by Lane Diamond
The most unassuming man I'd ever known, and almost obsessively polite, he insisted on sharing his hospitality with all who visited, whether family, friends, or someone who walked in off the street. He assured me that this was in proper respect to the Japanese culture engrained in him, along with the language, by parents determined that he not forget his history. He honored that cultural heritage while remaining fiercely patriotic toward the country of his birth.
He'd volunteered for the army during the Vietnam War, where he served two tours with the Special Forces in the mid '60's. I once found, inside a case on his bookshelf, three medals from the war—a Purple Heart with two clusters, a Bronze Star and a Silver Star. He bore nasty scars on his right leg and on his back that spoke clearly of his extraordinary deeds, yet he never spoke of them, or his courage. No surprise there.
I could easily imagine him killing an enemy in hand-to-hand combat, and then kneeling to pray for his enemy's soul.
Such was the nature of Master Ben Komura.
I stopped in for training, but also for his guidance. He'd taught me the martial arts for ten years and the ways of the samurai for the last three. He'd made me his special student; I no longer attended his regular classes, full of kids anxious to get their next belt. They improved their strength and balance, broke boards and practiced combat with their fellow students. They did this in preparation for the real thing, something he advised avoiding at all costs. Many students struggled with the concept. Why learn the martial arts, they wondered, if they should never fight? Self-defense was always acceptable, a responsibility we had to ourselves and to those who relied on us, but Master Komura would not tolerate offensive behavior. He'd refused to instruct more than one student who'd refused to accept this vital distinction.
What would he say about my plan?
The dojo sat dark but for the candles that always burned in the corners of the main room. He lived in modest comfort with his wife, Naomi, in a loft above the dojo. Naomi was pregnant and Master wore his excitement on his sleeve. He desperately wanted a son, though he would cherish a daughter.
I changed into my robes in the small locker room eight feet right of the stairs to his apartment.
Normally, after changing, I would ring the chimes to alert him to my presence, but Master already knelt in meditation on the pad in the center of the room. Despite my effort to make no sound at all, once again he'd heard me enter. We played this little game. I must enter and change clothes without him hearing. I must then use the chimes.
Though I'd never done so, I was determined to get him on that—someday.
I knelt before him and joined in the mental preparations and breathing exercises, which we always completed before starting. He slapped his legs to signal that we were ready, and I opened my eyes.
He looked at me thoughtfully. "You are troubled, my son?"
"Hai. These are troubling times, Master."
"You are still saddened by the loss of young Alex."
I nodded and glanced toward the floor.
"But there is more to it than that."
I nodded.
"You clearly find it difficult to speak of, yet all things may be said here, as you know. Together, we will seek answers. Then you must make your own decisions. You are my special student because I know your heart and soul. You need not fear of disappointing me."
He functioned as more than my mentor and teacher; in many respects, he served also as my confessor. I could tell him anything, and he'd give me guidance both contemplative and just. I also knew that I must accept his guidance—an important part of our relationship. I could argue for myself, and we would discuss all possibilities, but in the end, his decision somehow became our decision.
I'd never been disappointed by the outcome.
This time.... Shit! Sweat pooled in my palms, and my heart and breathing raced. I needed to consider my words carefully, explaining both my dilemma and my intended course of action, and seek his advice on how best to proceed. Yet what would I do if he counseled against such action?
I held a deep breath and... and farted! I stared at him for an instant, and then we broke into laughter.
Thirty minutes later, I'd explained everything. He knew of Diana's abduction at the hands of Mitchell Norton, of the hypnosis that had provided so much information, of how my life was on hold, due first to the murder of Alex and now to the possible loss of Diana. He knew of my plans to postpone school for a year, of my intention to marry Diana when the time was right, of my dad's withdrawal into a bottle. In all, I'd explained my utter frustration at the circumstances: the helplessness, the loneliness, the anger, the fear.
