Kennedy nodded.
“Kobe broke his promise of sanctuary. I won’t break mine. Kill myself, and I avoid the task of your disposal.” Watanabe paused. “Shimamura’s men will be here soon and I don’t care to witness their arrival. You should go now.”
“Come with us,” Lightholler said.
Watanabe’s response was a low growl. “They will arrive at dawn, and expect to find you sleeping in your room. Me in mine.”
Kennedy told himself he was talking to a dead man. He said, “Car keys.”
Watanabe withdrew them from a pocket. He placed them next to the sword. “Change cars as soon as possible.”
Lightholler rose from the floor slowly. “I don’t want any part of this.”
“Those men you had outside,” Kennedy said, reaching for the keys.
“One is watching the corridor, the others are with the car. They’ll let you pass.”
There was the faint rumble of thunder, dim and distant, more felt than heard. Watanabe glanced towards the window.
Kennedy fought the urge to pursue Lightholler’s approach, to show further disrespect to the yakuza. “Will it take you long to pack?” he asked Lightholler.
“Done.”
He looked back at Watanabe. He couldn’t resist a final gesture. He said, “You told me I had no benefactors left, no friends. You were wrong.”
“Leaving you to Shimamura is no act of kindness. A better friend might have killed you,” Watanabe replied. “I was speaking of something else.”
Lightholler said, “Let’s go.”
Another boom of thunder, louder now. Kennedy walked to the window and sniffed at the air. Ash and the scent of distant fire but nothing more. He said, “Tell me.”
“There’s not much to say.”
“Tell me.”
“There was a battle at sea. A German boat engaged a smuggling vessel off the South Carolina coast.”
Kennedy felt a sense of dread rising from within.
Lightholler said, “This doesn’t involve us.”
Kennedy silenced him with an open palm.
“We do business in Savannah,” Watanabe continued. “It’s close enough to the border, and information is the currency of the day, so...” He sighed heavily. “This I heard in passing. Enemies of the state, previously associated with yourself, died defending the South. Does this mean anything to you?”
“Who?”
“Hardas. Morgan.” Watanabe shrugged. His eyes returned to the blade.
Lightholler said, “I’m sorry, Joseph.”
Kennedy turned and let himself into his room. Bars of yellow brightness spilled onto the ceiling through half-closed blinds. He felt along the wall for the light switch, flicked it, and observed the chandelier rocking slowly from side to side. He walked over to the window and parted the blinds. The odd star winked back through a pall of low cloud. No rain, but a plume of smoke rising in the distance.
He leaned out the window. Two plumes of smoke.
He heard the thunderous rolling crash again, closer, and the sill trembled beneath his hands. Somewhere, a siren began its plaintive wail.
Hardas. Morgan.
He walked into the bathroom and caught his face in the mirror. His hand scrabbled across the sink, closing on the razor he’d used earlier. He reached for soap and ran the water and scrubbed the soap into his beard. His image shuddered momentarily, then corrected itself.
Lightholler called from the other room.
He ran the blade over the gristle of his beard in long sweeps. Struck the blade sharply against the sink and then ran it back up under the curve of his chin to his lower lip. He splashed cold water over his face. The smile that answered his was thin and cruel.
When he re-entered Watanabe’s room he saw Lightholler standing by the exit, holding the Beretta in one hand and the satchel in the other. Watanabe stood in the centre of the room; his sword lay in two pieces on the ground before him.
Lightholler had an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He slid an arm out of his jacket and made a show of slinging the satchel over his shoulder before replacing the sleeve. He said, “Watanabe thinks Shimamura’s men are blowing up hotels.”
“Crude,” Kennedy said. “Definitive. I’m in the mood to deal with it.”
“So much for honour.” The gangster picked up one of the broken pieces of sword and, examining it, said, “They told me dawn.” He went to the table, grabbed the wine bottle and emptied it with a toss of his head. “And this is how they come for you.” He spat on the floor.
“I hope the Families will understand,” he said, raising the splintered remains of the sword, “why this now goes in Shimamura’s heart.”
