You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 250 Selection Delivery (11k)

Meanwhile, on the other side, at six in the morning.

In the West End, outside the wall of the printing factory at the end of 13th Street, a dark blue Buick Regal was parked between two metasequoia trees, its front wheels stuck in a rut on the gravel shoulder.

The car windows were closed, the engine was off, and cold air seeped into the car from the edges of the glass.

Inspector Connor, the head of the 12th Street precinct and the one who was most anxious when Fatty Z was arrested, is now sitting in the driver's seat, his fingers tapping incessantly on the steering wheel, tap, tap, tap.

He reached out and turned the rearview mirror, glanced at the empty back seats, then turned it back, took a Marlboro from the cigarette pack clipped to the sun visor, and put it in his mouth.

Before sunrise in November, the sky was overcast and the rust on the iron gate of the warehouse across the street was barely visible. Only the occasional garbage truck could be heard passing by in the distance.

The passenger door was opened.

Tyrone sat down in wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, bringing with him a strong smell of engine oil.

"Why did you choose this place for our second meeting?"

"You think I wanted to choose this place?" Connor didn't even turn his head, his fingers still tapping on the steering wheel.

"Where else can I go besides this deserted, godforsaken place? Meet you in the branch office lobby?"

Tailong didn't reply, and instead closed the car door.

The Buick swayed slightly.

Connor looked at him, then covered his forehead and gave a bitter laugh.

"You look even worse than last time." Connor took the cigarette out of his mouth.

"Your car smells like someone died inside a week ago."

"My car smells like your gang's current situation." Connor took his hands off the steering wheel and turned to look at Tyrone.

Tyrone's eyebrows twitched.

"At least I have a large sum of cash and dozens of capable men. What do you have?"

"A job that relegates you to standing at a street corner? Or the honor of every Mexican tourist in Seattle honking their horn and giving you the middle finger?"

"After twenty years, you've ended up like this, which means your entire branch office is full of useless people from top to bottom."

"None of you old geezers who took the money can actually produce it."

"How dare you—" Connor seemed to be provoked, and his voice became shrill.

"What's the harm in telling me?"

Tyrone leaned his shoulder against the car door, his face turned towards Connor. "Before I even got to the station, who told me the police would take care of him right away?"

"So those guys in the Internal Affairs Department wanted him killed a long time ago? And what happened? I heard he got promoted after I got out of jail?!"

Connor didn't say anything.

"If I don't intend to retaliate against him, at least I can choose to run away," Tyrone continued.

"I'll take the remaining money from the Bloods, head to Oregon or California, change my name and keep going. It'll definitely not be the same as before, but I can avoid Leon."

"What about you? Can you run? And if you do, can you take your work with you?"

"Can you escape Washington state and escape your credit score?"

Connor gripped the steering wheel tightly.

Say it again.

"I told you you can't escape," Tyrone said, enunciating each word clearly.

Connor whirled around and poked Tyrone's face with his right index finger.

"If it weren't for that useless boy under your bunch of good-for-nothings being caught trafficking children, would I have been caught by that madman?"

"We and the others in the police station take a little money from you every month, letting you develop right under our noses, and in the end you can't even beat a few cops!"

"Your own people caused this mess, and you blame me? Weren't you all so capable of fighting and firing indiscriminately back then? Now that you've been wiped out, you know you have to come to me?"

"What business is it of yours if we fire our guns? If your men hadn't bothered me back then, I would have killed Lamar long ago! Why did you make such a big fuss and drag it all the way to Lyon's entrance?!" Tyrone cursed.

Connor's voice rose so high it sounded like his throat was being torn apart, "He slaughtered the entire industrial area on his first day at ACU, and you guys just fucking walked right into it!"

"Will you say 'gift' one more time?"

Tyrone's right hand was clenched into a fist, and his knuckles made a faint cracking sound in the dimly lit carriage.

Connor saw the fist, then sneered and moved his face forward a little.

"Go ahead and hit me. I'll arrest you again right away. I have a body camera on me. If you think it's not fast enough, I can also press the alarm."

"You don't have a body camera on you, I just checked."

Tyrone's voice was calm, but his fists were still clenched.

