Final Settlement (16 page)

Bridges disposed of his brushes, palette, and smock. Nearly ten-thirty—no wonder he felt exhausted. His burst of frenetic creativity had lasted several hours, and during that time he’d done nothing but paint. Now he was spent and starving.

He flicked a light on in the kitchen and pulled a stuffed chicken breast from the refrigerator. Into the microwave it went for several minutes. Sage-scented poultry filled the room, making Alcott’s mouth water. Removing his entree with a fork, he transferred it to a chipped plate and sat down at the table.

The Breakwater was finished. He felt a sense of relief and grati-tude, the same sensation he always experienced when completing a big work. He cut a piece of chicken, stabbed it, and chewed thoughtfully. This called for a drink of something special.

In the upper cabinet Alcott kept a half-full bottle of single malt whiskey. He stood on a step stool to reach the bottle and climbed down carefully. He then uncorked the bottle and took a long pull. A moment later, he’d found a small tumbler, filled it nearly full of the amber liquid, and sat down again.

The chicken was rubbery but Alcott was too hungry to notice. He ate nearly the whole portion, put his plate in the dishwasher, and headed back to the studio with his Scotch. He stood before the painting for a long time, sipping the whiskey and waiting.

Slowly a warm feeling crept over him, partly the result of the alcohol, but also a sensation from his study of his work. It was affecting him, yes, it was reaching him at the spirit level, lifting him to a higher place. He felt as if he were floating, hovering inside the landscape of the painting, experiencing the angles of the granite rocks, the spray of the foamy water, and the turbulence of the waves. He closed his eyes and whispered to the woman who remained, even in death, his muse.

We did it, Gracie. We did it again.

He set down the glass of whiskey and turned off the light. Gracie was pleased, he sensed that, and her spirit was at rest. He shuffled slowly to his bedroom, thinking back over the extraordinary day. The news he had longed to hear had finally come. His tormenter was gone. He had nothing to fear, no need to worry. He changed into a flannel nightshirt and eased his body into bed, feeling as light as the snow that fell steadily outside his bedroom window.

_____

Darby let out a long, slow, breath. “My grandfather was a good man,” she finally managed.

Kenji Miyazaki looked up from the journal. He dipped his head gently and closed the little book. After hours of reading, one thing seemed clear: Tokutaro Sugiyama had been an outspoken critic of all that had transpired at the notorious Unit 731. Whenever possible, he had worked to release the Chinese people under his care, had warned others about impending experiments, and even sabotaged the work of his superiors to end suffering. He had done the best he could do in a horrible situation, a situation he neither chose nor desired.

Darby realized her grandfather had been as much a prisoner as any one of the Unit’s victims. And yet he had never given up trying to change the awful reality of the place.

Tears slid down her cheeks and she wiped them with her sweater. “Ken, I don’t know how to thank you for tonight. I’m—I’m overwhelmed.”

He stood and crossed the room, lowering himself so that he was kneeling beside her. Very gently he said, “It’s a lot to take in. The things that went on there are nearly impossible to comprehend.”

Darby nodded. She didn’t quite trust herself to speak about the horrors her grandfather outlined in his entries. The testing of innocent Chinese men, women, and children at the hands of the Imperial Japanese Army’s scientists and doctors had been horrific, an inhumane period in which all thoughts of decency and morality had been ignored.

She felt a tsunami of sadness.
All those victims,
she thought
. All those lives taken so horribly
. Darby closed her eyes, as if she could block out the images, and found herself leaning against Kenji’s shoulder.

He moved next to her on the couch. She continued crying quietly against him, feeling his strongly muscled arms holding her tightly. It was grief, not only for those faceless victims she had never known, but also for her grandfather, who had spent years of his life in a living hell.

“Do you think my mother ever knew the truth?” Darby’s voice was muffled against the soft flannel of Kenji’s shirt.

