By Thomas Clink And Chris Krawciw

She hated the smell of Chinese restaurants, and why was it so impossible to correctly light the places? Andrea supposed if the diners could really see what they were eating, McDonald's would suddenly look more appealing. There were always little slimy pieces of sea cucumber or some other useless glob lurking amongst the rice, waiting to slide down your throat like some grotesque Chinese version of a roller coaster. 

There was no fighting Mom, however. It had taken some time, but her father had finally realized that too. Andrea had spent too many of her summers shuffling back and forth between her parents after their divorce, and she soon found they played for her affections as if it were a contest. Not long after the divorce had become final, her father seemed to become much more interested in her. He had never appeared concerned about her when she would go off on dates with the Jock of the Week or the sometimes half-educated hick (she had even dated a decidedly greasy junior just to watch his reaction,) but Monday night football appealed to him more. 

Then the divorce; her father had suddenly become--her father. She always questioned it, but could never find an answer. Now, instead of flipping through the channels with his back turned to her, he would ask the questions she had always dared him to. He was loving, affectionate, and he certainly had a few choice words with a date who had let his fingers do too much walking. In all, she had found much more depth to him than before, and she nearly blessed the divorce for that. 

Her parents' roles had suddenly reversed. Her mother (God damn her) was now the one to sit abjectly when someone brought her home. Andrea wondered if she should once walk in with her panties down around her ankles to prod a reaction out of her. She had also taken to smoking again, a habit which revolted Andrea; her mother's sweaters always exuding the odor of the slim and feminine Capri cigarettes (or "Diet Smoke" as her father called them.) It progressed to the point that asking how classes at Macomb Community were progressing had become a chore. Joking was against the law, and talking about her father was strictly prohibited. 

Somewhere the love had stopped and the competition had begun. And now it had culminated in this, the `expensive dinner' tactic. When Andrea had come home to her mother's in Dearborn for the weekend, the woman had insisted on going to a Chinese eatery she'd discovered with her church-gossip group. 

It didn't matter that Andrea despised Chinese food, it didn't matter that she couldn't stomach MSG. It was expensive, and goddammit, her daughter was going to have the best. 

To tell the truth, the dinner hadn't been all that bad. She'd eaten something called champong, which was really just a spicy noodle soup. But her mother had delved into the section of the menu marked `Vietnamese Dishes' and had come up with the house specialty, Chekini; a sweet tasting glob of carbohydrates if ever she'd seen one. Yes, the food had been fine, but the conversation had been pathetic. It was now a tired routine of `what-have-you-been-up-to's' and `how's college's'. 

Finally, she'd become tired of the bullshit and excused herself with the intention of splashing some cold water on her face to calm her nerves. 

Her mother had never looked up, she was too preoccupied in trying to eat rice with chop sticks. 

"I'll be right back," she muttered as her mother dropped a clump of rice into her lap. 

The bathroom of the Ottoman was so clean it almost smelled like a doctor's office. She half expected to see a jar of sterile cotton balls sitting on the counter next to the sinks. The toilets were lined up in neat little booths painted with Oriental flower blossoms, the sinks were embedded into a marble counter top, and there was even a full length mirror. She paused for a moment, looking herself up and down. Her mother's hair, her mother's face, her mother's body, and her father's mind. Physically she was fine, it was just her life that was fucked up. As she mulled over her reflection, she noticed a funny glint to the mirror, just a momentary imperfection, as if a shadow puppet were dancing in Alice's looking glass, before it vanished. Shrugging, Andrea wandered over to the sink and splashed cold water into her eyes. She took a towelette off the counter and began drying her face. 

If she hadn't been so preoccupied with her thoughts, she might have lived. As it was, her head was jerked back by a strong, rubber gloved, grip across her forehead. There was a moment's struggle before the blade cut a strong arc across her oh so beautiful neck.

At first Tracy Patterson searched the bathroom for Andrea, then, she searched the restaurant, then, she looked outside, then, she got pissed off, later, she would panic.

Her tone was quiet, and she did her best to hide her dread, but it was detectable nonetheless, as she continually blinked back the threatening tears. It was hard to awaken genuine compassion in Scott Cloud, but today it had been done, if only for today. 

"No one has seen her all week. Not her roommates, her friends at home. I'm afraid to talk to my ex-husband, Tom. I don't know what he'd do. I don't know what I'm going to do," 

she said. 

"You should speak with your ex-husband. If she's not with him, he's probably at least heard from her. Are you sure you're not forgetting anything? Trouble with a boyfriend? Anything? Little things like that lead to bigger problems," Scott said. 

"Maybe she didn't like the food," Paul Edwards remarked, pouring himself a shot of bourbon from an open fifth. 

Scott pressed a scornful look on Paul. 

Paul capped the bottle and shrugged. "Sounds reasonable," he said. 

"Put that away," Scott said, motioning to the Jim Beam. 

Paul nodded. "Sure," he said, walking over to the refrigerator with the fifth. Paul opened the door and set the whiskey inside, then withdrew a fifth of Sweden's finest. 

"You're an idiot," Scott said. 

Paul smiled. "Absolut-ly." 

