Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Those names hung on the whiteboard for seven days. Every day, Jiang Bo stood before the whiteboard, looking at those names as if gazing upon a silent forest of tombstones. A-Zhen, Xiao-Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiu-Ying, Liu Xiao-Qin, Sun Xiao-Mei, Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Gao De-Ming. More than thirty names, more than thirty lives, more than thirty people who had waited half their lives. The whiteboard was white, the words black; those names on it stood before him like rows of tombstones. The first thing he did every day when he arrived at work was stand before the whiteboard, and the last thing he did after get off work was also stand before it. He didn't speak, just stood there, looking.

Over seven days, Liu Tong made hundreds of phone calls, dialing from one number to another, asking around from one city to another. His voice became hoarse, his lips cracked, his eyes bloodshot, his eye sockets sunken, his cheekbones prominent, and he had lost a lot of weight. The table was piled high with instant noodle boxes and empty coffee cups; leftover sandwiches had gone moldy, but he hadn't thrown them away, they were just piled up there. But he didn't stop. Every time he found a family member, he would put a checkmark next to their name. Those checkmarks multiplied, densely packed, like weeds on a field ridge in spring. His voice grew lower and lower, sometimes so low that Jiang Bo couldn't hear what he was saying, only a buzzing sound, like a fly trapped in a glass bottle, desperately trying to break free of the bottle.

Some names led to family members, some not. Of those whose families were found, some were dead, some still alive. Of the living, some were waiting, some were gone. Those who waited waited their whole lives, only to receive a phone call, a few lines of text, a word of "drowning" or "missing," and then said, "I'm not waiting anymore." Not that they didn't want to wait, but that they couldn't afford to. Eighty-six, eighty, blind, broken-legged, bedridden, still waiting. Now there's no need to wait. That person will never return.

On the seventh night, Liu Tong made his last phone call and put down the receiver. His fingers hovered over the phone, trembling slightly. He looked down at the map on the table, a map worn smooth and frayed from repeated use. His shoulders trembled slightly, as if he were suppressing something.

"Polish Sir, the investigation is complete."

Jiang Bo turned around. On the whiteboard, some names were marked "Checked," others were circled. Those whose families had been found were the ones whose families couldn't be found. Those whose families couldn't be found were like Zhao Xiuying, Gao Deming, and those who had no names at all. They disappeared; no one looked for them, no one waited for them. They were like a drop of water falling into a river, gone. No ripples, no sound, nothing at all. The gentleman wrote down their names, but didn't know who they were. In the notebook, they were only mentioned in one line: a date, a location, and an "I'm sorry." And then, nothing.

"Bo Sir, there's one more person." Liu Tong's voice was very soft, as if he was afraid of disturbing something.

Jiang Bo waited. He saw Liu Tong's Adam's apple bob, as if he was swallowing something.

"Sir. Zhou Yuanshan. He's still here. In Yueyang."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. His nails dug into his flesh, but he felt no pain. "Still there?"

Liu Tong nodded. He pulled up a map and pointed to a small county town in northern Hunan. The dot on the map was small, but Liu Tong pressed his finger on it firmly. "Junshan Island. On Dongting Lake. He lived there for many years. After leaving Huanggang in 2010, he went there. The villagers said he sat by the lake every day, watching the water. When asked what he was watching, he said, 'Waiting for someone.'"

Jiang Bo stared at the place name. Junshan Island. Dongting Lake. Again, the riverbank. The gentleman couldn't leave the river. He moved from the riverbank in Jiangcheng to the riverbank in Huanggang, and then from the riverbank in Huanggang to the riverbank in Yueyang. He was always by the river. What was he waiting for? Was he waiting for him? Or was he waiting to die? Or did he not even know what he was waiting for, but simply had grown accustomed to sitting by the river, watching the water, watching the things that flowed away, things that would never return?

"Does he live on an island?"

