by Kit Crumb
Ramos looked over at Ned, then across the table at M and Lemon.
“Ok, I need input,” he said. “Lemon you first.”
Lemon looked around and just shook his head, “Sir?”
“We’ve got about five hours.”
“Yes, sir. Where am I going to hide? The heat of the thermite burned everything to near ground level. And I’ll need something to block the tunnel that won’t stick out.”
Ned raised his hand like a schoolboy. “In five hours it’ll be high tide. How soon will Buck and Jake be here?”
“They’re in the air now,” Ramos said. “M, what have you got to say?”
“I don’t think this guy is going to go along with the plan.”
Ramos looked away then back at M. “I’ll ignore that for now. I’ve got three officers making a lid for the tunnel and setting up the floods right now. Buck and Jake should arrive in about three hours. As for the high tide, we’ll have to deal with it. Next?”
M leaned into the table and looked directly at Ramos. “Guns will be fine for you and Ned. Jake, Buck and Lemon need pistols and shotguns. I’ll bring my own weapons.”
“Good, now what else? You said he wouldn’t go along easily.”
“This guy has nothing to lose. He feels he has right on his side, not to mention that he has special training.”
“So what are you saying?”
She took a deep breath and looked down at the table then back up at Ramos.
“This guy has a four-foot long sword, even without it he’s still a weapon. Nobody goes near him. If he can touch you, he’s got you.”
“No problem. We keep him at gunpoint,” Lemon said.
“Exactly,” Ramos said. “He resists and we take him out. Lemon, black burlap and blackface and you’ll disappear, anything else? It’s now or never.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
PETER YAMOTO WALKED down Sansome Street with a roaring in his ears. How could Sensei have betrayed him this way? How could the Malmstrom woman still be alive? Sensei’s stroke must have affected his mind. He was on his own now. Hadn’t he always been on his own? He stumbled into a jog. “Giri for the purpose of Retribution”: he repeated it over and over to himself. For his father, who like Sensei had been weak, for his mother who had been weak, he would be strong. He would return honor to the spirit of Yamoto.
He wasn’t sure where he was. Only that he needed transportation. But the cars scattered around the various bars, if reported, could be traced in the six hours it would take to reach Dungeness Bay. He crossed over a block to a seedier street lined with bars, burned out cars and burned out people. He immediately spotted his transportation.
He walked past the motorcycle across the pock-marked parking lot to the entrance of the Catalina Cantina. When a rumbling voice burst out of the shadow, his hand dropped to the katana. “There’s a five dollar cover charge,” the man said.
He turned to face an alcove, releasing the grip on his weapon. “I just need to talk to the owner of that Harley.”
What looked like a weight lifter gone to seed, stepped into the light. “You’re talking to him.”
Peter turned his back on the behemoth and walked out to the motorcycle. When he reached the bike he dropped his hand to the katana. “I need your keys,” Peter said.
The man walked right at him. “In your dreams, asshole.”
In a blur, Peter drew his blade, spun and traced an arc through the air that cut the big man from shoulder to hip. He quickly scanned the parking lot. It was empty. Going through the leather jacket he found the keys in a breast pocket sharing space with a roll of twenties. “Good, traveling money…Asshole,” Peter said.
He climbed on the Harley Davidson chopper and was across the Golden Gate Bridge in half an hour. As he left the marine headlands behind, his mind was filled with the chatter of a thousand drunken monkeys. Scenario after scenario crossed his mind, but as the miles droned by he began to plan. First he would go to the tunnel and look for the metal box that the cop had seen. Then he would find and kill the Malmstrom woman. Then leave town. He wanted to visit Manzanar. There had to be something left, if only the cemetery where his uncle was buried.
The bike easily carried him past slower traffic. He laid into the curves enjoying the sensation of acceleration as he straightened out the road.
Darkness would be a welcome cover when he reached town, but it had been a long day and he had to rein in his emotions. The shadows grew longer as the hours passed and the remnants of his father’s stories began to fill his mind. Plywood and tar paper shacks. Ten thousand people with scant supplies and polluted water. Rampant cases of dysentery, families split; and babies, always babies crying. Peter blinked away the tears and shook his head. “Giri, for the purpose of Retribution.”
