The Nicholas Linnear Novels (103 page)

From the moment of his birth she had molded Kozo into the conception of what she wanted him to be. She saw now that she had had no clear idea of him as an individual. Rather, he had always been an extension of her. A most important extension, to be sure. But only a part of her for all that.

Now, her head buried in her hands, she rocked softly back and forth on her haunches and wept bitter tears, drenched in longing and spiteful self-pity.

And that was how death found her, falling across her body in shadow, a rippling nightblack finger that seemed to appear out of nowhere, running across her bent back, ribboning along the folds of her linen jacket like a slice of the Void splitting her in two.

Miss Yoshida was aware of nothing but her own pain and sorrow, the more recent trauma of finding Kagami-san in his own blood in the steam room. And the indelible memory of Kozo. Even the foul stench emanating from Tomkin-san, a product, she supposed, of his meat-filled Western diet, was forgotten in the swelling blossom of her utter despair.

Then she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and a soft woman’s voice crooning to her and slowly she unwound, her shoulders lifting, her spine unbending, and her head coming up to see the source of comfort.

She had just time enough to see the colorful kimono, the long gleaming sweep of blue-black hair, marked with the coarse bloody
Xi
, in the manner of the
geisha
, before she heard the odd high whistling and the great ruffled blade of the
gunsen
slashed through the bone and cartilage at the base of her nose, severing it.

Miss Yoshida screamed thickly as her raw nerves overcame the shock trauma and pain flashed through her. Blood gushed from the rent in her face, drenching her blouse and jacket. She fell backward with her feet bent under her buttocks. Her eyes opened wide, blinking rapidly in incomprehension, for now she recognized the figure for what it was and her heart contracted in terror.

“I am afraid this is way beyond my ken,” the doctor said. He was gray and wan, seeming ten years older than when he had come through the office door. “His only hope now is a hospital.” He sighed deeply, pushing his wire-framed glasses up on his glistening forehead, then massaging his eyes with his thumbs. “A thousand pardons. I am afflicted with an almost constant sinus headache these days.” He produced a small plastic bottle, detonated squeezes in each nostril. “My doctor says I must soon leave the city for good.” He pocketed the bottle. “The pollution, you know.”

He was a stooped Japanese of more than middle yeas, with shoulders so thin the blades could be seen beneath his rumpled jacket. He had kind, intelligent eyes. He sighed now as he put the bottle away. “But if you want my opinion, even that won’t do much good.” He peered around at the anxious faces in the room: Nicholas, Sato, Nangi, then at the form of Tomkin, sprawled on Sato’s sofa.

“It’s not his heart,” the doctor said. “I don’t know
what
it is.”

“I took his pulse while you were being summoned,” Nicholas said. “He didn’t have any.”

“Quite so.” The doctor’s eyes blinked owllike behind his thick lenses. “And that is what is so remarkable. He should be dead, you know.” He looked over in the direction of the stricken man. “Was he on any special medication, do you know, Linnear-san?”

Nicholas remembered idly picking up the small plastic bottle in Tomkin’s hotel suite. “He’s been taking Prednisone.”

The doctor seemed to stagger backward a pace and Nicholas reached out for him. His face had gone pale but he made no exclamation, only said so low Nicholas had to lean toward him, “Prednisone? Are you absolutely certain it was Prednisone?”

“Yes.”

The doctor took off his glasses. “I fear the ambulance will be useless now,” he said softly. Carefully he replaced his spectacles and looked at them. Now his face had altered just as if he were a quick-change artist. His eyes were black, a professional veneer like a curtain hanging between him and everything else about him. Nicholas had seen that look many times before in doctors, and in soldiers returning from a war. It was a kind of defense mechanism, a deliberate hardening of the heart to protect it from sorrow’s bitter arrows. There was, indeed, nothing the doctor could do, and he hated defeat so much.

“I am afraid Tomkin-san is suffering from the end phase of Takayasu’s arterisis, a uniformly malignant and fatal disease. It is also known as pulseless disease. The reason for that is, I think, obvious to all of you.”

Miss Yoshida was confident that she was dying. This did not seem to be a terrible occurrence for it would bring an end to her suffering and would hide her shame at being too cowardly to take up her husband’s
wakizashi
and, drawing the steel from its scabbard, plunge it into her lower belly.

But the manner in which she was dying—that was another matter entirely. She was dying like a dog, a poor, broken animal in the street, kicked and pummeled, the life escaping from her in short arrhythmic gasps.

Surely this was no way for a
samurai
woman to die, she told herself, her mind already half numb from the painful contact of the needle-sharp ripple blade of the steel fan.

But the sight of the figure looming over her—that painted demon’s face, dead white, with bright orange paint in the manner the
kabuki
represented demons in its plays—transfixed her.

It was as if she had been spun down the awful tunnel of legend, as if quotidian Tokyo with its hordes of rushing people, thick pollution, and bright neon lights had disappeared entirely. And in its place were the wood and paper houses, the green, trembling bamboo groves of the Japan of long ago, mist shrouded and mysterious, filled with magic and the feats of heroes.

