Toward Night's End

by M. H. Sargent

  “No tractor? You considering getting one? I mean, before the war started, were you considering buying a tractor?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  The major nodded his head and promptly walked away. He didn’t even say thank you, Kumiko thought. Slowly making her way back to Daniel, she couldn’t help but wonder what that was all about. It took her a moment to realize that when the Army major first approached, she worried about Ido and Julia. Not Matthew. She wondered if this was good or bad.

  Seattle, Washington. April 4, 1942

  “Definitely female,” Mortenson said, studying one of the fingertips with a magnifying glass.

  Johnstone knew that simply because the fingernail was longer than a man’s. It also looked dainty to his untrained eye. “The other?” he asked.

  Mortenson turned his attention to the smaller fingertip. Johnstone paced behind the medical examiner, his footsteps echoing in the otherwise empty medical lab. “A child’s, I’d say.”

  Johnstone stopped. “About ten years old.”

  Mortenson turned to him, surprised. “You saw the child?”

  Johnstone nodded and started pacing again. “The other one belongs to his mother. I saw them two days ago. She did the tattoos.”

  “She tell you that?”

  “Someone else did. She didn’t deny it. Plus, it’s the only place in that area that does tattooing. She recognized the drawing. She knew.”

  “Tell you what it means?” the medical examiner asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe ‘Dragon’s Breath,’” Johnstone explained.

  Mortenson frowned. “What’s that?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Johnstone was accustomed to working solo, but this case had him baffled, and he found himself needing to talk out loud. “But in ancient Japan, the shogun, the top army commander, if he went after some group, an area, it was said it was like a dragon’s breath.” He saw the coroner frown, so he added, “Dragons breathe fire to kill, exterminate their enemy.” He shrugged. “So maybe we have some Japanese group or gang operating here. Ready to cause us harm.”

  Mortenson gave a low whistle. “This is big.”

  Johnstone stopped pacing again. “It could be.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Try to find out if it’s true.” He resumed pacing. He caught Mortenson’s eye and nodded to the fingertips. “Left or right hand?”

  Mortenson turned back to his table. Scrutinizing the body parts under the magnifying glass, he shook his head. “Impossible to tell.”

  “Left,” Johnstone announced.

  “Like the dead men.”

  Johnstone nodded. “What I can’t figure out is, what does it mean? That woman—” his voice trailed off. Mortenson waited. Johnstone continued, saying, “She was clearly petrified. I could see that, but—” He sheepishly looked at Mortenson. “I pushed her. I knew she was scared, I could see that, but I pushed her anyway.”

  “You were doing your job—”

  “They did it to her son, for God’s sake!” Johnstone thundered.

  “And you had no way of knowing that would happen. You can’t blame yourself.”

  Johnstone studied him for a moment, then nodded. Mortenson then asked, “You said there is something you can’t figure out?”

  It took Johnstone a moment to regroup. Then he asked, “Why is it done? At first I thought it was some initiation. A right of passage, if you will,” Johnstone said. “Especially with Petty Officer Carsteen. But then Sean Kanagawa just had one finger done. Carsteen had all four on the left hand. Now we have these. Obviously, it is some sort of warning.”

  “Or another tattooing.”

  “Like branding?” Johnstone said.

  “Possibly.” Mortenson shrugged.

  “As if to tell the world that Dragon’s Breath owns them?”

  “Works for me.” Another shrug. Mortenson frowned again, “How long you talk to her? The woman?”

  “I don’t know. A few minutes.”

  “You go inside her home?”

  “No. She was, well, frightened, like I said.”

  Mortenson nodded and cupped his chin in one hand, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “So, either she told someone that you were there and what you were asking about, or—”

  “She was being watched,” Johnstone said. “I thought of that.”

  Mortenson turned and picked up the envelope.

  “No return address. Post marked two days ago,” Johnstone told him.

  “They were evacuated two days ago,” Mortenson said. “But if you’re right and this is some Japanese gang, then they were evacuated too.”