The two stared at each other for a few seconds. The only sounds in the car were the air conditioning vents and Connor's heavy breathing. Tyrone looked at Connor's sweat-drenched face and suddenly lowered his hand.

"Ugh."

He sighed, then leaned back in the passenger seat, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

The clenched fist slowly loosened, and the fingers flattened one by one, resting on the knee.

"Never mind," Tyrone said.

Connor stared at the loosened hand for two seconds, then sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"never mind."

"Let's get down to business first." Tyrone turned his head and glanced at him.

Connor rolled down the car window a little, picked up the crumpled Marlboro that had just fallen, put it in his mouth, lit it, took a drag, and exhaled smoke from his nose.

"I do know someone who is close to him."

19

He reached into the storage compartment in front of the windshield and took out a crumpled arrest record sheet, covered with tiny print. It was a draft of the penalty for the violation, which he didn't unfold but just held in his hand.

Then he started pointing to the draft paper in his hand and talking. Having something in his hand made him feel better, otherwise he would feel like a subordinate giving a report.

"Last time you asked me to check how well he was protected and whether he had any weaknesses."

"I've been a police officer for twenty years, and I know how to read a police officer's network of contacts. All I can say is that Leon's real weakness isn't in him."

Connor took another drag of his cigarette and then stubbed it out in the ashtray behind the control stick.

"He used to work in the patrol department, and he had an old superior who mentored him, Danfoss."

"There's a policewoman on the line Danfoss is on, her name is Mia Torres."

Tyrone didn't speak, but slowly tilted his head to show that he was listening.

"I went to find a junior officer who used to work in the patrol team. We had a decent relationship, and he owed me a favor before."

"He worked on the Danfoss line, and I asked him to inquire for me. Later, he mentioned to me that after Leon was promoted to ACU, he took that policewoman with him."

"This matter circulated among the patrol team for quite a while back then, it's just gossip."

"They took the policewoman away—" Tyrone repeated.

“Yes.” Connor continued, “The patrol officers on Danfoss’s line, Miller, Murphy, and a few others who had contact with Leon before, all know about this.”

"It's not exactly a secret. You can find out by just buying them a coffee. There's no need to check any files. What's their relationship?" Tyrone said.

"A colleague relationship, at least on the surface," Connor said.

"But my junior colleague said he could tell from the tone of those patrol officers that the woman was not an ordinary subordinate; she was deeply involved with Lyon."

"His personal secretary, a dedicated clerical worker, is still handling his documents to this day."

He turned the crumpled draft paper over and over in his hand.

"I haven't had a chance to check her personnel file yet. I only got her name a few days ago, and I don't know if I have the authority to check it now."

"It wouldn't matter if she were still a patrol officer, but she's been transferred to the ACU now."

"You need to give me a few more days to find out her exact address and commute route."

Tyrone grabbed his wrist.

"Explain clearly, how much do you still know right now?"

"She doesn't live in an affluent area, she lives in the West End. Her salary in the patrol team wasn't high, and she didn't seem wealthy, so she definitely couldn't afford to live in an expensive place."

"She often works overtime and leaves very late. Sometimes Leon would drive her home, and sometimes she would go home by herself."

“Most importantly,” Connor raised his other hand and held up one finger, “Sterling later transferred two more clerical staff to assist her.”

Tyrone paused for a moment.

"Did the bureau chief transfer someone to her?"

"Yes. It's an administrative order from the branch office chief: two clerical assistants specifically to handle ACU reports for her."

Tyrone released his grip and leaned back in his chair.

Connor glanced at Tyrone and sighed.

"But I warn you, absolutely, absolutely, absolutely do not kill Mia Torres."

"What?"

"I said, you can't kill her."

Connor's forehead began to sweat again, and his voice lowered, sounding as if his throat had been flattened.

"Leon Vance is a man who doesn't follow the rules. If you kill the people around him, he will definitely kill them one by one."

"He won't find out about our relationship—"

"You fucking let me finish what I have to say!" Connor's voice echoed in the cramped carriage.

"If he finds even the slightest clue pointing to the police station, and some officers tip you off, then we'll all have to resign and run away before he makes a move."

