The Nicholas Linnear Novels (17 page)

She stopped, one hand around the neck of the bottle of rum. There seemed to be a shadow on the porch. Letting go of the bottle, she moved slowly to her right to get a better view. She moved past the center beam between the two picture windows. Curtains fluttered, further obscuring her view. She moved farther to her left and stopped dead still. The shadow had become a silhouette. Someone was out there.

She felt a nameless fear flood her body and, unconsciously, she put a hand up to her throat. Her heart beat like a triphammer and Nicholas’ words abruptly came to her.
It’s not safe here.
Is this what he meant? She wished now that she had paid more attention to what he had been saying but she had been solely intent on pushing him away, had heard only her own words.

Now she wondered wildly whether she had locked the door after he had left. She thought not but could not be certain. Yet she dared not attract attention by moving to it. She would have to pass directly before the windows. She thought of crawling but was too frightened of making some noise.

Then she thought of the phone. Keeping her eye on the silhouette, she backed up slowly into the hall. She reached down convulsively, almost knocking the receiver to the floor. She went to her knees to retrieve it. She dialed Nicholas’ number, closing her eyes, praying he was home. Each solitary ring was like an icicle through her heart. She felt chilled, her flesh raised in goosebumps as she cradled the phone.

She went silently, on dancer’s feet, out to the living room, sitting on the armrest of the sofa, staring at the silhouette. She considered creeping out the back door. But then what? Pound on a neighbor’s door? And say what? That she was afraid of a shadow?

Abruptly, she felt idiotic, like a madwoman trapped within the nightmares of her own mind. And, after all, there had been no movement of the silhouette since she had first glimpsed it. It could be a chair back or—

She was up and moving without giving herself time to think, to back out. She flung the door open, stepped out on the porch. The air was heavy with the salt of the sea, yet perhaps the humidity was abating somewhat. There was a fresh breeze from the east.

As if she were a mechanical doll, she forced her gaze in the direction of the silhouette.

“Nicholas!” An indrawn breath.

He sat, lotus position, forearms resting easily on the points of his knees, staring seaward.

“What are you doing?” She came around beside him. “Nick?” She stopped, bending down. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?” It was a simple thing to say but, perhaps considering her mood, not a very logical one. She might easily have said, “Can’t you do it somewhere else—away from me?” Yet she had not and this surprised her. She wondered that, in finding him there, a guardian of her house—of her, really—rather than an invader, her anxiety had dissipated as easily as a bad dream. In its place was—what? As she pondered this, she heard him say, “I’ll have to tell you now.”

She reacted better than he might have expected. It was tantamount to saying: You have cancer.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t. I can’t say that I understand it yet but that animal crashing in here was no accident. It was a ninja warning.”

“I may be way off base,” she said levelly, “but didn’t you tell me that one of the ninja’s traits was to strike without warning?”

He nodded. “Yes. That was true, most of the time. But there were occasions—a blood feud, for instance, or where it was specifically ordered or where the ninja wished to boast of invincibility—when a ritual warning was given.”

“But it’s crazy,” she protested. “What would a ninja want with me? I’ve had no connection…” She paused but he said nothing, waiting to see if she would figure it out for herself. He did not think he would have to help her.

She got up off the sofa, walked nervously about the living room, snapping her fingers. She stopped in front of the bar, made herself a long white rum on the rocks without offering him one; she was too engrossed. She came back to the sofa, sipped at it.

“There’s only one thing I can think of,” she said, still somewhat unsure of herself.

“Let’s see if we came to the same conclusion.”

“My father.”

“Your father,” Nicholas echoed. “Raphael Tomkin.” He got up and poured himself a bitter lemon. “Tell me, what do you know of his business dealings?”

She shrugged. “Not much more than anyone else, I’m afraid. I never took much interest in it. You know, the basic facts. Oil is the mainstay. The corporation is multinational. That’s about it.”

“In other words, not much.”

She winced. “I told you so.”

“All right. Let’s leave that for a while. Now—”

But she had already put a long forefinger against his lips. “Don’t Nick. Don’t ask me. Not now. Not yet. Let’s leave things the way they are. Please. Please.”