Tracy Patterson took the refined banter with an unappreciative, if not uncaring eye. 

Scott knew they were going to take the case. The police wouldn't put too much sweat into this one; missing person, adult, young, problems with mother. They'd assume she'd just skipped town to play hide the salami with a drugged out boyfriend. 

It would be good to work on something more ordinary than Street Cloud Investigation's usual fare. His and Paul's small office on the west side of Detroit had seen enough freaks to support a carnival side show. Cloud absently ran a hand through his nearly black hair which was beginning to lose the battle of the grey. It was frustrating to him that he could keep his six foot frame so highly tuned, but there was no way of stopping the great silver wave. Scott's mind usually wasn't so self-preoccupied, but in the presence of a woman such as Tracy, short comings were inevitable. His partner's drinking performance wasn't helping much either. 

Tracy pulled her deep, brown eyes from Paul's portly frame as he began to break the seal of the vodka, and let them come to rest on Scott once more. She was at least ten years his senior, and had a daughter under her belt, but Scott found his mind being overrun with welcome visions of the two of them together. 

He'd been too open, and she had caught his stare, and seemingly his thoughts, with the ability of an experienced woman. And unless he was mistaken, she didn't seem to mind. 

"You know what you should do?" Scott began, as a look of shock crossed her face. 

"If I knew that, Mr. Cloud, I wouldn't need to pay you to help me." 

Ignoring her retort, he continued. 

"We could start out with something simple, such as putting an ad in the Windsor Gazette for any information about the disappearance of an Andrea Patterson, offer a reward like $500. Then Mr. Edwards and I will take a visit to the Ottoman, to look around the area." 

"Fine, fine, just find my daughter," with that she stood up with more authority than was necessary. "How much will your retainer be?" 

"One thousand up front, and $500 per day," Scott began. 

"Plus expenses," Paul added, taking a swig. 

"That's fine," she said, dropping a check onto Scott's desk. 

"I hope we'll be seeing you soon," Paul said to her back as she turned to leave. 

She swiveled and looked directly at Scott. 

"I certainly hope so." 

After the door closed, Paul returned to his desk and gave Scott a querying glance. 

"Fine, fine, just find my daughter," Paul cackled. "You know, I know your luck with women, but think about it, she just lost her daughter a couple of days ago and she's already hitting up on you. What kind of person does it take to do that?" 

Scott pondered the question as he looked over the check in his hands. He didn't need Paul's moralizing to shake Tracy's forward affections, he didn't screw around with clients, and he 

wasn't attracted to women who were colder than he was. 

* * *

The Ottoman was a much smaller establishment than Scott had anticipated. Although he did not know Tracy Patterson well enough to say, he suspected her tastes were more extravagant than the average well-to-do woman who received alimony. A small plaque next to the entrance proclaimed the excellent reviews of cuisine critics. There were also some articles taped up concerning the head chef and proprietor, Otto Fetting, and his unusual history. Scott scanned the articles and shelved the information away. 

The restaurant was dim, decorated with light colors and paintings of lotus blossoms. 

They were seated at a secluded table, and although it hampered their observation, it was the only one available. Scott 

anxiously flipped through the menu, trying to pronounce the entrees correctly. 

"If I get the Mongolian beef shits, I'll slit your eye balls and make you go bobbing for apples in a vat of iodine," Paul said. "Speaking of eyeballs, where in hell is the waiter?" 

Scott was less preoccupied with the cuisine than he was with looking over the clientele. Fairly successful. A few Jewish businessmen, a few idle stragglers. 

"Looks all right," Scott said, taking up the menu. 

"So does the blonde," Paul quipped, referring to the woman pondering over her won tons, seated beneath an arc of fish tanks suspended from the ceiling. 

A lanky Vietnamese man dressed in a white shirt and red tie approached them from the kitchen. 

"Good evening, gentlemen. How has your day been?" the man asked. 

Scott began to reply but Paul quickly interrupted him. 

"Do you serve sake here?" Paul inquired. 

The waiter smiled back at him. "Yes, yes we do." 

"Bring me a couple of bottles," Paul said. 

The waiter's smile faded and he looked to Scott. "Sake is very strong, Sir, perhaps just a..." 

"Bring him a couple of bottles," Scott sighed. 

The waiter nodded, "Two glasses?. 

"None for me, thank you," Scott said. 

"Are you ready to order now, or do you need more time?" 

Scott closed his menu and turned to Paul, who had already closed his. "I think we're ready." 

Paul leaned forward in earnest and began to order. "I'd like to start with a side dish of kim chi. Make her cold. Then I'd like some hot/sour soup..." Paul paused to wait for the man's writing to catch up to his voice. "An order of chimandoo...an egg roll...for the entree champong...and glazed bananas for dessert. And please make sure my fortune cookie has writing on 

it this time." Paul looked at Scott. "Go ahead Cloud." 

"I'd like to try the special. How do you pronounce it? Chekiki?" 

"What!" Paul blurted. "That stuff's Vietnamese, you have no idea what they put in there. Get something Chinese--like me. An egg roll, et cetera." 