"Or he might impulsively expose Fatty Z's affair, and we'd be in trouble too."

"If you want to die, don't take me with you."

Tyrone looked at him for several seconds, then nodded slightly.

"I didn't intend to kill her."

His voice was very calm.

"Leon didn't just spring from a rock. He has things he cares about. He has his own clerical job and takes her with him. This kind of woman is definitely not dispensable to him."

"But simply killing her won't do the trick; I still can't take down Leon."

"That's why I want to capture her alive."

"Besides, he destroyed my territory, so it's only natural for me to go after his people."

Connor took his hand off his face and looked at Tyrone.

"Are you crazy?"

"I just have nothing left to lose."

"Fuck, shut the fuck up—I didn't hear anything." Connor pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

"Let's change the subject. Have you noticed that a guy named RayFong has suddenly appeared in the West District recently? He sets up a lamb stall outside the mosque, takes in homeless people, and even feeds them."

Tyrone didn't say anything; of course he knew.

His subordinates had already reported on this man after he was released on bail.

But he was too busy investigating Lyon's activity patterns and the internal workings of the police department to pay attention to a newly emerged homeless leader.

"Then what."

"And this RayFong not only runs a lamb stall, he also took over Psychedelic Cats." Connor tapped his fingers twice on the steering wheel.

"What's even more outrageous is that Lyon also deployed the patrolmen under Sergeant Danfoss to set up checkpoints around the mosque, ostensibly to maintain order, but in reality, they were just there to guard Ray Fong."

"In the Western District branch, any resources that Lyon mobilizes will ultimately end up with RayFong. We see this very clearly from within."

When Connor finished speaking, he took his fingers off the steering wheel and leaned back against the seat.

"Ray Fong is most likely Lyon's hired hand."

The air inside the car quieted down, and cool air seeped in through the cracks in the windows.

Tyrone stared at the two gray metasequoia trees outside the windshield, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, before he slowly tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh.

"6

Ray Fong.

"—My men mentioned this name to me as soon as I got out."

"I didn't take it seriously at all, thinking it was a newly emerging force. I was busy investigating Lyon and didn't have time to deal with him. I never expected that he was one of Lyon's men."

He leaned his head back against the seat cushion, slapped his forehead with his palm, and then muttered a curse under his breath.

"Hold."

Connor didn't reply, but lit another cigarette, this time just holding it between his fingers and letting it burn on its own.

How many people are in Psychedelic Cat?

"

"I don't know. All I know is that it was a nightclub that was illegally occupied after being shut down."

"Where is the mosque?"

"There's a homeless veteran working as a security guard near the mosque. His name is Lei, and he carries a kitchen knife to maintain order. Usually, you only see five or six temporary workers at most."

Tyrone slowly memorized the name.

"Armed forces?"

"Knives, clubs, no guns, but that's all. Your men will have to investigate the specifics themselves."

Tyrone turned his head and stared into Connor's eyes.

Connor spread his hands.

"I just had someone patrol the perimeter. Continuing to keep an eye on things would easily expose us. Don't expect me to give you a detailed account of the situation."

Tyrone stopped looking at Connor, mentally reviewed the information, then pulled an old-fashioned flip phone from his hoodie pocket, opened it, and dialed a number.

"Hey, Vic, the intelligence over here is out."

"Lyon has one of his own men, Ray Fong. Doni mentioned to me last time that he's the leader of the homeless people who run the lamb stall."

Vic was silent for a while on the other end of the phone, saying nothing.

"I was wondering why those homeless people were being watched by police officers," Tyrone continued.

"Pick two unfamiliar young men, don't bring any weapons, don't drive, and tomorrow during the day, go to the area opposite the 10th Street Mosque to observe them without making contact."

"Find out when they are most numerous, and also the patrol patterns of that veteran named Lei."

"Then tonight we'll mark the alleys near the psychedelic cat on the map, and send people out separately to find out the routes. During the day, we'll keep an eye on the flow of people at the entrances and exits."

"I understand," Vic said.

Tyrone didn't hang up, but continued, "There's more."

He turned his head and glanced at Connor, who immediately shrank back.

