What Do They Think They Are!

Karen stood up and looked at Roth, who had just steadied him with his own chest while propped up on his crutches. He drew a deep breath. His head spun slightly, and for a moment he could not tell whether it was from a lack of oxygen or a rush of it. Yet deep inside, a sudden wave of relief washed over him. The boulder that had been weighing on his heart felt as if it had been lifted away. It was an emotion that could not be put into words—not because of its complexity, but because another family's tragedy lay right before his eyes. The boundaries of basic decency forbade him from uttering a single inappropriate remark. Had he not been on the scene, but on the telephone, it would have been entirely natural to say: "Hey, Roth, I heard a family died on your street. Scared the life out of me—I thought something had happened to yours." In the presence of death, most emotions are stained a somber gray. Often, this is not out of reverence for any particular deceased soul, but out of respect for life itself. After all, most people who look upon a body lying in state at a memorial service have pictured what it would look like if they were the one lying there. Of course, his inner relief was understandable, and there was no reason to feel guilty for it. True empathy for human suffering and grief is exceedingly difficult to achieve, especially when it comes to strangers. "Karen, Karen?" Uncle Mason called out again. "Are you all right? Hold this cart steady." Karen turned back, stepped over, and braced the gurney. Uncle Mason instructed further, "Alfred, come with me to lift the one inside. Karen, if you can't push it, wait for us here." Karen tried pushing the gurney on his own. On smooth pavement it would have posed little trouble, but the ground here was pitted with hollows and ruts that easily trapped the wheels. Just then, Sarah's mother walked over, took hold of the opposite side, and helped Karen push. Roth kept pace beside them. "Mr. Karen, do you know, on this street people call me Lame Roth, and the man lying on that cart is known as One-Armed Siso. "Truth be told, his father and mine were once fellow factory workers. When we were little boys, our fathers often drank together, and the two of us played together. "Later, we entered the same factory. The day the accident happened, both of us were crushed beneath the machinery. I lost a leg to it, and he lost an arm. "He used to comfort me like this: 'Hey, Roth, I envy you to death. At least you still have a pair of whole hands to make slippers out of tire tread, but I can't knit gloves with a pair of feet.' "His family actually had it harder than mine. In the summer, making slippers brought in a few hundred lubi a month to help with expenses, and my wife had a wage from her job at the textile mill. Most of the time, he could only pick scraps of meat from the garbage heaps to sell to the fried meat stalls. Even so, he often brought the freshest, most whole pieces home to share with us. "Every time he brought meat over, he would say: 'Hey, even if it's scraps, it still tastes good when you chew it. Just like the two of us—missing an arm or a leg, but aren't we still human?' "His wife always had a weak heart and couldn't handle heavy labor. She stayed home with his mother folding cardboard boxes for people. A hundred boxes earned two lubi, and they often spent the entire day folding. "The day we came back from the rally, we were both thrilled. He said to me, 'Roth, did you see? Mr. Sixen is still standing with us. He's still the pride of our East District.' "He was already planning how to spend the two hundred lubi we'd be getting each month. He said he wanted to save it so his wife could go to the hospital and have her heart checked. He said her heart trouble seemed to be getting worse. But his wife insisted the money should be saved for the girl's schooling, because once she got into middle school, tuition and books would cost even more. "Just last night, after you left, Mr. Karen, I dropped by his place. I even showed him that exquisite business card you gave me. "He was astonished. He said he'd seen the hearse parked on the street. When he walked past it, he'd marveled at what kind of family could afford to lie in such a luxurious, comfortable automobile on the way to their memorial service. "I told him you had dinner at my house. He said once his precious girl entered middle school, she'd surely meet classmates from well-off families, and when she brought them over, he'd have to prepare something proper so as not to lack manners." The gurney had already been pushed up behind the hearse. Karen opened the rear hatch and pulled down a ramp board so the gurney could be rolled straight inside—a feature the old hearse had lacked. Karen climbed in first to pull from above, while Sarah's mother and Roth pushed together from below. At last, the gurney bearing One-Armed Siso was rolled into the hearse. Karen stepped down from the vehicle and gazed into the distance, looking for his uncle and Alfred. At that moment, Roth, who