Po Sir's Police Affairs: The Hunter

Jiang Bo returned from the old pontoon bridge after dark.

The car was parked downstairs, but he didn't turn it off immediately. The vibration of the engine transmitted from the steering wheel to his palms, subtle, like a heartbeat. Tangyuan was asleep in the back seat, breathing evenly, its belly rising and falling, occasionally twitching its ears, making low whimpering sounds, as if it were dreaming. What was it dreaming about? The reeds by the river? The ruins? Or its master stroking its head? Jiang Bo didn't know. He just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, looking ahead. The road ahead was dark, the streetlights dim, illuminating a few fallen leaves swirling on the ground.

He recalled the events of the past few days. Those notebooks, those names, those apologies. The gentleman, the one who waited for over thirty years, the one who kept the record for over thirty years, the one who said sorry. His father, the one who died thirty-three years ago, the one who uncovered the truth, the one whose death was not in vain. Xiuying, the one who left twenty-two years ago, the one who made dumplings for twenty-two years, the one who waited for him. And the Fool. The leader of the J organization. The one standing at the door watching, the one wearing the J ring, the one still somewhere.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. The smoke drifted in the darkness, like those names, like those apologies, like those people who would never return. He remembered his husband's words: "After I see those families and say sorry, I'll tell you." Tell him what? Tell him who the Fool was? Tell him the name of the person hiding in the shadows? He had waited so many years; a few more days wouldn't matter. He would wait.

He stubbed out his cigarette and threw it out the window. Then he went upstairs.

Xiuying was making dumplings. The cutting board was piled high with dumplings, row upon row, neatly arranged, like soldiers, like names on a whiteboard, one by one, waiting to be erased, waiting to be remembered. She bent over, carefully wrapping them, one by one. Her fingers were thin, but nimble; with a pinch, the dumplings took shape. She wrapped them slowly, but each one was the same size, the same roundness, the same beauty, the pleats evenly pinched, as if machine-made. Her apron and hair were covered in flour, white as snow.

"You're back?" She didn't look up, her voice very soft.

"I'm back."

"Have you got a meal yet?"

"I ate. I ate at my husband's place. He invited me to stay. He cooked noodles, just plain water with a few pieces of greens. He said he only knows how to cook noodles, he's been cooking them his whole life. He's known how since he was young, and he's still cooking them now. He said his father cooked noodles the same way, and he cooked them the same way too, his father taught him."

Sooyoung paused for a moment. "Is he alright?"

"He's alright. He's just getting old. He walks slower, his eyesight is failing, and his hand shakes when he writes. But he still writes. He writes every day. He still writes those names and those 'I'm sorry's. He says he's afraid he won't remember them one day, so he wants to write them down as many times as he can while he still can. He writes them once, then memorizes them once. The more he writes them, the less he'll forget them."

Xiuying was silent for a while. Her movements as she wrapped dumplings slowed down, as if she was thinking about something. "He's ten years older than your dad. If your dad were alive, he would be old by now. His hair would be white, and his back would be hunched. But he would still be just as stubborn, never looking back once he's made up his mind. Just like you. When your dad was young, he once chased a criminal, jumped off the second floor, twisted his ankle, and limped for three blocks before finally catching him. When he came back, his foot was swollen like a bun, but he was still smiling. I asked him what he was smiling about. He said, 'I caught him.' His eyes were bright, like moonlight on the river."

Jiang Bo walked over and stood beside her, watching her make dumplings. Her hands were thin, veins bulging, knuckles thick, and nails trimmed short. She made them with great care, each pleat meticulously pinched, as if completing something very important, as if preparing a very important gift for someone. He remembered his mother, who had made dumplings for twenty-two years since she passed away. Every year on his father's birthday, she made them. Every year for Chinese New Year, she made them. Every year on the anniversaries of the deaths of those missing women, she made them too. Once they were finished, she would set them on the table and wait. Until they cooled, she would put them away. Then she would make more the next day. She didn't wait for his father, she didn't wait for those people. But she waited for him.