Liu Tong shook his head. He zoomed in on the map and pointed to a small village by the lake. "Not on an island. It's by the lake. A small village called Lotus Pond. He rented a room there and lived there for over ten years. Everyone in the village knows him and calls him Teacher Zhou. He doesn't talk much, doesn't socialize, and lives alone. Every day he goes to sit by the lake and sits there all day. He goes even on rainy days, with an umbrella. He goes even in winter, wrapped in a cotton-padded coat. The villagers say he's strange, but they don't bother him."

Jiang Bo stood there for a long time. It was already dark outside the window; the streetlights came on, their dim yellow light reflecting a cold glow onto the wet streets. In the distance, the headlights of cars on the Yangtze River Bridge stretched out in a line, like a luminous river. Those names, like this river, had flowed away, but remained in his heart. He remembered the words in his teacher's notebook: "Xiao Jiang, if you see this, please tell Yizhou for me that his teacher is sorry to him." He had waited for him for many years, waited for those notebooks he left behind, waited for those apologies he made. Then he left. He didn't leave; he's still here. He's in Yueyang, by Dongting Lake, waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for him to come to him? Waiting for an ending? Or waiting for forgiveness?

"Liu Tong, prepare the car. We're going to Yueyang."

Jiang Bo set off before dawn. Xiuying was still asleep when he left. He stood at her door for a while, listening to her even breathing inside, soft as a breeze across a lake. He didn't knock, but turned and went downstairs. The stairwell light was still off, and he groped his way down five floors in the dark. Tangyuan followed behind, her steps very light.

The car drove out of Jiangcheng and onto the highway. The sky was overcast, the clouds hanging low, blurring the distant mountains like a faded ink painting. The fields on both sides of the road were withered and yellow, the stubble of harvested rice still lying in the ground, like rows of silent soldiers, or nameless tombstones. Jiang Bo rolled down the car window a crack, letting in a gust of cold wind, carrying the earthy smell of withered grass. He didn't close the window, letting the wind blow against his face, making his eyes sting.

Tangyuan lay on the back seat, its head resting on its front paws, its eyes half-open and half-closed, occasionally twitching its ears. It knew it was going on a long trip, so it didn't bark or make a fuss, just lay there quietly, keeping the other dog company.

The drive took four hours. Entering Hunan, the sky cleared. A crack appeared in the clouds, letting sunlight stream through like a golden knife slicing through the greyish sky. In the distance, Dongting Lake shimmered a golden-red in the sunlight, fragments of gold, dazzlingly bright. Jiang Bo parked the car by the roadside and got out. The wind was strong, whipping his clothes. He stood by the roadside, gazing at the lake. Dongting Lake was vast, stretching as far as the eye could see. The water churned in the wind, wave after wave crashing against the rocks on the shore with a rushing sound. He thought of his father, of those who had gone missing, of his teacher. They all stood by rivers or lakes, watching the water, watching things flow away. They waited for a long time, a lifetime. Some got what they wanted, some didn't.

Lianhuatang is a small village on the shore of Dongting Lake, with only a few dozen households. The houses are all old-fashioned brick and tile structures, some already empty, their doors and windows wide open and dark, like blind eyes. At the village entrance stands a large locust tree, its leaves all fallen, its bare branches stretching towards the sky like a withered hand, or perhaps an old man beckoning. Several old men sit under the tree; seeing strangers enter, they all look up, their eyes filled with curiosity and wariness.

Jiang Bo parked his car at the village entrance and walked into the village. An old man sat in the doorway, basking in the sun. He wore a gray cotton-padded jacket, his hair was gray, and his face was deeply wrinkled. He held an enamel mug in his hand, on which was printed the words "Serve the People," but the words were worn away and illegible. When he saw Jiang Bo, he looked up and squinted at him.

"Who should I look for?"

Jiang Bo showed his identification. "Zhou Yuanshan. Is he here?"

The old man's eyes changed. He put down his enamel mug, stood up slowly, as if he had a back problem. "Teacher Zhou? He's gone."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched. "Gone? Where did they go?"