had been talking the whole time, suddenly thrust his face right in front of Karen's. His features contorted, his eyes turned completely bloodshot, and he roared almost hysterically: "Mr. Karen! A father who was just thinking last night about how to entertain well-off classmates his daughter might bring home someday—he poisoned himself just like that? Do you think that's possible?!" "I..." "He's dead! One-Armed Siso is dead! His mother hanged herself, and his wife jumped from the building with their daughter! I went to see the scene—it's unbearable! You can't even look at it! Mr. Karen, little Mila was the apple of their eye! "No matter what happened, they would have protected little Mila with their lives! Especially his wife—her heart condition started because she gave birth to little Mila! His wife treasured her daughter more than her own life! "Even if she wanted to die... "How could she take her daughter with her?!" Karen had no idea how to answer. Roth gripped Karen's clothes tightly. Sarah's mother pulled at her husband from behind, but Roth refused to let go. "And another thing... why was it you, Mr. Karen, who came to collect Siso? "Heavens! "Could he afford funeral expenses?! "His family would have had to scrape together every penny just for a cremation! How could they possibly have the money to hold a memorial service?! "Look at him! He's lying in this comfortable big car right now—something he wouldn't have dared dream of yesterday when he was still alive!" *Thud!* Roth's crutches slipped from under him, and he collapsed into a puddle, sending a splash of muddy water flying. Yet this man, who had always kept himself clean despite his disability, now beat the murky water frantically with both hands. "Who can tell me what's going on?! Who can tell me what this is all about?! "Why did those reporters arrive so fast?! "Why did Siso's suicide note curse Mr. Sixen?! "Good god! "This is One-Armed Siso, who couldn't even understand his daughter's elementary school homework and had to bring her to ask Sarah for help!" Just then, a cluster of reporters who had finished taking photographs emerged from the alley. Holding umbrellas and cradling their cameras, they picked their way carefully across the brick stepping-stones over the puddles. Passing Roth as he wildly struck the water, their faces filled with shock and disdain, and they skirted far around him, leaving Roth to sit there alone, shouting in despair. Uncle Mason, assisted by a police officer, wheeled out the body of Siso's mother. Further back, Alfred came pushing another gurney on his own, with two figures lying beneath a white sheet. All the corpses were loaded into the hearse. The gurneys' wheels were folded up. Siso and his mother were placed in the recessed center well, while the wife and daughter were arranged along the side seats meant for passengers. After Mason signed the paperwork with the police, he climbed into the driver's seat. "Young Master, time to get in," Alfred reminded him. Karen boarded the hearse. With the seats occupied by bodies, Karen and Alfred had no choice but to sit down on the floor, each extending an arm to keep the corpses from sliding during the bumpy ride. At long last, the clamor outside began to recede, and the hearse drove out of Mine Street. "Alfred, get me a cigarette," Uncle Mason called from the wheel. Alfred walked forward, pulled a cigarette from Mason's pack, placed it in Mason's mouth, and lit it for him. As Alfred went to put the pack away, Mason gave a nod toward the back. Alfred understood. His mind flashed back to the day at 128 Mink Street, on the second-floor windowsill, where he and Ms. Molly had smoked alongside the Great Being and laughed heartily. Alfred brought a cigarette to Karen's lips. Karen took the cigarette with his fingers, but waved off the offer of a light. "Uncle..." Before Karen could finish, Uncle Mason barked from the driver's seat: "Suicide, suicide, suicide! Suicide, my ass!" Paying a funeral deposit in advance, booking a date, and then committing suicide as an entire family to wait for someone to collect the bodies—it wasn't impossible. In fact, they had encountered similar business before; elderly couples had indeed arranged their own affairs beforehand so they could pass away together. But a deposit of a hundred thousand lubi? Inmeles Funeral Parlor? Was that something a household on Mine Street could afford? The person who paid that deposit had known long ago that people would die, that they would die today, and that the entire family would perish! This wasn't an elderly couple passing away together after living out their days! So what kind of damn suicide was this?! Others might not know, outsiders might not know, but how could the Inmeles family, who had received the deposit in advance, not know? Had their household rested these past few days just to wait for this "suicide"? Mason was no fool. He had seen through it long ago. Yet after venting his fury, Mason spoke again: "Karen, so many reporters showed up today. I'm certain even more will turn up at tomorrow's memorial service. That sergeant just told me his commissioner is keeping an eye on this case, and plenty of people in City Hall are watching it too." Karen pressed his lips together. Traffic ahead had slowed to a crawl. Uncle Mason slammed on the horn in frustration: *Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!