  “Not necessarily,” Johnstone argued. “It’s a big city. They could hide out.”

  Mortenson shook his head, while carefully inspecting the inside of the large padded envelope. “No. This is in the newspapers every day. Japanese this. Japanese that. They’d stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “Maybe,” Johnstone conceded. “My guess is, they know there is an investigation going on. They were watching her.”

  “Or, they found this,” Mortenson said, holding up Johnstone’s business card. “It was in the envelope.”

  Johnstone just stared. He stepped forward and took it from Mortenson. Dried blood was splashed across his name and the precinct’s address. Turning it over, he found three words.

  “More will die.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Somewhere in Northern California. April 6, 1942

  The Navy commander, David Merrick, wearing his service dress blue uniform and his black shoes shined to perfection, sat next to Johnstone on the train ride south. He was a JAG officer, which meant he was an attorney, assigned to the Navy Judge Advocate General’s Corps. The young man was very well qualified, having conducted internal naval investigations for the past four years. Johnstone had thought that he was going to hate the JAG officer, but much to his surprise, he actually liked him. Which was good considering they were now on their way to the Manzanar internment camp together.

  Since he hated to type, he never did submit a formal typewritten report for his chief. Instead, he took an hour of his time to layout the case: both Cody Carsteen and Tom Bollgen being found dead on Bainbridge Island. Then learning that Carsteen was actually a Navy petty officer assigned to Seattle’s Naval Air Station. And the details of his interview with Commander Leseman and his belief that Leseman was not being completely forthright. He had gone on to explain that he had received an anonymous tip concerning Sean Kanagawa who had turned up dead. Finally, he told his chief about the cut fingertips, including those cut from the tattoo artist and her son, and the reference to “Dragon’s Breath” and what Professor Paulson thought it could mean.

  His chief had immediately made some phone calls, and that same day Commander Merrick had been assigned to the investigation. His chief simply didn’t want to take the chance that Johnstone had stumbled into a conspiracy against the United States. At first Johnstone had resisted working with the Navy, reminding his chief that a U.S. Navy sailor was among the dead and one Navy commander was already being evasive about what the petty officer’s duties had been. But the chief dismissed his concerns and ordered him to cooperate with Merrick.

  “Carsteen was found with only his underclothes on?” Commander Merrick asked as he studied Johnstone’s investigation notes.

  Johnstone had almost forgotten that. “Yes.”

  “So how did you ID him?”

  “It’s in my notes. His wallet was found in the truck. Back of the truck.”

  “And that’s when you knew he was from the Naval Station.”

  “No. His girlfriend told me that.” Merrick looked at him in surprise, and Johnstone explained, saying, “His identification was civilian. Washington State driver’s license. I had no idea he was military until I went to the address and his girlfriend told me he was Navy.”

  Merrick looked out the window as the train sped along. “Why strip him of his clothes?”

 
Johnstone followed his look. California farmland for as far as the eye could see. “Once I learned he was a Navy sailor, I presumed it was because his killer didn’t want us to know he was Navy.”

  “Wartime Navy regulations require us to be in uniform and carry our credentials with us at all times,” Merrick stated.

  “Commander Leseman said it was because he was on leave. I asked about the fact that there was no military identification, but he said maybe Carsteen lost it.”

  “Was there a report to that effect? Had Carsteen reported losing his identification?” Merrick asked.

  “I didn’t know there would be one. That’s a good project for you. Commander Leseman didn’t seem to like me too much.”

  “Still, he should have had his dog tags on. No matter what. That’s regulation.”

  Johnstone looked at him in surprise. “I guess that’s right. I’ve never been in the military. I never thought of that. There weren’t any.”

  Merrick flipped through the notes, then said, “And you think the Japanese man, Matthew Kobata, killed Carsteen?”

  “The knife I found in Kobata’s fishing boat is nearly identical. A little larger, but identical design.”

  Merrick nodded. “And you think he took the boat out to sea, scuttled it, made it to shore, and killed Sean Kanagawa?”

