Greetings from Afar

"What's it going to be then, eh? Kiss me?"

Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to handle Abigail Durrell's blatant teasing. Just three or four months ago, we had only met for the first time at the Oregon FBI field office where she worked. Things were progressing… quickly, maybe?

Theresa had been away from the States for quite some time now, and, I missed her. The problem was, works kept piling up, and unexpected events kept cropping up, making it impossible for me to take time off to visit her in Paris. Yesterday, I spent forty minutes bargaining with Jen, and she finally allowed me to take a day off this Friday. I had planned to use it to sleep in. But what I didn’t expect was for Abby to fly all the way from Portland to see me, unannounced.

She showed up at my Irvine apartment around 1 PM, catching me off guard. "Here to give me a speeding ticket, officer?" I asked, startled.

"If you’re in need of one, I’d be happy to issue one," she replied with a mischievous smile. Then came the line that left me speechless. While I was still standing there, dumbfounded, she strode right into my apartment, confidently kicked the door shut behind her.

Nermal, my silver-gray American Shorthair cat, sauntered out of the bedroom, looking curiously at Abby as she made herself at home in the living room. Nermal’s round eyes were filled with her usual mix of laziness and disdain. She hopped lightly onto the claw-scratched sofa and surveyed Abby, who, at five-foot-nine, probably seemed like a towering giant in her feline eyes. Abby’s athletic build radiated strength and balance. She had short, golden-blond hair that framed her face just below the ears, her eyebrows perfectly groomed, and her healthy, glowing, sun-kissed skin drew the eye. Her hazel eyes were vivid and captivating, while her nose—straight with slightly wide nostrils—and her full lips were hard to ignore. She wore a rosy-pink lip gloss and, for a change, had accessorized with earrings and a necklace. A light blue, slightly faded denim jacket topped a pale pink camisole, paired with matching denim jeans cropped just enough to show her ankles. On her feet were a pair of New Balance sneakers, light gray with silver accents, that complemented her brisk, purposeful stride. She looked like a bright, energetic college freshman or sophomore—completely different from the battle-hardened, dirt- and blood-streaked FBI agent I’d come to know. I still remembered the long, deep scar across her back, which had exposed her spine on the battlefield as she fought to survive.

"Wow," Abby said as she plopped down on the sofa and stretched out her long fingers to tease Nermal. Nermal, now intrigued, sniffed Abby’s fingers, rubbed against them tentatively, and then, to my surprise, settled into her lap like she had found a cozy new nest.

"I didn’t peg you as the type to own a cat," Abby said softly, rubbing the small tuft of fur on Nermal’s head with her fingertip.

"Yeah, I look more like a dog person, don’t I?" I replied, retreating into my room to swap my sweatpants for jeans. When I peeked out, Abby was leaning her cheek on one hand, watching me with a playful grin.

"When you’re busy, who looks after this little darling?" she asked.

"My landlord’s wife stops by every day to change her water, refill her food, and clean the litter box," I said, scratching my head. "By the way, we haven’t been in touch for two or three months, right? Did you come all this way just to flirt with my cat?"

"What’s her name?" she asked.

"Nermal."

"The cutest cat in the world," Abby immediately picked up my words and threw them back with a smile. "And what about Arlene?"

"She went on a date with Garfield. And not just any date—a double date with Jon and Liz."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Abby asked, her grin as mischievous as ever.

Just then, the landline in my apartment began to ring.

"Aren’t you going to answer that?" She raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the incessantly ringing phone.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." I walked over and picked up the phone. It was my mom calling. Switching to Mandarin, I said, "Hi, Mom. It’s rare for you to call me at this time."

"Son, I called your office, and your colleague said you’re home sick today. What’s wrong? Do you have a fever?"

"Uh, I’m just taking a day off. I’ve been working non-stop for three weeks and needed a break."

"Any chance you’ll come back to Arcadia soon?"