Lastly, I told him of how I stood at the edge of an abyss. If Norton murdered Diana, I would fall in. "I must act," I said. "I have to do something to save her."
He sat attentively throughout my speech, never breaking eye contact. Ever the stoic, his eyes nevertheless conveyed sadness and regret, understanding and love. When he looked to the floor with closed eyes, I knew he was contemplating the next step.
I joined him in meditative silence; no more need of words.
Five minutes later, he slapped his legs and sat straight. "You will remain here, my son. Continue your meditations. I will return shortly."
I nodded obeisance as he walked up to his apartment. Though still nervous, I also felt at peace now that I'd said what he needed to know. All that remained was to trust in his guidance.
When he returned, he carried several items, which he set on the floor between us before taking up his previous position.
On the pad lay three swords, one full-length samurai sword called a katana, and two short swords called ninjaken, each sheathed in black with black hilts. He'd also brought a ring called a shobo, with a small notch on it designed to strike pressure points on your opponent, to inflict sharp pain or temporary paralysis. There was also the traditional, at least in modern times, garb worn by the ninja, all black, called shinobi shozoku. It included boots called jika-tabi, with small spikes on the bottom called ashiko. The jika-tabi had a split-toe design to aid in gripping and climbing. He'd obviously obtained my sizes in advance. Last was the head cover, which utilized the sanjaku-tenugui, or three-foot cloths.
When dressed in the entirety, I would be both lethal and virtually invisible in the dark.
"I have had these things for you for several months," he said, "but I awaited the proper moment to give them to you. This, I believe, is that moment."
"It's an awful lot to accept. Are you sure I'm ready?"
"Yes, though we will continue your training with greater purpose and intensity than before. You must commit to excellence, as always."
"Hai."
"Twice a week remains adequate, but the sessions must be longer. Three hours will suffice."
Talk about intense!
"Are you prepared to make this commitment, my son?"
There was no such thing as halfway with Master Komura. I would have to give every ounce of energy to the effort. Or nothing. "Hai."
"Good, then these things are yours."
"Thank you, Master, this is extraordinarily generous. I understand the swords, but why have you given me the ninja garb? I'll be ready to audition for a Chuck Norris movie." I half chuckled, half swallowed my nervousness.
"Hold to your sense of humor. It will serve you well." He smiled in mock admonition. "Ninjutsu is but one of the arts we study, and you may need these items. You must use every available tool."
"I feared you would disapprove of my intentions."
"Self-defense comes in many guises, does it not? It means defending yourself, but it also means defending your family and dear friends. This is a matter of honor. We must pray that Diana is still alive and plan accordingly. Rescuing her is more than an opportunity. It is your responsibility. It is the way of the samurai."
"Hai."
"This is your task, but I will assist you in any way you ask. We will start with your continued advanced training. However, you must know that if
you require my assistance in the field, you have only to say the word."
"I know you would help me in this but, as you said, it's my task. My opponent is cruel, but he is unskilled. If something changes and I need your help...."
He watched me as if expecting me to say something more, then continued, "The dinner hour approaches, and Naomi will be upset if I fail to invite you. She always enjoys your visits. We will eat lightly and drink some tea, and we will speak of other things in Naomi's presence. I do not wish to upset her and, consequently, our child."
"Yes, Master. Thank you."
"Very well, we will dine before training. Then we will begin with the proper wearing of your garb before moving on to the proper use of the three swords, with which you are already familiar. We will also continue your focus on combining balance and power, but we will add the skill of invisibility, which is the true purpose of the garb. This will be important for you, I think."
"Hai."
Chapter 44 – May 29, 1978: Mitchell Norton
Last night was huge! I'd disposed of Danny-Boy in exactly the right way, chopping him into small enough pieces to squeeze him into two plastic garbage bags. Then I'd driven down to the river near the base of Blackhawk Trail, backed right up to the boat launching area, and fed the Beast a little late-night snack.
The Reaper must'a been pleased.
