The Iron Sickle

by Martin Limon

  “Why would he come back here?” Ernie asked.

  “Just to get away without being seen,” I said. “On the far side of the market is the main drag. From there he could blend into the crowd. Make his way to a bus stop or wave down a taxi.”

  “Maybe he’s from around here.”

  “Maybe.”

  I switched on my flashlight and searched the area. Something wild and furry scurried into a gutter with a squeal, a reptilian tail scattering a pile of wilted turnip greens.

  “Rat,” Ernie said. “Hate those damn things.”

  “Wait a minute. What’s that?” I pointed. The beam of Ernie’s flashlight followed mine.

  “Hell if I know,” Ernie said.

  There was a jumble of wooden crates, most of them flattened, thin slats held together by thick wire. One of the crates was standing upright, the slats of wood forming a teepee-like shape. Atop that, strands of wire had been woven into a flat, rectangular grill. The entire edifice stood about three feet tall.

  “Christ,” Ernie said.

  Hanging from the construction was a dead rat, eviscerated and dangling from its back paws, thick blood seeping from red guts.

  Ernie knelt, peering at the dead rodent. “Who would do a thing like this?”

  Whoever had built the edifice had spent some time on it. Wires had been twisted, cut, and retied together, and the object itself had been placed against the wall where, in the daylight, it easily would be seen by anyone passing by. In the dark, however, it would be invisible without a flashlight.

  I knelt and studied it more closely. The immediate area had been cleared of debris and blood from the rat had dripped into a sticky puddle.

  “It’s like a fetish,” I said.

  “A what?”

  “A symbol. A totem.”

  That’s when I saw it, through the wooden slats, on the ground in the center of the teepee.

  “There’s something in there,” I said.

  “Where?”

  I pointed. Ernie saw it, too. “What is it?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I warned Ernie to watch our backs. It was possible the whole point of the display was to mesmerize us, allowing for an attack from the rear. As he scanned the alley, I gingerly tilted the base of the teepee-like structure up, slipped my hand underneath, and grabbed the round object that lay flat on the ground. It felt like smooth wood. I pulled it out and allowed the teepee to fall back into position, wires rattling.

  The round object fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I stood and held it out to Ernie, and he shone his flashlight on it. It was finely grained, as if it were made from walnut or cherry wood, and sanded so smoothly it almost shone. A serrated raised circle had been carved in the center, and around the edges there were tiny white marks, every fifth one slightly longer.

  “A tuning knob,” Ernie said, “like from a radio.”

  “Not a regular civilian radio,” I said.

  “No, a field radio. Like we used in Nam. Like every combat unit in the country uses.”

  “Maybe not a field radio,” I said, “but some sort of electronic device.”

  “Right,” Ernie agreed. “I can’t be sure exactly what type of equipment it comes from but something like that.”

  I studied the object more closely. There didn’t seem to be any marks or dents on it. But these things were usually made of plastic or sometimes metal, and they were stamped out by machinery. As I studied this one more closely I realized not every part of it was perfectly symmetrical. In some spots the lines had gone astray, as if the carver had needed to make allowances for the hardness of the wood.

  “Why would anyone go to all the trouble to carve something like this?” I asked. “And then set this contraption up just to make sure we found it?”

  “Moolah the hell out of me,” Ernie said, “but we found it.”

  I slid the smooth knob into my pocket. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the attack on Collingsworth.”

  “Not likely,” Ernie said. “Whoever did Collingsworth knew we’d walk up here and see his little arts and crafts project.”

  Yeah, not likely, I thought.

  We left the wire and wood slat totem behind and kept walking. At the end of the long rows of stalls was another narrow alley lined with dirty brick walls. This one led to the main drag of Itaewon. Now, an hour past curfew, there was no glimmering neon; all was dark and quiet.

  “Maybe he’s waiting for us,” Ernie said.

  I scanned the alley with the beam of my flashlight. “No place for him to hide.”