"Is something urgent?"

"Jacqueline’s run into some trouble. She wants to see you and talk about it."

"I’ll try. If it’s official business, I can give her a call first."

"It’s better if you come back. She seems pretty stressed. And besides, it’s been a while since our whole family got together."

"I’ll try to take time off, but I can’t promise anything."

After reminding me to take care of myself and to avoid eating too much McDonald’s, Mom hung up.

Mentioning Jacqueline must’ve caused my expression to shift, because even though Abby couldn’t understand what I was saying, she immediately sensed something was up.

"Crow, is something wrong?" she asked, her tone unusually perceptive.

"Nothing major. My sister has some issues, and my mom wants me to visit her in L.A."

"Why not go back over the weekend?"

"I have a mission in New Jersey starting tomorrow morning." I sighed. "What about you? Is the FBI so free these days?"

Abby had already become best friends with Nermal in a matter of minutes. She now had the cat perched comfortably on her shoulder. "I’m here for an industry conference in Dallas. The meeting’s tomorrow."

"Another undercover operation, huh?" The same old FBI routine—predictable and unexciting.

"Classified." Abby smiled as Nermal happily kneaded her chest. "Looks like you’ve adjusted well to having Jen as your boss."

"Cut to the chase. If we’re going to exchange pleasantries, I could keep at it till the end of world."

"The point? I haven’t seen my life-and-death buddy in ages, so I thought I’d drop by and check if you’re still in one piece."

"Fine, let’s just pretend you came all this way just to see me." I tried calling Nermal with a few chirps, but the ungrateful cat ignored me completely.

"Let me play with her for a bit. You go get changed and then treat me to lunch," Abby said matter-of-factly.

"Such entitlement, sis."

"You don’t even think to call me Honey," Abby’s vindictive streak was something I was all too familiar with. Abby blinked, her smile dangerously playful. I suddenly had a bad feeling.

I quickly retreated to the master bedroom, shut the door, changed into something more presentable, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and shaved. Twelve minutes later, I emerged from the bedroom feeling refreshed, only to find Abby expertly cleaning out Nermal’s litter box.

"You’re wasted at the FBI," I said sincerely.

Abby shot me a glare.

The wind on the cliff was as sharp as a blade. The low-lying plants could barely survive, clinging to the shelter of the rocks.

I lay flat at the edge of the cliff, craning my head out to peer down at the valley floor, hundreds of feet below, as if it were trying to swallow my very soul.

Down at the bottom, I could see a small figure staring up at me. I could make out the anxious look on his face, the tear-streaks on his cheeks, the bruises—deep blue and purple—marring his skin.

The valley wind howled past my ears, carrying sharp fragments of rock that stung as they struck my face. My entire body went rigid with tension. My sphincter tightened, and a sudden, overwhelming urge to pee nearly made me lose control.

I guessed my face must have turned deathly pale. There was nowhere for me to run.

Clang—

I started searching for pebbles around me—anything, anything at all. Stones, sand, twigs. Nothing. The rocks were too large to move, and the smaller ones slipped through my fingers like water.

Clang—

“Where are you?”

I wanted to scream, but as soon as I opened my mouth, the fierce mountain wind rushed in, filling my throat and blocking the sound, twisting it into a strangled whimper.

Clang—

I could almost see sparks flying as the long-handled fire axe scraped against the rocky ground.

And that cold, metallic scent of blood—thick, suffocating—wrapping around me, undisturbed even by the wind.

He was dressed in a tailored suit, impeccably put together, yet his eyes gleamed with madness and hatred.

“Here’s Greg.”

Clang—

Clang—

I took Abigail on a tour of the Dallas Museum of Art, and we had lunch—or maybe it was more like an afternoon snack—at a hot dog stand in Trammell Crow Park. Abby didn’t seem to care much about what she ate; she clearly enjoyed being outdoors. “Compared to Portland’s cold and damp weather, I should apply for a transfer to Dallas next time. The sunshine here is worth a million bucks,” she said.

