by Kit Crumb
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANDY NEAL LOOKED AT HIS WATCH, fifteen minutes until his shift began. “Tour de France here I come.” He doubled his effort. Andy crested Pirate’s knoll and down shifted as he raced toward the street below. Leaning into the corner, he managed to stay in the bike lane as he turned onto Main, shifted again and powered along the relatively level street toward the corner of Bay and Main, and Dungeness Bay Fitness and Martial Arts.
Two blocks away he pulled up short, braking to a near stop.
“Holy shit!”
A crowd gathered in front of the fitness studio. Standing up on the peddles he raced up to the edge of the gathering. People were lined up at the front desk waiting to get in. Lifting his bike up he barged through the crowd, set it down against the front desk and vaulted over the counter. Grabbing the ledger he began checking off names and passing members through the turnstile.
It was a full thirty minutes before the crowd was gone. Andy used the paging system but neither Mark or M responded.
“Hey Andy, I heard the page,” said a young brown belt. “Is Sensei up here? I’m supposed to help her teach the 3:30 green belt class.”
Andy looked over at the brown belt.
“No, she didn’t answer the page. No one was at the desk when I got here, do you know what’s going on?”
The brown belt glanced around as though his Sensei might emerge from some shadow at any moment.
“No, I saw her about 12:30. Told her I saw some guy jump over the turnstile, but haven’t seen her since.”
Andy stepped out from behind the desk. “Can you watch the front for minute? I want to check her office and apartment, maybe she left some kind of note, you know, and forgot to post it at the front desk. Could be some kind of emergency and she had to leave.”
The brown belt looked a little reluctant.
“It should be slow. Just check membership cards and let them through. If anybody wants to join, page me,” Andy said.
He sprinted through the two weight rooms and the connecting door into the dojo, skirting around the mat to M’s office. It looked dark but Andy grabbed the doorknob and gave it a twist. Locked. But when he knocked it swung open. He turned on the lights and stepped in but stopped without taking another step.
“Oh my god!”
He slowly turned his head from left to right taking in everything. The room was a wreck. All of M’s certificates were piled on the floor, torn from their frames. Even the trophies were taken apart. The drawers were pulled out of the desk and their contents scattered. He’d seen enough and ran from her office back to the gym. A few students turned and looked at him. Andy ignored the stares and bolted up two steps at a time to M’s apartment. When he reached the landing at her front door he grabbed the doorknob fully expecting it to be locked; it was, but the door opened with a push. Turning he ran down the steps, through the gym and burst into the workout area. He scanned the students on the mat.
“You,” he pointed. “I need you to come with me, right now.”
The black belt walked to the edge of the mat, bowed off and jogged over to Andy.
“What’s the problem?”
Andy directed a white belt to go to the front desk and call the police.
“Someone has broken into Sensei’s apartment.”
Without another word Andy led the way to the landing at M’s front door.
“Look at the door jamb,” Andy said.
The black belt ran a finger over the splinters where someone had used a crow bar. “What do you think, Andy?”
“I think we need to go in and look around.”
The black belt hesitated. “Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”
“You can wait for them, I’m going in.”
Andy was one foot through the door when the black belt pulled him back by the shoulder. “I’d better go first.”
It took a minute for them to find a light switch; it took another couple of minutes to recognize the rumpled heap on the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” Andy said.
Driven by pure adrenaline Andy grabbed M by the shoulders and raised her into a sitting position. Her exposed breasts and the blood on her chest and stomach brought Andy to his senses. But before he could lay her back down her head lolled to one side, blood dripping from either temple. He gently lay her down.
“Sensei can you hear me? He bent down closer to her ear, “It’s Andy Neal, can you hear me?”
He kneeled down and put his ear next to her mouth, listening for a breath, then rolled back onto his haunches with tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NO ONE HAD SEEN THE man as he made his way down the stairs, through the gym and out the front door. As he stepped onto the sidewalk he descended from a posture of stealth, into a bent shuffling homeless man. He didn’t try to hide or make himself small. Instead he dragged a foot as he jaywalked across the street. Pitifully bent for all to see he made his way to a rusting AMC Gremlin filled to overflow with newspapers and cans, and climbed in. But no one noticed. Drivers sped along, tourists crossed the street. The sound of the grinding starter and the engine coming to life filled the air and in a puff of purple smoke the Gremlin drove away.
Fifteen minutes later, the Gremlin pulled to the curb in front of the city park, its driver pretending to read an old newspaper. When he saw that no one was looking his way he got out of the car, black plastic bag tucked under his arm, and shuffled across the street. Bending to pick up an empty bottle he checked again, nobody was watching. He walked between two houses until he was in shadow. One house had a neatly trimmed yard, the other lacked a lawn and the weeds were waist high in the fenced-in back yard. He threw the bag over the fence and climbed after it. This was his house, rented using a false identity. It was a wreck on the outside and bare on the inside, but had hot and cold running water and was weather proof, more then he could say for his father’s home in the camp.
