Travis Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  At that moment, a cloud blocked the brilliant blue sky, turning it gray, tainting her memories gray too. That past of shadows and brightness had brought her to this uncertain future. While she was chastising herself and swearing never again would she be so vulnerable to a man, a uniformed female warden came and fetched her, putting her in cuffs, and most humiliating of all, in ankle chains.

  As they were attached, Hana mused, “I don’t know whether to be upset or flattered that I’m considered so dangerous.”

  The woman shoved her hard between the shoulder blades down the hallway, forcing Hana to stumble to catch her balance. “Rangers don’t take kindly to butchering, especially one of their own.”

  For once, Hana obeyed every karate precept and held her tongue. This was the second time someone had implied she was a butcher, and smart or not, her temper was beginning to simmer.

  When she arrived in the interrogation room, three people sat there. She recognized John Travis, but had no idea who the other two were: A woman, tall and imposing even sitting down, and another man in a ranger’s badge with iron gray hair and bright blue eyes. Hana barely glanced at them, instead fixating on the long, wrapped object on the table: the katana, still in red silk.

  After the gray-haired man read her the Miranda warning for the second time, John Travis took charge. “We will be recording this conversation. You waive your right to an attorney?”

  Hana nodded. “I can’t afford a good one and a bad one is worse than none. Besides, I honestly believe the evidence will prove my innocence.”

  Travis began. “Zach tells us you only wanted to borrow the blade. You’ll forgive me if I find that a bit incredible, given we have your DNA match after you broke into my home. Doesn’t sound like someone looking to borrow anything. Sounds like someone out to steal.”

  Hana forced herself to look at him instead of the blade, making sure her face was calm. “How do you know I was after the katana? You have many other valuable things in your study.”

  John Travis leaned across the table, his eyes so narrow and menacing it was all she could do not to shrink back into her chair. “Young woman, I suggest you dispense with the stalling game and answer me yes or no, and a sir tacked on would be nice. Otherwise, I’ll let my upper ranks have their way and urge the DA to give you maximum charges for B and E. Given the value of this sword and that you were caught red-handed twice, that’s first-degree felony—sequential sentencing sounds good to me. You’ll be considerably less sassy by the time you get out in, oh, twenty years or so.”

  Hana couldn’t sustain his gaze. Staring over his head at the wall, she said, “Yes, I was trying to get the sword back. But not for the reason you think. I’d never sell it . . . sir.”

  His stiff spine relaxed slightly and he looked at the gray-haired man.

  The man leaned forward with a tentative hand extended. It was as close to a peace offering as she’d get in this room, so Hana shook it as firmly as her cuffed hands would allow.

  “I’m Captain Ross Sinclair, on temporary assignment as investigative lead in this matter,” the gray-haired man said. “This is my associate Doctor Abigail Doyle, a forensics expert. We’re compiling the evidence against you for presentation to the DA. We’ll be doing the majority of the questioning today.”

  Hana nodded stiffly.

  “Ms. Nakatomi, Zach told us you asked to hold the blade. Would you like to do so now?” Ross asked.

  Hana’s eyes flashed with eagerness as she looked back at him. “Yes, please.”

  With a questioning look at Travis, who nodded, Ross removed the handcuffs, leaving her in leg irons. John Travis stood and carefully unwrapped the blade. He offered it to her, still sheathed. All three of the interrogators then stood and moved back, well out of range, John and Ross with hands hovering above their pistols.

  On some level, Hana realized two things: These tough men obviously considered her dangerous, and they were not just being kind in allowing her to handle the blade.

  They were testing her.

  Even knowing she was being watched, Hana couldn’t stifle her emotions as she touched her family legacy for the first time. She stood and moved aside from the table for room to maneuver. The sibilant hiss as the steel escaped the sheath sent goose bumps down her spine. Hana had held many katanas, but never one that felt as right as this one. Not just the balance, nor the shining blade that went beyond deadly artistry to something sublime. For the first time in her life, she understood the concept of Bushido—the Way of the Warrior.