  “I don’t know, to tell the truth,” Johnstone admitted. “A Coast Guard captain met with my chief and me two days ago. He didn’t like the idea of Kobata scuttling it. He said the bay has too much traffic. Someone would’ve seen it going down and the Coast Guard would know.”

  “But Matthew Kobata killed Carsteen and the civilian Tom Bollgen—”

  “I’m not sure on that, either.” Johnstone wondered if the commander thought he was incompetent. But he pushed the thought away and said, “There is a witness who insists that when Matthew boarded his boat, the cargo truck was not there. She seems credible.”

  “And Tom Bollgen was found in the truck?”

  “Right. But I think now someone purposely left the truck, with Bollgen inside, to frame Kobata.”

  “Same person could’ve killed Carsteen then. Taken a knife from his boat.”

  Johnstone hadn’t thought of that. He mulled it over then asked, “Then why not show up for the ferry as planned? Why run off in the fishing boat?”

  Merrick shrugged. “Maybe he witnessed the killings. Got scared. Took off.”

  Johnstone nodded. Could be.

  “Plus, if Kobata’s got half a brain, he knows that people are pretty damned biased right now. He’d be looking at the death sentence.”

  “Maybe,” Johnstone allowed. “But Tom Bollgen was supposedly his closest friend. Like a brother. Why not at least try to point the finger at the real killer? I would. If it were my closest friend.” Then Johnstone shook his head and said, “No, doesn’t make sense. Matthew Kobata had the same tattoo as Kanagawa and Carsteen. All three are linked. We just have to find out how.”

  “Kobata have some of his fingers cut off?” Merrick asked.

  “No idea. We’ll find out when we talk to his family.” Johnstone thought for a moment, then said, “What I can’t get my head around, you got a young man who by all accounts is a good kid. Takes over the family business when his father dies. Never any problems. So why join this Dragon’s Breath group?”

  Merrick gave a heavy sigh. “That’s like asking why’d they bomb Pearl Harbor?” He shook his head, then looked out the window again. “I don’t think we’ll ever understand them.”

  Pacific Ocean 23 Miles West of Eureka, California. April 6, 1942

  “Where are we?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Two days out from San Francisco,” came the reply.

  “San Francisco,” he repeated, his voice barely audible.

  “Your fever broke yesterday.”

  Matthew struggled to focus on the man looking down at him. “Who—?”

  “Kite,” the man said. “Everyone calls me Kite.”

  “I’m on a boat?”

  “Hell, try a 400-foot cargo ship, boy.” Kite found it hard to believe the Jap had survived without the penicillin. But he had, and last night Kite had felt like jumping for joy when the fever finally subsided. Of course, his captain still believed the man might be a spy. “We found you in a small boat. Some days ago. You were pretty sick. Strep throat.”

  Matthew closed his eyes, remembering how hard it had been to swallow. As if he were swallowing razor blades.

  “I’m no doctor, but I’ve seen it before,” Kite told him. He waited a couple minutes, then said, “You need to sleep.” He patted Matthew’s arm and headed to the door. Then turned back to his patient. “Got a name?”

  Matthew’s mind raced. Finally, he croaked, “Daniel.”

  “Daniel what?”

  A long hesitation. Then, “Kobata.”

  “Daniel Kobata,” Kite repeated, as if testing it out.

  “Nice to meet you, Daniel,” Kite said. “Get some sleep. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

  Matthew watched the older man leave. He wondered if they had any way of checking on his identification. He immediately thought of his wallet, wondering if they’d found it when he was rescued. He was wearing nothing but skivvies under the sheets, so he wondered what they’d done with his clothes. He spotted them at the end of the bed, dumped in a pile. He had to see if his wallet was still in his pants, so he gathered all the strength he could to crawl to the end of the bed and check his pockets. There it was, wrinkled and still a bit damp, but there nonetheless. He wondered if Kite had found it. But, he guessed not, since Kite asked him what his name was.