"I wanted the Chekiki," Scott said. 

Paul slowly shook his head. "It's your digestive tract..." 

Scott stopped, turned to the waiter, and sighed his order for Mongolian beef. 

"Very good. I bring you sake in just a moment. If you need me, my name's Fu Jung." Scrawling a few more words, Fu Jung turned to the kitchen. 

"Nice gook," Paul said, still pondering the blonde's won tons. 

Scott ignored Paul's antics and began thinking aloud. 

"We have to check out the bathroom sometime," he turned his head to the door marked "Unisex". 

"Don't worry," Paul sighed as the sake arrived. "Between the sake and the tea, I'll have to shake the dew off my lotus leaf soon." 

As if she had heard him, the blonde gave a small frown, and made a line for the bathroom. Thinking of her legs, Paul poured himself a generous glass. 

"Goddam, she looks good enough to eat." 

"Eat what's on your plate," Scott growled. Paul could be a true pain in the ass, but he also made up for it in his work, and his friendship. 

The waiter returned with the first course, and they began to enjoy an excellent meal, passing the time with idle chatter. 

When the main dishes arrived, Scott decided to press a few questions. 

"You know, the reason we came today was because a lady friend of mine recommended the place. She comes here quite often, maybe you would remember her." 

The Vietnamese man smiled and replied, "It is very possible sir, what is the lady's name?" 

"Andrea Patterson, she's about 20, very attractive, long brown hair. She was in here just a few days ago with her mother." Fu Jung's smile faltered a bit and Scott thought he detected bit of tension. 

"No, Sir. I'm sorry, but I don't remember anyone like that." Fu Jung quickly put the trays down and left the table. 

Scott leaned forward and whispered to Paul, who was looking quite consternate. 

"Did you see that?" 

"You mean the spooked gook? I'm too busy holding myself, that blond chick has been in the bathroom for half an hour now. In a minute I'm going to go outside and tinkle on their pagoda." 

"Did you try the door?" 

"I think I'd look pretty silly pissing on the door." 

Scott shook off the remark. 

"Go knock, who knows, she might have passed out or something." 

"Maybe," Paul said, standing up. "She got a look at her bill and crawled out the window." 

Paul wandered over to the bathroom, only to return a few moments later. "Thing's locked. I knocked a couple of times but nobody answered. I guess I'm stuck for a while." 

The next few minutes went by like a heated canasta match for Paul. He began to feel like a little boy again. There had been many times when as a child he'd be walking the half mile to and from grade school when suddenly the urge to urinate would overwhelm him. He had almost always made it back home in time, almost always. 

Paul kept his eyes tightly fastened on the door, waiting for any sign it would soon open. Finally, he gave up hope and decided to try knocking again. When he reached the door, he gave it a gentle rap, only to have it swing open behind the force of the knock. He turned around to see if Scott was looking, but his partner had his back to him. 

Paul called into the bathroom to see if anyone was there. He had horrible visions of barging in on a woman who was on a mission of feminine hygiene, but no one replied to his queries. He looked about what was possibly the cleanest public restroom he'd ever seen, only to find it empty. 

"I don't suppose anyone's hiding in the ceiling?" he asked no one in particular, peering up at the white squares above. 

"Nope," he mumbled, and quickly set out to relieve himself. Finished, Paul stepped over to the sink and washed his hands. He half expected to see old soy sauce smudges wiped into the towels, but they were immaculately clean. 

"Now where in hell could she have gone?" Paul murmured, glancing into the single stall. "Jesus, I swear I was watching the door the whole time." Paul started for the door, then paused, staring at the mirror. 

"Where the hell is she?" 

The champong was beginning to kick in and Paul's face flushed an uncomfortable red. 

"This always fuckin' happens! Jesus!" Paul ran cold tap water into his hands and splashed his face. Cold rivulets ran down his cheeks, cooling the flames. Reaching for the towel to dry his neck, Paul scanned over the tiles at the mirror's edge and observed tiny crimson speckles indiscriminately scattered over the white as if a distraught, and quite psychotic artist, had flung the last of his paint at the ceiling, but missed. 

"And I thought this place was clean." 

Paul opened the door and stepped back into the aroma of Chinese food. His glazed bananas were neatly set out before his place at the table, but he wasn't sure if he wanted them. 

Fu Jung bustled between customers, but he was still too close for Scott's comfort. Perhaps it was the waiter's complacent coolness which disturbed him, or his wide oriental smile, but he felt he was under scrutiny. 

"Nobody was home," Paul said, returning to his seat. 

"You mean we failed to notice her?" Scott asked. 

Paul nodded. "Must have, unless she had a hammer and chisel. No windows, one stall, one door. Unisex is right." 

Fu Jung came to their table again, all smiles and Confucian manners. "Sir, is something wrong with bananas?" he asked. 

"No, no. I just haven't had the chance to taste them yet." 

Paul said. 

"Are you going to eat them?" Scott asked, his tone telling Paul not to. 

Paul glanced up at Fu Jung and asked if the bananas could be boxed up. 

"Certainly," the waiter said, and left the table, taking the dish with him. 