"Find someone bold enough and unassuming; I don't have that kind of person under me anymore."

"I'm going to be with a woman, Mia Torres from the West Precinct, an office worker for Lyon in ACU, who often works late. I'll send you the photos later."

"We'll have to wait a few more days to find out the exact address."

"Don't attack her while you're watching her. She absolutely cannot die; I need her alive."

Vic was silent for a while on the other end of the phone.

"You want to use her as bait?"

"right."

"I'll personally oversee things tomorrow," Vic said. "The other targets will be arranged tonight; we'll discuss the details when you get back."

"Okay." Tyrone hung up the phone.

He closed the flap, put it back in his hoodie pocket, then reached for the car door handle and turned to look at Connor.

"It was a pleasure working with you; this may be our last collaboration."

Connor took a deep breath, ran his hands through his hair, and finally rested his forehead on the top edge of the steering wheel handle.

"Get lost."

Tailong opened the car door, stepped onto the gravel shoulder, and walked deeper into the alley.

Connor was the only one left in the Buick.

He lifted his forehead from the steering wheel, looked at the empty passenger seat, then slowly sat up straight and started the car.

The Buick Regal emitted a whirring sound, then the engine started running again.

Connor placed his hands on the steering wheel, looked ahead, and slowly drove the car onto the street.

As he left, Connor noticed Tyrone's last silhouette before he disappeared.

The guy pulled up his hoodie and walked deeper into the alley. The homeless man on the side of the road was still sleeping and didn't move. Tyrone had completely disappeared into the alley.

At eight o'clock in the morning, when Lyon pushed open the back door of the psychedelic cat, the first thing he saw was Old Welder squatting next to the maintenance port, staring blankly at the tape that had been re-wrapped on the ground.

The dance floor was a bit brighter than a few days ago. The beer bottles on the ground had been cleaned up, leaving only a few pieces of broken plywood that hadn't been moved yet, leaning against the corner of the wall.

MacArthur stood in the center of the dance floor and saw Leon come in, so he slammed the aluminum tube to the ground.

"Commander, I need an M4 Sherman."

Lyon stopped, closed the door behind him, and turned to look at the old man in the worn military overcoat.

"————What did you say?"

"M4 Sherman medium tank," MacArthur repeated.

"The repair company has just confirmed that as long as we can get the hull, the power system and main gun can be repaired."

Leon looked at MacArthur.

I stared at it for a full three seconds.

"You want me to get you a World War II tank in Seattle."

"right."

"Where should we park, in the back alley?"

"The main entrance." MacArthur turned around and pointed to the entrance of the Psychedelic Cat with an aluminum tube. "Wide the door frame so the tracks can drive right in."

Leon put his hands into his jacket pockets.

"You know the Seattle Police Department is only a 20-minute drive from here, right?"

97

"Know."

"So what do you think a patrol officer would do if a Sherman tank were driving on the street?"

MacArthur put his hands behind his back.

"I think they'll probably give me a ticket because the tank doesn't have rearview mirrors."

"Moreover, tanks on the streets may damage the road surface."

2

Leon looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes.

"Commander, if you don't want the tank to leave the outpost, we can secure it inside the building, remove the drive shaft, and keep only the turret and engine."

"As long as the turret can rotate, it's fine."

"And then?" Leon pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed them over his chest.

"Which gang comes banging on your door? You're going to point a 75mm main gun at their face and fire?"

"Its deterrent effect outweighs its practical significance," MacArthur said earnestly.

"Currently, this position lacks heavy firepower. In other words, if the enemy uses a pickup truck to ram open the back door, my repair company can only retaliate with wrenches."

"The casualty ratio of wrenches to rifles is roughly one to five."

"Adding a Sherman, even if it's not used in combat, just having it parked there, would be a psychological deterrent to any hostile forces trying to get close."

"Tank—" Leon raised his hand to wipe his face, his words of complaint only halfway through when he suddenly froze.

Is it really possible to switch tanks within my own system?

Wait a minute, why am I going crazy with MacArthur? The tanks being replaced means we've entered the stage of armed struggle, or is the Americans about to start a revolution?