I had one hell of a mess to clean up when I returned to the shop. Danny-Boy had spilled a shitload of blood and gore. It had attracted flies, damn it, and scratching noises started outside the shop, probably a critter drawn by the smell of blood. I ran out with my knife, but it had vanished by the time I reached the back of the shed.
Diana had watched it all in horror. I knew it would be difficult for her. Hell, given how frightened I was when the visions first started, it was hardly a surprise that she'd been terrified. That was inevitable.
She'd get used to it, like I had. Maybe she'd even help me, in time; then we'd truly be together. I had to take it slow for now. I hadn't had sex with her yet, though I'd sure worked myself into a hot lather—still couldn't believe I'd stroked the old missile right in front of her.
Still nervous about leaving Diana alone, I hadn't been home today. I cleaned myself from the bucket, as she had. It wasn't too bad... but it was about to get much better.
Her turn.
Man, that shapely body of hers, with the best tits ever! "I'll loosen your ties so you can clean up before we have something to eat. I always have my knife with me, so don't try anything stupid."
She nodded.
I'd already moved the rest of my tools where she couldn't reach them. Nonetheless, I'd stay inside and keep a close eye on her. She'd run or try to hurt me if I gave her half a chance. Besides, it figured to be fun.
I loosened her ties and sat a few feet away, where I'd have the best view.
She shuffled to the bench and dampened the rag as if to start, but stopped and stared at me. Poor little girl didn't want me to watch.
"Look, you know I can't leave you alone when you're free like that. You'll have to go about your business with me here."
Her eyes drooped back to the bench and her shoulders slumped.
"We do have options, you know. I could tie you up again, tear your clothes off and clean you myself. Maybe I'll leave you naked to wallow in your own stinking filth. How would that be?"
She looked at me briefly, took a deep breath, and removed her tee shirt.
Holy shit! Sweet mama!
She cleaned the top part of her body, and it was all I could do to keep my missile inside my jeans. She ignored me as she removed her jeans and panties. She turned her back to me, to keep me from seeing too much, but her plan failed when she bent over.
I leaned in for a closer look. Fuck a rubber duck! Sex with her would be incredible.
The Reaper said I had to wait until she was ready, until she wanted it too, as if that would make it so much better. Shit! Keepin' myself calm and controlled weren't no simple task.
She put on the new clothes, and rubbed her wrists where the bindings had discolored them. No way to avoid that. Once she got up to speed according to my plan, it wouldn't be an issue anymore.
In the meantime, maybe I could provide her with some temporary relief. "I know the ties hurt your wrists. That's unavoidable, but I'll let you sit awhile without them if you'd like. Just play it cool."
"Maybe if you put something beneath the ropes," she said, "some cloth to protect my skin."
The supplies included a small hand towel. I cut it in half lengthwise and tossed her the two pieces. Should'a thought of it sooner.
"That should do the trick, but I'll still give you a little break."
"Thank you," she said, and even smiled. Almost.
Maybe she'd come around sooner than I'd hoped.
"You're welcome. Now why don't we get to know each other a little better?"
We talked—mostly I talked and she listened—for two hours. I told her of the demons I'd seen, and the Reaper, whom I'd only heard, with his frightening voice. We had a sandwich, some chips, a pickle and a can of pop, and she ate while I spoke.
I apologized for putting her through this, explaining that the Reaper would do unimaginable things to me otherwise, that I was only following orders. He had a plan for her too, and I could help her, if she'd let me.
She nodded, but refused to look at me when she did.
Careful, Mitchell, the Reaper said. You may be the MAN, but she's not quite ready to join you. It will take more time.
That Reaper was a smart one.
I tied her up again, this time using the rags to protect her wrists, and dumped the bucket of dirty water behind the shop. "I'm going down to the lake for some fresh water. Sit tight and keep quiet. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She nodded weakly and said, "Okay," but I played it safe and gagged her. She wasn't too pleased but... whatever. She'd get over it.