"We should get going," Scott said, and Paul nodded. 

Fu Jung returned with the wrapped dessert and bade them a good day. Scott left a ten dollar tip. The service had been excellent. 

* * * 

Paul slipped the doggie bag into the office refrigerator, moving several bottles out of the way to make room. 

Scott checked his service to see if there had been any calls answering the classified ad that had appeared in the Windsor Gazette that morning. There hadn't been. 

Slipping off his coat and settling down in his chair, Scott's mind began to spin off in search of an answer. Paul had told him of the blood in the bathroom, but it could have come from a thousand different places. They had spent the entire morning hoofing around Windsor and little Chinatown trying to find a trace of Andrea, without even so much as a suspicious fortune cookie to show for it. 

"Did you check your friend at the paper yet?" he asked Paul, who had buried his nose in a book on Chinese drink mixing. 

"Yeah," he grunted through the pages. "I asked him to check on the Patterson kid. Plus, I thought it would be a good idea to see what he could come up with on general missing persons in little Chinatown. He's supposed to get back with me sometime later today or tomorrow. By the way, his asking price was dibbs on the story and a fifth of Bailey's Irish Cream, can I put that on the expense account?" 

Scott left the question hang there, and fell back into his thoughts. Otto Fetting, the man certainly had an odd past. According to the articles on the door, his parents were German and had immigrated to the United States while Otto was still a small child. He'd spent time in Vietnam courtesy of the marines, and had gone AWOL. While presumed dead, Otto had spent his time with the native Vietnamese, living the life of a villager to the point that he had almost starved when a famine struck. Some of the villagers became entranced with his stories of the West, and convinced him to return there with them in tow. It had been difficult to flee the country, especially once the war had ended, but rather than risking the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, he'd led his growing group of followers to the British ports of Taiwan. Fearing a court-martial, Otto chose to immigrate to Canada, using a loan from his parents to start what many considered as the only Oriental restaurant in Windsor worth patronizing. 

The man was something of a local hero, and had even been the subject of a book, but that had been years ago, now he was just a chef.

The shadows of the city were beginning to reclaim their streets from the daylight just as the peculiar shadows of finely mixed yellowbirds were starting to reclaim Paul's sober thoughts. Scott had left two hours earlier, mumbling about getting into the shower to wash off the scent of green peppers and catch an old episode of Magnum PI on channel 50. 

Paul had long forsaken the blender in favor of a wooden spoon, and had promised himself this would be the last yellowbird for the evening. 

"Why is it I always end up drinking alone?" he asked himself as the flailing tongues of darkness edging their way along the floor. The phone rang and Paul jerked, nearly tipping over his prey, but he quickly settled it with an experienced hand and answered. 

"Street Cloud Investigations. If you've got a case, we've got the time." 

"Paul," a voice on the other line said. 

"Yeah. What do you got for me, Steve?" 

"I'll tell you in just a second. I ran through the morgue like a madman without a knife today, looking for any disappearances in little Chinatown. You owe me for this one, buddy." 

Paul leaned forward in his desk and grabbed a note pad and pencil. "What's up?" he inquired, knowing he didn't want to hear the reply. 

"Well, I figured a decade years would be far enough back to start, and it was. Since ten years ago, last October, 278 people have been reported missing within a one square mile radius in little Chinatown, which isn't all that much I suppose, but when you figure they were almost all reported last seen on or near University Street, something screwy's got to be going on. And there was nothing special on the Patterson girl. She seems to just be another rich kid out on a joy ride." 

Paul scribbled the number 278, and University Street on the note pad. 

"Were any of them found?" Paul asked. He heard a distinct chuckle on the other end of the line. 

"I had to check with the cops on that one. Figured you'd want to hear it." 

"Not really," Paul sighed, "but you better give it to me anyway. I hate missing persons. Rather clean lint from my bellybutton." 

"Not a one, Paul. At least not officially. No bodies, no reports of any sightings. Sorry man." 

"What the hell can you do about it, you're just a reporter," Paul continued. 

"Rhetorical questions are not your forte," the Steve quipped. 

"Yeah, well who asked you? Listen, do you want the story?" Paul asked. 

"Hell yes!" 

"Good. The Bailey's is on order. I'll let you know. Thanks a lot man. I'd shoot the shit with you, but I have to talk to Scott." 

"You owe me," Steve reminded him. 

"No problem. Gotta go. Bye." Paul hung up the phone and quickly replaced the dial tone to his ear, fingers jabbing numbers. 

"People don't disappear in Canada. It's a law somewhere, I know it. Be home, Scott." Paul punched the last three digits and heard Scott's phone begin to ring. One--two. 

"Pick up the phone, you sober asshole..." Paul breathed. 

"Who the hell are you calling asshole?" Scott said from the doorway, the sun's last glint catching his damp hair. 

"I guess Mom's not home," Paul grumbled as he recradled the phone. 

Paul passed on the information while downing the last of the yellowbirds. The two of them sat there until the early morning, sometimes shooting ideas back and forth, sometimes just sitting in silence, but as Scott drove his slumbering, intoxicated friend home that evening, he knew they would have to have another look at the Ottoman. 

