The Stone Monkey

there was something else about Yindao. He supposed that it was this: he recognized something of his own soul within her. There were so few people who understood him . . . whom he could talk with.
    But Yindao was this sort of woman, he believed.
    As Coe was rambling on ad nauseam about the necessity of quotas and the burden on the social welfare rolls due to illegal immigration, even citing facts and figures, the snakehead was thinking about how sad it was that he couldn’t take this woman back with him to show her the beauties of Xiamen, walk with her around Nanputou Temple—a huge Buddhist monastery—and then take her for peanut soup or noodles near the waterfront.
    But there was no doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to do what he’d planned—take her to a deserted warehouse or factory and spend an hour or so fulfilling his relentless fantasy. And kill her afterward, of course. As Yindao herself had told him, she too would break the cauldrons and sinkthe boats; after she learned he was the Ghost she would not rest until she had killed or arrested him. She had to die.
    The Ghost glanced back at Coe with a smile, as if acknowledging whatever the man was talking about. The snakehead focused past the agent. Yusuf and the other Uighur were staying right with the police car. Yindao had not noticed the van.
    The Ghost turned back. His eyes swept over her. He then muttered a few words.
    “What was that?” Yindao asked him.
    “A prayer,” the Ghost said. “I am hoping that Guan Yin will help us find the Changs’ home.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “She’s the goddess of mercy,” was the answer, though it came not from the Ghost but from helpful Agent Alan Coe in the backseat.

Chapter Forty-three
    Ten minutes later Lon Sellitto’s phone rang.
    Rhyme and Cooper stared at it rapt in anticipation.
    The detective took the call. Listened. Then his eyes closed and he broke into a smile.
    “They found the Changs’ address!” he shouted and hung up. “That was one of the patrolmen down at the Fifth. He found a guy in Owls Head who owns two quick-print shops. Name’s Joseph Tan. Our guy gave him the line about the family’d be dead in a couple hours if we didn’t find out where they were. Tan broke down and admitted he’d gotten Chang and his kid a job and set ’em up in an apartment.”
    “He have an address?”
    “Yep. Two blocks from the sewage treatment plant. God love crap, what can I say?”
    Rhyme thought of Sonny Li’s equally irreverent plea to the god of cops.
    Guan Di, please let us find the Changs and catch the fuck Ghost.
    He wheeled into position in front of the whiteboards. He gazed at the chart, the pictures of evidence.
    Sellitto said, “I’ll call Bo and the INS and get everybody going.”
    But the criminalist said, “Hold on a minute.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “An itch,” Rhyme said slowly. “I have an itch.” His initial exhilaration at locating the Changs faded.
    Rhyme’s head moved slowly from side to side as he took in Thom’s careful jottings and photographs and other bits of evidence from this case—each adding to the whole grim story, like hieroglyphs in ancient Egyptian tombs.
    He closed his eyes and let this information speed through his mind as fast as Amelia Sachs in her Camaro.
    Here’s the answer, Rhyme thought, opening his eyes once again and staring at the entries.
    The only problem is that we don’t know the question.
    Thom appeared in the doorway. “Time for some ROMs,” the aide said.
    Range of motion exercises were important for quads. They kept the muscles from atrophying, they improved the circulation, they had a beneficial psychological effect too—which Rhyme publicly disavowed. Still, his sessions were partially based on the premise that there would come a day when he himself would use his muscles again.
    And so while he groused and complained and gave Thom hell when the aide expertly performed the ROMs then measured the results, he secretly looked forward to the daily exercises. Today, however, Rhyme cast a strong glance at the aide and the young man got the message. He retreated to the hallway.
    “What’re you thinking?” Sellitto asked.
    Rhyme didn’t answer.
    Engaged in its own range of motion exercises, his mind, unlike his lifeless limbs, was limited by nothing. Infinite height, infinite depth, past and future. The criminalist now mentally followed the trails of evidence that they had collected while working the GHOSTKILL case, some of