  She was the last of the Nakatomi line and had taken her grandfather’s name when he adopted her. The blade was hers. It felt like hers. The rightness of this hilt in her hand.

  It fit. It belonged. The sword awaited her bidding because she was the last Nakatomi.

  And every one of her blood cells, only half Japanese though she was, fired at the touch of the hilt that had been imprinted by fifty or more previous Nakatomi heirs, many times in battles to the death. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but since she refused to give in to her emotions, especially in this company, she stalled to minutely examine the steel. She slowly turned it blade-up so it caught the light.

  Holding it with both hands gripped around the long hilt, she moved it from side to side, lunging from the waist as far as she could, constrained by the leg irons, going through each of the eight samurai blade stations. Even limited as she was, the air whistled with the force of her fluid movements. Never had the ingrained movements felt so precise, but never had she held such a worthy weapon. She went through the stations that were second nature to her after so many years: left-right thrusts, right-left thrusts, left-right diagonals, right-left diagonals, rising diagonals both sides, and finally the head strike, the sword poised above her head and arced straight downward in a move designed to decapitate the enemy in one blow.

  She was totally unaware of the steely glare exchanged between the two men standing watching her, hands on their weapons. Or that behind the two-way window, Zach cursed at her amazingly fluid and practiced movements even in the leg irons. When she performed the head blow, he moved back a step from the window before he realized it. Yet at the same time he stared, rapt, for there was a terrible beauty about her movements. Had he not known the sword was her birthright before she touched it, he knew it now. It was almost as if the priceless, shining blade cleaved to her, rather than she to it.

  Finally, Hana glanced their way, saw their grim scrutiny, and realized she’d only confirmed their darkest suspicions. She froze midstrike.

  With a slight, very Japanese bow, she sheathed the blade and offered it back to Travis, the hilt resting on her elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Travis. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched the Nakatomi katana and I could not resist. It was confiscated from my grandfather in 1943 after Pearl Harbor.”

  When they all settled at the table again, she said calmly, “What you see as a supreme example of the art of warfare, I see as a legacy bearing the blood and tears of many ancestors. So while the law may be on your side to possess the blade, given the huge sum you paid for it, I’d argue there is a moral duty that clouds that right because it was stolen from my family in a time of paranoia. I’d further point out the federal government has acknowledged the internment camps imprisoning Japanese-American citizens were so wrong they’ve paid restitution in recent years. I cannot help but wonder . . . in this new age of strife and paranoia how would a jury of my peers view my supposed theft?”

  When John scowled, this time she stared right back. Her voice went very soft. “And lastly, I wonder what your own esteemed ancestor, Colonel William Barrett Travis, would say if I tried to purchase his pocket watch at auction after it had been confiscated from you in a time of war?”

  That mark hit home. For the first time, John Travis looked hesitant as he too stared at the disputed antique.

  Without pause, she added matter-of-factly, “And no, I did not murder either the Taylors or anyone else, despite my ability with the blade. I’ve trained with ever
y weapon imaginable since I was a small child. From the time I could walk, my grandfather encouraged me in it to keep my Japanese heritage alive. I’ve sparred many times with both wooden bokkens and real blades.” She leaned forward and emphasized, “But I’ve never killed anyone with a sword or anything else.”

  Looking skeptical again, Travis turned to Ms. Doyle. She opened a thick file, but didn’t glance at it.

  Hana had the feeling she knew every line in the file.

  The woman said softly, “Ms. Nakatomi, we know your background. We know this katana was once owned by your family. There was no evidence during your prior . . . incursion at the Travis home that you wanted anything but the sword. What we don’t understand is why it was so urgent that you obtain the sword. Urgent enough to risk capture a second time at the transit agency. Can you explain that?”