* * *

For the last fifty years, the Detroit River had been honored as able to offend the most iron of noses. Today was no different. Although the slight and tired breeze helped to bleed away the smell of pollution, it was still there and noticeable. More so here. 

"Here" was an old dock to where Scott and Paul had been called an hour earlier by a man who called himself "Jonathan." "Jonathan" turned out to be a man of at least sixty years, grey hair withering away at the sides, wisps at a time. He possessed a large, Eastern European nose, which seemed noble, but broken. And though his pace was slow, it was eased by his sure-footedness. 

His clothes were basically rags stitched together by an understanding, but uninterested hand, probably acquired from the Salvation Army. He wore an army-issue green coat with red sweats for pants. He was all set for Christmas, but that was still a few months away. Scott knew Jonathan wasn't concerned with offending anyone's tastes in fashion. How the bum was able to afford a pay phone was still a mystery. 

"There it is," Jonathan said, pointing to a large clump of clothing stuffed between rusted out barrels and other garbage near the riverside. 

Scott and Paul wandered over to where the nauseous smelling rags lay drying on the pavement. Among them, just as Jonathan had described, were the slacks, blouse, nylons, shoes, and presumably the undergarments worn by Andrea Patterson the day she'd vanished. 

"How did you know to call us?" Scott asked the haggard bum, who stood behind them, awaiting the confirmation that the award was his. 

"I can read," the man snorted, holding out the ad they'd placed in which Andrea's description was detailed. "Now where's my reward?" 

Scott turned to face the bum. 

"How are we to know these are really the clothes, you could have just thrown them together." 

The man grumbled obscenities under his breath and then restated his honesty and his story. He claimed to have found the clothes washed up on the shore, bundled together with twine. 

Scott was ready to debate with Jonathan, who smelled worse close-up than either the river or the clothes, when Paul tugged at his friend's jacket from behind. Scott turned back to his partner, only to find the color draining from Paul's face. 

"What's wrong?" Scott asked, but all Paul could manage was to point at a blue glop that was mixed in with the assorted clothes. 

It was a dress, a blue dress. The dress the blonde in the restaurant had been wearing when she disappeared. 

* * *

The waiting was the hardest part. Paul at least had his constant companion pint to keep him company. When the two of them were on a stakeout, Scott always sat there, letting his mind run over the details of a case. He even allowed himself the luxury of day dreaming from time to time. 

But Scott was having a hard time distracting his mind as the two of them sat in a parked rental car, across the street from the Ottoman. It was already 3:30 a.m., and the staff was just beginning to file out and head home. 

"No wonder they kick our asses in the business world," Paul observed. "They don't fucking sleep." 

It was four by the time the place was vacant. 

Scott and Paul silently emerged from the car. Scott removed a large hoop of keys from the trunk. He'd noticed the Aries lock that secured the front door when they'd visited the first time during business hours. This time he'd brought with him about 250 Aries keys of different cuts and sizes, and in a matter of minutes they stood in the Ottoman's dining room. Untainted by the crime that consumed their neighbors to the north, most Windsor businesses didn't have alarm systems, and the Ottoman was no exception. 

The dining lights were off except for the few small, yellow bulbs set into the ceiling above the buffet table, and their luminescence was only strong enough to drive a small swath of brightness through the room. Scott switched on his small, hand-held flashlight. The beam instantly broke up the darkness. Scott pointed the light to the kitchen. 

"Are you sure you don't want the kitchen?" Scott asked. 

"You think chopsticks are interesting?" Paul answered, taking a quick swig of Southern Comfort. "I don't mind another trip to the bathroom." 

Scott nodded and headed for the double swinging doors which hid the wonders of Chinese cuisine. 

"One for the road," Paul said, biting the bottle so that the whiskey might bite him. "Wok this way." Paul's flashlight sparked to life as he moved toward the restroom, the slash of light finding its own unfamiliar path. He picked his way through the tables and chairs, taking note again how clean the restaurant was kept. The door swung open easily, and Paul had to remind himself not to instinctively switch on the lights. 

Paul moved in and searched the stall. What the hell could be in here? Well, here's the toilet, the moistened towelettes and toilet paper. Nothing special. No loose tile anywhere that he could see. 

Moving from the stall, Paul went to the sink and ran a slow stream of cool tap water. Nope. No soy sauce. He shut it off and twisted the light to the mirror where the speckles had been. The red droplets had since been wiped clean. Of course, at least they were professional murderers. Bastards. 

Paul looked at himself in the mirror through the misty light. Behind the mirror, an ember, a smoldering light moved, and with it, a shadow. Paul's heart raced, thinking the vision was of himself or of someone behind him, but he was the only one in the bathroom. 

"Fuckers!" he shouted and kicked the glass, instantly shattering the mirror into a thousand icy particles that casually skittered to the floor. Paul apprehensively looked in. There was a room beyond, immaculate as the rest of the restaurant, but small, almost as if it had been tailor fitted for a man who 

detested open spaces. It was rectangular, with black padded walls to swallow the light. A door was the room's single decoration, again a plain, spotless black. 