Dinner was booked at Liam Steakhouse, a three-generation family-run establishment. Known as one of the top steakhouses in Dallas, getting a reservation there was no easy feat. I had to call in a favor from Lemur, who reached out to her friend to secure us a table.

I ordered their famous steak and potato soup with a large garden salad, while Abby opted for a 16-ounce ribeye, medium rare. I went with the porterhouse, cooked medium well—I figured my teeth couldn’t handle anything tougher. Abby originally wanted a glass of red wine, which made me laugh. “This is Texas, little girl. Finding red wine here is about as hard as robbing a bank. How about a martini? Or maybe whiskey?”

“Why is it all hard liquor?”

“Welcome to the Lone Star State. This isn’t some pretentious Northern state. Big bottles of liquor, big steaks, big trucks, big ladies—and big guns.”

To be honest, the dinner was even more lavish than I had anticipated. Abby downed two martinis and two glasses of straight bourbon. Since I was driving, I limited myself to just one martini. Abby wasn’t much of a drinker, so by the end of the meal, she was visibly tipsy.

As we were settling the bill and preparing to leave, my phone rang. I gave Abby an apologetic look and gestured for her to wait in the car. Answering the call, I said, “Hello?”

“Ah-Wei, can you come home as soon as possible?” It was my eldest sister, Jacqueline, and there was a quiver in her voice. “I’m so scared.”

“Is Greg bothering you again?” I asked, my tone turning serious.

“No, it’s not him. It’s something else… something weird. Not the usual official troubles—this is the really strange kind,” she said, her voice trembling. I knew exactly what my sister sounded like when she was genuinely afraid. As tough as she was growing up—capable of clobbering me when we fought—there were rare moments when she encountered something truly frightening, and this was one of those times.

“Jacqueline, I’m swamped this week,” I said, hesitating. Before I could say more, Abby rolled down the car window, grinning slyly as she pointed to herself and mouthed silently, “I can help—beg me.”

“Okay, how about this, sis,” I said after a moment’s thought. “I’ll have a friend go check things out for you. Don’t worry; she’s a professional.”

“Her?” Jacqueline’s tone instantly shifted. “You have a girlfriend now?”

“Come on, sis, focus on the right thing here, will ya? Geez.”

“Just tell me when your friend can come. I’ll pick her up at the airport,” Jacqueline said, sounding suddenly more excited than scared.

“Why are you making such a fuss?” I grumbled as I hung up the phone.

“It’s just a weekend thing. I’ll take the red-eye to L.A. after my conference tomorrow afternoon,” Abby said casually, leaning against the car window.

“I’ll book your flight and hotel,” I offered.

“Relax, the FBI’s got it covered,” Abby replied with a smug smile. “My travel budget’s pretty generous these days.”

“Fine, you win. Happy now? Let’s get you back to your hotel.”

Day One

At 4:30 AM on Sunday, the plane touched down at Los Angeles International Airport. Abby yawned as she dragged her suitcase off the plane and onto the shuttle bus, shuffling along with a crowd of equally groggy passengers through the baggage claim hall. The early morning sky over Los Angeles was dark and tinged with deep blue, with barely a star in sight despite the clear weather. Abby made her way to the car rental counter to pick up her vehicle—a nondescript Ford Taurus, courtesy of the FBI. Sometimes Abby wondered if the FBI was secretly Ford’s biggest shareholder. Why else were all the agency cars Ford? Taurus, Expedition, E-series vans—the monotony was endless. The only upside was that every FBI agent was intimately familiar with these vehicles, capable of pulling off defensive maneuvers with ease, ready to escape danger at a moment’s notice.

