Kage: The Shadow

by John Donohue

  I turned away. Angry. Resentful.

  “Where ya goin’?”

  “Home,” I said.

  My brother said nothing. No plea to stop or get in the car—to think things through. He watched me with distant, cold eyes. But his heart cracked for a moment.

  “I gonna see you again?” he croaked.

  I turned toward him, walking backwards for a minute.

  “Now who’s being the asshole?” I said, and left him.

  23 Shells

  Part of me wanted to head to the dojo in Red Hook, but I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get. So I headed home to the empty house in Sunset Park. I was weary and hoped things were over. But I was wrong.

  The red message light was winking, and I played the series of phone calls that Sarah’s sister Deborah had left for me since that morning, increasingly frantic with worry. By the time we spoke, Deborah was almost incoherent. Sarah was gone. A simple trip for groceries that shot her down a wormhole. Her car empty in a local shopping center, and the cops advising the family that they’d have to wait the usual forty-eight hours before an official search could begin.

  We didn’t have to.

  “I have her,” he breathed. Even on my cell phone, I could hear that his voice was thick, as if the excitement were choking him.

  “Martín?” I asked. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  “Anything, “I said then, a jet of adrenalin arching through my chest but my voice as dry as dust. “Anything you want.”

  “I need the manuscript,” he said. “You deliver it. Alone. No cops.”

  They always warn you about the cops. In a kidnapping, the experts say that going it alone is the worst thing you can do. But I knew deep down that this was more than just a kidnapping. And the ransom was simply an excuse: he didn’t even realize that the people who had initially paid him were all dead. And he didn’t care; Martín would want me there by myself for his own reasons. So, it would turn out, did I.

  Martín told me what he wanted me to do. I stalled, trying to figure out my options. “I’ll need a car,” I explained.

  “Call this number when you get it,” he said, reciting the digits. “Hurry. I think your woman needs you.” He laughed and then hung up.

  I went first to the dojo, of course. I swallowed my pride and Yamashita knew it. He sat, immobile, as I told him what had happened. He pursed his lips, thinking for minute, then rose to his feet; smooth and powerful, a wave swelling and gathering momentum.

  “I’ll get my weapons,” he said.

  We were on the road for twenty minutes before I called the number I had been given. The voice that answered was not Martín, but it told me what to do. Yamashita sat beside me in the car, watching me with the merciless intensity of a tiger.

  “You know this place?” he asked.

  I nodded tightly. “Port Jefferson. North Shore. Suffolk County. With luck we’ll make it in an hour and a half.”

  “You told the man on the phone two hours.”

  “I lied,” I said.

  Yamashita nodded approvingly. “And you are not telling your brother.” A statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.

  “They said no cops. If I let Micky know, he’d probably have to let them know. It’s probably best that he’s not involved.” I didn’t mention that we weren’t talking.

  My teacher was silent for a time. He gazed out at the concrete flow of the road. I swerved around the traffic, frantic to reach a destination where I would in all likelihood die. I was like a man on a flimsy raft, desperately avoiding the jagged rocks of the river, even as the distant roar of the falls thundered ultimate disaster.

  “This man Martín is the contract killer?” Yamashita asked. I nodded. “And you have killed his lover.” I shrugged. Yamashita swiveled his torso in my direction, his eyes intent. “So he has no real interest in the manuscript, Burke.”

  “No,” I admitted. We sat for a while in silence, working through the implications in our own separate ways. The tires hummed.

  “What will you do?” my teacher asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said evasively. I didn’t want to go through this again. There’s a big distinction between self-defense and premeditation. I knew I had almost stepped over that line in Arizona; it was only my brother’s machinations that had saved me. I had gone there to kill El Carnicero. Perhaps it was too fine a distinction, but I was holding on to it, it made me feel a little less cold-blooded. I could still feel the sting of Sarah’s accusations. Was I just a good man who ended up in these situations by accident, or was I some kind of adrenalin junkie who sought them out? What I was thinking now was too close to the things she had accused me of.