"I don't like this," Paul whispered to himself. He thought of retrieving Scott; he didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of exploring something out of a Clive Barker script, but didn't want to take himself away from his discovery. 

"What I do need, however, is a gun. Write that down somewhere. Next stakeout: pint. Gun. Got it." 

Paul cautiously stepped through the broken mirror, wishing they had brought their weapons. It was a confident sensation, having a .38 stuck in one's belt, but a big no-no with the border authorities and most other men in uniform. 

Shining the light on the doorknob, Paul moved through the small space, taking care to step tenderly on the brittle glass. The stainless steel doorknob gleamed temporarily as he moved toward it, then went dark as his hand twisted it open. The weightless door noiselessly swung open and Paul pointed the light within. A tiny alcove a few feet deep flanked a large walk-in freezer door. Just like the fast food joints he'd worked in as a kid, a dark, miniature light bulb indicated the main, internal freezer light was off. 

Paul flicked on the switch and the bulb flashed to red life. The detective pulled back on the latch and was greeted with a soft rush of chilled air and light mist. Steel wire racks lined the walk-in, brilliantly shining to an unaccustomed light. Cases of boxed Chinese vegetables and ingredients lay stacked upon one another reaching nearly to the dull metal ceiling. Simple words of English and Chinese characters advertised each boxes's contents. 

"Some discovery. Lychee fruit and broccoli," Paul muttered to the frosty air. His uncertainty was quickly overcome by his curiosity. He stepped inside, but kept his hand on the door, feeling its cold bite rather than having it shut behind him. His flashlight seemed to search the room on its own, Paul's mind merely acknowledging what his eyes too in. 

A terrific force from the opposite side of the door jolted Paul backward into the walk-in, throwing the detective off balance. He landed on his backside, but quickly scrambled to his feet in time to hear the lock catch. The light clicked off, leaving Paul to his single tiny shaft of illumination and the company of baby corn. 

"Jesus Christ!" Paul burst suddenly, balled fist lightly rapping on the door. "Scott!" 

Paul paused, waiting for an answer. "Scott, you son of a bitch! This ain't funny! Let me out, you asshole!" 

No one answered. Paul pressed an ear to the cold door and could feel his flesh withdraw, seeking warmth. He could hear nothing beyond the metal, and knew he was locked in. Scott could be a bastard, but he wouldn't shut him in. Not Scott. Banging on the door was useless. Of course, he could attract Scott's attention, but he could also draw other's. He didn't need that, so he decided to wait. Sitting down, Paul felt a rough obstruction jutting at him from the floor. He moved aside and shined the light to where his skin felt the metal. It was a small hinge. Getting to his feet, Paul scanned the floor again. 

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. 

"Hey, Scott!" 

More than a hinge, it was a door. 

Paul bent to where the handle for the door would most likely be and began feeling about, hands wandering in a seemingly haphazard fashion. His fingers soon found a tiny niche carved out of the floor and he probed it. A small catch played with the end of his forefinger, and Paul gave it a gentle nudge. A sharp click released the lock, and the door whistled in air with a forced whoosh. 

"Who the hell hides their chicken?" Paul wondered aloud, each breath punctuated with a frosty puff of air. 

He pulled the door open wide and pressed the light into the blank, empty space. A slanted ladder reached down into the square shaft of darkness, inviting him. Paul stared down into the hole and awaited the inexplicable gravity of the dark to draw him in, waited for a great, frost bitten hand to reach up and gently coo him inside, but there was only a deeper cold, and Paul shivered. Although he didn't want to climb down, there was nothing else for him to do but wait. That could take a long time, he decided. Sometimes, it was better to know than to wonder. Sometimes. 

Holding the flashlight with his right hand, Paul stepped on an abandoned rung and started down, inhaling the scent of frozen beef and chicken, imagining chilled trails of diluted blood clinging to sides of beef. 

Continuing down, Paul felt burdened by the lack of light and human company. The walls seemed to be gone as well, he could not touch or see them. He was concentrating downward, with just a few more rungs to go, wondering where the walls went. 

When Paul's feet hit the solid floor again, he felt his heart restart. The batteries of his flashlight were beginning to die, and with them, the precious light. Paul threw the fading beam about, looking, then stopped and turned his eyes away. The tension in his body was choking him, and it was difficult to breathe, but he pulled himself into some semblance of normality. Paul looked to where the beam pointed again. 

"Oh shit," he mumbled, and stumbled back against the wall, mouth wide, lungs forming icicles, veins constricting in rebellion. 

"Oh shit." 

Paul's flashlight died, and he screamed. 

* * *

The kitchen was a sea of cooking utensils, dangling from the ceiling like an army of stainless steel stalactites. A small beam of light guided his way through the cavern of ancient Chinese secrets. The entrance from the dining room was a pair of swinging doors, the kind found in old Clint Eastwood westerns. Very decorative, but not very functional as a sound barrier; if he concentrated hard enough he could hear Paul's footsteps echoing in the bathroom. 