  “Maybe down there,” Ernie said.

  “One way to find out,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  I switched off the flashlight and let the moonlight guide us into the alley. Step by step, we peered into the darkness around us. No monster popped out. At the end of the passageway, we paused, listening. When we heard nothing, we emerged onto the central street of Itaewon. All the red lights were off now, and everyone had gone to bed. Up above us on the steep hill loomed the unlit signs of the 007 Club and beyond that, the King Club. Below, at the intersection with the MSR, the UN Club sat silent and somber. Except for a few stray ramyon wrappers blown by the wind, nothing moved.

  “So what now?” Ernie asked.

  “This guy’s jerking us around. He leaves an elaborate clue and then disappears. Probably thinks he’s smart as hell.”

  “He is. Smart enough to get away with two murders.”

  “He hasn’t gotten away with them yet.”

  We searched Itaewon for another half hour, to no avail. The streets were silent and empty. Finally, Ernie said, “So maybe I’ll go visit Miss Ju.”

  “Isn’t it sort of late, Ernie,” I said, “to be barging in on her?”

  Ernie glanced at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is she expecting you?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Miss Ju was a tall and gorgeous cocktail waitress with an elaborate hairdo and an affinity for exotic makeup. A couple of months ago when she’d first started working at the 007 Club she’d attracted so much attention that the owner had taken her off serving drinks and switched her to hostess for whichever table was spending the most money. For some perverse reason, she’d been attracted to Ernie. I’m not sure what it was. He didn’t have much charm as far as I could see—in fact he was often downright rude to women, but for some reason they liked him. Maybe it was his pointed nose and his green eyes behind round-lensed glasses, or the way he was fascinated by whatever odd thing was plopped down in front of him. Or maybe it was the way he looked at life; as if there was nothing, ever, in any way more important than what was happening right now.

  “We’re supposed to be on guard duty,” I told him.

  “When the call came in, we were the only investigators available. So now we’re investigating. Screw guard duty.”

  Ernie was right. Once the honchos of 8th Army heard an MP had been murdered, that’s all they’d be concerned with, not the sergeant-of-the-guard patrol. Still, I felt uncomfortable with him staying out here. It was possible the Provost Marshal had already been informed of the incident and he’d be waiting back at the compound for our report. Ernie read my mind.

  “Tell the Colonel that I stayed out here to continue searching for the guy.”

  “He’s not going to buy that.”

  “Who cares? He won’t have any proof I didn’t.”

  I was weakening. “What about your jeep?”

  “It’s parked in a safe place. And locked.”

  Actually, Ernie had rank on me. He was a Staff Sergeant, and I was only a buck sergeant, E-5. Still, I often played the role of the adult. Ernie liked that. It gave him someone to irritate.

  “Okay,” I said finally, “but you better be in early tomorrow. A whole lot of waste is going to hit the fan.”

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff, Sueño. See you mañana.”

  As he started to walk away, I said, “What happe
ns if Miss Ju is otherwise occupied?”

  Ernie swung a left hook into the air. “I’ll kick the guy out. Then I’ll go find a different girl.”

  He probably would, too. Ernie cared less for the opinions of other people than anyone I’d ever known. It was his two tours in Vietnam that did it to him. Death is waiting. Why worry about anything else? In a few seconds, he was swallowed up by the jumble of passageways that led back into the tightly packed hooches that surrounded the main drag of Itaewon.

  I stared up at the darkness. The half moon hovered overhead, surveying the silence. I turned and headed downhill. When I reached the MSR, I looked both ways, but there was no need. At this hour, because of the midnight-to-four curfew, all traffic had ceased. The walk back to the compound was slightly less than a mile. I put one combat boot in front of the other.