He downshifted to accommodate the speed limit when he entered Dungeness Bay and was pleased that not a head turned as he rumbled down dimly lit Main Street. Under the cover of dusk, he parked the bike, stashed it behind what was left of the hedge that ran beside the hotel. By the time he stepped into the rubble in search of the tunnel entrance it was dark. Everything looked different. The black and charred remains coupled with darkness didn’t help. Each step produced a tiny cloud of incinerated wood.
He froze with each passing car and crouched when someone walked past. A middle-aged couple stopped on the sidewalk and just stared at the rubble without saying a word. His hand rested on his katana should they venture too close.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
JIMMY ROLLINS WAS SEVENTEEN and wanted a motorcycle; in fact, he was obsessed with motorcycles, something he’d never let on to his parents. He agreed to come on vacation with them only because he thought it would increase his chances of getting one for a graduation present, and give him time to drop some hints.
Dungeness Bay was a real snooze, but he was determined to make the best of it. During the drive up from San Francisco he’d kept his face in a book. In the hotel room he’d talked about college and a career as a CPA--a career he hated the sound of, but knew was close to his father’s heart. His old man had been a bean counter for thirty years.
Jimmy held the door for his parents as they left Pirate’s Cove. Jimmy’s dad loved fish and chips. They crossed the parking lot just as a motorcycle entered, turning directly in front of them. “Honda Goldwing,” Jimmy said.
His father stopped and turned to his son. “What did you say?”
Jimmy figured this was his chance to impress the old man. “Dad did you know that Honda’s like that one are built in Japan but the Harley Davidson motorcycle was built in 1903 in Wisconsin and they’re still built in America today?” When his father wrinkled his nose Jimmy knew that he was ticked about something, and he was definitely wrinkling his nose now.
“Guy’s probably some kind of Hell’s Angel,” his dad said. “Whatever you do don’t use the word motorcycle in front of your mother. She hates the filthy things and for good reason.” Jimmy couldn’t imagine what that good reason was, but wasn’t about to ask, the chances of getting a motorcycle were not looking good. That night in the hotel, he lay on the bed, face buried in a book, trying to figure his next move. His parents sat at the little round table by the television looking through the tourist guide, marking the different attractions. They’d visit the Dungeness Bay Aquarium tomorrow. They didn’t seem to hear the motorcycle outside. Another Honda, Jimmy was sure. He’d seen about six since they entered town. Maybe Dungeness Bay wouldn’t be so bad after all. Cooped up in the motel room with his parents was almost more then he could take, and he was relieved when they finally declared it bed time.
He was in the middle of a dream when his old man’s snoring woke him up.
He climbed out of bed, padded to the window and pulled the curtain apart just enough to see out. It was a Harley not a Honda, wow what a stupid mistake; he was proud of his ability to identify it from across the street. He looked back at his father, still snoring, then at the alarm clock next to the bed. It wasn’t that late.
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He pulled his pants on over his pajama bottoms and his jacket over his bare chest and stepped into his slippers. When he pulled the security chain, his father rolled over and stopped snoring. If he woke up, Jimmy would tell him he couldn’t sleep and was going out to the car to get another book. He rolled back over and started to snore again. Jimmy opened the door just wide enough to slip out. When he looked across the street, the motorcycle was silhouetted behind a giant hedge, but his attention was drawn to the middle of the lot by some movement.
The soft sole of his leather slippers provided little comfort against rocks as he crossed the street. The gravel parking lot made him wince when he left the smooth cement of the sidewalk, headed for the motorcycle. He stopped and sniffed the air, his nostrils taking in a fine dust, when he looked at his feet he was shocked to see that they were covered with black soot. He scanned the lot. A fire had burned a pretty big building. He was realizing just how big the building had been, picking out the corners and what must have been the entrance when a glint of metal caught his eye.