The old man shook his head. He pointed to the east end of the village. "I don't know. He left several days ago. He said he was going home. When I asked him where his home was, he wouldn't say. He just said he was going home. The morning he left, before dawn, he stood by the lake with a small bag on his back and looked at it for a long time. I asked him what he was looking at, and he said, 'One last look.' And then he left."

Jiang Bo stood there, his mind blank. He left. He left again. From Jiangcheng to Huanggang, from Huanggang to Yueyang, from Yueyang to somewhere unknown. He kept moving, kept hiding. What was he hiding from? Hiding from him? Hiding from those apologies? Hiding from the debts he owed? Or was he not hiding at all, but searching, searching for a place where he could find peace, a place where he could close his eyes in peace?

Where does he live?

The old man pointed to the east end of the village. "That house. By the lake. He lived there for over ten years, sitting by the lake every day, watching the water. When asked what he was watching, he said, 'Waiting for someone.' When asked who he was waiting for, he wouldn't say. He waited for many years, until his hair turned completely white and his back became hunched. Now he's not waiting anymore, he's gone."

Jiang Bo walked towards the east end of the village. The village road was narrow, with vegetable fields on both sides. It was winter, and the fields were bare, with few vegetables. By the lake stood a small hut, just one room. The walls were made of stone, with yellow mud filling the gaps between the stones. In some places, the mud had fallen away, revealing dark, gaping cracks. The roof was tiled, but many tiles were missing, and it was covered with a plastic sheet, with a few bricks weighed down on the sheet. The door was wooden, the paint peeled off completely, revealing the grayish-white wood grain. The door frame was crooked, and the door itself was warped, so it couldn't be closed properly.

The door was ajar, and it was pitch black inside. Nothing could be seen except for a musty smell wafting from the crack, a mixture of old wood and damp earth. Jiang Bo pushed the door open with a loud creak, particularly jarring on the quiet lakeside.

The room was dark, with only a small window letting in a sliver of light. Dust motes danced in the beam of light, like countless tiny stars. A bed, a table, and a chair—all made of wood, old but sturdy. The blankets on the bed were neatly folded into perfect squares, just like in the little house in Jiangcheng. On the table sat a kerosene lamp with a gleaming glass shade, and an enamel mug bearing the inscription "Serve the People," just like the one the old man at the village entrance held. An open book lay face down on the table—the *Tao Te Ching*. Exactly the same as in the little house in Jiangcheng. He left, taking nothing with him. The blankets were folded, the table was wiped clean, the book was open, and he was gone.

Tangyuan sniffed around the room, then suddenly barked at something under the bed. The bark was urgent and shrill, echoing in the small room. Jiang Bo crouched down and looked under the bed. It was pitch black; he couldn't see anything. He turned on his phone's flashlight, the beam cutting into the darkness. Under the bed was a wooden box, just like Jiang Cheng's—a dark blue hard-shell box with worn edges, revealing gray cardboard inside. He pulled it out and opened it.

Inside was a letter. It was in a brown paper envelope, blank. He took it out and turned it over. On the back was a line of writing, very faint and light, as if the writer had run out of strength: To Xiao Jiang.

Jiang Bo's hands were trembling. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. The letter was thin, folded neatly, with deep creases, as if folded many times, or as if afraid it would fall apart. He unfolded it; the handwriting was faint, as if the ink was almost used up, or as if the writer's hand had run out of strength:

"Xiao Jiang, if you see this letter, it means you've come to find me. I've waited for you for many years, waited for your news, waited for you to find those notebooks. I knew you would come. But I can't wait any longer. I'm leaving. I'm going home. Back to Jiangcheng. Back to the old pontoon bridge. Back to that little house. That's my home, and also where I owe my debts. I'm going to pay them off there."

Xiao Jiang, you don't need to come looking for me. I'll be waiting for you there. Always.

Below that was another line of text, even fainter and lighter, as if written in the mist: "Yizhou, the teacher is back."