—If the United States were to enter a state of civil war—how many points could one's own system reap in the process?

—It's obvious we're still a long way from that stage.

"Put the tanks aside for now."

Lyon took a few steps forward, stood next to MacArthur, and then raised his voice and shouted.

"Old welder, come over here too."

The old welder stood up from beside the inspection port, dusted off his knees, and walked over.

Three people stood in the center of the dance floor.

"I have two things for you to prepare starting tonight."

MacArthur placed the aluminum tube beside him.

The old welder crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"First thing, after we finish work tomorrow night, everyone stay on the dance floor."

"Move the tables and chairs aside, sit in a circle, and everyone speaks."

Old Welder's eyebrows twitched.

What did everyone say?

"Tell me how you became a homeless person." Leon turned to look at the old welder.

"Start with you, then the scaffolder, then the salesman who was reported dead. Go through them one by one. This time, go into more detail, don't just gloss over them like before."

Old Han didn't say anything, he just tucked his chin a little into his collar.

MacArthur's fingers tightened slightly around the aluminum tube, then he looked up at Leon. "You want to recreate the 'complaints' convention."

The air fell silent for a moment.

Lyon turned to look at MacArthur, his gaze shifting from teasing to scrutiny.

"You know this?"

"I know, but I haven't studied it." MacArthur shook his head.

Lyon stared into his eyes.

"How did you know?"

"I've lived for so many years and seen a lot of things." MacArthur slammed the aluminum pipe on the ground.

MacArthur paused here.

Leon stood there, his hands still in his jacket pockets.

"Do you think this approach is appropriate for Psychedelic Cats?"

MacArthur raised his chin, thought for a moment, and then tilted his head slightly.

"suitable."

Why?

"Because the Eastern army has verified how effective this method is, it can be replicated in similar environments." MacArthur tapped the ground with an aluminum pipe.

Old Han remained silent until MacArthur finished speaking, at which point he lowered his arm from his chest.

"Boss," he began, "I understand why you want them to talk about how they went bankrupt."

"They're all uncomfortable, and talking about it makes them feel better, and then it feels like we're all in cahoots, right?"

Lyon nodded.

"But," Old Han took a half step forward and pointed at MacArthur, "I didn't quite understand what he was saying about the army."

"Because we were just a group of people who built houses. The scaffolders plastered the walls, I welded things, and the garbage cans cooked. We weren't soldiers, and we didn't have guns."

Lyon looked at the old welder and nodded.

"Where do you think Psychedelic Cat is?"

"An abandoned nightclub."

“Yes,” Lyon said, “but how many people outside are also bankrupt homeless, still sleeping in tents.”

The old welder didn't respond.

"Psychedelic Cats currently has about twenty members, and there may be more in the future." Leon shifted his gaze from the old welder and swept it across the dance floor.

"If one day, other homeless people or gangs take a liking to this place and want to rob it, where do you think we'll go?"

The old welder was silent for a while, then slowly turned his gaze to the side.

"We need to protect this place because we live here?"

"Not only that." Leon pulled his hands out of his pockets.

"The second thing. Starting tonight, before we finish work each day, everyone will stand in a line and have a 15-minute standing meeting."

"Everyone shared what they did today, where they needed help, and what they hadn't finished."

The old welder nodded.

"That's easy to understand. There are always meetings when you get to the construction site."

MacArthur listened without interrupting.

He simply lifted the aluminum tube slowly, held it horizontally in his hand, weighed it like a baseball bat, and then seemed to be deep in thought.

Lyon noticed and turned to him.

"What questions do you have?"

"No doubt about it," MacArthur said, waving his hand.

"I look at a wide variety of things. The underlying logic of military management is discipline and transparency. Standing meetings should have both. Since I am in charge of military management, it is not surprising that I am going down the Eastern path."

He put the aluminum tube back to his side.

"I was just wondering if you're going to establish Party branches at the company level next."

Lyon stared at him, almost unable to hold back his laughter.

"—What exactly are you watching? A World War II documentary?"

"No, I've been in Korea and I've seen how they do it," MacArthur replied without changing his expression.

