The Stone Monkey

face. His eyes were dazed but he was conscious. His shirt was open and the medic was cleaning a bloody wound with disinfectant and bandages.
    Sachs brushed as much sand off her feet and legs as she could then replaced her shoes and hooked her gun-belt around her once more. “How is he?”
    “Wound’s not bad. The shooter hit him in the chest but from an angle. But we’ll have to watch the hypothermia and exhaustion.”
    “Can I ask him a few questions?”
    “Just the minimum for now,” the first paramedic said. “He needs oxygen and rest.”
    “What’s your name?” Sachs asked the immigrant.
    He lifted away the oxygen mask. “John Sung.”
    “I’m Amelia Sachs, with the New York City police department.” She showed him her shield and ID, as procedure dictated. She asked, “What happened?”
    The man lifted away the oxygen mask again. “I was thrown out of our raft. The snakehead on the ship—we call him the Ghost—he saw me and came down to the shore. He shot at me and missed. I swam underwater but I had to come back for air. He was waiting. He shot again and hit me. I pretended to be dead and when I looked again I saw him get into a red car and drive off. I tried to swim to the beach but I couldn’t. I just held on to those rocks and waited.”
    Sachs studied the man. He was handsome and appeared to be in good shape. She’d recently seen a TV special on China and had learned that unlike Americans—who exercise temporarily, usually out of vanity—many Chinese work out all their lives.
    The man asked, “How are . . .” He coughed again. The spasms turned violent. The medic let him cough out the water for a few moments and, when Sung stopped, knelt down and placed the oxygen mask on his face. “Sorry, Officer, but he really needs to suck air now.”
    But Sung lifted the mask off. “How are the others? Are they safe?”
    It wasn’t NYPD procedure to share information with witnesses but she saw the concern in his eyes and she said, “I’m sorry. Two are dead.”
    He closed his eyes and with his right hand clutched a stone amulet he wore on a leather strap around his neck.
    “How many were on the raft?” she asked.
    He thought for a moment. “Fourteen altogether.” Then he asked, “Did he get away? The Ghost?”
    “We’re doing everything we can to find him.”
    Again Sung’s face filled with dismay and he again squeezed the amulet.
    The medic handed her the immigrant’s wallet. Sheflipped through it. Most of it was turning to mush from the seawater and nearly all of the contents were in Chinese. But one card that was still legible was in English. It identified him as Dr. Sung Kai.
    “Kai? Is that your first name?”
    He nodded. “But I use John mostly.”
    “You’re a doctor?”
    “Yes.”
    “Medical doctor?”
    He nodded again.
    Sachs was looking at a picture of two young children, a boy and a girl. She felt a jolt of horror, thinking that they’d been on the ship.
    “And your . . .” Her voice faded.
    Sung understood. “My children? They’re at home in Fujian. They’re living with my parents.”
    The medic was standing near his patient, unhappy that he kept lifting off the mask. But Sachs had her job to do too. “Dr. Sung, do you have any idea where the Ghost might be going? Does he have a house or apartment here in this country? A company? Any friends?”
    “No. He never talked to us. He never had anything to do with us. He treated us like animals.”
    “How about the other immigrants? Do you know where they might’ve gone?”
    Sung shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. We were going to houses somewhere in New York but they never told us where.” His eyes strayed back to the water. “We thought maybe the Coast Guard shot us with a cannon. But then we realized he sank the ship himself.” His voice was astonished. “He locked the door in our hold and blew the boat up. With everyone on board.”
    A man in a suit—an INS agent Sachs rememberedmeeting in Port Jefferson—stepped out of the black car, which had just joined the rescue vehicle on the sand. He pulled on a windbreaker and crunched through the sand toward them. Sachs handed him Sung’s wallet. He read through it and crouched down. “Dr. Sung, I’m with the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service. Do you have a valid passport and entry visa?”
    Sachs thought the question was absurd, if not provocative, but she supposed this was one of the formalities that needed to be performed.
    “No,