasure.” His sarcasm dripped as he left the front desk to shuffle papers elsewhere in the room.

  C.J. stubbornly plopped down on the old vinyl-covered sofa across from the counter, causing puffs of dust and the scent of mildew to waft up to her. She picked up a Chinese magazine and briskly fanned herself against the sweltering heat. Her blouse kept sticking to the plastic furniture.

  Where was the police chief? She looked around the station she had come to know well—too well— over the past few days. The large main room, its plaster walls cracked and gray with age, was empty, as usual. So were the chief’s office and some small rooms beside it. On the far end of the main office was the door to the jail cells, which were about the only part of the station she hadn’t seen yet. She had no desire to change that.

  Over an hour passed, but still the police chief did not return. C.J. willed herself to be patient and leaned back on the sofa with a weary sigh. That she had nowhere else to go and had reached the end of her brother’s miniscule trail, made her resolution to remain here easy to keep. She also had a niggling feeling that the police were hiding something from her, and she was determined to stay until she found out what it was.

  As the heat and humidity of the afternoon made the air thicker and more oppressive, even the ceiling fans seemed to slacken their pace. She put down the magazine to concentrate on making no movement whatsoever. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her thoughts drifted freely....

  If she were to go home now, what could she tell her parents? That she almost found Alan, but not quite? That she had failed again? Just as she had with her career? Her art work?

  Her parents had paid for art school for her to become the “female Rembrandt of h
er time.” But the main lesson she had learned, much to her own dismay, was that even dedication and hard work don’t always result in truly creative talent. Not that she was untalented, she just wasn’t a great artist. Her work was technically competent, well-executed and likable. But nothing more. . . nothing more...

  Her eyelids flew open. She must have fallen asleep, she thought, as she quickly pulled herself upright on the old sofa and wondered if anyone had noticed. Mercifully, the office appeared empty. So why had she awakened so suddenly?

  “What are you doing in Luchow?”

  The voice startled her so badly she nearly toppled off the couch. It belonged to Captain Burnham of the British border patrol, a memorably odious person. Tall and heavy, with a florid complexion and thinning dirty blond hair, he could have stepped out of a 1940s movie about the Third Reich, except for his very British accent.

  “I wish to speak to the American Consul.” A deep, male voice with a pure Yankee twang to it answered Burnham.

  After days of unhelpful British accents, the resonant sound was comforting to her homesick ears. The voices came from one of the small rooms off the main office, but she couldn’t see anyone.

  “What are you doing here?” the captain repeated.

  The American gave the same response.

  “You’ll go to the consulate in good time, after you answer our questions. Now, where are your papers?”

  “I wish to see the American Consul.”

  The voices grew louder.

  “Were you in Communist China?”

  “I wish to see—”

  “Tell us your name.”

  “I wish—”

  “I want your name!”

  “I wish to see—”

  “Does the name Alan Perkins mean anything to you?”

  At this, C.J. froze, every sense alert. Who was this man? Why would Burnham ask him about her brother? She heard his standard reply and felt as irritated by it as she suspected Burnham did.

  “Tell us about the White Dragon,” Captain Burnham said.

  C.J. all but gasped aloud, and covered her mouth with her hands.

  The White Dragon was the name she had found on a note in Alan’s room—the same note that had led her to Hong Kong. She had asked the police about it over and over, but they had consistently maintained that they had no idea what it was. Now she knew that it did mean something to them. They had lied to her! But why?

  “...American Consul.” The last words of the man’s pat answer drummed once again in her ears. She jumped up and moved closer to the back room, throwing herself against the counter that blocked her way as she strained to hear every word.

  “Lock him up,” Burnham said.

  No! Her mind spun. They can’t do that!

  Since the border patrol was asking the stranger about Alan and the White Dragon, he must know something. He wouldn’t tell them, but maybe he would tell her, a fellow American. He had to tell her! He was her only lead.

  She chewed her bottom lip, uncertain what to do or how to find a way to talk to the stranger.

  She was still considering her options when she heard a slight shuffling sound; then a tall, thin man was pushed into the large office from the small side room. He stumbled once before he regained his footing. He wasn't merely being questioned. To her dismay, she saw that he was handcuffed. He was a prisoner.

  His jeans and dark green T-shirt were torn, and layers of dirt clung to his clothes, face and arms. Yet, despite the handcuffs at his back, he held his spine straight and his head erect.

  His long, sun-bleached, light brown hair was pushed straight back from his forehead. His face was bearded with prominent cheekbones, a patrician nose and high forehead. A jagged scar cut across his left eyebrow, and his skin was deeply bronzed by the sun.

  The defiant look he wore made her think that capturing him had probably not been one of the border patrol’s easier missions. Considering how she felt about the authorities in Luchow, the thought gave her perverse pleasure.

  She took a step forward. He raised his eyes to hers, and their glances met across the large room.

  His eyes were a startling green. She had seen that exact shade in the jungles of Malaysia where her brother had last been living, on the uppermost leaves of the rain forest when it was flooded in sunlight. As she felt herself ensnared within their depths, they reminded her further of the jungle—beautiful, yet frightening; enticing, yet threatening.

