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The Fourth Sacrifice
The Firemaker introduced a memorable
detective team: Li Yan, a senior detective with the
Beijing Municipal Police, and Margaret Campbell, a
forensic pathologist from Chicago.
Now their paths cross again, as Margaret's unique
skills are required once more to investigate a
series of ritual executions in Beijing.
The first three victims were drugged, tied, labelled
with a single word and a single number - then
expertly beheaded. The fourth victim was dispatched
in just the same way, but unlike the others he was
an American diplomat. No one knows why Yuan Tao
treturned to Beijing after a lifetime in America,
why he took a lowly job at the American embassy, why
he rented a simple flat in a poor neighbourhood - or
why he died the same bizarre way as three very
different Chinese men.
Compelled to work with one another, Margaret
Campbell and Li Yan again feel the overwhelming
attraction that nearly destroyed them both when they
first met. But now Margaret has another admirer - a
brilliant, charismatic American TV archaeologist.
And Li has a family tragedy that demands all his
heart.
Reluctantly, slowly, they tease out the killer's
secrets. But the closer they come to the truth
behind the executions, the more dangerously close
they come to a killer who is prepared to sacrifice
anyone to conceal it.
Extract
Prologue
By now he knows he is going to
die. And he feels something like relief. No more
long, lonely nights and tortured dreams. He can
release all those dark feelings that he has
carried through life like some great weight
strapped to his back, causing him to stoop and
stagger and bend at the knees. But still this
knowledge, that death is close enough almost to
touch, is not without fear. But the fear has
retreated with the effects of the drug and lurks
somewhere just beyond consciousness.
He is only vaguely aware
of those things around him that have been so
familiar these last months; the scarred and naked
walls, the rusted window frames, the washing
hanging out to dry in the glassed-in balcony
beyond the screen door. There is still a smell of
stale cooking in the air, and sometimes the
occasional hint of raw sewage that rises from the
drains in the street four floors below, especially
when it rains, like now. He hears the rain
pattering on the window panes, blurring the lights
of the apartment block opposite, like the tears
that he can feel, warm and salty, on his cheeks.
Only now does he succumb to an overwhelming sense
of sadness. What futility! His life, the life of
his parents, and their parents before them. What
did any of it mean? What point had there been?
Now he feels rough hands
forcing him to his knees, and a cord is passed
over his head, a flash of red characters on white
card as it drops to hang around his neck. Now his
hands are drawn behind his back, and he feels the
soft, familiar texture of silk as it tightens
around his wrists, grazing and bruising. He would
have been gentler with it. Despite the best
efforts of the drug, his fear is re-emerging now,
rising in his throat like bile. He sees a flash of
light on dark, dull metal and a hand pushes his
head forward and down. No point in resistance. No
point in anything, not even regret. And yet it is
there, big and scary and casting a shadow in his
consciousness, fighting for space alongside his
fear.
He is aware of the
figure on his right, and he sees the shadow of the
rising blade trace its pattern across the pale
linoleum. He swallows and wonders if he will feel
any pain. How good is his executioner? And then,
fleetingly, he wonders if the brain ceases the
instant the head is severed. He hears the swish of
the blade and has a sharp intake of breath.
No, there is no pain, he
realises, as for a moment, before blackness, the
room spins crazily and he sees the twin jets of
blood spewing from the strange apparition of his
own headless body as it topples forward. But he
will never be able to tell anyone. So many things
he will never be able to tell.
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