He watched her eyes, wondered what he was missing. Perhaps nothing or then again everything. He did not want that. But now he wanted her more and that called for a compromise. It was an uneasy one, at best, he knew. Talking was always better than not talking; that was a fundamental underpinning to all human relationships. Still, perhaps she was right after all and this was the wrong time. He swallowed half of his drink.

“What are we to do now?”

A good question, Nicholas thought, looking at her. The ninja meant to kill her, of that there seemed little doubt. This was something he accepted as a given, although he could not discount the importance of motivation. But there would be no immediate answer to that, thus he put it out of his mind for the moment. What truly concerned him was the nature of the ninja. It was rare enough to encounter a modern-day villain although, as he had indicated to Vincent and Doc Deerforth, a number did operate clandestinely as independent agents on the highest levels. But to find one adept at the Niten school was quite alarming. It was one of the most difficult of kenjutsu styles to master and it might be indicative of other elements. There was, Nicholas knew well, more than one kind of ninja. Was it a coincidence?

“The only thing to do, for the moment, is to stay with you.”

Justine nodded. Oddly, this did not fill her with fear. Quite the opposite, in fact. She might even begin to relax with it. God knew, she wanted to. Yes, she thought. I
do
want to.

Suddenly she was feeling much better.

Doc Deerforth was dreaming. He lay on the hammock tied to his porch beams, swaying slightly. The delicate, insistent drone of the unceasing rain had lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed of a forest, gleaming like a great emerald, dripping with moisture. But it was not a place of pleasure or beauty. Not for him. He ran through the tangled underbrush and, from time to time, as he twisted his head to peer fearfully behind him, he caught a glimpse of the hideous beast that pursued him relentlessly. It was a tiger. Fully ten feet long, the beast seemed to move effortlessly through the thick foliage that otherwise sought to pull him down. Its massive muscles worked with astounding fluidity beneath its glossy striped coat. Now and again, Doc Deerforth’s eyes would lock on those of his foe. They glowed green in the night like lambent beacons, lighting the way before it. Yet they were not the shape of cats’ eyes but the unmistakable oval—epicanthic fold and all—of a human: a Japanese, to be more specific.

They were the eyes of the ninja Doc Deerforth had encountered just before war’s end in the jungles of the Philippines.

Now his way was balked by an enormous stand of bamboo. Every which way he looked, there was no passage forward. He turned to see the man-beast open its mouth. Hot flame poured out like a river, inundating him in a jelly-like substance that clung to him, stinging like a man-of-war. He writhed, slapping at himself to rid himself of the burning substance. Still it clung to him tenaciously as if it was sentient. He had acquired a second skin: a malignancy which now commenced to eat into his flesh. His skin curled and cindered, peeling away to tendon and sinew. This was left him, as the substance saturated him, piercing his bones. These were slowly powdered. And all the while the tiger with the ninja’s face grinned at him. Then, as he felt all strength running out of him, as if he were urinating his life away, puddling it on the ground before him, the beast lifted its right forepaw. It was a human arm that had been amputated at the elbow. Above, the skin was black, the muscles gone, the arm—what was left of it—virtually fleshless, as if it had been crisped in some terrible swift blast. The tiger with the ninja’s face lifted this limb up to him as if to say, “See this and remember.” On the inside of the arm was tattooed a seven-digit number. Camp, he thought over and over. Camp, camp, camp. He was a jellyfish now, shorn of manhood, even his ape heritage. Beyond that, he now swayed in the jungle; when man was still a part of the gravid seas; before the spark; before the first fish crawled to the edge of its world and became an amphibian; before the land was fit for life. In this jungle sea, he drifted with his implacable foe. “See, see, see,” said the beast, moving toward him who hung helpless on the tides, the evolutionary avatar. “No!” cried the jellyfish. “Don’t you see? You’ll destroy everyone!” But, unheeding, the man-tiger was upon him. “This I do for my—”

Doc Deerforth awoke with a start. He was drenched in sweat and his cotton shirt was twisted to one side so that he felt as if he were inside a straitjacket, He gasped, taking several deep breaths. The rain had ceased sometime while he was asleep but water still dripped from the eaves, making him think of the sea and the jellyfish and the ninja and annihilation.