  She hadn’t meant to stare, hadn’t meant to lock her gaze with his, but was unable to break away.

  A slightly questioning look flickered across his face for a moment; then he gave a rakish grin and turned again toward the captain. The grin startled her at first, but then she realized that it had only added to the self-assured demeanor of the man. He had the look of a feline playing with its prey. He was, in a word, magnificent.

  In that same instant, she knew what he saw when he looked at her, and why, far too suddenly, he had turned away. She was a woman who was “a little too”—a little too tall, a little too clumsy, and, she had to admit, a little too bossy. Her hair was too mousy-brown to be pretty, and styled too simply--shoulder length with a side part--to be chic. Her mouth was too big, and her eyes too pale a gray. She was, in a word, plain. Being able to captivate a man with her beauty wasn’t her long suit. Not even when the man was already a prisoner. That knowledge didn’t make approaching him any easier, but she had to find a way to speak to him. As she studied him, a plan formed. He didn’t seem like a criminal, she thought. Or not quite. And the authorities were so hopeless. Dare she chance it? If it failed, what was the worst that could happen to her?

  She didn’t want to contemplate the answer.

  Okay, C period, J period, Perkins. You’ve always said you’re tough—now’s your chance to prove it.

  She swallowed hard as she braced herself to take the plunge. She bolted around the counter and across the room. “Wait!” she shouted.

  The men turned to look at her.

  “You found him!” she cried. “You found my brother!”

  She stopped in front of the prisoner and put her hands on his arms. “Alan! Thank God! We were so worried.”

  He accepted her greeting without the slightest twitch, although her own body was trembling so badly that she was convinced she would give herself away. Understand, her eyes pleaded with him. Please understand! Putting her shaking arms around him, she pulled his head against the side of her face. He stiffened at first, then bent toward her without complaint.

  She patted his back with sisterly affection. “Oh, poor Alan. What happened to you out there? It must have been terrible. Don’t worry, I’m here now to take care of you. I’ve got your papers, and we’ll be home in Columbus in no time.” She knew she was babbling, but couldn’t stop. “Mom and Dad have been so worried.”

  He straightened and stared at her. As she stroked his hair back from his face, her eyes met his. The power his gaze had exercised over her from across the room was insignificant compared to this, and her hand faltered, then dropped to her side as her stomach did a triple somersault.

  She tore her gaze from him to the captain, forcing a smile. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

  Burnham’s eyes narrowed as his head snapped from one to the other. “This is your brother?” Incredulity dripped from his voice.

  “He must have been robbed and beaten. That’s obviously why he looks this way,” she said. The stranger lifted one eyebrow at her.

  She began to pat his shoulder, hoping to distract him from protesting, hoping to signal her distress, and praying for him to go along with her.

  “Let me see his papers again,” the captain said.

  She handed over the identification papers she had found in Alan’s room in Malaysia. His passport, however, was not among them.

  “Six feet tall, two hundred pounds, dark brown hair, brown eyes,” Burnham read, then eyed his prisoner as he rubbed his hand against his chin. “Six-two, I would say. Twelve, t
hirteen stone, at most—that’s a hundred seventy or so pounds to you,” he said to C.J. “Hair is brown, sort of. But the eyes…”

  She felt flustered. The prisoner cocked his head at her with “Now what?” on his face. She raised her chin. “So he lost weight in this godforsaken part of the world! Who wouldn’t?” That was when she noticed that the captain’s stomach stood quite a bit nearer to her than did his feet.

  She grabbed Alan’s papers from Burnham’s hands and stuffed them quickly back into her purse, her words tumbling out ever faster. “You know men don’t worry about little things like inches. They’re all six-footers or they’re short, that’s all. There’s no other height they worry about. And his eyes, I ask you, how many men really think about the color of their eyes? I’m sure ninety percent of the men in the world say their eyes are brown.”

  “Ninety percent of the men in the world do have brown eyes.”

  “My point exactly, so what’s a little—”

  The prisoner stepped forward. “If these are my papers and she is my sister, then what charge am I being held on?”

  C.J.’s mouth fell open; she couldn’t believe the authority in the man’s voice. Even Burnham looked surprised.

  “If those are your papers, there is no charge at the moment. Not from us, in any case. If you are, in fact, Alan Perkins and this is your sister, you have far greater problems than the border patrol could provide.” Burnham scowled. “And there are still some questions—”

  “And I told you, I have no answers. Now, I suggest you remove these handcuffs and let me out of here, or you’ll be facing a false arrest charge.”

  C.J. got ready to run when she saw the rage slowly well up in Burnham’s face and threaten to explode at any second. “I suggest you both leave Luchow immediately, and that you do not return. I have enough trouble with Chinese Communists just across the border. I don’t need more from you Americans.”

  “What would the free world do without you?” the prisoner said as his handcuffs were removed and his bedroll was handed to him. As C.J. stood bewildered by all this, he clasped her elbow. Before she knew it, she was standing on the street outside the station.