Nightmare Range (41 page)

I elbowed Ernie. “She’s taking it hard.”

Ernie glanced over at Mi-hwa Ammerman. “Yeah,” Ernie said, “but the woman Ammerman raped took it even harder.”

The prosecutor, a dapper Korean man in a pin-striped suit, rose to his feet. He cleared his throat and started to drone on again in Korean legalese.

Since he’d been brought into the room, not once had Ammerman acknowledged the presence of his wife or even so much as
glanced in her direction. Instead he glared at the prosecutor, as if he wanted to leap across the room and throttle his neck as he’d throttled the neck of Mrs. Yi Won-suk.

Ernie yawned and tried to make himself more comfortable on the wooden bench. We had already discussed which nightclubs we’d be hitting tonight. Before leaving Seoul, we’d changed a small pile of military payment certificates into
won
. The money would be put to its usual good use—cold beer and wild times, not necessarily in that order.

While I was pondering these soothing thoughts, a glint of metal flashed from the seating area behind Fred Ammerman. Without thinking, I rose to my feet.

Mi-hwa Ammerman, her face streaming tears, was standing now, her handbag dropped to the floor.

Without conscious thought, I lunged toward her. A long butcher knife appeared in her slender hand. She raised it. She stepped forward.

A shout bellowed through the hall.

I shoved people out of the way and stepped over benches, trying to reach her, knowing all the time that I wouldn’t make it.

Fred Ammerman never turned fully around.

His attorney noticed that something was amiss and as he swiveled he instinctively held up his hands. A yell erupted from his belly but it was too late. Ammerman’s bearded face was turning toward Mi-hwa as she leaned over the railing, raised the glistening blade, and brought it down full force into her husband’s back.

Fred Ammerman let out a grunt of surprise. No more. I kept moving forward and was only a few feet from him now. Mi-hwa held onto the hilt of the blade, shoving it deeper into heaving flesh. Gore spurted from Fred Ammerman’s back like the unraveling of a scarlet ribbon.

The confusion in Ammerman’s eyes turned to dull knowledge. Then, a split second later, that knowledge turned to pain.

Aaron Murakami reached for Mi-hwa. I leapt forward and elbowed him out of the way. Uniformed police were now surging toward us. I folded myself over Mi-hwa, enveloping her in my arms. She let go of the butcher knife and leaned backward, allowing me to pull her away from the railing and protect her there, while other men hurtled toward us. Bodies thudded into bodies but I held on, not letting them have her.

She kept her eyes riveted on the back of her husband, as if mesmerized by the damage she had wrought.

Ernie grabbed hold of Ammerman. One of the Korean cops jerked the butcher knife out of the blood-soaked back. That’s when Ammerman stood upright, supported by Ernie and Murakami, and then, as if someone had sucker punched him in the gut, he folded forward. Bright red blood spurted from his mouth.

Mi-hwa Ammerman didn’t cry, she didn’t struggle, she just let me hold her as she stared at her husband, as if amazed at what she’d just done.

And then someone jostled us and more men surrounded me, and despite my best efforts, Mi-hwa Ammerman was dragged from my arms. I followed her out of the main hall and down the corridor, but then she disappeared into the screaming, moving crowd. I returned to the courtroom.

Ernie grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my face. “You still with me?”

I nodded.

He slapped me lightly on the cheek, making sure I was all right. Then he said, “That’s one chick who knows how to save face.”

On the floor, the thing that was once Fred Ammerman shuddered. Then his body convulsed and a whoosh of air exited his mouth, like a great bellows emptying itself in one final rush. The hot breath rose to the top of the stone rafters far above our heads, lingered for a while, and then was gone.

“T
alking to dead people,” Ernie said, “isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.”

Stone walls loomed above us as we wound our way through narrow cobbled lanes that led up the side of Namsan Mountain in a district of Seoul known as Huam-dong. Night shadows closed in on us, pressing down. A few dark clouds. No moon yet.

“You won’t be talking to dead people,” I told Ernie. “That’s the job of the
mudang
.” The female shaman.

Using the dim yellow light of an occasional street lamp, I glanced at the scrap of paper in my hand, checking the address against the engraved brass placards embedded into wooden gateways: 132
bonji
, 16
ho
. We were close.

