Hungry Ghosts by Susan Dunlap

Author:Susan Dunlap [Dunlap, Susan]
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781619022713
Publisher: Counterpoint

CHAPTER 17

I NEVER THOUGHT Korematsu would answer my question. I had just wanted to make him as uncomfortable as Renzo would be when he realized his emotional comments had been overheard by a cop and now would become part of the investigation report. But Korematsu stood as thoughtfully as the others had. The only difference was that when he spoke he watched their reactions, and mine. “I didn’t know Tia. Mostly I read about her. I only”—he paused, eyes looking up as if searching right behind the skin of his forehead for the words he needed—“came into contact with her twice. The first time was at the accident scene. I was on patrol; I took the call.”

The blonde woman jolted back as if she’d been slapped. Benton Stallworth shifted his bulk to face Korematsu and looked him over as if the police officer had suddenly become worthy of his attention. The lithe woman glanced at her watch, and Renzo had no reaction. He, of course, had been around last night and must have noted Korematsu on the scene then. Renzo was taking in my surprise. I should have been impressed at Korematsu’s honesty, but I remembered John saying over and over as I grew up: look for the secondary motive. A good cop always has a hidden reason. What did this one have to gain now?

If Korematsu was staging his comments for us, he was doing an Oscar-worthy job. His gaze was to the floor now, his head slightly bowed. He thrust his hands in his pockets as if to get them out of sight. “I thought she was dead. Like you did. Her back . . . very bad. I was sure she wouldn’t make it.” He inhaled slowly. “But she did. It was a testament to her, to medicine, but really to her. I always read the blurbs in the paper about her, I cheered for her, you know, like I was a proud parent.” He inhaled again, more slowly. The rasping sound of his breath cut the silence. He said, “The second time I was with her was last night.”

It was hard to disbelieve that level of sincerity. But Benton Stallworth had managed. He didn’t harrumph, but his muffled cough gave the same message. I wondered if he saw something I’d missed.

The Asian woman glanced at her watch again.

The vestibule door opened. My brother John glared in. What was he doing here?

Before he could speak, I reached for the bell. “Normally we each offer incense, but this morning we will just end with the chanting of the Heart Sutra. I’ll pass out cards with the words.”

Chanting always begins raggedly in a Zen center where few have been trained. Zen attracts individualists, and nowhere is that clearer than in the chanting of sutras. For the voices to mesh, women would have to go an octave higher than the men; women are not about to do so, perhaps not anywhere, definitely not in San Francisco. Men could go lower. They don’t.

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