Gingerly at first, then with more confidence at the apparent lack of broken glass and nails, he entered the giant charred square of what was once the Dungeness Hotel. Moving intently in the direction of the reflected light he was surprised that it appeared to be moving. Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut and looked again. No, it was still there, it hadn’t moved. He looked back at the motorcycle then at the sidewalk. He was nearing the center of the rubble. He heard it first when he was within a few feet of the shiney object but the sound came from his left. It was a low intense roar.
“Nooooo!”
Like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, a huge black object rose wielding a char covered club. Instinctively, Jimmy crouched covering his head. That’s when he saw the metallic glint growing from a few inches to several feet. The club whizzed over his head colliding with the metal. He looked up at the sound of splintering wood and realized the metal object was a sword. The combatants were men dressed in black, he looked on in horror as a gun was drawn but the hand was sliced away before it fired. Again there was a roar. The sword-wielding image suddenly shrank into the rubble and vanished.
Jimmy had been holding his breath, but let it out with a gasp as something grabbed his leg. When he looked down, a hand was pointing at a gaping whole in the floor. Sensing more then seeing, Jimmy knew he had to block the hole so what ever went down couldn’t come back up. To his amazement, there, next to the hole was a large piece of sheet metal. Lying on his back, he pushed it with his feet until it dropped into the hole.
Jake heard the clatter of the tunnel being sealed, and pressed himself against the wall, a move that saved his life. A sword thrust into the narrow tunnel, retracted and thrust in again. He fired six shots straight out and the sword clattered down the tunnel. With the killer disarmed and possibly wounded, he confidently pushed his head and shoulders out into the vertical tunnel only to be struck repeatedly in the face and dragged out. Peter released his grip on the stone handhold and dropped into a kneeling position using Jake as a cushion. Together they plummeted down the tunnel.
Buck heard the six shots followed by a sword falling to the cave floor. He had waded under the tunnel, peering up, waiting for Jake’s call for lights. Instead, he was forced to dive out of the way to avoid being hit by what he thought was the killer’s body. M hit the switch, illuminating the tunnel and waded through four feet of tidewater to get a look up.
“Jake, Jake are you alright?” she shouted. “Buck, the tunnel’s empty.”
When she turned he was fishing a body from the water.
At the mouth of the cave, Ned was on his feet as soon as he heard the shots. A strong arm restrained him from jumping into chest deep water and barreling into the cave. “Easy Ned, let them handle it. Chances are they’ll be coming out any minute,” Ramos said. He uneasily sat back on the rock, but no one came out of the cave. A minute passed, then two.
“Something’s wrong, we have to act now,” Ned said.
Ramos nodded, turned and shouted at his two officers.
With the cave lit up, M could see that Buck was pulling an unconscious Jake from the water. Her weapon of choice had been a four-foot-long jo. Using it like a cane, she pushed up onto one of the boulders that sat against the wall. “Buck, get out of the water!” she yelled.
Too late, a geyser of water shot up between them. She braced for the attack, one foot against the wall, the other squirming for purchase. Peter knew Buck wouldn’t shoot, not with M in the line of fire. Turning, he charged her position slashing the air with his short sword. Judging the distance, she fired the jo like a pool cue, aimed at Peter’s chest. She heard a lout thud, and he staggered backwards. Like a bull, he charged forward again, head down, short sword held out like a bayonet. M cracked down onto his wrist, then raised the tip to collide with his forehead. Peter went down.
Buck had laid Jake across a boulder then sloshed around trying to get a shot at the rapidly moving figure. “Where?” he shouted.
“Buck, get out of the water,” M shrieked. Buck’s blood curdling howl brought her into the water slamming the jo into the cave floor again and again, as she worked her way to Buck’s side. Grabbing his gun, she emptied the clip into the water in a tight circle around their feet, scanning the water for blood. He had to surface soon.