This was the essence of the visage which was bent over her now, administering a terrible punishment.

But I am
samurai! a voice in the back of Miss Yoshida’s dazzled mind cried.
If I am to die, at least grant me the nobility of falling in battle.

And so Miss Yoshida reached up with clawlike talons, shredding first her nails and then her fingertips on the deadly
gunsen
that whistled down at her again and again. She began to inch away from the blows, uncurling herself awkwardly, using forearms and elbows now, the blood running hot and free down her arms and into the drenched sockets of her armpits.

But now her lips were drawn back from her clenched teeth in a cross between a grin and a snarl and adrenaline pumped through her and her heart arose from its gray slumber and sang again at the spirits of her
samurai
ancestors who moved her now to her glorious end.

“Confirmed diagnosis has been relatively recent. Early 1979 at the Mayo clinic, I believe.”

“There is nothing you can do, Taki-san?” Sato said.

The doctor shrugged his meager shoulders. “I can sedate him; take away the pain. There’s nothing else.”

“But surely the hospital has facilities that can—”

But Taki was already shaking his head. “It is almost over, Sato-san. He will feel far more pain if we move him. And the hospital…well, personally, I would not want to die there had I the choice.”

Sato nodded, also admitting defeat.

Nicholas left them, a modern cabal, ineffectual against the primitive, ultimate forces of nature. He knelt beside Tomkin and looked into the pale, pinched face. Once he had seen the power in that face, the lines the burden of command had etched into it, giving it character and substance.

Now it was those lines that had begun to take over, deepening, widening, extending their networks. Time seemed to have closed in on him, aging him ten years in as many minutes. But unlike Taki, he would never bounce back. The regenerative process in him had been destroyed by disease.

It seemed vastly ironic to Nicholas now to be kneeling by the side of this dying man, the same man whom he had vowed to destroy. But he did not question it. Tomkin’s
karma
was his own. Nicholas accepted these events as he accepted all else in life, with equanimity and calmness. It was just this unique quality which had allowed him to put away his intense desire to talk with Akiko, his bewilderment at her physicality. It was what allowed him to recover so quickly from the awesome implications of Kagami-san’s terrible murder.

He was Eastern in nature, even though there was but a hint of his mother’s blood in his face. The Colonel, had he been alive today, would have recognized in the visage of his son an almost exact duplicate of his own youthful self, save that Nicholas’ hair was as dark as his mother’s and his eyes somehow did not contain the directness of Western culture.

Within Nicholas now swirled many emotions. He recognized the hate for Tomkin which had allowed him to go to work for him, even become his friend in order to be close to him, to sow the seeds of his revenge for his friend’s murder at Tomkin’s behest. And yet…There were qualities about the man that had begun to affect Nicholas. For one thing, he was fiercely loyal. He would try to bring the sun down from the sky for one of his people who was legitimately in trouble. For another, his abiding love for both his daughters, but especially Justine, was touching. It was in the nature of the man that he could not very well express that love. But his understanding of his troubled younger daughter and, just as importantly, his acknowledgement—at least to himself and to Nicholas—of his complicity in her emotional state was laudable.

Though Tomkin could often be loud and crude, these abrasive qualities hid a man of much emotion. Indeed, in private moments, many of which he had chosen to share with Nicholas, when his guard was down and he was relaxed, he could be an engaging, even a charming, companion.

Nicholas looked down at the gray, deflated face. Devoid of animation, Tomkin had the countenance of an overused wax doll. He recalled Tomkin’s sadness over Justine’s relationships; how he had ached for her when she had been used by Chris; the final anger that had both saved her and caused her to turn away from him.

Nicholas recognized that Justine should be here; perhaps only he knew how much solace her presence would bring to Tomkin now. Ultimately, it was his family that was Tomkin’s weak spot. It seemed cruel indeed that he should die here so far from home and his daughters, all that he loved. Facing death, Nicholas felt always slightly diminished. He understood dimly that that was a Western facet of his personality, a legacy from the Colonel. His Eastern half understood fully that death was integrated with life, the two the same, really. If you were one with all things, then death was one of them. That, at least, should be some solace to him now.

Nicholas saw the eyes flutter open, the brown of the irises dirty and almost gray. Breath was an enormous effort, the dry-lipped mouth was half open.

“I called Greydon,” he said. “He’s just outside.”

But there seemed no recognition at all in the eyes as they drifted, drifted across the room. Outside, day had died and the nighttime splendor of Tokyo was a blaze of neon fire, holding back the darkness with its multicolored shell.

Tomkin turned his head, and Nicholas followed his gaze. There was nothing there, a blank wall. What did Tomkin see there that held the last of his attention? Only cats sat and stared at nothing.

Then a shadow passed across the wall, and as if it were somehow connected to him, Tomkin shuddered once and Nicholas said, “Doctor?” though it was merely a formality; he knew death when he saw it.