“Your Shingen’s where you left it.” Kennedy reached into his pockets. “Here are the bullets.”
“Give it to the captain.” Watanabe stooped to one knee and drew another Shingen from his ankle holster. “He’ll need more than a Beretta.”
Kennedy removed the pistol from behind the mattress and turned it over in his hands. He loaded it and rocked the grip in the palm of his hand. He handed it to Lightholler.
The next explosion rocked the room.
Kennedy drew his Mauser and released the safety. “Let’s go.”
“The staircase leads to the lobby and out the main entrance. Another set of stairs takes you down to the garage, otherwise there are three more exits via the kitchen, laundry and staff quarters.” Watanabe pointed down the length of the corridor. “Fire escape at the bottom opens out back.”
“What about the roof?” Kennedy asked.
“Too far from the other buildings. Too exposed.”
“Then we take the stairs.” Kennedy scanned the corridor. “Where’s your man?”
“If he’s not dead, I’ll kill him myself.” Watanabe led them towards the staircase.
“I smell smoke. Close by,” Lightholler said. “Why explosives?”
“They want to be sure,” Watanabe said. “It’s been done in the past. Nothing on this scale, though.”
Voices raised in fright or anger came weakly from behind closed doors. The siren’s wail had peaked to a crescendo and now there was the sharp crack of sporadic gunfire that might have been coming from anywhere. Lightholler gave Watanabe an enquiring look.
Watanabe shrugged.
“Unless Shimamura got his hands on a recoilless rifle, or rockets, whatever his men are up to has to be close range,” Kennedy said. “Small arms means the police might be involved, maybe even the military. That, or his crew needs to secure a perimeter before planting any more explosives.”
“These guys aren’t soldiers,” Lightholler said.
“Just telling you how I’d go about it.”
“What a misfortune to see such terrible times.” Watanabe had the broken shard of his sword in one hand and his Shingen in the other.
A door to their left opened and a woman, hair damp in rollers, stared out. Catching a glimpse of Watanabe, she crossed herself furiously and slammed the door shut again.
Watanabe sniggered, securing his blade to the sash of his kimono. “The japs are coming.”
“That’s what everyone’ll think.” Kennedy scowled. They’d reached the stairs. It was two flights down to the lobby. Close by, they heard the sound of pounding footsteps, but no one was in sight. “Where’s the car?”
“In front of the hotel.”
Shattering glass and more screams from below. A door burst open behind them and Kennedy saw a man emerge from one of the rooms. He almost bowled them over before they had a chance to bring up their guns. He was through them and taking the stairs two and three at a time.
Kennedy moved to follow but Watanabe had his sleeve.
“Too late for him,” Watanabe said. “He’ll draw them out.”
Kennedy’s attempt to break the gangster’s grip was perfunctory.
“Wait,” Watanabe said. He caught Kennedy’s glance, smiled, and said, “Please.”
The man disappeared from view. There was the clatt
er of desperate feet on tiles, then the sound came back up the staircase. Kennedy shoved Watanabe and Lightholler behind him with an outstretched arm. “Get back.”
The man reappeared a flight below, legs spread mid-stride, spine arched back and arms flung wide like a runner at the finish line. He was swept forwards by the salvo of bullets, leaving a smear of blood on the wall as he struck it and crumpled to the floor.
“Such a misfortune.”
“Down,” Kennedy ordered. He dropped to one knee and Watanabe and Lightholler fell in behind him. All three had their pistols trained above the man’s corpse.
The staircase shuddered beneath the rushed scramble of many feet.
“Now.”
Heads jerked into view. Four men in black suits, their black hair slick and tied back tight and high. The first volley hit them chest level, an invisible wall that held back their frenzied movements. One fired his automatic repeatedly into his shoes. The second volley dropped them onto the landing.
“There’ll be more,” Watanabe murmured, surveying the carnage.
“I know.”
“Look at their hair, what’s left of it. Topknots.”