He came in through the garage, crossed the kitchen, exited through the swinging door into the living room and dropped the plastic bag on the floor. He peeled off the filthy rags he wore except for a loincloth that looked like a thong. When he walked to the bathroom his step was sure and solid, gone was the deliberate shuffle. He showered scrubbing with a hog hairbrush until his amber skin glowed. From the back of the bathroom door he took a silk robe, putting it on and pulling the belt tight as he followed the hall into the living room.
All the curtains were closed making it gloomy and dark. There were no furnishings, no phone. Nothing hung from the walls. The stories ran through his head again and he imagined the bleak surroundings of the living conditions at the camp.
He walked over and picked up the black plastic bag, moved to the center of the room and dumped its contents on the hard wood floor, then tossed it aside. He stood for a minute looking down at the small pile, then dropped to his knees. Running his hands through the scraps of paper, he scattered them into a small circle. With slow deliberate moves he began turning over and identifying every piece like it was a game of Concentration. He memorized the print style and tried to figure out the partial words where they’d been split by a tear so he could match them to another partial word. Patiently, he separated recipes and hastily written notes from credit card applications. He knew how to be patient, a trait his father had learned in the camp: wait for food, extra blankets, toilet paper.
He grunted when he made the final match, and then read the name out loud. “Mary Margaret Malmstrom.” He pushed up from his knees to his feet and walked to a chalkboard where he wrote the name next to the number two. He’d known her first and last name, always her last name. But for his purpose he needed all three names, the way she appeared on legal documents. Now he had an address and a legal name.
“Only one to go,” he whispered, “then you will know how it feels to be helpless and have a stranger in control.”
The bedroom wasn’t as bare as the living room. A straw sleeping mat sat rolled up in the corner, a small shrine occupied t
he center of the floor. He crossed the room, opened the closet door and removed a black Karate uniform that included a black hood, hand and wrist covers and black tabby shoes. When he was fully dressed he moved to the center of the room and knelt in front of the shrine.
“Father, it has begun.” He extended both hands to receive the worn journal he had waited so long to read. Honor demanded that he not turn a single page until Retribution was begun. When he had closed his fingers over the stiff leather cover he brought it up to his forehead, then slowly lowered it to the floor. He bowed at the waist until his torso was horizontal. As he read, the words engulfed his entire being.
Manzanar June 6, 1946
The tarpaper walls flap in the wind masking her cry of pleasure and pain. Tonight is our last chance, we are being forced to leave this place just as we were forced to come here. Tomorrow we will leave without our first born, who was not so strong and remains on the hill.
It was the last entry written within the camp. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes then continued reading.
Happier days are ahead for our family. I try to put behind the sadness and shame of the last three years as we pack our few belonging. We have been given $25 for bus fair. I eagerly anticipate our return to Dungeness Bay and the life we knew before the war.
He replaced the journal at the base of the shrine and began an ancient practice of centering. He would have to be more careful, he couldn’t risk exposure, even when in disguise, or another incident like the one that afternoon with the Malmstrom woman. He’d almost ruined everything. Step one and two had gone well, he would complete step three at the dive shop on the beach. But first he would have to deal with the female photographer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANDY FOLLOWED EVERY STEP as the EMTs strapped M onto the gurney. He offered his help as they went down the steps, opened doors as they carried her through the gym and out the front to the waiting ambulance. When the technician locked the gurney in place and climbed in the back, Andy attempted to follow.
“Sorry buddy, nobody rides in the back.” The technician reached out to close the door, but was stopped by a powerful grip on his wrist.
Andy leveraged the EMT out. “I ride,” he declared, and climbed in. Once inside he turned and offered the technician a hand up.
The EMT and Andy stared at each other across M’s unconscious form.
“It’s insurance, I could lose my license.” He placed a hand on M’s forehead. “Think of your friend.”
Andy looked down at M, the blanket covering her from chin to toe, the straps around her chest, hips and ankles. Looking up at the EMT he said, “I am.”
The technician leaned over and knocked on the back of the cab. “Let’s roll!”
The driver flipped every toggle switch turning on lights and sirens as he pulled onto Main, dividing traffic like the parting of the Red Sea. The EMT in the back seemed immune to the gentle rocking and swaying of the ambulance as it slowed then accelerated through traffic lights and rounded corners. Andy watched with a morbid fascination as he ministered to M. First reading her vitals then starting an IV. Suddenly he stood, lurching for a cart that contained oxygen.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Andy said.
The technician ignored the question and placed an oxygen mask over M’s nose and mouth with one hand, turning the oxygen on with the other.
He looked up, fire in his eyes, still angry with Andy for his defiance. “Your friend is suffering from severe head trauma, her breathing just became labored. Are you ready to watch her suffocate?”
He opened M’s left eye and shined a penlight in checking pupil response.
***
A bright light and a loud voice invaded her memories and then were suddenly driven out by the black veil of unconsciousness.
When the memories returned, M was standing on the yardarm of her father’s becalmed ship, steadying herself with one hand on the mast. She could feel a gentle breeze chill against her skin. Releasing her grip, she bent her knees and pushed off into a dive, watching the ocean race toward her, tucking her head at the last minute before entering the water. She somersaulted turning toward the surface, but no matter how hard she kicked she didn’t get any closer. Her lungs begin to burn with the effort of holding her breath. Her mind screamed in terror.