Everything sparkled from the woks to the counter tops, it was as if the place was expecting the health board to burst in at any moment for a spot inspection. There were three rows of counter tops with cupboards underneath. Scott assumed this was where most of the preparation was done. Across from the cupboards were the mammoth stoves that bore the open alcoves where the woks rested while in action. As he began to search the counter tops and cupboards for any clue of use, Scott wondered what was taking Paul so long. It was possible, he realized, Paul was not only checking the bathroom, but using the facilities as well. 

The serving dishes were stacked with immaculate neatness, as were the forks, knives, entree dishes, appetizer plates, and all the little particulars that make dining in a Chinese restaurant so unique. What he didn't find was a hint of disappearing patrons. 

Scott turned to face the stoves again. The thin light from the flashlight he carried did little to illuminate the dark cast iron. It was as if the thing was peering at him through the circular openings of the flame ports. He remembered Paul explaining to him that his home cooked Chinese food never tasted as good as a restaurant's because he couldn't cook it at such a high temperature. While an electric wok could hit 500 degrees, the medieval monsters before him hit 1500, hot enough to stir fry steak in less than two minutes. 

Fifteen hundred degrees would melt a lot of things, he realized. In his mind, things began moving in slow motion as a sick horror took hold of him. 

He bent down and opened one of the hatches to the stove. Something was wrong. He didn't know what they used to heat the things, but there was some debris scattered about the iron basin. He thrust the tiny flashlight into the opening, probing into a pile of ashes that gently gave way to dust. 

He was just about to abandon his search when two things happened simultaneously. From somewhere in the distance, there came a loud shattering noise, but more importantly, the flashlight scraped against a pile of solid objects, scattering them about. Scott assumed Paul had either discovered something, or had tripped over a toilet in the dark. Since there were no cries for help, whatever Paul was fumbling about with deserved no immediate attention. 

Scott reached into the stove with his gloved hand and came out with a pile of objects that reminded him of small marbles. It had something to do with the way they clicked about in his hand. When he shown the light on them, he found he was holding pearly white orbs that had been smoothed by the heat. Orbs that resembled human teeth too much to be anything but. 

He felt so strange there, sitting on the cold tiled floor holding the teeth as if he were about to shoot craps. Slowly, he put his hand back into the stove. 

As if on cue, the inside of the stove burst into a searing flame that engulfed his hand like a hungry mouth. Scott reflexively pulled his hand away from the heat, but he was far too late to spare himself. His arm was a bright red, except for a few spots where the flesh had actually been charred away. 

His screams echoed about the kitchen. It didn't take him long to regain his composure, to center his attention and stop the useless screaming. The real pain would come later when the disfigurement healed and his body's natural pain killers wore off. 

"Gas," said a voice. 

Scott whirled to face the man who'd managed to quietly enter the kitchen and reach the controls of the stoves. Scott didn't like the idea that someone had been able to sneak up on him so easily. Of course, if the man had been trained in a jungle, where silence was survival, a kitchen would be little challenge. Otto Fetting stood there holding a huge cleaver, as if deciding which piece of meat to carve first. 

"What?" Scott managed through the pain. 

"Gas," replied the hulking figure again. Fetting was even larger than he'd imagined. The man was in his late fifties, and yet he stood at about 6'5" and looked as if he weighed damn near three hundred pounds. No wonder the Vietnamese had taken to him, he must have appeared like a god to them. 

"If you want to know what powers it, it's gas. Damn thing is, the help around here like to remove all the large bones from the furnaces, but they're too damn lazy to get the teeth." 

The huge German chef flipped the light on and peered down at Scott, drawing closer. 

"I know you, you were here a few days ago. Well, I don't care whether you're a burglar or just some unfortunate detective who got lucky, either way you're dead." Emphasizing his statement, Fetting slammed the cleaver down, burying it in one of the counter tops. He pried it loose again with a well practiced motion. 

Scott sat next to the roaring flames and listened to the man through the waves of pain. The German's words drifted to him through a haze, their meaning nearly lost, registering to him slowly. Before the flames had leapt to life in the iron monster, he'd seen hundreds, maybe thousands of the tiny white orbs, lying there like a cluster of eggs waiting for their mother to come warm them. There were four other chambers to the stove, and though he hadn't checked them, Scott was sure they held a similar find. How many people had died here, all those stragglers who'd disappeared? But the largest question still remained why, and Scott began to wonder if he really wanted to know the answer. 

"Have you ever been hungry?" the chef asked, taking a step toward Scott and slamming the knife down once again. 

CRACK! 

The sound echoed in Scott's head. He wondered if the teeth of Andrea Patterson were here. 

"I've been hungry," the man continued. "I've been in a country where a famine forced mothers to kill their newly born babies to save them the pain of starvation. I lived in a village in Vietnam where one third of the people starved after the revolution." He waved his hands in the air. 

"In the West, especially in the United States, you have so much. And so much is wasted!" 

Fetting was obviously enraged. His corpulent frame shook with profound intensity and his round face was flushed red. 

Scott realized he could not depend upon Paul to come bursting in to save him. They hadn't smuggled their guns over the border, they didn't want to have any problems with customs, and it was a great way to get your investigator's licence revoked. but most of all he seriously doubted whether Paul would be able to overcome the giant with the knife.

