Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo waited at the old pontoon bridge all night.

The door to the hut was open. He moved a chair and sat in the doorway, facing the ruins. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a pale, frost-like light on the bricks and rubble. A wind blew from the river, carrying the chill of November, making his hands and feet icy cold, chilling him to the bone. But he didn't move, just sat there like a statue. Tangyuan lay at his feet, her head resting on his feet, fast asleep, occasionally twitching her ears and making low whimpering sounds.

He didn't tell anyone. Liu Tong didn't know, Lao He didn't know, and Xiuying didn't know either. He came alone, carrying glutinous rice balls, and sat at the door of this dilapidated house, waiting for someone. Someone he had never met before, someone who was his father's teacher, someone who had written "I'm sorry" for over thirty years, someone who had waited for him for many years. He didn't know why he had come to wait, nor what he would say when he finally arrived. He just felt that he should come. The words in those notebooks, those names, those apologies, flowed through his heart like a river all night.

As dawn approached, he heard footsteps.

Slowly, softly, step by step, it sounded like someone moving slowly. The sound was exceptionally clear amidst the ruins, crunching and cracking on the broken bricks like bones. Jiang Bo stood up, his legs a little numb from squatting for too long. He leaned against the doorframe and looked in the direction of the sound.

A figure walked slowly from the ruins, his back hunched. He wore a long, dark overcoat, almost ankle-length, the hem trailing on the ground, stained with mud and dew. His hair was completely white, fluttering in the morning breeze like a clump of withered grass, or reeds on a river. He would take a few steps, pause, catch his breath, and then continue walking. Like a lamp about to go out, he swayed, but still shone.

Jiang Bo walked over.

The man stopped and looked up. His face was very old, wrinkles etched like knife cuts, deep and continuous, stretching from his forehead to his chin. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, and his face hollow, like a skeleton covered in skin. His lips were chapped and peeling, and he had unkempt stubble on his chin. But his eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a winter river, so clear you could see the pebbles at the bottom.

"You've come." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time, like sandpaper rubbing against a stone.

Jiang Bo looked at him. This man, his father's teacher, the leader of the J organization, Mr. Jiang. The person he had been waiting for for a long time. He was right there, standing before him, like an ordinary old man, like someone who had waited many years to finally meet him. He looked so much older than in the photo. That photo was taken in 1998, twenty-six years ago. Back then, his hair was still gray, his back wasn't so hunched, and his eyes weren't so sunken. Now he looked like a withered old tree, its bark wrinkled, but its roots still firmly planted in the soil.

"Zhou Yuanshan?"

The old man nodded. The nod was slow and gentle, as if a thousand pounds were hanging from his neck. "It's me. You're Xiao Jiang. Yizhou's son."

Jiang Bo clenched his fists. His nails dug into his flesh, but he felt no pain. "You know my dad."

Tears streamed down Zhou Yuanshan's face. They welled from his sunken eyes, flowing down the dry, riverbed-like wrinkles of his face, drop by drop, onto his coat, onto his hands. He didn't wipe them away; he just let them flow. "I knew him. He was my best student. I taught him for three years. He called me teacher, and I called him Yizhou. He was intelligent, brave, and upright. He was the best person I've ever met."

Jiang Bo stared at him for a long time. Then he turned and walked towards the small house. He walked neither fast nor slow. He knew the old man couldn't keep up, but he didn't wait. He went into the small house, carried out a chair, and placed it at the door. The chair was made of wood, very old, and one leg was slightly crooked, so he leveled it with a brick.

Zhou Yuanshan followed behind, walking slowly, step by step. His right foot dragged on the ground, making a monotonous rubbing sound, one after another, like a heartbeat, or a timer. His overcoat swept across the ground, picking up more mud. He walked over, sat down in a chair, and took a long breath. He looked up at the ruins, at the bricks and rubble, at the wall that still stood, and at the New Year's picture on the wall.

"Everything has changed," he said, his voice soft, as if drifting from afar. "Nothing's left. That house, that alley, those people, all gone."

Jiang Bo stood beside him, also looking at the ruins. "You've been gone for many years."

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. His gaze shifted from the ruins to the distant river. The sun was about to rise; the sky was turning a pale white, and the river shimmered with a silvery light in the morning glow. "Many years. Thirty years. Thirty years. I've traveled to many places and seen many rivers. The river of Jiangcheng, the river of Huanggang, the river of Yueyang. They're all the same river, flowing the same wherever they go. I look at it, and it looks at me. It knows everything, yet says nothing. Just like me."