“Mr. Linnear?”

Nicholas rose slowly and turned to see the worried face of Greydon, Tomkin’s attorney.

“How is he?”

“Let the doctor tell you.” Nicholas suddenly felt tired.

Taki knelt beside Tomkin’s form with his stethoscope, listening intently. After a moment, he pulled the instrument from his ears. “He’s expired, I’m afraid.” He stood up and began to write in his notepad.

Greydon wiped at his face with a linen handkerchief. “This is so sudden,” he said. “I never…well, I never suspected it was so close.”

“You knew about Tomkin’s illness?” Nicholas said.

Greydon nodded distractedly. “Yes. Dr. Kidd, his personal physician, and I were the only ones.” Then his eyes seemed to focus and he looked at Nicholas. “Tomkin had to come to me for the will, you see. I had to know.”

He took a deep breath. “Would anyone mind if I had a whiskey and soda?”

“Excuse me,” Sato said. “The circumstances…” He went quickly to the bar and made Greydon his drink, gave it to him. He made something for Nangi as well, who was looking very pale.

Greydon took a long pull at his drink and touched Nicholas on the elbow. “Please,” he said quietly, “come with me.”

Away from the others, Nicholas stopped. “What is it?” he said shortly. His mind was elsewhere.

Greydon snapped open his black lizardskin attaché case. “There are certain matters which must be—”

“Not now,” Nicholas said, putting his hand on Greydon’s arm. “There’ll be plenty of time for formalities later on.”

The lawyer looked up at him from his half-bent position. “I’m sorry, Mr. Linnear, but I have explicit instructions. Mr. Tomkin was quite clear on this point.” His hand dipped into the case, extracted an oversized buff envelope. Nicholas’ name was on the front. The flap was sealed with a blob of red wax. He handed it over. “Mr. Tomkin requested that immediately upon his death you be hand-delivered this envelope and that you read it and sign it in my presence.”

Numbly Nicholas looked down at the envelope. “What’s in it?”

“It’s a codicil.”

“A codicil?”

“To Mr. Tomkin’s will.” Greydon’s face was anxious again. He touched Nicholas on the wrist. “You must read it now, Mr. Linnear. It was Mr. Tomkin’s express wish.” His eyes seemed large and moist. “Please.”

Nicholas turned the envelope over, broke the seal. He lifted the flap, took out several sheets of paper. The top one was in Tomkin’s unmistakable oversized scrawl. He began to read.

Nicholas,

You are no doubt slightly bewildered by recent events. That is only natural. I must confess to wishing that I knew just what emotions are dominant in you now. I only know that were I there now I would never be able to tell them from your face. In many ways you have been even more of an enigma to me than my daughters. I suppose that is only right, since you have come to seem like a son to me.

Actually I think that is only fitting. Wasn’t it Oedipus who wished to kill his father? Oh, yes, I know. Because I have come to know you. I have done many foolish things in my life, things on which I have little desire to dwell.

I had an unquenchable desire for power, and toward that end I destroyed people, whole companies even, to achieve my desires. But, in the end, life has a way of making fools of us all, and why should I be any different?

Meeting you changed my life, I can’t deny that. Oh, at first not at all. I was too iron-willed for that. But I remember that long night while both of us waited for Saigō to come. You were there to protect me yet, in my fear and desperation, I spoke to him, offering to sacrifice your life for mine.

It was only later that I realized how foolish I had been. And I suspected that you had overheard me. I’m right, aren’t I? Well, it doesn’t really matter much to me now. Only to say that after that night I began to understand you. Some quality within you that I am still at a loss to define, began to creep through me like a mist. I’m glad you came to work for me, just as I’m glad you will marry my daughter. That, too, is fitting.

There are, perhaps, many reasons why you would want to kill me. But perhaps the most insistent is for what happened to your friend, Lewis Croaker. He thought I murdered Angela Didion; and you thought I had him killed.

You’re wrong. And you’re right.

I’m truly sorry, but I cannot be more specific. I’ve perhaps already said more than I should. To business:

On the next sheet of paper you will find a legal document. It assigns you sixty percent of the voting shares for Tomkin Industries. With it you can sit on the board of directors; you may even change its composition. Though Justine and Gelda each retain twenty percent, that will be entirely your prerogative, just as it was mine. Sign it and you will become the president of Tomkin Industries. Don’t think too much about it, follow your instincts. But know that this is what I want, Nicky, with all my heart and soul, if such a thing truly exists. Soon you and Justine will marry. I am pleased that you love each other. No one understands better than I how precious such a commodity is these days. You’re family now, you see, in all ways.

If you sign you will make me very happy. I’ll know that the company is in the right hands. But know this: there is one thing that you must do immediately after the funeral. Greydon, who is no doubt standing by, will tell you what it is.

Good-bye, Nicky. Tell my girls I love them,

Raphael Tomkin