  “Burke!” Yamashita’s voice was low and intent. In the close confines of the car, his energy was startling, a shaped charge detonating in a tight place. “You must do what you must do!”

  I drove the car in silence—My mind, not so silent. As the miles reeled off, Yamashita’s quiet voice prodded me through other terrain. He had done this before, a patient teacher herding an ox of a student into painful awareness. He has never promised me a life free of pain, only one free of delusions.

  At the point where we passed the exit for the Seaford-

  Oysterbay Expressway, he stirred and broke into my thoughts.

  “Beat the grass and surprise the snake,” he told me.

  I grunted. It’s an old Zen saying that means something along the lines that it was better to hurt one thing a little than have to hurt something else more.

  “You recognize it?” my teacher prompted.

  I let out a stream of air. “Yagyu Munenori,” I said. A master swordsman of the famous Yagyu family, he would have been good to have along on this trip, but he’s been dead for almost four centuries.

  “Indeed. A complex man. He used the adage in a way that can be interpreted in various ways.”

  “How so?”

  “Think Professor,” he smiled tightly. “The motto of the Yagyu…”

  “Katsuninken, satsuninto,” I replied, ever the dutiful student. The life giving sword can also be a death dealing sword.

  “So…” Yamashita breathed. “Martín wishes us to think we are engaged in a ransom attempt.”

  “We are,” I protested.

  Yamashita waived a hand. “Stop hiding. You know it is other than this. This man wishes to kill you. His plan is to lure you into a trap and finish what he started—to avenge himself on you and Sarah.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “I’ve been wracking my brains for ways to get Sarah away, safe, and sound.”

  “Of course,” Yamashita said, “but you are thinking about the wrong thing. A focus on rescue clouds your mind. It prevents you from grasping what you must really do.”

  “Which is?”

  My teacher sighed and settled back in his seat. “The only way to save Sarah Klein is to not try to save her. You must let Martín think you are on the defensive for a while and lull him into a sense of control. Then do the unexpected.”

  “How so?”

  “He wishes you to come alone. He will expect you to try to bargain with him—to talk your way to a solution. Part of him will want this. He will, I think, enjoy the spectacle and the secret knowledge that, when all is done, he will kill you both.

  “There is a rhythm to a fight, Burke. You know this. Move and countermove. An expectation of how events will transpire.” He nodded to himself. “We can use this.”

  “OK,” I said. But I wasn’t quite clear yet as to what he was proposing.

  Yamashita could sense it; he peered at me for a moment, reading my agitation and my uncertainty.

  “I will be there, Burke. My presence will be unexpected and it will distract him.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” he said brightly, “we will avail ourselves of an old ninja trick; very ancient, very reliable.”

  “Which is?”

  “While I distract Martín, you will sneak up behind him and k
ill him.” He sounded pleased with the tidiness of the solution.

  At that moment, I resented him. It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way. In the past, the psychic tug of war of training had often left me sullen and angry. But Yamashita has a way of battering through your defenses, of shredding your delusions until you stand, trembling yet clear-eyed, in the place to which he has led you.

  I realized that I had always clung to Munenori’s idea of a life-giving sword, and believed in the training as a way to somehow make me a better person. The science of how to cut and where, of the vulnerabilities of the human body, had always seemed arcane and exotic knowledge. They were things of a bygone era; knowledge that was dated and rendered impractical. I thought the sword a symbol and suppressed the knowledge of how fearsome the blade could be. Now I would be asked to fully engage in the killer’s art. I could not hide behind the justification of self-defense as I had in the past. Yes, Sarah’s life was the bait but the truth was that I wanted Martín dead. It made me doubt myself. My motives. My ability to stay whole.

  He has always been amazingly perceptive, but lately Yamashita’s ability in this regard had increased tremendously. It’s as if the wounds and injuries that are slowing him down physically, have simultaneously channeled his energy in new ways.