I grabbed my baseball bat on the way out—never knew when the old Louisville Slugger might come in handy. It was mid-afternoon at the time of year, mid-May, when we saw some occasional hot weather. Though not exactly blazing, temperatures had risen. The sky cast a gray ghost over the area, holding back the storm.
Soon kids would show up at the gravel pit on weekends, and once school let out, they'd be here all the damned time. I'd need more buckets. I hated buying water—not fuckin' natural.
The trail dipped down before reaching a slight rise, beyond which lay the gravel pit, inside of which was the lake. I approached the rim of the pit and—
"Ooh, Bobby, you're a naughty boy."
I froze at the sound of the shrill voice. It took a minute for it to come again, clear and... a girl giggled. I dropped down and practically crawled to the rim.
"Do you like it when I touch you there, Jacque-Baby?" a boy said.
"Yes. Do it some more, you big stud."
What the hell? Didn't these kids know it was a school day? They'd probably skipped out so Bobby-the-Stud could dip his little finger in Jacque-Baby's love-muffin. Well that was fuckin' perfect!
The voice of the Reaper returned. Think, Mitchell. What are you doing?
"Learning," I whispered.
Yes?
"Training."
Yes, and what do you need to train?
Why hadn't I thought of that? "I need participants."
This must be your lucky day.
I had everything I needed, but the element of surprise would be critical. I walked through the steps in my head, hoping the Reaper would provide some instruction, but he remained silent. No matter. I figured it out.
With the bucket in my left hand and the Louisville Slugger, slung over my shoulder, in my right, I started quietly down the path to the lake. When their voices sounded close, I whistled a tune and acted nonchalant.
"Oops." I stumbled upon them. "What do we have here?"
The boy, Bobby-the-Stud, jumped up startled, embarrassed and guilty.
Yes, Bobby, I know exactly w
hat you've been doing.
The girl, Jacque-Baby, squirmed on the ground and tried to get her pants zipped and buckled. Quite amusing, though as I watched Jacque-Baby, I wanted to snap Bobby-the-Stud's fuckin' neck. Why was that?
He spoke in harsh, flustered tones. "What are you doing here, man? This place is supposed to be off-limits."
I figured them for sixteen or seventeen, and found his tone extremely annoying. "Now, Bobby, I could ask you the same question, though one look at Jacque here tells me all I need to know."
"How do you know our names?" Jacque-Baby asked—must be the smart one.
"Yeah!" Bobby-the-Stud, on the other hand—not too bright.
I turned my body to the right, back toward the path, then checked my balance and got a better grip on the baseball bat. "I was walking by and—"
I spun back hard and wheeled the bat squarely into the corner of Bobby-the-Stud's forehead, above and slightly to the left of his left eye. A terrible crunching sound rang out as blood flew through the air. He spun around and collapsed, not the sort of fall one would usually associate with people—more a plop into himself, as though he were made of liquid. Another loud snap echoed as a bone jumped out of his shin.
Man, that's cool!
When the girl screamed, I lunged over her and raised the bat with both hands. "Stop that screaming right now or you're next!"
She stopped—trembling, whimpering, her eyes like soccer balls—and put her hands up to protect her head.
"Be still." I lowered my voice. "No running or fighting back. I'm twice your speed and three times your strength, so don't make me kill you here." I couldn't tell her she was a dead woman regardless, awaiting a more vicious demise. "I'm gonna check on Bobby."
I took two steps to where the boy lay scrunched into a blob, and reached down to touch his neck. Nothing. I tried another spot... and another. Still nothing.
"Shucks, that's a shame. Poor Bobby-the-Stud is ready for the glue factory. He's deader than dirt."
She cried and shook violently, and seemed on the verge of screaming, so I threatened her again. When she realized he was dead, but she might still live, she calmed slightly. That old survival instinct—strong stuff—and I used it to my advantage.
