The Hidden Channel and the Letter Home

The sticky vegetable congee had an indescribably sour, spoiled smell. Lin Feng mechanically shoveled it into his mouth, the rim of the aluminum bowl knocking against his teeth until they ached.

Breakfast at the detention center was always like this: thin gruel that barely kept a man alive. He lay in the first bunk, farthest from the toilet, on the slightly thicker bedding Scar had "offered up" to him, but he could still feel the hard boards digging into his spine.

Life was like that bowl of congee: bland, sticky, without a glimmer of hope. Zheng Qi was still in solitary confinement, and Qian Er had been transferred to another cell block. For the time being, there were no more direct exchanges of fists and feet in cell 107, but the atmosphere was more oppressive than ever, like the damp, sweltering days of the plum rains, leaving people gasping for breath.

The bruises on Scar's face had not entirely faded, leaving him blotched purple and blue. At that moment, he had his backside in the air and was scrubbing the bars in front of Lin Feng's bunk with a filthy black rag, putting an unusual amount of effort into it. He worked with painstaking care, even trying to pick the years of grime out of the welded seams, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead. Cautious and almost reverent, he looked like an entirely different person from the domineering cell boss who had forced others to drink mop water a few months earlier.

Ever since Lin Feng had mentioned the two names "Hongguang Textile Factory, workshop six, Wang Cuihua" and "Red Star Primary School, third grade, class two, Li Xiaohua" in the calmest of voices, the last traces of defiance had been drained out of Scar. It was not a threat. It was a statement. But it was more frightening than any threat. He was afraid, chilled to the marrow.

A respectful, clear voice sounded in his consciousness (it was a deathsworn responsible for outside liaison and coordination): "Master, life is too hard for you in there. We can find a way to send some money to a relative's account to make things a little easier. Or we could find a way to alert your parents, so they..."

Parents...

Those two words were like a fine needle, gently pricking Lin Feng's heart and bringing a sharp pang of sorrow.

Fragments of the original owner's memories surged up beyond his control: his father Lin Jianguo's callused hands, always stained with machine oil; his mother Zhang Fen bustling about in the kitchen, the reproachful yet loving look she gave him as she slipped an extra piece of red-braised pork into his bowl; the way they had stood on tiptoe, waving again and again as they saw him off at the train station... Two honest workers from a small northern city, they had scrimped and saved for half their lives, hoping only that their son would make something of himself.

They must have found out. Their sky had fallen.

Zhao Si, the thief deathsworn who had previously infiltrated the area to investigate, had sent back a report: a middle-aged couple from out of town, dressed in old work clothes washed pale, had been to nearly every office at the municipal public security bureau, the procuratorate, and the detention center. They pleaded with everyone they met, even setting their dignity aside to kneel, crying their hearts out. But Sun Tingting's family had pulled strings to obstruct them at every turn. Not only had bail been flatly denied, even their basic visitation rights and the lawyer's right to review the case files had been temporarily blocked. Like two old sparrows that had strayed into a jungle of steel, they hurled themselves helplessly against a cold glass wall, battered and bleeding, yet could not even see their son.

Ask them to send him money? What good would their meager savings do in a place like this? They probably could not even figure out the procedure. And make them worry about money for his sake again? Lin Feng could almost picture his mother splitting every penny in two and his father gritting his teeth, hoping to carry a few more heavy loads.

He sighed softly in his heart, the sigh so heavy it seemed it could fall to the ground. "No need. They're under enough pressure already." He clearly rejected the deathsworn's suggestion, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

But his gaze happened to fall on Scar, who had just finished mopping the floor and was getting ready to scrub the urine bucket. Scar noticed his gaze and immediately stopped, an almost fawning smile spreading across his face as he bent even lower.

A thought flashed through his mind like a match struck in the dark. Only relatives could deposit money into a detention center account; outsiders could not, and he could not involve his parents. But... Scar's relatives could. Wasn't this fellow, who bullied the weak and feared the strong, and had an obvious weakness, the perfect tool right now?

"Scar." Lin Feng spoke casually, his voice low but exceptionally clear in the quiet cell.

Scar gave a start and practically trotted over on tiptoe, bowing and bobbing his head. "Brother Feng, what do you need? Did I miss a spot? I'll take care of it right away!" Calling him "Brother Feng" came utterly easily and naturally to him now.

"Your family... have they sent you any money lately?" Lin Feng asked as if the question meant nothing, his gaze still fixed on the patches of mold on the ceiling, as though he were merely making small talk.

Scar's face fell, as if Lin Feng had touched a sore spot, and his voice took on a tearful edge. "Oh, Brother Feng, don't even mention it. My wife works rotating shifts at the textile factory, on her feet for more than ten hours a day. She only brings home that little fixed wage each month, and she still has a kid to raise and rent to pay. She wishes she could split every coin in half to spend it. How would she have any spare money to send someone like me? I've almost forgotten what cigarettes taste like. My mouth's so bland a bird could hatch in it."

He rambled on about his troubles, trying to win a little sympathy, or at least prove that he really had no money to offer up.

"Mm." Lin Feng asked no more questions and closed his eyes again, as though he were tired and wanted to rest.

Scar stood awkwardly where he was for a few seconds. Seeing that Lin Feng really had no further instructions, he tiptoed back, picked up the brush, and went at the filthy urine bucket, as if he meant to vent all his resentment on it.