  He touched my arm, a rare instance of intimate contact. His hands are still thick and strong looking, although the joints swell with arthritis, and residual damage from torture makes his left hand weaker than it has been, but the flow of something powerful yet intangible was in that touch. It was as comforting as it was terrifying.

  “Burke,” he said, “the sword’s blade has two faces, ura and omote. They have been forged together for a purpose. Sometimes the sword is a thing of beauty, at other times it is put to other uses.”

  “How can you be sure that the uses—that you’re doing the right thing?” I croaked.

  He smiled contentedly. “Burke, you know the purpose behind this.”

  “To save Sarah. To stop Martín.”

  “Yes. And you know that the police will not be able to do this in time. And Martín must be killed.”

  “I know,” I admitted.

  We drove in silence for a short time, and then I pulled off onto Rte. 110 South.

  “A detour?” Yamashita sounded more interested than alarmed, a scientist watching his newest experiment bubble.

  “Big snake,” I told him. “I need a bigger stick.”

  The squat building had firearms lining three walls, with counters separating the merchandise from the buying public. The salespeople were friendly, informative, and all had small pistols clipped to their belts. In this world, everyone was courteous and contained, but clearly the clerks would shoot you if you got out of line. Different tools, but not so different from Yamashita’s dojo.

  The purchase process itself didn’t take long; the salesman was informative and enthusiastic in a creepy sort of way. I settled on a Remington 870 Express 12-gauge shotgun.

  “The eighteen-inch barrel makes it easier to use in home defense situations,” the salesman informed me. I had confided that I was worried about crime in my neighborhood. He nodded in sympathy, but his eyes lit with enthusiasm. He set a few boxes of shells on the counter as we processed the sales paperwork.

  “You’ll want these,” he informed me.

  “Number one buckshot,” I read. “Not double-ought?” My gun knowledge is not deep; I was relying on jargon I’d heard in movies.

  “Nope. The International Wound Ballistics Association says number one buckshot is the superior choice for home defense. This shotshell has the capacity to produce 30 percent more wound trauma than other shotshell loads.” He nodded to himself with satisfaction. This was obviously a conversation he’d had before. “Plus,” he added with the flourish of a conjuror producing yet another amazing item, “it’s less likely to over-penetrate or exit the target. Reduces the risk of collateral damage.”

  “Deadly and yet safe,” I said. “It’s good to know.” He looked at me sharply, sensing sarcasm. I kept my face expressionless and waited to see if his gun hand was going to twitch toward his holster. But the moment passed.

  I bought a duffel bag to carry the gear and he cashed me out. I tossed it in the trunk of the car, got back in, and told Yamashita what I’d been up to.

  “And they sold you this weapon— just like that?” he said, incredulous. He’s spent a lifetime developing lethal skills and I imagined it disgusted him that it’s possible to accelerate the process with a clean record, a driver’s license, and a credit card. Where was the sweat, the discipline, the process where the character was forged into something new and tensile and beautifully lethal? But the day’s events reminded both of us that the world is as it is, not as we wish it to be.

  I slipped the car into gear as we headed back to the Expressway. I checked my watch. We were good. I’d make Martín’s deadline.

  “Sometimes your country alarms me,” my sensei said.

  When I hit Exit 64 for Port Jefferson, my cell phone rang.

  “Burke,” I said.

  “Where are you?” the thick voice of Martín asked. I could hear him breathing.

  “I’m just getting off the Expressway onto Rte 112,” I told him.

  “The ferry to Bridgeport leaves in forty minutes. There is a reservation for you. Take the car. Go to the terminal in Connecticut.”

  “And?” I demanded. “What then?” But the voice was gone.

  “They’re leading us along,” I told Yamashita. “Probably to make sure that we’re not being followed by anyone. And crossing a state line means that it would make it that much more difficult for us to involve the cops.”