Abby requested an extra map of Los Angeles from the car rental staff, quickly locating Arcadia on it, and began flipping pages to plan her route. GPS rentals were an additional charge, and her travel budget didn’t cover such luxuries. So, she relied on the hefty, old-school paper map instead. After loading her luggage into the backseat of the rental car, Abby skillfully backed out of the indoor parking lot, hit the gas, and sped onto the I105 Freeway. Twenty-five minutes later, she merged onto the I605, then onto the I210 heading west. Exiting at Santa Anita and heading south, she glanced at the clock—it was 5:50 AM. It didn’t feel appropriate to bother anyone at this hour, so she made a U-turn at the next intersection and pulled into a 24-hour Denny’s for breakfast.

Abby ordered a traditional hearty breakfast of French toast with eggs and sausages, along with a double-strength coffee. She pulled out her phone and sent Crow a text to let him know she had arrived, though she wasn’t sure if he’d even see it.

By the time she finished eating, it was only 6:30 AM. With time to kill, she grabbed a morning paper and absentmindedly skimmed through the local news. The headlines were typical: city council updates, a traffic accident suspect who had been caught, and warnings about the unusually high temperatures expected this summer along with tips on save water. One short article, however, caught her attention. It was an interview with a Chinese-American doctor named Jacqueline Tan, who worked at a sleep clinic in Arcadia. She mentioned a recent uptick in patients with sleep disorders, many reporting recurring nightmares or sleep paralysis. The doctor advised people to exercise more, adopt a plant-based diet, and maintain a positive mindset.

As Abby read the article, a voice spoke from behind her: “You saw that, didn’t you? ‘Maintain a positive mindset.’ If I had a few million dollars, I’d always have a positive mindset.”

Abby turned her head to see an elderly Chinese gentleman, likely in his late sixties or early seventies, sitting at a nearby table. In front of him was the same newspaper and a cup of coffee, while he waited for his food to arrive. Sitting down, Abby guessed he was about 5’5” or 5’6”. His frame was lean but energetic, dressed in a slightly worn but impeccably clean white shirt, no tie. He wore a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, and his wrist sported a vintage mechanical watch. His hair was almost entirely white, and though his face was now rounder, he likely had a square jawline in his youth. His forehead and brow showed no deep wrinkles, and his round, dark brown eyes sparkled with vitality and a rare curiosity for someone his age. His complexion was ruddy, his cheekbones slightly pronounced, and the faint age spots on his neck and jawline hinted at his years. His beard was neatly shaven, and he was smiling warmly as he studied Abby.

“Good morning, sir,” Abby greeted him.

“I come here for breakfast every morning, but it’s the first time I’ve seen you, young lady,” the old man said. His English was fluent, though marked with a thick Boston accent—his R’s were almost nonexistent. “Welcome to Arcadia.”

“Thank you. It’s my first time here. A lovely little town, isn’t it?”

“I’ve lived here for decades. After moving from Pasadena, I found this place much better suited to the pace of senior life. By the way, my name’s Lawrence. And you are?”

“Abigail. You can call me Abby. Lawrence, your accent sounds very East Coast—Boston?”

“The Boston accent is probably the easiest one to recognize in the entire U.S., right?” Lawrence chuckled heartily. “I studied there for a few years and learned my English there too. This accent? It stuck with me for life.”

“Have you heard about this report?” Abby asked casually, adopting an indifferent tone to start a conversation.

“Of course I have. The doctor in the report is my daughter,” Lawrence replied with a warm smile. “The irony is that her own sleep quality isn’t great, yet here she is, teaching others to stay positive.”

Abby’s interest was piqued. She pulled out her phone and brought up the address Crow had texted her. “Lawrence, do you recognize this address?”

“That’s my daughter’s house,” the elderly man said with some surprise. “Abby, how do you know this?”

“What a coincidence, sir. George—is he your son?”

“Oh? You know him?”