Leon decisively stopped responding to him and brought up the absurd conversation about tanks they had just had.

"About tanks."

MacArthur immediately stood up straight. "The Sherman M4 is equipped with a 75mm M3 main gun and 51mm angled frontal armor, which can effectively resist small arms and grenade attacks."

Leon raised his hand to interrupt him.

"I didn't say I agreed to assign you tanks; your unit hasn't achieved enough combat merits yet."

He pulled his finger back.

"but."

He held up one finger.

"A stronghold definitely needs to have some equipment; it can't just be kitchen knives and wrenches."

MacArthur's expression changed from disappointment to seriousness.

"I don't want you to go out and fight now."

Lyon pointed to the old welder, "But if other homeless people come here to steal or rob, or if a gang comes here to collect protection money, you can't be without any weapons."

"I'll leave a few handguns and shotguns with their serial numbers ground off here."

"Leave the security of the base to Lei, but in case of the worst-case scenario, you need to be able to resist."

Old Han frowned, then slowly nodded. As a homeless man, he had been extorted by gangsters many times, and robbery was commonplace for homeless people.

"I know how to use a welding torch, and I've fired a pistol a few times, but I don't want anything too complicated."

"I'll handle the gun issue; you don't need to worry about how to get it."

Lyon put his hands back into his pockets.

"Remember, hide the guns. They're not for you to use casually."

"You can only take it out when they come to our doorstep. This is not your toy."

"Anyone who dares to flaunt this trump card everywhere, or to show it off in the street for no reason —"

He glanced at the old welder.

"—I'll just send him back to the streets."

The old welder lowered his hands from his chest.

"clear."

MacArthur nodded slightly.

Lyon turned to leave, but then remembered something and turned back to look at Old Han.

"Oh, and you too, welder."

The old welder raised his head.

"You'll be in charge of leading the event. Tomorrow night on the dance floor, you'll be the first to speak, to set an example for others. Can you do that?"

Old Han was silent for a while, then finally pulled up his sleeve and coughed.

"able."

St. Jude Church.

The afternoon sun slanted across the weathered, gray brick wall, making the half-crooked scaffold look less shabby.

The once densely packed tent area in the parking lot is now largely empty, with only a few faded nylon tents lying limply on the gravel ground, and tattered T-shirts hanging on ropes nearby being blown about by the wind.

-

After pushing open the door and walking a few steps inside, only seven or eight people were sparsely seated on the benches in the central hall.

Several people were wiping their wounds with towels, moving very slowly, and the towels were dry.

In the corner, a woman was asleep, leaning against a chair leg, with a half-finished bowl of soup next to her.

Thomas squatted in front of the bench at the very front, with his back to the door. Unusually, he was no longer wearing the same protective suit as before, but instead wearing a normal black priest's robe.

He was changing the bandage on a young homeless man's left leg. His hands seemed steadyer than before, and his shoulders weren't slumped as much. Although he was still very thin, he no longer looked like he was about to collapse at any moment.

The scissors slid across the homeless man's calf, and with a click, the gauze fell to the ground.

During this time, he remained here, from eight or nine in the morning until late at night, busy cleaning the wounds of the admitted patients, changing their dressings, and arranging where newly arrived seriously ill patients would stay temporarily.

The despairing feeling of treating corpses like commodities in a supermarket, where prices were negotiated, was temporarily gone in the church, but he didn't talk much either, because he knew it was only temporary.

RayFong gave us $2 in exchange for a lot of medicine, but it's only a matter of time before we run out of it.

Sometimes, when he was changing his dressings, he would stop halfway through and stare blankly at the light shining through the window, pondering questions about God. Every time he heard the sound of shoes on the stone floor behind him, he would think that some homeless person had come in to collect soup.

But this time when he turned around, he saw a man wearing a black baseball cap, a gray jacket with the zipper zipped all the way up, a mask covering the lower half of his face, revealing only his ever-calm and collected gray eyes.

Thomas placed the scissors on the bench, stood up, took off his rubber gloves, squeezed his cheeks, and gave Leon a look that wasn't exactly a smile.

"Ray Fong, you're finally back."

Lyon stood in the back half of the nave and scanned the surrounding benches.