  “He has thought this out,” Yamashita told me. “You will be watched to ensure you are alone. We must maintain an element of surprise. Drop me off before the ferry terminal and I will board as a passenger. Leave the car unlocked and I will hide in it just before we disembark.”

  “What if they spot you?”

  He smiled tightly. “Burke, they will be looking for plainclothes policemen. A broken down, old man will not attract their attention.”

  The crossing was smooth—the Long Island Sound an expanse of gray water and the low coast of Connecticut a hazy smudge on the horizon. I leaned on the rail in the cool wind and watched the froth that was churned up by the boat’s passage. I thought of what I would do and how I would do it. After a time I sat down, slightly queasy. The trip seemed to take a long time.

  When I got to the terminal in Connecticut, my phone rang and another voice told me to look on the bulletin board by the restrooms. An envelope had been tacked there with my name on it. Inside was a menu for the Golden Mountain Restaurant in Bridgeport. Comidas Chinas, the banner said. Someone had circled the address and written “Go here.”

  It wasn’t a nice part of town, but then Bridgeport has seen better days in general. The streets were dirty and old cars sagged and rusted along listing curbs that were slowly surrendering to time and neglect. Most of the storefronts had signs in Spanish. The Golden Mountain was no exception.

  I took a deep breath outside the restaurant, marveling that the world seemed so prosaic and worn and normal looking. But it was an illusion, or at best a blurry backdrop, glimpsed fleetingly as I hurtled down a tunnel that was getting tighter and darker with every second.

  Less thought, Burke. More action. Was it Yamashita’s voice I heard in my head, or my own?

  It was a classic storefront Chinese takeout place, with a few wobbly Formica tables and industrial strength chairs set by the plate glass windows for diners who were not overly concerned with ambience. A chest high counter was at the far end, with stacks of takeout menus, a can of pencils, and a backlit menu overhead, with bright pictures of Chinese food. A short hall led to the right, away from the dining area. Signs on the wall promised a fire exit and a restroom. An old woman, her face puckered with decades of work, sat behind the counter. In the kitchen behind her, woks clanged and sizzled, man
handled by thin Asian boys with scraggly facial hair and grease-spotted baseball caps.

  Two Hispanic men were draped over some chairs. Tattoos dotted their hands, circled their wrists, and climbed like black vines up their necks. When I came through the door, one of the men looked at the woman. She slid off her stool and disappeared from sight. The kitchen noises faded. At the counter, a phone rang and nobody answered it.

  They stood on either side of me, muscle and dark ink and hostility. They wore baggy street clothes and one had a nickel-plated revolver dangling from his hand. The other man gestured at me. I showed him the plastic bag I carried that was filled with a bundle of paper I had doctored up to look like Westmann’s manuscript. It was long gone, but this guy didn’t know that. It was wasted energy: he peered in at the bundle, but didn’t seem interested in any real way. I put my arms up and he patted me down, searching for a weapon. Satisfied, he stepped back, flipped open a cell phone, and had a short conversation, staccato vowels in a Latin rhythm. But I heard my name mentioned. He nodded me toward the narrow hall that led off to the restrooms and the fire door.

  While we were doing this, an old Asian man limped in, lugging a duffel bag. The one with the gun looked at him, annoyed.

  “Oye, Viejo! Esta cerrado!” But the old man obviously didn’t understand. He gestured helplessly, mumbled something, and started toward the counter. They propelled me toward the fire door. The guy with the gun went for the old man, and I got shoved along the hall by his partner so I couldn’t see what happened next.

  But I heard the sound of the strikes hitting a body, the whoosh of air as it was forced out of the lungs, and the sound of the gun hitting the floor. My escort heard it, too. He turned back, his eyes leaving me for a moment. It was a mistake.

  I’m not sure whether he really registered what had happened in the restaurant; I hit him so hard he blacked out briefly. But there Yamashita stood over a crumpled body, holding the shiny pistol in his hand like it had germs. He came toward me, still lugging the duffel.