Collector of Secrets (31 page)

Somebody did indeed live close by.

One more turn in the forest road revealed a straight laneway about thirty yards long. The end was blocked by the dual panels of a large front gate. As Max approached, he could see that each wooden door was about nine feet high and almost half as wide. When opened, they would easily allow a vehicle through. Each gate possessed an upper and a lower section, infilled with bright yellow bamboo shafts. The sound of the whining dogs was coming from the opposite side.

He was getting set to knock on the gate when the fence line caught his eye. Straight green lines ran into the forest in either direction. Moving closer, Max traced his fingers gently along the leaves, then pushed his hand beneath to the surface below. His knuckles bumped against solid bamboo. It was a living fence. He’d never seen anything like it.

A woman’s voice shouted from the gate.
“Hanarero!”
She was demanding that he go away.

Max leaped back toward the spot where he’d been standing only moments before. A chest-high hole had appeared in the right gate, about the size of a breadbox. The old woman held it open a crack. She repeated her angry order,
“Hanarero!”
before pushing the window shut.

Please come back.
He drew a deep breath and stared at his dusty shoes in defeat.

Max turned and retraced his steps down the lane while images of the past week raced through his head: hiding in Mr. Murayama’s office; the
Yakuza
chasing him through the streets; Toshi taking him in; Tomoko screaming in the plaza; Mrs. Kanazawa’s lifeless body; the Izu car chase; the Love Hotel; waking to an empty house.

No, no, no!

Whirling around, he charged back toward the gate. His palms slapped hard against the wood. “Please open up! Please, I need help. He stood on the spot tensed with frustration while talking to himself. “How do I ask for help?” He tried desperately to think back to his language classes as the dogs’ barking grew louder. Paws scratched on the other side of the gate—they wanted at him. In a flash, he remembered. “Uh . . .
Tasukete . . . Tasukete . . . Tasukete!”

Finally, he heard the scrape of the turning latch. A shouted word dropped the canine chorus to a whimper. The modest window swung wide open. However, this time it was the young girl gazing out. Her round face held rosy cheeks, and she was giggling.

“Hello. My name is Chiho. Your Japanese not so good.”

He was elated. “My name is Max. You speak English?”

“A little.” The old woman was out of view, whispering, and the girl paused to listen. “My grandmother say, ‘Go away!’”

“I will. Tell your grandmother I will go away, but I’m looking for someone.”

He crouched down and looked through the opening. Behind her, a collection of thatch-roofed buildings interplayed with sculpted pine trees and an arching bridge in the distance. The view was infused with serenity, like an idyllic landscape painting.

“She say you go away now. She will telephone police.”

Max shook an outstretched palm. “No, no police. Tell her that I’m looking for this place.” He handed the girl the yellow paper with the address on it. “I’m looking for a man named Ben Takeda.” He enunciated the syllables carefully. “I need to talk. It’s a matter of life and death.”

The girl spoke to the hidden woman while Max stared farther into the bucolic scene. In the distance, he noticed the wind catch a red-and-white flag hanging on a slender pole. The flapping image displayed a stylized picture of the sun with three letters below it.

A man pushing a wheelbarrow appeared in the distance. He was wearing overalls and his face was hidden by a farmer’s hat. He seemed unaware of the drama unfolding at the gate as he stopped to dig in the soil.

The girl spoke again. “That man go many years ago.”

“Does she know where he went?”

“No, my grandmother said he not here.” The girl shrugged and smiled. “Now you go.”

Wrinkled hands pulled the smiling girl away from the gate. The wizened face reappeared.
“Hanarero!”
the woman shouted before the picture frame slammed shut.

JUN’S FINGERS squeezed the steering wheel of the Mercedes SLK 280. He imagined the euphoric feeling that would rush through his body when he crushed the American’s neck. The shaking death spasms would bring a special thrill, and in his mind’s eye, he played the stylized killing repeatedly. He pictured a primal scream pouring from his own lungs as he wrenched the book from the
Gaijin
’s dead hands and held it high over his head, rays of piercing sunlight flaring behind him. He knelt before Father, who beamed with pleasure at seeing his prize finally recovered. Exotic women and buckets of money would be gifted to him by the ecstatic leader. Jun grinned while the fantasy played in his head.

The silver two-seat roadster was streaking west on the Tomei Expressway, chasing the setting sun. Its top speed was pegged at one-hundred-sixty miles per hour, and he was itching for a test run. Perhaps at some point during the ten-hour drive to Osaka, maybe closer to midnight, he would get the chance to really pick up the pace. Until then, an endless line of delivery trucks snaked ahead in his path.

On the empty passenger’s seat beside him lay the coiled body of his
Surujin
chain. Over time, while mastering its execution, he had come to consider the weapon his only true friend. It had been given to him back when he was sixteen. Or more accurately, he’d taken it. On the wire-fenced exercise ground of the Chiba Boys’ Academy, he’d watched as another boy proudly displayed the unusual weapon, a present from his uncle. Cocky and boastful, the youth allowed only his closest friends to touch it. That night, after curfew, Jun had tried to get a better look. Alerted by the noise, the older boy fought to take back his gift. It was a short but violent exchange and the reward was expulsion. From then on, life became a game of street survival, with only his wits and the prize that he’d carried with him ever since.