Terry was almost killed on his way to meet Vincent. This, in itself, held no import for him; he was far too busy with his thoughts.

He was thinking about Hideoshi as he stepped off the curb at Sixth Avenue, walking east on Forty-sixth Street. He was meeting Vincent at Michita, a small Japanese restaurant on Forty-sixth between Sixth and Fifth avenues. This place, run in the traditional style—a sushi bar and tatami rooms—was open virtually twenty-four hours a day because it catered, in large part, to the many Japanese businessmen new to the country, still on Tokyo time. It was a favorite haunt of Nicholas’, Vincent’s and his because they all felt quite at home there.

He was against the light and, in the gutter, he was almost run down by an old rattling Checker cab, hurtling up the avenue. The shrill blast of the horn snapped him out of his reverie and he leaped back onto the sidewalk amid the screech of brakes and the heartfelt curses of the obese, shaggy-haired driver. “Fuckin’ asshole gook!” he heard as the taxi swerved past him. He felt the cool breeze of its close passage and then it was accelerating uptown.

This incident, however, did not long deter him from his inner contemplation. Upstairs in the
dōjō,
while he had been preparing his
bokken
for the coming matches, he had observed the man at work on his aikido and, somewhat later, at karate. He had been appalled at the man’s strength and agility. Also, it was obvious after but a few short moments that he knew far more about strategy than did Terry’s instructors. Since opening, the
dōjō
had rapidly built a reputation as being one of the finest facilities of its kind, not only in America, but in all the world. Much of this, of course, came from Terry’s astute selection of
sensei.
To a man, his instructors were top-level masters in each of their specialties. To see them thus handled was disquieting indeed. As he went through Michita’s thick blond-wood and iron door, he wondered whether he should tell Vincent of Hideoshi’s visit.

Eileen went shopping after leaving the
dōjō.
She went crosstown to Bloomingdale’s and bought several new pieces of lingerie. On a whim, she picked up a bottle of cologne she had been meaning to try. On the way back to Terry’s she stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of 1970 Dom Perignon.

It was still light when she reached Terry’s brownstone.

She put the champagne in the refrigerator and threw her Bloomingdale’s packages on the wide bed. Returning to the kitchen, she put four eggs up to boil for the caviar, checked to make sure there were enough onions and bread for toast.

Then she went through into the bedroom and, crossing its ample width, into the bathroom, turning on the shower. She undressed and was about to step into the stall when she remembered something. Without bothering to wrap a towel around her, she returned to the living room and put a record on the stereo, turning it up so that she could hear it in the shower.

She sang with the water beating down on her, hearing the distant sounds of the music as if from the far side of a waterfall. She imagined herself on a tropical island, bathing in the turquoise water of a deserted lagoon. She washed her hair and soaped her body, reveling in the slipperiness against her skin.

She cut the water and got out, toweling her hair first. In Terry’s full-length mirror, she regarded her naked self critically. She was proud of her body. Her skin was sleek and unblemished, her flesh firm despite her age. Her neck was long and slender, her shoulders as delicate as a china doll’s. Her breasts, sloping gently, were still ripe and firm, the nipples dark and long. Her waist was narrow, her hips flaring gently. But it was her legs of which she was most proud. They were long and firm, the muscles taut and supple, the ankles narrow, her feet small. She watched her muscles rippling as she worked the thick blue-green towel over her wet flesh. Her nipples sprang erect at the rough contact and she felt the first beginning warmth as she moved the towel slowly down her belly, between her thighs, back and forth, anticipating Terry’s arrival. She loved his hands on her body; they were so soft and gentle and knowing; she abhorred anything rough; he knew she loved that part as much as when he was inside her, both of them moving in concert. She loved to make love to music, the changing melodies, harmonies, tempi somehow enhancing the process. And, of course, the added sounds made vocalizing easier for both of them. She watched the flush of blood throughout her body reflected in the mirror as her thoughts pushed onward, inward. She imagined that Terry was already home, moving around the living room, preparing the caviar and champagne. She dropped the towel as, with one hand, she rubbed her nipples, with the other she probed gently between her thighs.