The ground was much cleaner than it had been ten days ago, and the dirty blankets and empty cans that had been piled up in the corner were gone.

The stench in the air has lessened and isn't as pungent as before.

"There are far fewer people."

"Two-thirds have left." Thomas picked up a first-aid kit from the bench and placed it under the podium.

"A volunteer named Irina came to help yesterday. A woman's fever has gone down, and an old man with suppurating knee can walk again. The antibiotics you bought with your money are very effective. We still have amoxicillin and other antibiotics left."

After he finished speaking, he wiped his sore nose with the back of his hand.

"But there's another problem. There are new people here, from other places. They have blisters on their feet and high fevers because their tents were overturned and all their belongings were lost. One woman walked for two days to get here. I left her in the chapel, right there."

Thomas shifted his gaze to the corner to his left, where a woman wrapped in a brown blanket was asleep against a pillar, her ankles exposed, with a ring of dark red marks on her skin, which looked like rope marks.

Lyon glanced at it and nodded.

"I actually just finished stitching up someone yesterday. His left cheek was smashed and full of broken glass. It took me an hour and a half to clean it out."

"When I finished dealing with him, I found that my hands were not shaking like before. I didn't even realize it myself. It was like—it was like I had too much to do and forgot to shake."

"For the past ten days or so, I've been wondering when you'd come back. You said you'd send some books, but I haven't heard from you since."

Thomas stared at the woman for a while, then sighed.

"Sorry, I seem to have been rambling on."

97

He turned to look at Lyon, his gaze drifting slightly as he spoke, moving from above Lyon's shoulder to the light streaming in through the broken stained glass window, the halo of light illuminating the stone floor with its edges gleaming white.

"But—it's been too long. I saved that person before, and then you just left some money and left."

"I don't think about these things when I'm busy, but once I sit down in the back room, I can't stop thinking about them."

"I even asked myself that question." He took a deep breath and then exhaled, "After you came, fewer people died. Although it was just a sum of money, it was enough. Before you came, I sewed up corpses here for twenty years."

He raised his hand and rubbed his temples back and forth with his palm.

"If God is watching all along, why does He do nothing? Why doesn't He send anyone? Why hasn't anyone given me even the slightest glimmer of hope?"

"Now that you have come, according to the guidance of the Bible, I should believe that God sent you."

"But if God sent you, why didn't He send someone else in the past twenty years?"

Thomas stopped there and placed his hand on the podium.

"I should be able to explain this, because the suffering I endured was all to atone for my original sin, but I feel that shouldn't be the case. All I know is—"

"If God truly exists, and if He truly never slumbers as the scriptures say, then your arrival must have been part of His plan."

"But before that, all the people who died, including an old man who died in the corner before you arrived, were perhaps being tested by God, and he was required to endure it."

"Because suffering can bring something—something I don't know—perhaps the final judgment, or perhaps it brings believers closer to the Lord. Without trials, who can find the narrow gate?"

"Me too."

"I often think about this when I'm sitting in the sacristy: who is in charge of testing whom? Who can be exempted?"

He fell silent again.

"If these people are destined to die, then what am I in the face of the plan and the trial?"

He loosened his grip, his hand hanging limply at his side, trembling unconsciously.

Leon didn't speak, but simply stood to the side, leaning his body against the wall on the other side of the podium.

Thomas raised his hand to touch the cross on his chest, then lowered it again.

He still didn't look at Leon, because he wasn't worried about what the other person thought of him. What he was really worried about was that once what he said was said, he would no longer be able to pretend that everything was fine.

"So I dare not think about it anymore."

"But I can't help but think about it."

"If God did not arrange your arrival, and if you came for your own reasons, then what I have been praying to Him for the past few decades has been nothing but self-pity."

After saying that, he was stunned for a moment. Once he was willing to say it, his mind began to slide uncontrollably in a more terrifying direction.

Lyon waited a moment, then spoke.

"You just mentioned that the person whose left cheek was shattered by glass, who lay there for an hour and a half, and you finished stitching him up, and you didn't tremble."

Thomas looked up at him.

"This shows that your hands can still save lives, it has nothing to do with God, it has to do with your own abilities."