“Shimamura’s men,” Kennedy said. “How’s the corridor?”
Lightholler’s head swung back and forth. “It’s clear.”
“How many more down there, you think?” Kennedy asked.
“Six, maybe seven,” Watanabe replied. “A few more watching the back exit. That’s if they’re taking out all the hotels along the strip.”
“They’ve got explosives, they’re in the building, they know they’ve got us,” Lightholler said. “We have to move now.”
The muzzle of a machine-pistol poked tentatively into view on the landing, followed by another Topknot. Watanabe put a bullet between his eyes.
“Okay,” Kennedy said. “We take the fire escape. John, cover the stairs.” Kennedy rose from his crouch, turned to Watanabe. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”
He ran to the first door and kicked it open. Empty. Ran to the next and kicked it. It swung on loose hinges to reveal a couple: young, white, arms around each other, cowering on the nearer of two beds. “You, out now. The fire escape. This place is about to blow.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Watanabe shouted at him.
“Take the left side.”
“Crazy fucker.”
Watanabe ran to the first door on his left and crashed into it. Yelled and crashed it open with the second blow. “Some crazy fuck wants to save your lives,” he shouted. “Get out now.”
There were more shots from the staircase.
“Captain?”
Lightholler was face down on the landing.
“John?”
“I’m out, throw me your gun.”
Kennedy tossed his Mauser down the hallway. He heard more blasts from behind him and didn’t look back. There were four more doors between him and the fire escape, seven people were crowded round it.
“Go, go, go.”
Further encouragement was unnecessary as the dull thud of a detonation swayed the corridor.
“These are empty, you crazy, crazy fuck.” Watanabe was laughing.
Kennedy checked the last door. “We’re clear.”
Down the corridor Lightholler was clicking on empty.
“John, get over here.”
Watanabe rammed another clip into his Shingen. The last of the civilians had taken the fire escape.
“John. Over here. Now.”
Lightholler was on his feet and running. A hail of bullets smashed the top of the stair where he’d crouched moments ago. He ran low, careening side to side along the hallway. His foot snagged a tear in the carpet and he tumbled forwards, Watanabe firing over his head. The discharge in the narrow passage was deafening.
Two Topknots fell away from the landing in a heap, one crashing through the banister, a blood-chilling scream wrenched from his throat.
Lightholler, back on his feet, was steps away. Kennedy leapt forwards, grabbed his extended arm and yanked him towards the fire escape. Lightholler stumbled down the concrete stairs.
“Too many.” Watanabe’s tortured exhalation. “Not just Shimamura’s crew.”
Four Topknots were now on the opposite landing. Kennedy grabbed the back of Watanabe’s kimono. The gangster brushed his hand away, thrusting Kennedy backwards.
“Go.”
Watanabe twisted and Kennedy saw a dark stain spread where his hand had been. Watanabe was falling back onto the concrete.
Kennedy caught him in one arm and slammed the door of the fire escape shut behind them. He took the gun from Watanabe’s wavering grip and fired twice into the lock. Counted to three and emptied the rest of the clip through the door. Lightholler was clambering back up the stairs. He took Watanabe’s legs as Kennedy slung his arms under the man’s shoulders.
“I’m never wrong.” Watanabe was smiling, and the gold of his teeth was ruby-tinted. Spittle of blood marked the corners of his mouth. “You’re a crazy fuck.”
Lightholler took point and they staggered down the two flights in darkness, Watanabe swaying between them. Kennedy felt the jagged end of the yakuza’s blade coursing along the surface of his thigh.
There was a splintering crash from above, then another. The Topknots were almost through.
Below, streetlight cast crazy shadows against the landing. Beams of torchlight probed the stairwell. Kennedy’s holstered Shingen slapped uselessly against his chest. Shifting the bulk of Watanabe’s weight, he struggled to unsheathe the broken blade. A curtain of sweat filled his eyes.
“Police.” A voice cried out from below. “You okay?”
“Above us,” Lightholler yelled. “More of them above us.”