Scott knew he had to put the pain aside and protect himself, unless he wanted his teeth to join the macabre collection. 

"There weren't any cattle in the village," Fetting continued. "And the other livestock depleted quickly, not to mention the miracles Agent Orange performed on the crops. But there was a steady supply of corpses. Your fucking human nature and human pride don't mean a lot when you're hungry. We survived." 

Cloud's stomach almost took control of him, but he suppressed the retching. He knew what this man was saying, and he also knew what had become of the bodies. 

"Ah, my dear friend, I can see the light has dawned upon you. Isn't it ironic? You filthy, fat Americans have been coming to my restaurant, making me rich, for fifteen years. And what you've been eating has been other filthy, fat Americans. No need to worry, though, as I recall you had the Mongolian beef. We save the good stuff for the house specialty, Chekini. When we first came to the West, we had nothing. Our benefactor, Colonel Parker, gave us this building to work with, but we couldn't afford the outrageous prices for meat in this country. So we took advantage of what we'd learned during the famine, and again, survived." 

Fetting's words were an entrancing nightmare and Scott found himself falling into this madman's world when the sound of the cleaver came falling once again. 

CRACK! 

"Damn thing is," the chef chuckled. "Once we did have the money, people were still coming back for Chekini. We were going to stop, but the dish was just too damn popular. Being a businessman now, I couldn't jilt my customers." 

Otto Fetting's eyes reflected his thoughts, they were both far away. Cloud knew he had to take advantage of this lapse of attention. Letting his burned left arm dangle at his side like a broken stalk of corn, he quickly regained his feet and rushed the unaware chef, delivering a side kick to the man's hand that sent the cleaver flying across the kitchen. 

Otto didn't cry out, he didn't even give any ground, he simply reached out and grabbed Scott by his singed arm, propelling him back against the stove, where he collapsed. 

Scott anticipated the man's mad rush and swiped Otto's knee as the chef hurled toward him. There was a grunt as Otto paused, as if deciding whether the blow had hurt. Apparently it hadn't. He plucked Scott from the floor like a bale of hay, and slowly lowered the detective's face into the leaping flames of the wok pit. 

Cloud could smell his own hair burning as Otto forced his head lower toward the flames. His back was pressed against the stove and Scott felt the hot cast iron searing his flesh, but his feet were anchored to the floor. When he and Paul had initially entered the police academy, Cloud had ridiculed the Judo lessons they'd been forced to take, but now leverage meant everything. Fetting was exerting all his force forward onto Scott, trying to thrust his head into the hellish furnace, but Scott used it against him, hooking his good arm under the man's armpit to flip the chef's entire three hundred pounds onto the stove. 

This time Fetting felt the pain, and screamed like a child, thrashing about on the hot iron like a lobster tossed into a pot of boiling water. Scott's adrenalin was flowing and his mind was on check, he stood next to the stove throwing his fist into the man's face until Fetting stopped his struggling and just lay there. 

The smell of burning flesh upset Scott, and he rolled the man off the stove, and into a heap on the floor. Otto was still breathing, but it was obvious he wasn't going to get back up for some time. 

Scott's arm and back were screaming at him, but the detective still had the strength to struggle over to the phone. Taking note he was in Canada, he just called the operator and told her to contact the police. As the sergeant at the end of the line attempted to interrogate Cloud, Scott became aware of the muffled pounds and screams coming from the freezer. 

Scott let the receiver fall to the floor with an acrylic crack and forced himself to scramble toward the door, his legs pleading him to just drop and relish in surrender, but he kept moving. His ruined left arm lay constricted across his chest in a grotesque impersonation of Quasimodo, and his back wasn't helping either, but his feet carried him to the walk-in freezer door. 

It took Scott a few moments to realize the door was locked. His right hand fumbled for the catch, ripping spasms of pain through him as he wrenched the door open. The cool air briefly quenched his body's flame, but it returned with more anger a moment later. 

"Don't black out," he told himself. 

His flashlight forgotten, Scott had to concentrate to find the light switch. The bulb burned more dully than Scott would have liked. His eyes strained to focus on its brightness, but they would not cast off the haze. 

"Paul!" 

"Down here, Scott." 

"Jesus Christ, man, I'm hurting. Bad." 

Paul suddenly appeared at the top of the trap door. He looked at his friend with astonished horror and pity. 

"Can you make it?" Paul asked. 

Scott nodded slowly. "I think so," he said. 

"You have to see something," Paul muttered. 

"What?" 

"Come on down," he said disappearing into the hole. 

Breathing heavily, Scott went to the shaft and started down, clinging to the ladder awkwardly as if he were a spider whose legs had been scorched off. 

When he reached the bottom, Paul's confident arm steadied him, though it brushed the fierce welt which was spreading across his back. 

"Be careful!" Scott hissed. 

"Sorry." 

"What's down here?" Scott asked, although the importance of the question didn't seem to register on his pounding mind. 

"While I was down here alone," Paul began, "I found the light switch." Paul turned on the light, exposing the three gutted human bodies hanging from the ceiling on meat hooks.