* Then, he slumped back dejectedly. "So what can we do? Go report it? Whistleblow that we took a hundred-thousand-lubi deposit days ago? Say that all of this was premeditated? "Are we going to stand up for justice? "Are we going to expose the darkness? "Are we going to demand fair play for the four guests in the back of our car right now? "Karen, "this is a game played by big figures. "Since they dared to give us that deposit openly—such an enormous sum—they aren't afraid of us talking. They have the clout to shut our mouths. "They can do it with lubi. "And of course, "they can do it just like they did to the family in this car. Their mouths won't ever speak again either." Alfred watched Mason's surging and crashing emotions. It seemed to him that Mr. Mason's words were less about comforting his nephew and urging him to accept society's dark side, and more about consoling himself—soothing his own righteous heart. He wasn't trying to talk Karen through it; he was talking himself through it. "I understand, Uncle." Karen felt a throbbing headache. Perhaps the initial misunderstanding had drained too much of his energy; sitting in the hearse now, he actually felt a touch of motion sickness. Uncle Mason stopped speaking loudly and focused on driving. The hurried, erratic honks of the horn revealed the agitation churning inside him. Perhaps, if time could be turned back, he would never have chosen to take this job. One earned money to improve their quality of life, and one improved their quality of life to feel happier. Right now, he was anything but happy. Karen looked at the little girl lying on the bench beside his hand. She was younger than Sarah—still in elementary school. "The neighbors saw it. Her mother took her to the rooftop," Alfred murmured. Karen looked at Alfred. Alfred seemed to want to offer a smile to ease the heavy atmosphere, but a smile felt far too out of place at this moment. He could only keep a solemn, grave expression as he continued: "Perhaps the young master could ask Grandfather when we return—that is, Mr. Diss." Mason, who was driving, overheard. "Telling Father won't help either. Father is an upright man, but he's just a priest. Telling him will only trouble him." Karen, however, caught Alfred's underlying meaning. It was deemed a suicide not only because of the note left behind, but because many neighbors had watched with their own eyes as the wife led her daughter out of their home and toward the tenement roof. No one had coerced them. The wife had taken her daughter to jump of her own accord. Therefore, something was wrong here. The facts proved that, at least from the perspective of the Inmeles family, there was no way this had been a genuine suicide. Everything had been calculated well in advance. Yet the manner of the mother and daughter's deaths showed no sign of duress; it had appeared entirely voluntary. Therein lay the problem—a paradox. And there existed a kind of being capable of engineering paradoxes far beyond normal human reasoning. Namely... "An aberrant demon," Karen whispered to Alfred. Alfred nodded and settled back into place. Near noon, the hearse returned to Mink Street. As they approached the house, Uncle Mason suddenly shouted from behind the wheel: "Dammit, what is this?!" There, gathered on the street outside 13 Mink Street—right in front of the Inmeles residence—was a crowd of people. Every one of them held a white rose and sat quietly on the pavement. When the hearse pulled up, the seated crowd immediately stood in unison, raising their roses with grief-stricken faces. Those bouquets of white roses were held aloft with uniform precision and practiced ease, as if the gesture had been rehearsed. At the same time, reporters carrying cameras poured out of vehicles parked nearby. The moment the hearse began unloading the bodies, flashbulbs went off in rapid succession. "Out of the way! Make way!" "Move aside! Make way!" Uncle Mason shouted at the top of his lungs, but it did little good. The "white roses" clustered tightly around each advancing gurney, weeping and mourning, heaping white roses atop the covered bodies with every pass. With Ron's assistance, all the gurneys and bodies were finally wheeled inside. The reporters tried to force their way in, but Aunt Winnie and Aunt Mary stepped out to bar the door. "The deceased must be prepared. The memorial service is tomorrow. Thank you, but please do not disrupt our work." At that moment, seated inside a car by the roadside, Hummel, the chief editor of the *Rojia Daily*, gave instructions to the person beside him: "Don't let them foolishly barge in to snap photos of the corpses. Do they really want bloody pictures of people who jumped off a building? Dammit, putting