The EMTs raced the gurney through the double doors of Dungeness Bay Hospital and into the waiting arms of two nurses, Andy right on their heels. The technician from the back of the ambulance grabbed him by the arm.
“This is where you stop. Time to let the doctors take care of her.”
Andy let him lead him to the waiting area.
“Thanks for letting me ride along.”
The EMT gave a short wave as he headed up the hall to the front of the hospital and the waiting ambulance.
The doctor cut away M’s black belt then removed her pants. She lay naked on the table. He stood at her head, looking first at one side then the other, satisfied that the dried blood was from superficial lacerations. Bending down he gently separated her breasts to either side as he examined the cut down her sternum, then straightened up and watched her chest rise and fall as he judged her labored respiration. As if suddenly realizing that his patient was nude he looked up from the task. “Nurse, where the hell is that blanket!” Two women clad in scrubs rushed over and draped M from naval to toe.
M finally broke the surface gasping and sputtering, gulping in all the air she could manage with each breath.
The doctor breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden change in M’s breathing. “Oxygen STAT, she’s breathing deeply now.” An oxygen mask with a long tube was slapped into the doctor’s out stretched hand.
He spoke to her even though she seemed unconscious. “Just relax and breath deep, ma’am; this mask will help you catch your breath.”
A tech entered the room with four x-rays in hand and slid them onto the light board. The doctor walked up next to him.
“I don’t see any indication of fracture,” the tech said. The doctor nodded, adding, “We know she has a concussion, but we have to treat her like she has a fracture, and watch for symptoms of brain swelling.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“HELLO, AMY.”
She turned around with a gasp, hand pressed to her chest.
“Mr. Platte, what are you doing here?”
“I knew you’d be here — thought I’d give you a chance to thank me.”
Amy pressed hard against the car, felt the door handle against her back.
She laughed nervously. “Thank you for what?”
He took a step forward, “For saving your job of course.”
She slid one hand behind her, feeling for the door handle.
“Oh, of course, I hadn’t forgotten, I was just waiting for the right time.”
Platte took another step. “You could do it right here, you know.”
She could feel sweat trickle down her side. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You understand perfectly.” He rubbed his crotch. “Don’t lie.”
Amy white-knuckled the door handle as she spun around flinging it open. Platte was on her in an instant pushing her in the car, then slamming a fist into the back of her head. He fished through her pockets until he found the car keys, then ran around to the driver’s side, got in , started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, careful not to drive to fast.
The shadow up on the sand dune hadn’t moved, even when the wind blew. Peter watched the man push the photographer into the car. He watched, fascinated, wondering at what he saw. He rolled, blending into another shadow, then stood up and walked down the back of the dune to the waiting Gremlin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE VW SQUAREBACK eased off the road. The tires drummed on asphalt, turned left, cracked the hard-sand roadbed. Hollies, mittens and groves of sassafras flogged the car’s side. Tires burrowed deeper. The roadbed became a path, engulfed by masses of catbrier and twisted Oregon Grape.
&nb
sp; He snapped off the ignition. The car shivered into silence and the crash of the ocean filled his ears, the quarter moon his eyes. Through the open window came a breeze. No one would find him here.
He turned to the girl, his body flushing with the excitement of purpose. She was beautiful. Long hair lay loose down her back, a sheaf of frizzled wheat. Shear white tennis shorts rounded her thighs and dove between. He could see the sand, dark and damp, white and dry, between her toes.
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. He’d first seen her at the hotel, saw how the men had fawned over her, and knew she would be his.
He stretched out a hand, fingers reaching for the nub of her breast. She was unyielding, but that was an old game. His fingers played across the buttons, zippers and hooks. Calluses rasped on denim. Then he gathered a handful of pink nylon waistband elastic, yanked down.
Her legs tangled for a minute inside the pink hobbles, a netted fish, he thought as he stripped the panties over ankles, toes and off.
But it was too dark in the car. Reaching behind him, he opened the door. The light blinked yellow across the sand.
He stretched out on his belly, feet in the breeze. Her eyes were dark and wide, liquid as he stared into them. Her body spilled up to him like a ripe fruit. He felt her thighs, smooth and unresisting beneath his palms. Awareness returned and with it the urgency to be finished.
He pulled the tie string that held his pants in place. His thrusts sent her head against the car door. But she did not complain.
He reached over her, yanked the door handle. Her flag of hair spilled off the seat as his rocking moved her head back, back and over the edge into the cool salt air.
When he had finished, her hair was moving, silver as quaking aspen in the wind. His hand smoothed down along the cool strands. Then he raised his body, just as he’d seen in the magazines, balancing above on whitened knuckles.
The light pooled yellow from inside the car. Looking out at the sweep of the dune, he saw an answering yellow. Across the bushy shapes of the beach heather came the far stab of a flashlight. It’s beam blinked and wavered.