"Mom, I haven't visited those family members yet. I'll go see them one by one after I'm done with this."

Xiuying nodded. "Go ahead. Tell them I'm sorry."

Jiang Bo looked at her. "Mom, what have you done to apologize for?"

Xiuying's tears streamed down her face. She didn't wipe them away, letting them flow freely, dripping onto the cutting board, dripping onto the dumplings. One tear landed on a dumpling, spreading a small wet patch. "I spoke for those people. The person they were waiting for didn't come back. The person I was waiting for has come back. I'm happy for them, and I'm sad for them. They waited their whole lives, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a few lines of text, waiting for the words 'drowning.' I've waited for you. I've waited for you."

Jiang Bo held her hand. "Mom, they will wait too. They won't see the person they waited for, but they will see the truth. They know that the person they waited for did not die in vain, that someone remembers them. My husband remembers them, I remember them, and you remember them too. Those names will not disappear, those apologies will not disappear."

Xiuying nodded. She wiped away her tears and continued making dumplings.

The next morning, Jiang Bo went to the old pontoon bridge again. This had become his first thing every day, like a ritual, a habit, an addiction he couldn't break. If he didn't go, he felt empty, as if something was missing. He set off before dawn, carrying two breakfasts—one for his husband and one for himself. Tangyuan, sitting in the passenger seat, looked at the insulated food container, knowing it was for his husband. She didn't try to take it, but her eyes remained fixed on it.

As dawn broke, the fog was thick, obscuring everything. The November fog was heavy, damp, and clinging to our faces, cool and heavy. The little house in the fog resembled a lonely island, a sunken ship, or an old man. The outline of the roof was blurred in the fog, only a sliver of dim yellow light piercing through the window, like an eye that refused to close. The door was open, and the gentleman sat in the doorway, gazing at the fog. He wore his dark overcoat, his hair completely white, and in the fog, he looked like a withered old tree. The overcoat was long, trailing on the ground, damp with dew. His hands rested on his knees, his fingers slightly curled, as if counting something, or perhaps caressing something unseen.

Jiang Bo walked over and sat down beside him. Tangyuan lay quietly at his feet, keeping him company. The chair was wet and cool to the touch, but he didn't move. He was used to the coolness.

"You've arrived."

"They're here."

They sat there in silence. The fog was thick, obscuring everything. The house, the wall, the New Year's picture—all were invisible. Only the sound of the river, rushing and gurgling, drifted through the fog, like a heartbeat, like breath, like whisper. The sounds were both near and far, as if beside their ears, yet also on the horizon. Occasionally, a bird's call, one or two, would emerge from the fog and vanish again.

After a long silence, the man spoke. His voice was soft, as if it drifted from afar. "Xiao Jiang, have you finished reading all those notebooks?"

"I've finished reading it. I remember every single name."

The man nodded. His gaze shifted from the fog to Jiang Bo's face. "What do you plan to do with those family members?"

"Go see them one by one. Tell them in person. Let them know that the people they were waiting for did not die in vain. Let them know that someone remembers them. Let them know that those names will not disappear."

The man was silent for a moment. "I'll go with you."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "Are you physically alright?"

"Fine. I owe them. I want to say sorry to their faces. I've said it for thirty years, but only in a notebook. They couldn't hear it. I want them to hear it. The biggest debt I owe in my life is 'I'm sorry.' I've said it for thirty years, written it tens of thousands of times, but I've never said it to them in person. They don't know who I am, they don't know how long I've waited for them, they don't know how many times I've written 'I'm sorry.' I want them to know. Even if they curse me, even if they hit me, I'll still go."

Jiang Bo stared at him for a long time. His eyes were bright, like the cold, deep waters of a river in winter. Jiang Bo saw many things in them—guilt, regret, sorrow, and determination. That kind of determination is something only someone who has waited a long time can have, something that has been bottled up for a long time can have, something that is no longer afraid of anything can have.

"Okay. I'll arrange it. First Wuhu, then Hefei, then Tongling. One by one."