Jiang Bo was silent for a moment. "You went to Huanggang, and then to Yueyang. Did you remember those names in those places?"

Zhou Yuanshan looked at him for a long time. His eyes shone brightly in the morning light, like two pebbles washed clean by water. "You found it."

"Found it. You remembered those names, those apologies. You waited a long time."

Zhou Yuanshan's tears flowed again. He raised his hand to wipe them away, but the tears wouldn't stop; the more he wiped, the more they streamed down his face. "I've waited so many years. Waiting for you to come. Waiting for you to say just one word."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "What did you say?"

Zhou Yuanshan stared at him for a long time. His lips moved, but no sound came out; his Adam's apple bobbed several times. Then he spoke, his voice very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. "About your father, I'm sorry. I watched him investigate, watched him find Dong Jianmin, watched him be followed, watched him die. I knew everything, and I did nothing. I was his teacher; I failed to protect him. I'm so sorry."

Jiang Bo didn't speak. He stood there, looking at the ruins, at the wall, at the New Year's picture. The wind blew, making his clothes flutter and the edges of the picture curl up with a rustling sound. He thought of his father, of the notebooks, of the names, of the apologies. His father waited a long time, waited for the truth, and then died. The gentleman waited a long time, waited for him, and then said sorry. Those names waited a long time, waited for the gentleman to write them down, waited for him to find them, waited for the families to say, "We won't wait any longer."

"My dad won't blame you," Jiang Bo said. His voice was calm, but every word was heavy.

Zhou Yuanshan's tears flowed uncontrollably. His shoulders trembled, and his hands shook. "He'll blame me. I know. He'll definitely blame me. He trusted me so much, he told me everything. Every clue he found, he told me first. Every difficulty he encountered, he consulted me first. He treated me like a teacher, a father, someone he could rely on. I knew everything, and I did nothing. I watched him investigate, watched him die. I didn't stop him. I was his teacher, I failed to protect him."

Jiang Bo crouched down and looked into his eyes. Those eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a river in winter. He saw many things within them—guilt, regret, sorrow, and something else entirely. "He found the truth. He didn't die in vain. He found Dong Jianmin, he found the J organization, he found those who had disappeared. He didn't die in vain."

Zhou Yuanshan stared at him for a long time. His eyes traveled from Jiang Bo's forehead to his eyebrows, from his eyebrows to his eyes, from his eyes to his nose, and from his nose to his mouth. He smiled, a very soft, bitter smile. "You're just like him. Stubborn. Once you've made up your mind, you won't look back. He was like that back then too, investigating whenever he wanted, ignoring everyone's advice. I tried to persuade him to stop. He wouldn't listen. He said, 'Teacher, those people are still dying. I can't stop.'"

Jiang Bo stood up. "You've come back to pay off a debt?"

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. He stood up slowly, gripping the chair armrests and supporting himself on his knees, straightening his back little by little. He walked to the door, leaned against the doorframe, and looked at the ruins. "Pay back my debts. Pay back the debts I owe. I owe Yizhou, I owe those women, I owe those who waited a lifetime. I owe this city, I owe this river. I've remembered for thirty years, written 'I'm sorry' for thirty years, that's enough. It's time to pay back."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Those names, those 'I'm sorry's, you remember them all?"

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. He turned to look at Jiang Bo. His eyes shone brightly in the morning light, like two stars. "I remember. I remember every single one of them. Ah Zhen, Xiao Mei, Chen Fang, Wang Li, Zhao Xiuying, Liu Xiaoqin, Sun Xiaomei, Zhang Jianguo, Li Mei, Gao Deming. And your father. And Zhou Ping. And many others. I remember them all. I've remembered them for thirty years. Every night before I go to sleep, I recite their names. I can only fall asleep after I've recited them all. If I haven't, I can't sleep."

Jiang Bo stood beside him. "They've been waiting for you for a long time."

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. He looked at the river; the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, shining on the water like shimmering gold, dazzlingly bright. "I know. I'm back. I'm not leaving again."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Where do you live?"

Zhou Yuanshan pointed to the small house. "Here. I'll live here. I'm not going anywhere else. This is where I left, and this is where I'm coming back. I watched Yizhou grow up here, watched him leave, watched him die. The debts I owed here, I'll repay here."