Men poured into the fire escape from below. Nashville’s finest. One joined Kennedy in supporting Watanabe’s back. His head lolled under the folds of Kennedy’s jacket.
“You okay, bud?” the officer asked.
“Better now,” Kennedy replied hoarsely. “The place is mined. Kennedy’s holed up there. Jap bodyguards.”
“Kennedy?” An anxious expression flickered across the officer’s face. “Fall back, for Christ’s sake,” he shouted to his men. “Fall back. Resume your positions.”
A press of bodies hemmed them in a tight crush. Kennedy felt Watanabe being prised away from his grip. The scent of sweat and panic and blood was a tide engulfing him.
A shove and he was out on the street.
Pressure against the back of his legs and he was on the ground.
Someone’s knee held him to the pavement, his face rubbing against gravel.
Someone’s gun lodged itself firmly at the base of his skull.
VI
April 25, 2012
Morning Star, Arkansas
Shine worked his way down from the roadside to a line of tall trees. He was on the edge of a gentle slope. The woodland fell in a grand sweep towards darkness. He had been here a number of times with the major, but only once at night, and that time they had arrived by light aircraft, skirting the tree tops in moonlight before dropping onto the private airstrip.
Nothing about this place was familiar now.
Twin beams of light swung across the branches of the nearest trees. He crouched down and let his palms rest against the thin topsoil. The truck crunched along the unpaved road behind him; a low rumbled echo of its passing that was swallowed by the night. He rose to his feet slowly. He examined his watch. It was almost three days to the hour, and many miles, since they’d all parted company over the Atlantic.
Behind him, the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains climbed into the black jagged horizon. A road sign informed him that Lake Hamilton lay somewhere past the next turn-off. The ranch would be beyond the next valley. Instinct suggested that the front door might not be the most advisable form of tentry.
He spent the next hour working his way steadily through the undergrowth. He crossed wide paddocks, approaching a line of foliage that mark
ed one edge of a wide, flat clearing: the ranch’s landing field. Trees stretched out along both sides of the runway. A rustle of unseen leaves carried the breeze, punctuated now and then by the sharp crack of canvas. Shine tracked the sound to the outline of a small crop-duster secured beneath a tarpaulin.
An ethereal glow, distant and dim, swathed the ranch house. The evening had conjured a thin mist. Lamplight poured through it. He strained his ears, catching only the sounds of the night.
Two shadows bounded out of the darkness.
He dropped to the ground.
Growls slashed the dark. If Shine didn’t know better, he’d have made them for lions. Rhodesian ridgebacks. It took less than a moment for the dogs to catch his scent. He fought the instinct to scramble into the undergrowth. They would harry him till he dropped.
He didn’t bother with his blade. He kept still.
There was a blast of fetid breath. He kept still.
A torch beam swept over him. Cantered. Caught his blinking eyes.
“Ayusta.” The command issued from the shadows. The dogs drew back.
Shine moved slowly. He rolled up a sleeve to reveal his tattoo. Torchlight played over it.
“Lechi u wo.”
The dogs vanished.
A ghost dancer slid out of the night. He held the torch in one hand, a pistol, waist high, in the other. “Nituwe he?”
Shine said, “I don’t speak Lakota.”
The ghost dancer examined his tattoo, a splayed red hand, the index finger surmounted with a small triangle. He slid the pistol into a holster. “Come inside.”
He led Shine up to the ranch house. The dogs trotted along at his heels.
The doorway opened into a small dining area. A candle flickered on the kitchen bench beside the remains of a meal. An ivory-shaded lantern on a table by the wall offered its own trickle of light.
Shine turned to the ghost dancer and asked, “Where are the others?”
VII
April 25, 2012
Savannah, Georgia
The Box contained a table, three chairs, an ashtray. No windows. The bottle was long gone, along with Newcombe’s glass. The two-way mirror ran along a third of the back wall, close to the single doorway that opened into the chamber and as far away from Newcombe’s seat as was humanly possible.
The Company of the Dead Page 34