  A million questions started going threw Matthew’s mind. Was he a wanted man for Carsteen’s murder? And what about Tom? He had lost track of time, so he had no idea how many days ago Tom was shot, but he had no doubt that Tom’s body had been found by now. He wondered who found Tom. Maybe it was Old Man Pete. Tom had died on his property.

  His thoughts drifted to Old Man Pete. Was he a part of it? Were those two thugs working with him? Or for him? He tried to remember everything he knew about Old Man Pete, but all that came to mind were his delicious strawberries. Then he thought of how good his grandfather’s strawberries were too.

  His family. Where was his family? They must be worried sick, he thought.

  Suddenly he was very tired. He closed his eyes. A moment later he was asleep.

  Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 6, 1942

  “We’re here, Ojichan.”

  Ido didn’t say anything, but for some time now he could smell the chickens. He knew they were getting close. “How many?” he asked.

  “What?” Julia asked. “Chickens?”

  “Yes. How many?”

  Julia, her hand draped through her grandfather’s arm, stopped short at the pen entrance gate. There were eight large segments, each with its own door and each area encased in tall chicken wire that stood about eight feet tall, with a wooden roosting house to the rear. There was no chicken wire to make a roof, since the chickens could not fly that high. In this pen, the eighth coop, it was her job to help collect the eggs twice a day.

  She actually started counting so she could give her grandfather an accurate answer. But the chickens kept squawking and running around, in anticipation of someone entering their pen, so it was hard to get a good count. She quickly gave up, saying, “About twenty, maybe more. But there are eight different chicken coops, Ojichan. So twenty in ours.” She looked down the line of chicken coops and added, “We’re the last on the end. There are several people in some coops, children too.”

  Julia reached for the gate latch, saying, “It’s the size of a regular door, okay? We’ll go in, you first, and go quick. We can’t let them out.” She glanced at her grandfather. “Ready?”

  “Wait, what if I step on them?”

  Julia chuckled. “You won’t, Ojichan. They’ll move.” She waited a moment in case he had any more questions, but he didn’t. “Okay,
ready now?”

  “Yes.”

  As Julia opened the gate, it squeaked a bit and she urged him inside, saying, “Now! Go forward, straight ahead…”

  Ido did as he was told, and Julia followed, carefully latching the gate again. He gingerly moved forward, asking, “How big is this?”

  “Just a minute.” Julia stood flush at the gate and walked toward the roosting pen, counting silently to herself. Then she went the other way, again counting. Finally, she stopped and said, “Twenty-three from the gate to where they sleep in a little house, and fourteen the other direction.”

  Ido mulled this over. “Big then.”

  She looked around. Saw the large food tin, the wicker basket on top of it, and the clipboard and pencil hanging above the basket, and went on, saying, “In the corner to your left is the food. In a tin that comes up above your knee. With a tight lid. We have a basket to put the eggs in and clipboard, and I have to write down what time I was here and how many eggs I got. I take the eggs to mess hall #2, then I have to bring it back. The basket.”

  Ido nodded and turned in a small circle, as if he was willing himself to see what she described. Julia put the basket on the ground and went to the tin, taking off the top and scooping out a handful of chicken feed. She went over to Ido. “Hold out your hands, Ojichan.”

  Ido did so, but his hands were about six inches apart.

  “No, together, like you have to hold something. I have their food.”

  Ido cupped his hands together and his granddaughter carefully poured the feed into his hands. He smiled at the feel of the grain.

  “Okay, a little bit at a time. Mr. Oshiro feeds them, he says no one else should do it. I’m only supposed to collect the eggs.”

  “So, you’re breaking the rules,” Ido said lightly, a grin on his face.

  “Well, that’s not much, really. Go ahead.” She watched as he let a bit filter through his fingers at his feet. The chickens quickly pecked at the ground. Even his shoes, making him laugh. “Toss it a bit.” She knew her grandfather needed measurements, so she added, “A few feet.”