The request had been a simple one, from Miss Choi Yong-kuang, my Korean language teacher: to come to a
kut
. I’d learn something about ancient Korean religious practices and I’d be able to observe a famous Korean
mudang
first hand. And I’d be able to hear from an American GI who’d been disrupting this
mudang
’s séances for the last few months. A GI who—so the
mudang
claimed—had been dead for twenty years.

“Bunch of bull, if you ask me,” Ernie said.

“They’ll have
soju
,” I told Ernie. “And lots of women.”

“Men don’t attend these things?”

“Not unless invited.”

Ernie gazed ahead into the growing gloom. “And you’ll be able to get near your Korean language teacher. What’s her name?”

“Choi,” I told him.

Miss Choi was a tall young woman with a nice figure and a smile that could illuminate a hall. When she asked me to meet her after class, I would’ve said yes to just about anything. Even a séance. Ernie and I hadn’t made this trip official. We were off duty now, carrying our badges but not our .45s. And we hadn’t told anyone at 8th Army CID about our plans to attend a kut.

Who needed their laughter?

The lane turned sharply uphill and became so narrow that we had to proceed single file. Beneath our feet, sudsy water gurgled in a brick channel. The air reeked of waste and ammonia.

Finally, the lane opened into an open space in front of a huge red gate. Behind the gate a large house loomed. Upturned blue tile pointed toward the sky. Clay figurines of monkeys perched on the ridges of the roof, frightening away evil spirits.

At the heavy wooden door, I paused and listened. No sound. It appeared to be a huge house and there was no telling how far the grounds extended behind this gate.

Ernie admired the thick granite walls. “Not our normal hangout.”

Once again, I checked the address against the embossed plate and then pressed the buzzer. A tinny voice responded.

“
Yoboseiyo
?”

In my most carefully pronounced Korean, I explained who I was and why I was here. The voice told me to wait. A few seconds later, footsteps. Then, like a secret panel, a small door hidden in the big gateway creaked open. An old woman stood behind, smiling and bowing. Ernie and I ducked through into a wide courtyard.

Neatly tended ferns, shrubs, small persimmon trees. In a pond beneath a tiny waterfall, goldfish splashed.

We followed the maid to the main entrance of the home and slipped off our footwear, leaving our big clunky leather oxfords
amidst a sea of feminine shoes spangled with sequins and stars and golden tassels.

The maid led us down a long wood-slat floor corridor. Oil-papered doors lined either side. Finally, we heard murmuring—the sound of prayer. Women knelt on the floor of a large hall, praying. When we entered, they turned to look at us. I couldn’t spot Miss Choi anywhere.

“They’re all mama-sans,” Ernie said.

“Hush.”

Most of the women were middle-aged and matronly. And extremely well dressed. Expensive
chima-chogori
, the traditional Korean attire of short vest and high-waisted skirt, rustled as they moved. The dresses were made of silk dyed in bright colors and decorated with hand-embroidered dragons and cranes and silver-threaded lotus flowers.

The far wall was covered with a huge banner: the Goddess of the Underworld, wielding a sword and vanquishing evil.

“
Wasso,
” one of the women said. They’ve arrived.

Then all the women rose to their feet and started rearranging their cushions into a semi-circle. Miss Choi Yong-kuang, smiling, appeared out of the milling throng. She wore a simple silk skirt and blouse of sky blue—less expensive than what most of the other women wore, but on her it looked smashing.

After bowing and shaking our hands, Miss Choi turned Ernie over to a small group of smiling women. They pulled him off to the right side of the hall. Miss Choi led me to the left side and sat me down cross-legged on a plump cushion. Low tables were brought out piled high with rice cakes and pears and sliced seaweed rolls. These were set in front of a long-eared god made of bronze who sat serenely on a raised dais in front of the banner of the Goddess of the Underworld. Incense in brass burners was lit and then an elderly woman dressed in exquisite red silk embroidered with gold danced slowly around the room, waving a small torch. Miss Choi whispered to me that she was the mistress of this home.

“Why’s she waving the torch?”

“Chasing away ghosts.” Embarrassed, Miss Choi covered her mouth with the back of her soft hand.