  The façade of the Hamilton Hotel leered in front of me. I passed it and glanced down the narrow lanes leading off the MSR. No signs of life. In this area even the street lamps seemed to have died. I heard the scratch-like scurrying of vermin getting out of my way but they were too fast for me; I didn’t see them. I half expected one of the military jeeps of the Korean National Police curfew patrol to loom out of the darkness but they didn’t. It was an eerie feeling, like being the last person on earth, but I knew I wasn’t. This area of town, like the rest of Seoul, would be crammed with people during the day; people buying and selling and driving and walking and shouting. The people were still here but they were indoors. Quiet. As if hiding from some great beast of the night. And then I heard it.

  A cough, down one of the alleys. I stopped, stood silently for a moment, listening. When the cough wasn’t repeated, I stepped forward and peered up the incline. Two-story cement block buildings lined the road. Farther uphill, brick walls surrounded homes with tiled roofs turned up at the edges like blackbirds ready for flight. Just beyond the overhang of a small store, a thick telephone pole rose from the cobbled street. Behind it, I saw movement. Someone was standing there, purposely hidden. Why would anyone be out at this hour? And why hide?

  I checked to make sure my flashlight was in my pocket. When we’d left the compound earlier this evening, neither Ernie nor I had time to stop at the arms room and check out a weapon. But I probably wouldn’t need one. Chances were this was just some husband who came home too late and was locked outside of his home by his wife. Or maybe it was a drunk who was afraid of being caught by the curfew police.

  Or it could be the man with the iron sickle.

  I stepped into the alley. Off to the side, I noticed a wooden crate of empty beer bottles of the Oriental Brewery. Thick, heavy things, a liter each. I grabbed one and held it in my right hand. Then I started uphill, holding my flashlight in my left, ready to click it on.

  Whoever was standing behind the pole hadn’t moved. Maybe they didn’t realize I’d spotted them. I continued uphill, thinking about Mr. C. Winston Barretsford, the man who’d been brutally murdered right in his office, and Corporal Rickey Collingsworth, a young soldier barely out of his teens who’d had his life cut short.

  I wished Ernie were there to back me up.

  Suddenly, whoever had been lurking behind the telephone pole stepped out into the roadway, someone dressed all in black.

  He was twenty yards above me, uphill at a steep incline, still too far away for me to charge. Too far away for me to reach him before he had a chance to whip out whatever he was holding beneath his overcoat. He stood perfectly still, staring at me, but in the dark shadow I couldn’t make out his eyes or any facial features. I was thinking of what I would do if he came at me, maybe throw the beer bottle at him. Then, unexpectedly, he took an awkward, tilting step forward.

  I held the bottle loosely in my hand, ready to wing it at him as soon as he came within range. I also pulled out the flashlight, ready to use that, too. I stepped toward him, angling for position in the narrow road and hoping for enough space to maneuver and to avoid the slashing iron of his curved blade.

  -5-

  Instead of continuing toward me, the man in black swiveled and disappeared into the dark mouth of an even narrower pedestrian walkway. I knew where it would lead. Back into the maze of walls and hooches that made every neighborhood in Seoul an indecipherable labyrinth. If he reached those impenetrable catacombs, I’d lose him. I shouted and started to run. It was too dark to be sure, but I thought the man had tightened his hold on the front of his coat and glanced back at me just before he stepped into the narrow walkway.

  When I reached the opening, I stopped for a moment and stared into the darkness. He was already gone. Somewhere off in the distance, one pale bulb shone. The path ended about twenty yards in and then forked. I ran in, glanced to the right, and saw nothing, so I turned left and climbed uphill.

  The pathway narrowed. I was forced to turn sideways in order to slide through. Spider webs at the top of the walls hung down and brushed against my ears. I swiped them away. Finally, the lane emerged onto a slightly wider passageway illuminated by a streetlamp. I walked toward the pale light, asking myself what in the hell I was doing. I wasn’t armed, I was alone, nobody knew I was up here, and the man with the iron sickle was clearly leading me into some sort of ambush. Situated the way I was, there was no way he could get at me. I’d see him before he could attack, and much of his advantage with the sickle would be nullified by the close quarters. He wouldn’t be able to swing it effectively, and he certainly didn’t have the element of surprise he had at the 8th Army Claims Office or outside of the pochang macha. Still, I had no idea what he was planning. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was just trying to get away. Maybe this wasn’t even the same man, although he fit all the descriptions. It was too late to go back; I wasn’t even sure I could find my way back to the MSR. So I plowed forward.