“You could say we’re comrades,” Abby replied, though she wasn’t entirely sure how to define her relationship with Crow. They weren’t exactly coworkers since they were in different departments, and calling him a friend felt like a stretch, especially after that time he joked—or maybe wasn’t joking—about proposing. The only clear thing between them was that they’d fought side by side on a few missions.

“Oh, that rascal must have caused you no end of trouble. Thank you for tolerating him,” Lawrence said with a knowing chuckle, clearly aware of his son’s penchant for being infuriating. “Are you here in Arcadia to look for him?”

“I’m here on his behalf to check in on Jacqueline,” Abby said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. She quickly shifted the topic. “I ran into George in Dallas a couple of days ago. He got a call from Jacqueline but couldn’t get away, so he asked me to come check on her.”

“Ah, I see,” Lawrence laughed. “That rascal hasn’t been back to L.A. in over half a year, not even for Christmas. Is working for the federal government really that busy?”

“His department’s especially busy, no way around it,” Abby said, unsure if Crow had ever mentioned the NSAA to his parents. She decided to keep things vague. “Why don’t you fill me in on the situation instead?”

“Well, it’s been going on for two or three weeks now,” Lawrence began, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “The affected area is roughly between Baldwin Avenue and Santa Anita Avenue. Lots of residents have been complaining about nightmares, sleep paralysis, sleepwalking, and the like. Many of them have been going to Jacqueline’s clinic. But for the specifics, you’ll need to ask her—I’ve only heard bits and pieces from her complaints over meals.”

“Is it serious?”

“Quite serious,” Lawrence said with a nod. “It’s even made the papers. At least two or three hundred people have been affected, and that’s just the ones going to her clinic. There are others seeing different doctors, too.”

“And Jacqueline? She’s not sleeping well either?”

“Recurring nightmares—falling into the ocean, wandering in the desert. I wonder if she’s been watching too much National Geographic channel,” Lawrence said with a small chuckle, though he stopped himself, realizing it might not be the best idea to make light of his daughter’s troubles. Abby couldn’t help but notice how much Crow’s infuriating sense of humor seemed to run in the family.

Lawrence suddenly asked, “Do you go to church?”

“Uh, kind of. Why do you ask?”

“It’s almost 7 AM now. If you don’t mind, we could go to the church where my family regularly attends Mass at 8. Jacqueline will be driving my wife there.”

“Oh, that sounds like a great idea.”

Just then, the server arrived with Lawrence’s breakfast. Lawrence gestured toward Abby and said with a grin, “Samantha, this is my son’s comrade, Abigail. She came all the way here to check on us. Put her bill on mine, please.”

“Of course,” Samantha replied with a bright smile. She was a strikingly beautiful woman of mixed white and Latin American heritage. “Shall I pack a breakfast for Judy as well?”

“Let’s make that two—one for Jacqueline as well,” Lawrence said, nodding.

“You’re making me feel a bit guilty,” Abby said, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“We Chinese have an old saying: ‘A guest from afar is a guest indeed.’ Treating our good guest to breakfast is the least I can do,” Lawrence said kindly.

The Tan family’s regular church was a Baptist one, officially named Arcadia Chinese Baptist Church, located right across the street from Arcadia High School. As Lawrence leaned against the car, he pointed at the school and said, “Both George and Jacqueline graduated from here. His grades weren’t as good as his sister’s, but he was great at sports—he was on the school swim team.”

Abby curiously studied the high school across the street, trying to imagine what Crow might have been like in 1982. It was hard to picture—she was born in 1977, a full 12 years younger than Crow, who was born in 1965.

At that moment, a white Mercedes E300 pulled into the church parking lot and stopped near Lawrence. A high school-aged boy got out of the driver’s seat, while a middle-aged woman and an elderly lady about Lawrence’s age stepped out of the back. Lawrence straightened up and introduced Abby to his wife, daughter, and grandson, Peter. Jacqueline seemed surprised that Abby had bumped into her father at Danny’s earlier. She eagerly shook Abby’s hand, sizing her up from head to toe with an expression full of joy and approval. She then turned to the elderly lady and said something in Mandarin, prompting the older woman to smile broadly, her delight impossible to conceal.