Gongs clanged, so loudly and with so little warning that I almost slipped off my cushion. Then sticks were beaten against thin drums. I glanced behind me and discovered that three musicians were hidden in shadows behind an embroidered screen.

The ambient light in the hallway was switched off and now the only illumination in the room was the red pinpoints of light from the smoldering incense and the flickering candles lining either side of the long-eared bronze god.

More drums and now clanging cymbals. Then silence. Breathlessly, we waited for what seemed to be a long time. Finally, the clanging resumed with renewed fervor. A woman dressed completely in white floated into the center of the kneeling and squatting spectators. A pointed hood kept her face hidden in shadows.

“Who’s she?” I asked.

“The
mudang
,” Miss Choi answered. “Her name is Widow Po. Very famous.”

Miss Choi Yong-kuang is an educated and modern woman. Still, there was reverence in her voice when she spoke of the Widow Po.

Across the room, Ernie reached toward one of the rice cakes on the low table in front of him. A middle-aged woman slapped his hand.

The
mudang
continued her dance, eyes closed as if in a trance. The musicians handled the percussion instruments expertly, keeping the rhythm. Finally, when the first beads of perspiration appeared on the
mudang
’s brow, other women rose to their feet and began to dance. Soon about a half dozen of them were on the floor, swirling around like slightly overweight tops.

One of the women yanked on Ernie’s wrist, trying to coax him to his feet. He hesitated, holding up his open palm, and then pointed to one of the open bottles of
soju
dispersed amongst
the feast for the gods. She understood, grabbed the bottle, and poured a generous glug into Ernie’s open mouth. Rice wine dribbled out the side of his mouth and onto his white shirt and gray jacket. Ernie didn’t mind. He motioned for another shot and the woman obliged. Then he was on his feet, dancing as expertly as if he’d been attending ancient Korean séances all his life. Arms spread to his sides, gliding in smooth circles like some pointy-nosed, green-eyed bird of prey.

The Widow Po danced toward Ernie. When she was close enough, she grabbed his wrist and started twirling Ernie around faster. Soon the other women took their seats as my partner, Ernie Bascom, and the
mudang
, Widow Po, swirled around the entire floor. The rhythm of the cymbals and drums grew more frenzied. The Widow Po reached down, gracefully plucked up an open bottle of
soju
, and once again poured a healthy glug down Ernie’s throat. One of the women in the crowd stood and pulled off his jacket. The Widow Po’s hood fell back. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, at least ten years older than Ernie but with a strong face and high cheekbones. The blemish was the pox. The flesh of her entire face was marked by the scars of some hideous childhood disease.

Ernie didn’t seem to notice. Especially when the Widow Po started rubbing her body against his.

The matronly women in the crowd squealed with delight. Even the modest Miss Choi covered her face with both hands, attempting to hide her mirth.

Ernie motioned for more
soju
and the Widow Po obliged but then, after another glug had dribbled down Ernie’s cheeks, the Widow Po suddenly stopped dancing. The music stopped. Ernie kept twirling for a few seconds and then stopped dancing himself. He glanced around, confused.

The Widow Po stood in the center of the floor, her head bowed, ignoring him. Sensing that his moment in the spotlight was over, Ernie grinned, grabbed the half-f bottle of
soju
off the low table, and resumed his seat on the far side of the hall.

No one moved for what seemed a long time—maybe five minutes. Finally, the Widow Po screamed.

The voice was high, banshee-like. The Korean was garbled, as if from a person who was ill or in great pain, and I could understand none of it. The attention turned to one of the women in the crowd. She was plump, holding a handkerchief to her face, crying profusely. The Widow Po approached her, still using the strange, falsetto voice. Finally, the crying woman burst out.

“Hyong-ae
!
Wei domang kasso.”

That I understood. Why did you leave me, Hyong-ae?

The Widow Po and the crying woman went back and forth, asking questions of one another, casting accusations, arguing. I leaned toward Miss Choi with a quizzical look on my face. She explained.

“Hyong-ae was her daughter. She died in a car accident last year. Now she’s blaming her mother for buying her a car.”

“The Widow Po is playing the part of her daughter?”

“Not playing. Hyung-ae’s spirit has entered her body.”