“I do.” He pulled away, gently, and looked into her eyes. “Your mother spoke and read Japanese. She may not have gotten the whole gist of the scientific language, but she understood enough to know that Tokutaro was not a willing participant in anything that happened.”

Darby bit her lip. “I’m so glad.” The mystery of how and when her mother had obtained the journal remained unsolved.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter now,
she thought.

She wiped away her tears and looked into Kenji’s face, seeing only compassion. Slowly, his hand reached up to stroke her glossy black hair.

“So much pain for someone so exquisite.” He cupped her chin with his hands as if cradling a fragile teacup, leaned forward and kissed her.

She closed her eyes. Kenji was trying to erase her sadness, to replace the horror with hope. She kissed him back, felt his hands brush her slender neck. Little ripples of longing stirred somewhere inside her.

“Kenji …”

Seconds later he pulled away. “Forgive me. That was wrong.” His voice was husky. “I’m going to go now.”

“You can’t. We tried shoveling you out, but it’s snowing too hard.”

“Yes, but …” he hesitated. “I’m not going to take advantage of the situation.” He rose to his feet and bowed slightly. “I will go up to bed. Good night, Darby Farr.”

Watching him walk up the stairs to the room she’d prepared earlier, Darby’s overwhelming emotion was surprise: not just that he had kissed her, but that she hadn’t wanted it to end.

_____

“Rise and shine, beautiful bride!” Terri Dodge pushed open the door of her sister’s bedroom with her knee. “It’s a real winter wonderland out there.”

Tina opened one eye and yawned. “Lordy, what time is it?”

“Eight-thirty,” chirped Trixie Ames, entering the room with two mugs of coffee. She watched as Terri placed a tray atop her sister’s lap. “Doesn’t that look yummy, Tina? Your very own wedding day breakfast.”

Tina gazed down at the perfectly poached egg, glass of orange juice, cup of coffee, and toast. “Delicious! But why aren’t you two eating with me?”

“We already enjoyed ours,” Terri explained. She took the proffered mug of coffee from Trixie’s hand. “Trix and I are going to sit right here and watch you eat every last bite.”

“That’s not going to be hard,” Tina said, munching the toast. “Naturally, I’m starved.” She washed down the bread with a swig of juice. “I’m glad you guys put me to bed when you did. I feel nice and rested. How do I look?”

“Like you got your beauty sleep,” Trixie said, smoothing her sister’s curls with one hand and sipping her coffee with the other. “You are going to be a gorgeous bride.”

“Speaking of gorgeous … How did my Manolos fit?” Terri straightened the edge of the comforter in an absentminded way.

Tina stole a quick glance at Trixie, who gave a tiny grin. “Just fine! Can’t wait to wear them.” She pierced a piece of poached egg with her fork. “So what’s it look like outside? Did we get twelve feet of snow, or what?”

“Not that bad—only three. But it’s piled up pretty high.” Trixie grinned. “You’re lucky that Donny’s got his own plow. We’d be stuck in your driveway for the whole day if it wasn’t for him.”

Tina nodded. “He’s a good catch.” She pointed at an orange slice that was cut in the shape of a heart. “Aw … how cute. You guys are too much.” She picked up the fruit and popped it in her mouth. “Florida sunshine, right?”

“More like Valentine’s Day.” Terri stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll go clean up the kitchen and get ready for the hairdresser. She’s coming at ten, right?”

“Yes,” Tina affirmed, popping another piece of orange in her mouth. “It’s Connie Fisher from Manatuck. She’s coming here because of the snow.”

Terri cocked her head. “The DA’s wife?”

“That’s right.” Tina had been faithful to Connie for years, and didn’t trust anyone else to touch her curly red locks.

Terri shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She picked up her coffee cup and left the room.

“What, I didn’t name drop enough for her?” Tina asked, giving her sister a playful nudge. “That was a close call with the stupid shoes.”

“No kidding. I was pinching my thigh so I wouldn’t start giggling.” She reached down and lifted the tray. “Terri gets her hair done at some fancy place in Boston, doesn’t she?” She tipped her head. “She means well, you know. It was her idea to fix you breakfast in bed.”