Abby immediately realized there had been a misunderstanding—one she couldn’t easily explain.

Lawrence retrieved two meal boxes from the car and handed them to Jacqueline. “I got breakfast for you and Mom. I didn’t know Peter would be here, so I didn’t get him anything.”

Jacqueline smiled as she passed the boxes to her son. “Mom and I already ate at home, so Peter can have these. It’s 7:45 now, and Mass doesn’t start until 8. There’s still time.”

Peter was a shy 17-year-old boy, especially in Abby’s presence. He stood about six feet tall, with a well-proportioned and athletic build that suggested he was quite the athlete. His thick, jet-black hair and deep brown eyes hinted at his Chinese heritage, but his facial features leaned more toward Caucasian—high nose bridge, pronounced cheekbones, a strong chin, and deep-set eyes. The mixed-race boy quickly took the breakfast boxes, hopped back into the car, and devoured the food in large bites, finishing both meals in the blink of an eye.

Jacqueline and the elderly lady were clearly mother and daughter. The older woman was short but exuded elegance. She wore a rare and striking royal-blue qipao paired with a light gray Hermès scarf draped around her collar. A delicate white enamel plum blossom brooch was pinned to her left chest. Her oval-shaped face bore more wrinkles than Lawrence’s, a testament to the years of worry she had spent caring for the family. She had round eyes, a large nose, and thin lips. Her salt-and-pepper hair was styled in a vintage, fluffy perm. She held her hands clasped in front of her abdomen, and on her left wrist was an antique oval-faced mechanical watch with a worn and scratched leather strap—clearly an heirloom that hadn’t been replaced in years.

Jacqueline, in contrast, was tall and slim, with a striking figure. She stood about 5'7", roughly the same height as Crow, and looked to be in her early forties. She carried herself with an air of sharpness and efficiency. Her thick, jet-black, shoulder-length hair was casually draped over her shoulders. Like her mother, she had an oval-shaped face, but her complexion was pale and her expression tired. Her thick eyebrows were neatly groomed, with straight peaks and slightly drooping ends. Her round, bright eyes sparkled with energy and warmth as she looked at Abby, exuding a sense of liveliness. Her nose was not very high, but the tip was broad—another feature inherited from her mother. Her mouth was small, and her slightly fuller lips resembled Lawrence’s. Her teeth were dazzlingly white and perfectly straight. Jacqueline wore light makeup with a faintly colored lipstick. Despite her well-maintained appearance, the nasolabial folds on her neck revealed her age.

Jacqueline’s jewelry was understated yet elegant—delicate diamond earrings and a matching necklace that sparkled modestly. Her hands were meticulously cared for, smooth and fair, with porcelain-like skin. Her fingers weren’t long, and the backs of her hands bore a few tiny dimples, adding to their delicate appearance. She wore a thin, dove-gray wool short coat over a creamy white sweater and a black fitted maxi skirt that reached her ankles, accentuating her proportions beautifully. Her shoes, a pair of glossy black mid-heeled pumps, completed her polished look.

Today, Abby had opted for a rather professional outfit—not specifically for attending Mass, but to emphasize her competence. She wore a pale blue, almost white dress shirt, a gray blazer paired with matching trousers, and flat, round-toed black leather shoes. It was always a mystery how women managed to pack so many outfits into a single suitcase. Aside from a necklace, Abby wore no other jewelry. The necklace was one of her favorites: a silver chain with a diamond-shaped pendant that contained a small photo of her and her parents.

It didn’t take long for the women to warm up to each other. While Peter devoured his breakfast, the three ladies, spanning three different generations, seemed to bond effortlessly in a matter of minutes. Lawrence stood off to the side, smiling quietly, though his thoughts remained a mystery.