Using the buoyancy of the water, Buck limped just behind M toward the entrance, leaving a trail of blood. The tide was still coming in, lapping and splashing at the struggling pair. Ned was on his feet and splashing into the rising tide before Ramos could react. At 5’ 2” he was practically swimming. Then Ramos saw them, grabbed his shotgun and sloshed into the water next to Ned, shattered ankle forgotten.
Slowly surfacing, Peter grabbed Buck by the hair, jerking his head back, exposing his carotid artery. M turned in time to see Peter’s right hand snake around to the left side of Buck’s throat.
“NO!”
As if in spasm his arm suddenly straightened, pulling away from Buck. Peter turned to face Jake, and M closed in. She struck at the back of his neck with the jo, and he fell face first into the water. Suddenly, everything seemed to stop, as if the water had ceased its forward march. Jake stepped back. M readied for another strike. Peter didn’t move. Their attention was drawn to a rapidly approaching form, gun drawn.
Shouldering M out of the way, Ramos brought Peter’s arms around behind his back and handcuffed him, then rolled him over. As if on cue, an aluminum boat approached with Ned at the bow. With the help of the two officers in the craft, Ramos hoisted Peter into the boat where his ankles were shackled. A nearly unconscious Buck was next. His Achilles tendon had been severed.
M and Jake staggered back into the cave. Jake’s nose leaked a bloody fluid and one eye was swollen shut. When they reached the rear wall, M collapsed into the three-feet of water; the tide was going out. Moments later, Ramos came limping and slogging to join them. No one spoke.
EPILOGUE
BUCK CLUMPED DOWN THE HALL of the Fort Point Police department. His walking cast held his foot at a right angle to his leg. When he reached the end of the hall, a cane pushed open the door. The smiling face of Ocatvio Ramos greeted him.
“Hey, ain’t we a pair?” Buck said, swinging his leg into the room. Ramos let the door shut. “How’s the tendon?”
Buck smiled. “How’s the ankle?”
They both laughed. Buck watched his boss use the cane to maneuver around the desk to the captain’s chair. Buck swung his leg around and sat down hard, then looked across the desk at Ramos. “How’s Lemon, and that kid he saved?”
“OK Guess that kid had the presence of mind to pick up Lemon’s severed hand.”
Buck stared down at his walking cast then up at Ramos. “Will they be able to sew it back on?”
“Too soon to know, but somebody called an ambulance and looks like they got it on ice just in time. What about M?”
Buck looked at his watch, “Should be in San Francisco by now. She’s going to meet
with Peter’s sensei.
* * *
M paused outside the door, stepped back and looked up at the building. A twenty-foot rectangle of clean cement indicated where a sign had once hung. The door was unlocked. When she stepped into the training hall the emptiness was overwhelming. Drawing her feet together, she slapped her hands against her sides and bowed deep and slow. A palpable presence emanated from somewhere in the room and she straightened up quickly scanning the empty hall. Slurred speech drew her attention to the top of a staircase.
“Please forgive my rudeness. I’m afraid that these stairs have become my greatest adversary. I would be honored if you would join this old man for tea.”
M bowed again, very low and very slow. “It would be my honor.” She straightened and watched the old man shuffle away. She inhaled through her nose and could only imagine the hundreds of students that had crisscrossed the floor in simulated combat. She took the steps with a measured cadence, and bowed at the entrance to the sensei’s chambers.
The old man was seated in seiza. The table was low, and he indicated her place with the sweep of his good arm. She could smell the pungent aroma of the bitter green tea as she sat.
“When I was at Manzanar I was young, eighteen years old, and confused in my loyalties. The camp was a site of great shame and much unrest. The aged and babies fared the worst. When we arrived the water was contaminated and dysentery swept the camp; everyone lost someone.”
His eyes fixed on a far away time and place, then he shook his head and continued.
“I was helpless and so vowed when the camps were closed, and we were released, that I would never feel that way again. For years I wallowed in a rage I seemed unable to extinguish. But there was a letting go, and with the years the memories began to fade. One day Peter came to my dojo to study and when I asked him why he wanted to learn the way of the sword, he collapsed into his story and my rage was reborn.”