Deep in Lin Feng's consciousness, however, new orders had already been issued without a sound.

That same afternoon, in the western part of the city, at the Hongguang Textile Factory dormitory compound.

The compound was a cluster of red-brick corridor buildings built in the seventies and eighties. Great patches of plaster had peeled from the walls, exposing the dark bricks beneath, as though the buildings had developed an ugly skin disease. The corridors were dark and cramped, piled with battered cardboard boxes, honeycomb coal briquettes, and discarded furniture. A complicated blend of cotton fluff, cheap cooking fumes, damp, and mildew hung in the air year-round.

Wang Cuihua dragged her heavy feet home after her shift on the late shift, her eyelids drooping, her face sallow and haggard from long-term lack of sleep. She wore blue work clothes washed pale, with a conspicuous smear of grease on one shoulder. She had just reached her own door, its peeling paint exposing the bare wood beneath, and taken out her rusty key when two men suddenly emerged from the shadows around the nearby stairwell.

Wang Cuihua shuddered all over in fright, and the key clattered onto the concrete floor. She hurriedly bent to pick it up, her heart pounding as if it would leap out of her throat. The two men wore ordinary dark jackets, were of average height, and had utterly unremarkable faces-the sort you would never pick out of a crowd. But their eyes were unnaturally calm, and they looked at her as though she were an object, filling her with dread from the bottom of her heart.

"Wh-who are you? What do you want?" Her voice trembled as she gripped the key tightly, her fingertips icy cold.

One of the men spoke, his voice as even as his gaze, betraying no emotion. "You're Ms. Wang Cuihua, Li Hu's wife, correct?" Li Hu was Scar's real name.

"Are you... friends of Brother Huzi?" Wang Cuihua's heart pounded, suspicion and fear tangling together. After Scar went inside, those so-called brothers and buddies of his had long since vanished, too eager to avoid her to come calling on a burden like her. Much less people like these, who did not look like they were up to anything good.

"Li Hu needs money to take care of things inside." The man neither confirmed nor denied it. He simply handed her a thick, bulging envelope of buff-colored kraft paper. "Take this money and deposit it into his detention center account."

Wang Cuihua took the envelope instinctively. Its weight made her wrist drop sharply, giving her another shock. It was so thick... She scarcely dared think about it.

"Th-this... how much is it? Why are you giving it to me? Huzi... has he gotten into trouble in there again? Who exactly are you...?" She was incoherent, frightened of the money yet harboring a faint, inexplicable flicker of expectation.

"Don't ask so many questions." The man cut her off. His tone remained flat, but carried an unquestionable chill. "Deposit it as soon as possible. It'll be good for him."

With that, the two men turned without another glance at her. Their footsteps were almost inaudible, and they soon disappeared at the end of the dim corridor, as if they had never been there.

Wang Cuihua stood rooted to the spot, as though a body-freezing spell had been cast on her, her heart still pounding wildly. She looked around like a thief. The neighbors' doors were shut tight, and only the muffled sound of a television came from somewhere in the distance. She shoved her own door open, slipped inside, and leaned against the cold door, gasping for breath.

Her cramped home was only a dozen square meters or so, with old furniture and dim light. With trembling hands, she fumbled open the seal of the kraft-paper envelope.

One look was all it took. She snapped it shut as if burned, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold it!

Inside were several tightly bound stacks of hundred-yuan notes! The crisp new bills smelled of ink, and the stacks were thick enough to make her heart race! Never in her life had she held so much cash at once! How much was there? Thirty thousand? Fifty thousand?

The enormous shock left her mind blank. Several minutes later, countless thoughts came swarming out like a hornets' nest that had burst open: Who had given her the money? Why? Had Huzi gotten into some huge trouble in there again? Was this money... clean? Would taking it bring even greater trouble?

Fear and doubt poured over her like ice water. But immediately afterward, another irrepressible thought stubbornly wormed its way out, carrying a scorching temptation.

So much money...

If... if I kept half of it, no, even just one stack...

She could buy her daughter Xiaohua the red dress hanging in the department store window, the one she had been looking at for so long. Every time they passed, Xiaohua gazed at it longingly, and all Wang Cuihua could do was pull her away.

She could also pay off the overdue tuition for the second half of the year in one go, and would no longer have to see the awkward look on the homeroom teacher's face.

She could buy some good meat and vegetables to give Xiaohua better nourishment, too. The child was still growing; how could she keep eating pickles all the time...

Huzi did not know exactly how much there was, anyway. For someone like him, having food and drink in there was good enough. What did he need so much money for? To take care of things? He was a prisoner; what did he have to take care of?

Reason and greed fought madly in her head. She clutched the envelope to her chest as if it were a bomb that could explode at any moment, and also as if it were a life-saving straw. She paced back and forth in the tiny room, her expression shifting.

Finally, she gritted her teeth and quickly hid the envelope at the very bottom of the rice jar, carefully burying it in white rice. Her heart was still beating like a drum.

Hide it first! Tomorrow... tomorrow I'll see which way the wind is blowing before deciding! Yes, I'll see how things stand!

That night, Wang Cuihua tossed and turned on her hard bed. The money in the rice jar seared her heart like a branding iron, fear and greed entwining until she hardly slept a wink.