  Hana was glad to shift her attention from John Travis to meet the clearest gray eyes she’d ever beheld, clearer even than Ernie’s . . . Ernie. Hana swallowed hard, but the guilt she felt at drawing him into this hurt far more than the shackles chafing at her ankles. Just tell the truth. Maybe that would help. She’d never been good at lying, anyway.

  So she told them about Jiji, how the sword was so important to her family, not mentioning Kai. Limiting her information wasn’t the same as lying, she told herself.

  When they began to grill her about her alibi on the night of the Taylor murders, she had none, because she’d gone straight back to her hotel room to continue her research when the sword was nowhere to be found. She noted all three of them watched her body language very closely as she spoke. Hana recalled reading about the newest interrogation methods, where exhaustive study had yielded very strong predictions of guilt or innocence by careful attention to tells. Just like in poker, human beings tended to fidget in an interrogation room when they were bluffing.

  So Hana stayed very still, hands clasped before her, answering yes, sir, no, ma’am, as Travis had requested, her gaze steady as she answered each question. All the while she stifled worry about Takeo, hoping, praying that Ernie was facing a less stringent inquisition. Perhaps he could at least get out on bail and find a way to get Takeo back.

  * * *

  In a separate interrogation room, Ernie kept his cuffed wrists resting on the table in front of him, looking quite at home. The two Austin detectives before him both recorded him and made handwritten notes in his file as he amiably answered their questions as briefly and truthfully as possible.

  Where did you learn to open safes like that? New Orleans.

  What else have you broken into? Nothing much lately. I’m reformed.

  What did you and Ms. Nakatomi intend to do with the blade? Ask Hana that.

  If you’ve reformed, why did you help her? She’s my friend and she needed me.

  And so on. At the end of the interrogation, the lead detective looked down at his notes. They were thick across the page, but he shoved them away in disgust. “You haven’t told us a damn thing we don’t already know.”

  Ernie smiled. “I answered every question I was asked, did I not? Was it my elocution or was my word choice a bit problematic for you?”

  The detective looked as if he wanted to hit him, then blew a bitter breath. “I think he just insulted us.”

  The other detective said, “I know he did.” They exchanged a look. “Time to call in the cavalry.”

  His colleague nodded.

  * * *

  In the adjacent interrogation room, Ms. Doyle reached into the file and pulled out a picture to shove on the table before Hana. “What can you tell us about this man?”

  Hana glanced down. Kai. She stared for a long time, debating what to say. They already knew from her previous arrest record that she’d worked for him, so lying would only exacerbate their suspicions. Yet, she didn’t dare tell them the truth: How could she claim she’d always intended to give the sword back if they knew Kai was blackmailing her to hand it over by kidnapping her son? Surely they’d believe she was still his paramour if they knew about Takeo.

  Takeo . . . the picture wavered before her eyes as she wondered what tender mercies his father would subject him to before she could rescue him. Above all, she had to get out of here. If she couldn’t obtain the sword as a bargaining chip, she had no choice but to invade the compound and rescue her son or die trying. If she could find it . . . she’d been forced to wear a hood when she was allowed inside several months ago to see Takeo.

  She shoved the file back across the desk toward the gray-eyed woman. “I’ll tell you everything I know . . . but only if we can make a deal that gives me total immunity from prosecution.”

  When John Travis’s eyes flared in rage, she stared right back, her spine as straight as the katana still lying on the table next to her.

  * * *

  In the rugged hills outside Austin, a cool, dank cavern was lit only by occasional walkway lamps and overhead fluorescents. They illuminated an uneven path through the labyrinth. The sub-chambers leading from the main path like rough rooms were partially carved by erosion in the limestone, but tunneled deeper by excavation. All had heavy metal doors with locks and key-card readers firmly anchored into the limestone.

  From above the main cavern, Kai’s stocky figure was, as usual, garbed in black as he came down two levels of precarious metal circular stairways. He was holding a small boy. Kai wore his usual arsenal: katana strapped in a sheath on his back, short blade, his tanto, fastened at his side, and a leather satchel holding various other weapons, such as throwing stars, attached to his belt.