that in the paper won't stir up public outrage—it'll only disgust people and turn their stomachs. "Call the reporters back for now. Have them photograph the sit-in protesters. "Once the mortuary makeup is finished and they look decent, photograph them at the memorial service tomorrow. That way, the images will carry a quiet dignity, and when readers see them in the paper, it will provoke genuine anger. Understand?!" ... Inside the living room, Uncle Mason hurled his hat to the floor in a fit of rage. "Madness! Absolute madness! Those idiots outside with their white roses managed to get here faster than our hearse!" Aunt Winnie said, "The secretary from mayoral candidate Ford's office called to ask when the bodies would be prepared. He wants to come pay his respects. I told him tomorrow. "Also, various newspapers have booked slots for tomorrow's service, saying they'll send reporters to attend. "Union representatives from several districts, offices of city officials, and even the assistants of some Rojia celebrities have called to ask when they can pay their respects to the deceased." Aunt Mary ventured, "Mason, I think there's something wrong with this order." "Get out! Get out! Get out!" Uncle Mason, already on the verge of losing control, erupted in a shout. Then he sank down against the floor, and began to weep. Ms. Molly edged over to Alfred and asked in a low whisper, "What happened to Mr. Mason?" Alfred answered quietly, "He is a good man." Karen silently climbed the stairs, from the first floor to the second, and from the second to the third. "Lively house today," Purr remarked, padding along the stair railing beside Karen. Karen did not speak. "Karen, if something is troubling you, you could always talk to Diss." As Purr spoke, she looked down toward the bottom of the stairs, eyeing the two aberrant demons who were craning their necks to look up. "Dear Karen, for the sake of that sweet-and-sour squirrel fish, let me offer you a word of advice: don't listen too much to those two aberrant demons. You should listen to your grandfather. Diss's counsel is always the most fitting and the most prudent. "He can always... always give you the soundest, coolest-headed advice." Karen paused and looked at Purr. Purr flicked her tail. "In short, you must not be rash. There is a proverb: the rash shall eventually be swallowed by evil gods." Having said that, Purr tilted her head. "What in the world am I babbling about? Meow." Karen walked up to the door of Diss's study. After a moment's hesitation, he knocked. *Knock... knock... knock...* "Enter." Karen stepped into the study. Diss was writing with a fountain pen, and without looking up, he asked, "Quite lively outside. You've brought that commission back?" "Yes, Grandfather. A family of four, all dead. They left suicide notes. Coincidentally, they died on the very last day of our agreed-upon window." "Oh." "They lived on Mine Street. Their circumstances were dire. Even if their household were sold ten times over, it wouldn't fetch a hundred thousand lubi." "Oh." "I don't believe this was suicide." "Mm. Obviously, someone arranged their deaths and booked our funeral services in advance." "So..." "You could call the police and tell them. You know Sergeant Duke, don't you? Ah, he might not oversee the East District. In that case, you could call the municipal bureau and give them the lead. The directory by the telephone on the ground floor has the municipal bureau's number." "A crowd of sit-in protesters holding white roses has gathered outside, along with a horde of reporters. Tonight, or at tomorrow's service, a large contingent of officials and prominent figures will arrive to attend." "Oh. It seems their backers hold considerable influence, and this likely involves political strife." "Yes. So reporting it to the police... probably won't do any good. They practically told us to our faces in advance that they were going to kill people and asked us to keep our schedule open to collect the bodies. They have the backing to ensure that even if we know, it won't affect them in the slightest." "Oh. Then don't call the police. It wouldn't do any good anyway." Karen was left speechless. Diss continued writing, seemingly drafting a report. Indeed he was; Diss was working on the second investigative report regarding the Belwin divine descent incident. Karen drew a deep breath, slowly turned around, and prepared to leave. In truth, he didn't know what he could do. From a slightly more selfish angle, he didn't even know what he was suited to do. He was merely... a high school dropout. All right, he also had two aberrant demons who firmly believed he was an evil god descended into the world. Those two were formidable—Ms. Molly had swallowed Mrs. Hughes whole right before his eyes, and Alfred was likely stronger still. Perhaps he could command, or coax, those two aberrant demons into doing something on his behalf. Yet he felt a lingering fear. Just as Purr had warned: do not be rash. The opposition possessed immense secular power, and the consequences of abusing