The man stood up. His movements were slow; he gripped the chair armrests, braced himself on his knees, and straightened up little by little. His knees creaked and groaned, like rusty iron doors, like an old, worn-out staircase, as if they were about to fall apart. He straightened up and took a long breath. "Xiao Jiang, there's one more thing."

Jiang Bo waited.

"The leader of Organization J, the Fool, I might know who he is."

Jiang Bo's hands clenched tightly. His nails dug into his flesh, but he felt no pain. "Who?"

The man shook his head. He turned around, looking at the fog, at the unseen river. "I can't say. I have no evidence. I'm just guessing. But I've been guessing for years, and I'm increasingly convinced it's him. His back, the way he walks, the way he wears his ring. I remember it all. I can't be wrong. I've seen him twice, once at the old pontoon bridge, and once at the provincial government building. Both times it was his back, but I remembered it. It's etched in my mind, I can't forget it."

Jiang Bo looked at him. "You've seen him before?"

The man nodded. "I've seen him. Many years ago. He came to see me. At that time, I was still working in the provincial department. He came to see me and said, 'Zhou Yuanshan, you've been investigating for so many years, what have you found out?' I said, 'I haven't found anything.' He laughed and said, 'You can't fool me. You and your father are both investigating.' I said, 'I don't know what you're talking about.' He left. As he left, he looked back at me. I still remember that look. It was cold, like the river in winter."

Jiang Bo's tears streamed down his face. "Who is he?"

The man looked at him. His gaze was deep, like a stone at the bottom of a river. "Xiao Jiang, I'll tell you after I've met with those families and apologized. Not now. I'm afraid you'll go to him. You're no match for him. He's waited so many years, he's not afraid to wait again. You have to wait too. Your father can't wait, but you can."

Jiang Bo wiped away his tears. "I'll wait. I've waited for over thirty years, a few more days won't hurt."

The man smiled. It was a light, faint smile, but it warmed Jiang Bo's heart. "You're just like your father. Stubborn."

The fog slowly dissipated. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the ruins, the small house, and the two figures. The house was revealed, the wall was revealed, and the New Year's picture was revealed. The chubby baby, holding a fish, smiled eerily. In the sunlight, the smile wasn't so eerie; it was like a child's smile, like a chubby baby's smile, like an ordinary New Year's picture's smile. The colors of the New Year's picture had faded; the red was no longer red, the green was no longer green, but the chubby baby's eyes remained—dark and bright—gazing upon the ruins, upon the river, upon the city.

Jiang Bo stood up. "Sir, I'm leaving now. I'll come again tomorrow. I'll arrange a car to Wuhu tomorrow."

The man nodded. "Okay. See you tomorrow."

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, or perhaps waiting for him to turn around. He walked to the car and glanced back. The door of the small house was open, and the man stood in the doorway, waving. His hand was thin, like a withered branch, but he was still waving. Sunlight shone on him, casting his long, thin shadow on the ground, like an old tree.

The car started and drove off the old pontoon bridge. In the rearview mirror, the little house grew farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there. The gentleman stood there, farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, but it was still there.

Jiang Bo drove onto the Yangtze River Bridge, gazing at the river. The water shimmered in the sunlight, fragments of gold, dazzlingly bright. Those names, those apologies, were all in this river. Flowing away, yet remaining. He remembered his husband's words: "After I meet those families and say sorry, I'll tell you." He was waiting. He had waited so many years; a few more days wouldn't matter. He would wait too.

The car drove off the bridge and onto the road back to the city. Tangyuan lay quietly in the back seat, her head resting on her front paws. Jiang Bo gripped the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. Those names were still in his heart, those apologies were still in the notebook, and the Fool was still somewhere. He had to find him. No matter if he was human or ghost, no matter where he was hiding, no matter how many years he had waited. He had to find him. But now, he had to wait. Wait until the gentleman met with the families, said sorry, and told him that name. Then he would go look for him. This was the end of Volume Two and the beginning of Volume Three. Those names, those notebooks, those apologies—all were over. But one thing remained unfinished. The Fool. He was still alive. He had always been there.

(End of Volume 2)