Jiang Bo held the letter, tears streaming down his face. He was gone. Back to Jiangcheng. Back to the old pontoon bridge. Back to that little house. He had waited for him for many years, waited for the notebooks he left behind, waited for the apologies he made. Now he was back. Back to where he belonged. His father's teacher, the leader of the J organization, Mr. [Name missing]. He had remembered his name for over thirty years, written apologies for over thirty years, waited for him for many years. He had waited. And then he left. Back to Jiangcheng. Back to that little house. He would wait for him there. Always.

He stood up and walked to the window. Dongting Lake was vast, stretching as far as the eye could see. The water shimmered in the sunlight, like a giant mirror reflecting the hazy sky. In the distance, a fishing boat slowly approached, an old man casting his net. The net unfurled in the air, like a flower, or perhaps a face. He remembered the words in his teacher's notebook. Page after page, like a long book, like a long river. Those names, those apologies, those regrets. He had remembered them for over thirty years, waited for him for many years. Now he was going back. Back to Jiangcheng. Back to that little house. He would be waiting for him there.

He carefully put the letter away and walked out of the hut. The wind blew from the lake, carrying moisture, a fishy smell, and the scent of grass and earth. Tangyuan followed behind, running ahead, sniffing here and there, stopping every few steps to wait for him, glancing back at him, and then running on.

Jiang Bo stood by the lake, gazing at the water. The gentleman was gone. He had returned to Jiangcheng. He would wait for him in that little house. Was that little house still there? Was that New Year's picture still there? Was that wall still there? After he left, had anyone been there? Had anyone found that little house? Had anyone found those notebooks? Had anyone found him? What if something had happened to him on the way? What if he changed his mind and went somewhere else? What if he, like Old Guan, disappeared and could never be found again?

He got into the car and started the engine. The car drove out of Lianhuatang and onto the road back to Jiangcheng. In the rearview mirror, the village grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared into the gray sky. Those houses, those people, that little house, that lake—all gone. Only the gray sky and the gray land remained.

Back in Jiangcheng, it was already dark. Jiang Bo didn't go back to the Municipal Bureau; he went straight to the old floating bridge. The demolition area was pitch black, with only a few streetlights casting a dim, yellowish light on the ruins, making them appear deathly white. The bulldozers were still there, like sleeping behemoths, rain dripping from their steel bodies, drop by drop, like tears. The small house was still there, standing crookedly, the New Year's picture on the wall still there, the chubby baby holding a fish, smiling eerily. The New Year's picture was swollen from the rain, the colors bleeding, distorting the chubby baby's face, the eyes and mouth twisted and crooked, as if crying, yet also laughing.

Jiang Bo stood in front of the small house and pushed open the door. It was dark inside, completely empty. The bed was still there, the table was still there, the chair was still there. But the man was gone. The master hadn't returned. He hadn't arrived yet. He was still on his way. From Yueyang to Jiangcheng, hundreds of kilometers. Was he walking? By car? By boat? He was over seventy years old; could he really walk that far? Did he have any money? Was anyone helping him? What if he got sick on the way? What if something happened to him?

Jiang Bo stood at the doorway, gazing at the ruins. A wind blew from the river, carrying the fishy smell of the water, making his clothes flutter and rustling the wild grass. Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company, occasionally looking up at him with bright, sparkling eyes, as if asking: Has he come back?

"Tangyuan, he hasn't arrived yet."

Tangyuan cried out, its voice echoing across the empty ruins.

Jiang Bo stood there, waiting for a long time. Night fell completely, the moon rose, and its light shone pale and ghastly on the ruins. The shadow of the small house was cast on the ground, crooked and twisted, like that of a hunched old man. He remembered the words in his teacher's notebook: "Little Jiang, I will wait for you there. Always."

He turned and walked back. Reaching the car, he glanced back. The little house was still there, dark and gloomy, nothing visible. The door was open, like an open mouth, or a waiting embrace. But he knew his master would return. He would come back here, back to that little house, back to where he belonged. He would be there waiting for him. Always.