an aberrant demon's abilities could be far more terrible. Besides, just as Purr had noted, Diss was always cool-headed. Indeed. Grandfather was utterly calm: if calling the police was useless, then there was no point in doing it. Uncle Mason had crouched on the floor, weeping in anguish. As an ordinary man, he knew he lacked the strength to fight the people outside. He had a home, a family, a business; in the end, after his outburst, all he could do was crouch on the floor and cry. Karen was no different. What right did he have to drag the entire household into a perilous whirlpool? Just for... that pitiful shred of... self-righteousness? It wasn't even Roth's family that had died, was it? The deceased weren't people he knew or had spent time with. He hadn't shared a meal with them, hadn't smoked a cigarette with them, hadn't patted the little girl's head. So, it really had little to do with him, didn't it? Hadn't he himself felt a wave of relief upon seeing that Mr. Roth was still alive? So then, what was he agonizing over? This was simply how the world was, how society functioned. What did he think he could change? He would be better off thinking about what delicious meal to cook for the family tonight, so his shattered uncle might regain a bit of an appetite. That was the proper choice for his family. Karen pulled open the door. Hearing the scratching of Diss's pen behind him, Karen hesitated. He turned back and spoke once more: "Grandfather." "Mm? Still something else?" Diss continued writing without pausing. "We know that family's deaths were orchestrated. But neighbors saw the wife take her daughter to the rooftop of her own accord and jump. From what I know, that woman would never, under any circumstances, harm her daughter. She wasn't the kind of person who would watch her husband die and decide to take her child with her to end it all." The pen stopped. Diss raised his head, looked at Karen, and asked, "So what are you implying?" Karen answered, "I believe there is a paradox here. It's very likely that an aberrant demon's power was involved." Diss capped his pen, set it back into the penholder, closed the half-written report, and rose to his feet. "If an aberrant demon is involved, then it becomes our affair." "Uh..." Karen was caught off guard by Diss's sudden shift in attitude. Diss pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a black briefcase. "You should have a clear grasp of what happened. If an aberrant demon committed murder, where do you think we should begin our investigation? I mean either the demon itself, or the person commanding it." Karen did not actually know how to run an investigation. He was no police officer; in his past life, he had merely served as a police consultant. Yet since Diss had asked, Karen gave an answer in broad strokes, for the conclusion was staring them in the face: "I think this incident is a fuse. A crowd outside is waiting to hype it up, and ultimately it will be aimed at the mayoral election—a weapon of public opinion to strike down the incumbent mayor. "Therefore, the primary beneficiary—the one most likely to take office as the new mayor if the old one falls—is a man named Ford." "Good. We'll go to Ford's house and ask him if he did it." "Uh..." Karen froze. Carrying the black briefcase, Diss walked around the desk and came to stand before Karen. Seeing him motionless, he asked, "What is it?" "Go to... Ford's house?" "Indeed. Didn't you say he stands to gain the most? Wouldn't asking him directly be the simplest approach?" "Grandfather, he's a mayoral candidate. City Hall, the press, and likely many prominent figures and financial syndicates in Rojia City are his supporters." "Mm. And? What of it?" "We're just going straight to his house?" "We'll ask him first. If it wasn't him, we'll have him name other suspects. Isn't that the most direct and efficient course?" "Logically, yes. But his influence is immense, and if he can command an aberrant demon to commit murder, that proves his backing must also..." Karen trailed off, for he saw Diss smile. "Heh." Diss reached out, patted Karen's shoulder, and asked, "Did you read the books I had Lunt bring to you?" "I read one." "Which one?" "*Light of Order*." "Mm. Did you see that line in it? "The one that reads: "'The Church of Order, as the upholder of order, shall treat all equally under the light of Order.'" Karen nodded. "I saw it." "Then it seems you have yet to understand what it means." "I..." "'Treat all equally under the light of Order.' "It means "no one possesses the qualifications to be treated with special deference by our Church of Order. "This is not the 'all men are created equal' written into the Ruilan constitution. "Rather, "it is a truth that the Church of Order hammered out with its fists." With that, Diss reached out, patted Karen's cheek gently, and smiled. "So why did you naively assume your grandfather would fear some mayor, the press, or financial syndicates?" Diss pushed open the study door himself and added: "After all, what the hell do they think they are?"