The blaring guitar solo from Bump of Chicken’s latest single died down. The noise was replaced by the sound of a ringing bell. Jun eyed the dashboard suspiciously. An illuminated space in the console center began blinking, so he jabbed a finger at it. The words
PHONE CONNECTED
appeared on the screen.

“Hello, Jun,” Oto Kodama’s voice resonated in surround sound. The bass made it seem as if a god were speaking to him from the walls.

Out of habit, he bowed his head repeatedly. “Hello, Father. Thank you for having this car waiting for me.”

“Your message said you know where the American is.”

“I believe he’s gone to Nara, but I’m not sure why.” He hesitated. “I wanted to push the girl for information, but Hiro was too soft.”

“Never mind, it’s not a concern. I’ve left you something in the glove box. Go ahead and look.”

Jun’s massive hand flipped open the latch. The compartment door swung open, revealing the illuminated body of a handgun inside.

“It’s a
—
”

Oto interrupted. “I hope you understand what I’m telling you to do?”

Jun trembled with excitement.

“The American has been enough trouble. Don’t bother catching him. Just finish the job.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And afterward, make sure to bring my gift back. Hiro will take the blame for your action as well as for the other problems he’s caused lately. Where are you now?”

“Near Nagoya. I should get to Osaka late tonight, and I’ll begin looking in the morning, but it may take some time to find this address—it’s in the countryside.”

“I want results, not excuses. Meet the other men tomorrow and find him. Call me again after it’s finished.” The tone of the deep voice grew more serious. “This has gotten out of control. I want
all
the loose ends wrapped up within the next twenty-four hours. Don’t let me down.”

The dashboard screen went blank, and the screaming guitars rose back to their former crescendo.

Hiro will be gone, and I will assume a proper position of authority in the gang.

The last sliver of sunlight dropped from sight while the sports car sped into the night.

HIRO APPROACHED the steel prison door on the P5 level of the Yebisu Garden Terrace. A rakishly thin figure stepped from the shadows. He was just a kid really, with flat-ironed rusty hair and a wispy goatee; eighteen or nineteen, maybe, and trying to look tough.

Hiro held out his arms. “It’s just two blankets.”

The sentry shrugged with indifference before opening the screeching door, motioning for him to enter. The dank concrete room with its lone light bulb hadn’t changed in the last thirty-six hours. It still smelled of his blood.

Tomoko lay curled up in the inky darkness near the room’s rear wall. The arch of her back was facing him, and he laid a folded blanket on her legs, which she batted away in disgust.

Turning back, he placed a second blanket on the wooden table, along with two apples. Using his good hand, he withdrew gauze, tape and a folding knife from his pocket.

A sniffling sound seeped from the back of the room. Tomoko’s voice cracked as she spoke. “Why is a diary so valuable that it was worth Mrs. Kanazawa’s life?”

He wasn’t good with women, but he attempted to respond as gently as he knew how. “I don’t know.” It came out sounding gruff.

Her voice dripped with disdain. “You just do what you’re told. You’re a mindless zombie.” Grabbing the blanket, she shook out its folds and covered herself.

The door groaned, and the young sentry motioned for Hiro’s attention. “I need to take a break. I’ll lock the door if you can wait outside.”

Hiro spoke in a hushed voice. “Go ahead. I’ll stay here.”

“You want me to lock you inside?”

“Yes. I’ll spend the night.”

“Everyone says your crazy.” The sentry shook his head as he exited. “Now I see why.”

Sharp pain shot up Hiro’s forearm as he re-bandaged the stump of his pinkie before moving back into the darkness to lie on the second mattress.

A moment of silence passed before Tomoko spoke. “Thank you for letting my parents go free. I promise they won’t talk to the police . . . and my mother will call my office to tell them I’m sick, like I asked her.” Seconds ticked by. “I know it was you who let them go. That other jerk would never have done it.”

Hiro wanted to say something profound, something she would remember, but all he could stammer was, “You’re welcome.”

THE THREE letters
KKK
played havoc with Max’s sleep, but his subconscious just wouldn’t let go. Throughout the night, the bed sheets twisted and pulled. There was no clear answer for why such a tranquil bamboo-fenced compound would be flying the Ku Klux Klan’s red flag. The paradigm was all wrong. The Klan didn’t exist in this part of the world. They were relegated to history, except for a scattering of members in the southern U.S. states.

Having finally had enough of his struggling thoughts, he rose at first light and headed downstairs to the Nara hostel’s dining room. Upon entering, he noted that the four round tables in the main-floor breakfast area were already uncomfortably crowded. Max grabbed a bowl of cereal before taking the only available chair with a loud group of British twenty-something’s. Observing the three couples seated at the table, he silently noted he was the only loner before forcibly sweeping aside the distressing pang.
No one forced her to leave. She made her choice.