“I know. I love her, but I’m thankful every day that you came along, little sister. I don’t think our childhood would have been bearable without you.”

Trixie smiled. “Glad to be of service. Now get yourself up and going, lazybones. You got a big day ahead.”

_____

Darby entered the farmhouse kitchen wearing jeans and a red sweater, heading straight for the coffee maker. She stopped short, spotting Kenji already awake and standing by the window. He was holding something in his hand and frowning.

“Good morning,” she called. “What’s the problem?”

He turned and gave a quick grin. “Not exactly a problem. I was trying to send a message on my phone and it appears there’s no service.”

Darby yawned. “I think the storm took out the tower. I tried to make a call last night with no luck.” She peered out the window. “Looks like we got a couple of feet.” She pointed at the coffeepot. “Are you a coffee drinker?”

“Yes—thanks.” He was wearing a vintage ski sweater in a blue and red snowflake design and jeans that hugged his muscular torso. “Thanks for the room. I slept very well.”

“You’re welcome.” Darby filled the pot with water and turned to face him. She’d decided not to mention the kiss.
It was late,
she reasoned
, and I was overwrought.
“It’s me who should be thanking you. I feel like a giant weight has been lifted off my back. I’m so appreciative of your time, Kenji.”

“Don’t mention it.” He pointed at a little red notebook on the kitchen table. It was the one Darby had found in Lorraine Delvecchio’s desk. “I don’t mean to snoop, but what are you doing with a book written in cipher?”

Darby put down the pot of water. “What do you mean?”

He grinned. “I’m like a little kid when it comes to codes and ciphers. Always fancied myself a secret agent or something.” He picked up the notebook and flipped through the pages. “It’s some sort of accounting—mostly numbers—but the letters are written in a classic Caesar cipher.”

“Can you explain?”

“Sure. It’s a simple shift of the alphabet, in this case, by four letters. Common enough, and easy to do, but still effective.” He looked down at the notebook’s inside cover, where a meaningless string of letters had been scribbled. “
This is the property of Lorraine Delvecchio
,” he read. “That’s what it says.”

Darby felt her mouth grow dry. She forced herself to fill the coffee filter with grounds, pour through the water, and start the coffee maker before turning to Kenji.

“Did you figure out the whole thing?” she asked.

“There’s nothing really to decipher,” he explained. “All that’s here is a series of initials, and months. What’s important is why this record was kept.” He lowered his voice. “I may be wrong, but I think this Lorraine Delvecchio is an extortionist. These appear to be month-by-month records of payments from five people identified by their initials.”

“How far does it go back?”

“
Ten or eleven years
.”

Darby’s mind whirled. Lorraine had been a secretive woman with an amazing memory. Had she also been a blackmailer? Was that how she financed her exotic trips?

She reached out and took the little notebook. “You may have just solved an important riddle. Can you show me the initials?”

“Sure. They translate to BA, ML, DT, AB, and RC.”

Darby grabbed a piece of paper and jotted them down. “You’re sure?”

“If she hadn’t written this little sentence at the beginning of the book, it would have been a lot harder. Initials don’t give you much to go on. But she’s a show off, and that’s why I figured it out.”

A show off?
Darby tried to reconcile her last memory of Lorraine: meek, mousy, and nondescript, with Kenji’s characterization. It was difficult to picture the cowering woman as a brazen blackmailer. Her face became grim. Was one of Lorraine’s victims her killer?

She remembered Lorraine’s home. The exterior had screamed neglect, and yet the interior was confident and ordered. She thought back to Esther Crandall’s words. The neighbor had quoted Lorraine as saying “the outside didn’t matter; it was what was inside that counted.”

Darby roused herself from her musings. Outside, the rumble of Donny Pease’s truck as he plowed the driveway broke the serene stillness. She turned toward her houseguest. “How about some breakfast?”