"I've never blamed God," Thomas shook his head, then paused, "but now I'm not quite sure whether I should thank him or not."

"So you can forget about God." Leon moved away from the wall. "You saved people with scissors, scalpels, and medicine, not with a cross."

Thomas looked at him.

"I feel like you're implying something," he said, "but you're not being direct enough."

"You guessed right, I was indeed hinting."

Thomas's tone grew increasingly confused.

"Who exactly are you? Which charity are you from? Are you a gangster? Or a government official? Or something else? You don't seem to believe in God."

Lyon listened and nodded.

"Finished asking?"

"temporary."

Leon pulled his hand out of his pocket, took a step and sat down on the bench next to Thomas, turning half his body to the side and resting his elbow on the back of the chair.

"Which answer do you want to hear? Would you believe me if I said I'm from the FBI?"

"Won't."

"I told you I'm a gangster."

"It doesn't seem like it either."

Thomas's voice suddenly turned somber.

"You're like someone who already knows what you're supposed to do; you don't need to find the answer from God. But I can't; I don't have the answer."

"You're still wondering why God doesn't give you money."

Thomas's lips twitched.

"You just have to be so blunt."

"Because you no longer need me to be tactful."

Leon stood up and pulled the brown-covered book out from inside his jacket.

"All that you just said was asking me why your God doesn't respond to you, while I, an unbeliever, will give you money to save you."

"This is for you. This book can help answer your questions."

Thomas took the book, his fingers touching the edge of the hardcover spine. He didn't open it immediately, but simply weighed it in his hand before looking up at Lyon, waiting for what he would say next.

"The book itself is not expensive; what's expensive is the content inside."

"Don't show this book to anyone else. Not your homeless patients, not Hank, not anyone who comes to church."

"If anyone asks you who gave it to you, just say you found it at a used bookstore, understand?"

"If you want to discuss this, we can talk about it when it's just the two of us alone."

"Of course, if you don't want to look at it, you can put it in the drawer and do nothing."

"I want you to see this only because, as I just said, you have never relied on God to save anyone; you have relied on your own hands."

Thomas frowned slightly, looked at the book and then at Lyon, and asked.

"Why can't I show it to others?"

"Because some people in the United States don't like to read this book."

Are you afraid of causing trouble?

"I'm afraid of getting into trouble with you," Leon said.

Thomas glanced at the book, *Selected Works of Mao Tse-Tung*, then looked up at Lyon.

"Is this a political book?"

"right."

Thomas remained silent for a moment.

"You know who I am, I'm a pastor," he finally said. "You want me to read this?"

"Yes, because you just said why good people suffer and why bad people go unpunished."

"What do I need to do? Study this person's theories? Become a believer? Join an organization?"

"Need not."

Leon took a step back and put his hands back in his pockets. "You don't need to be a believer. You just need to read and then think for yourself."

"You're a very capable doctor. You're intelligent, and you've had decades of prayers that haven't been answered by God. What you lack now isn't faith, but rather a different perspective."

"This book, to put it simply, just offers you a new perspective."

Thomas fell silent again. He stared at the book for a while, then looked up.

Will this book give me the answer?

"It will tell you why you asked this question."

Thomas was silent for a moment, then slowly closed the book and held it in his hands.

"I will read it. Come back in ten days and I will give you my answer."

"I'm not sure if I can come. You can contact me by phone."

Leon handed Thomas another card with his anonymous cell phone number on it, then walked to the door, pushed it open, and let the sunlight stream in at an angle, falling on his face.

The door closed, and only the sound of footsteps gradually faded away into the street.

Thomas sat on the bench, looking down at the book on his lap.

He slowly turned to the first page, the table of contents, and a few lines of bold text caught his eye.

He turned to "On Practice" in the book, his eyes landing on the first paragraph.

"Before Marx, materialism, in examining the problem of knowledge, was divorced from human sociality and historical development, and therefore could not understand the dependence of knowledge on social practice, that is, the dependence of knowledge on production and class struggle."

He finished reading the first paragraph, then read it again, then turned to the table of contents and scanned down the chapter titles.

>