  The little boy was restless and squirmed to be put down. “Otosan, let me go. Where is my mama? You promised you’d take me to her.”

  Kai soothed the boy with a quick pat on plump little buttocks. “Soon, Takeo, soon. But first you must get better in your lessons so we can impress your mama with your skills.”

  As Kai carried him, Takeo looked around at his surroundings, as if still getting used to this strange place. While most of the sub-chambers were dark, they passed one bright room bustling with activity. Glass insets revealed a sparkling clean room and white-coated figures wearing masks working over what looked like chemistry benches. They were laden with beakers, burners, huge vats, vials, and other drug-making paraphernalia. Above them, lining the walls, shelves held bottles and boxes. Some were marked flammable or poisonous in bright red.

  Takeo couldn’t read the words, but he knew the universal symbol of a skull meant bad things were inside.

  As they passed, Takeo looked inside curiously. “What do they do in there, Otosan?”

  Kai said sharply, “Nothing that concerns you, Takeo. Mind only your lessons. Everything important begins in your mind, my son. You must learn this if you are to be a good samurai. Get into the ring.” Kai plopped Takeo down. “Walk yourself, little inquisitor.”

  Takeo planted his feet and looked back at his father curiously, but he was not upset despite the fact that his little feet smarted from the abrupt contact with the stone walkway. In that moment, though he did not know it, he was a tiny replica of his mother as he stared up at the figure looming over him. Even at five, he had Hana’s inherent common sense and logical mind. “If only my mind matters, then why do you teach me to fight?”

  Kai’s eyes narrowed. “Get into the ring. Now.”

  Sighing, Takeo turned toward their destination in the center of the large cavern: a full-sized martial-arts ring with a padded mat, ringed by elastic ropes that would bounce combatants back as they fell against the sides.

  A strange look of both resignation and eagerness on his face, Takeo grabbed a short bokken, a wooden sword longer than Kai’s to give him equal range, from a rack against the wall. Then he willingly climbed through the ropes into the ring.

  Kai paused to pull off all his own weapons, glancing at the guards hidden in various dark corners of the vast chambers, wordlessly warning them to stay on alert. Then he chose a thickly cushioned bokken from the wall rack before climbing into the ring.
/>
  With a little bow of salutation, they squared off. And for the next hour, Kai painstakingly trained his son to use the bokken in all the stations of Shotokan karate. Every time Takeo missed his mark, Kai tapped him with his own padded weapon, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind Takeo who was master. At the end, during their last round, he only had to correct Takeo once. He praised his son effusively. “Harder this time, Takeo. Hurt me.”

  Takeo stopped, the tip of his bokken wavering, as he breathed a bit heavily. He wiped sweat from his brow on his sleeve. “But you are my father. Why would I hurt you?”

  “In this ring, I am your opponent. Show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. You must learn to fight without hesitation, someday even to kill. Such is the way of the world. You are a leader, Takeo, not a weakling. Show me.”

  And thus did Kai breed in his five-year-old son the twisted values Hana had spent the last five years unlearning: Anger. Aggression. Feelings of superiority. Pride. By the last round, Takeo’s bokken hit Kai’s with such force that Kai had to juggle his stick to keep from dropping it.

  He gave his son a huge grin. “Excellent, Takeo!”

  Clambering out of the ring, Takeo wiped his bokken off and carefully put it back in the wall enclosure. Then he looked expectantly up at his father. “I can see Mama now?”

  * * *

  Hana was tired of all the questioning, but she maintained her composure. They kept hammering on the same line, her relationship with Kai: Did she know where his compound was or how he was distributing his product, always coming back to the motive for the murders. Finally Hana said, “My relationship with him is nonexistent. I avoid him when I can. But we still have some common interests.”

  “What are those?”

  She said reluctantly, “He also wants to hold the katana. He allowed me to use his connections to track down the blade only if I agreed to take it to him after I showed it to Jiji.”