Jiang Bo looked at the small house. Half the roof had collapsed, many tiles broken, covered with plastic sheeting. The walls were cracked, a fissure running from the corner to the window like a scar. The door was crooked, unable to close properly, and traces of last year's Spring Festival couplets remained on the frame; the red paper was long gone, leaving only patches of brown residue. Winter was coming; it would be cold living here. But he didn't say anything. He knew his master wouldn't leave. He had waited many years, and finally returned. He wouldn't leave again.

"I'll fix it for you," Jiang Bo said.

Zhou Yuanshan looked at him for a long time. His eyes were glistening with tears, but they didn't fall. Then he smiled. "Good. You're just like your father, skillful with your hands. He used to fix things for me too. A chair leg broke, and he fixed it. The window paper was torn, and he patched it up. He said, 'Teacher, you live alone. If you get a headache or fever, there'll be no one to take care of you.' I said it was okay, I'm used to being alone. He was worried, so he still came often."

Jiang Bo went to buy the materials: planks, nails, a hammer, plastic sheeting, and a new window. He climbed onto the roof, repaired the collapsed sections, replaced the broken tiles, spread the plastic sheeting, and weighed it down with bricks. Tangyuan ran around below, bringing him planks and nails, busy as a bee.

Zhou Yuanshan sat in the doorway, watching them without saying a word. His eyes followed Jiang Bo's figure, from the roof to the ground, and from the ground to the roof. His hands rested on his knees, his fingers slightly curled, as if counting something. A breeze blew, making his hair flutter, but he wasn't cold. His eyes were bright, like the river in winter, and also like the river in spring.

It was all fixed. Jiang Bo stood at the doorway, looking at the small house. The roof was new, the tiles neatly arranged, and the plastic sheeting had been laid flat. The cracks in the walls had been patched up with mud, and after it dried, it was almost the same color as the original. The door was straightened and closed tightly. The windows were new, and the glass was sparkling clean. The house was much brighter now.

"What's missing?" Jiang Bo asked.

Zhou Yuanshan stood up and went into the room. He took out the open copy of the *Tao Te Ching* and placed it on the table. The pages were yellowed and the edges were curled, but the spine was still intact. He took out the kerosene lamp and lit it. The lampshade was polished to a high shine, and the flame flickered, casting a warm light on the wall. He stood in the doorway, looking at Jiang Bo.

"That's enough. Everything's here."

Jiang Bo looked at him. The light shone from inside the house, illuminating him and casting his long, thin shadow on the ground. He stood in the doorway, like an ordinary old man, an old man who had waited many years for someone he had finally met. His father's teacher, the leader of the J organization, Mr. Jiang. He had remembered his name for over thirty years, written "I'm sorry" for over thirty years, and waited for him for so many years. Now he was back, living in this little house, and going nowhere else.

"I'm leaving now. I'll come see you again tomorrow."

Zhou Yuanshan nodded. "Okay."

Jiang Bo turned and walked back. Tangyuan followed behind, running a few steps and then stopping to look back at him, as if waiting for him. He walked to the car and glanced back. The light in the small house was on, like a lamp, a star, an eye amidst the ruins. The man stood in the doorway, hunched over, leaning on the doorframe, watching him. He waved, and the man waved back. That hand was thin in the lamplight, like a withered twig, but it was still waving.

The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the light grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still lit. The ruins grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but they were still there. The little house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there. The gentleman stood in the doorway, farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but he was still there.

Jiang Bo drove home directly instead of returning to the municipal bureau. Xiuying was still awake, sitting on the sofa. When she saw him come in, she stood up.

"Where have you been? You haven't come back all night."

Jiang Bo walked over and took her hand. "Mom, your husband is back."

Xiuying was taken aback. "Sir?"

"My dad's teacher. He's back. He's staying in that little house by the old pontoon bridge."

Xiuying stared at him for a long time. "He's back? He's still alive?"

Jiang Bo nodded. "Alive. You're back."

Xiuying's tears streamed down her face. "He's back. Yizhou has waited for him for many years."

Jiang Bo held her hand. "Mom, I'll take you to see him tomorrow."

Xiuying nodded. "Okay."

Outside the window, dawn broke. Sunlight shone on the river, shattering into countless pieces of gold. The light in that small house was still on, shining like a lamp amidst the ruins.