  At last the path spilled out onto a street I knew. It was broad, two lanes, and ran parallel to the MSR over a row of hills that eventually led to a high-rent district on the edge of Namsan Mountain. I glanced up and down the dark street. Nothing. Nothing, that is, except for a three-wheeled pickup truck, locked and parked for the night, and next to that a pushcart. I knelt so I could see beneath the truck. No feet lurking. I raised myself and started to walk forward, and then I heard it: footsteps emerging from an alley to my right, an alley so narrow and so well hidden by shadow I hadn’t noticed it.

  Quickly, I backed toward the pushcart. I swiveled to search for the source of the footsteps but at the same time, fifty yards downhill, a pair of headlights appeared around a curve in the road. They were moving fast. The engine roared, and within seconds the headlights shone directly into my eyes, blinding me. I backed away from the mouth of the alley where I’d heard the footsteps, covering my eyes with my hand. Then the beam of the headlights swirled, and I saw him frozen in a brilliant tableau, staring directly at me—a face with a mangled lower lip, a face contorted with hatred. Held across the long black overcoat like a scepter, the naht, the short-handled sickle with the wickedly curved blade.

  And then the alley went dark and the man was gone, disappearing in an instant. The driver of the vehicle stepped on the gas, making his engine roar. The headlights swung back toward me. I ducked behind the pickup truck, but it was too late. Whoever was driving pulled up on the far side of the truck, brakes squealed, and a door opened then slammed shut.

  “Hold it right there!” An American MP appeared around the rear of the truck. He held a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  I froze, averting my eyes toward the alleyway.

  He stared at me for a moment. “Sueño?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “What the hell you doing up here?”

  I didn’t answer, considering whether or not to call for backup and try to cordon off the neighborhood and maybe trap the man with the iron sickle. But it was too late. Such an effort would take at least a half hour to set up. He had too much of a head start and the catacombs of Seoul were vast. Instead, I sighed and answered the MP’s question. “It�
��s a long story.”

  “Better be a good one. The Staff Duty Officer has a case of the big ass.”

  “So do I,” I said. “Do you mind helping me check out that alley?”

  I pointed to where I’d seen the man with the iron sickle. He aimed his flashlight. It was empty now, nothing but ancient brick and string-like cobwebs.

  “You spot something down there?”

  “Yeah. Come on.”

  He followed me into the maze. We spent a half hour chasing our tails. No sign of anything.

  “What the hell are we looking for?” the MP asked.

  I could’ve told him I saw the man with the iron sickle but I’m not sure he would’ve believed me. Every MP craves glory. If I claimed to have seen the most wanted man in 8th Army and had no evidence to back it up, I would be thought of as either hallucinating or, more likely, making up stories to make myself seem important. And I’d be asked the most embarrassing question of all: why didn’t you take him down?

  “Forget it,” I said. “I thought I saw something. Guess I was mistaken.”

  We returned to the compound.

  “Abandoning your post,” the Staff Duty Officer said. “Absent without leave. Disobeying a general order. Need I go on?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “A call came in just before midnight,” I told him, “an MP under attack, bleeding, no one else was available.”

  “Burrows and Slabem were on call.”

  “By the time we got through to them and woke them up and they got dressed and found their vehicle and drove out to the ville, whatever was happening would’ve been all over.”

  “It was all over when you got there,” he told me.

  Not quite. The Korean MP was still alive and on his way to the hospital, and, as I found out later, the man with the iron sickle was still haunting the area. But instead of explaining, I kept quiet. When a military officer is angry, proving to him he’s wrong just makes matters worse.