by Josh Lanyon
Taylor said nothing. What on earth could he say? It was all he could do to hide his relief. He’d been thinking the jar was to keep his private parts in after she surgically removed them. Or that maybe it contained a baby cobra or scorpions or black widows. Or that it contained battery acid. Rat poison was pretty mild unless they were going to force it down his throat themselves, and apparently that was not the plan.
Alexandra smiled. “You don’t believe me. You think someone will find you, but there’s nothing to connect us to this house, so even if the police do figure out I’m involved, they’ll never find this place. I’ll never tell them. It doesn’t matter what they do to me.”
That much he believed. She was as committed as any martyr lashed to the burning stake. Even Will would have trouble getting this chick to talk, and Will was very good at getting people to talk.
“I’m glad you don’t believe me,” she added. “I’m glad you’re hopeful, because I want you to take a long time to die. I want you to suffer as much as I did. As much as Nori did. I want you to stay hopeful, to keep believing someone will find you, until you can’t stastand the thirst and hunger and loneliness anymore and you drink the poison.”
He knew he should try to talk to her, try to appeal to her, try to make her empathize with him, but somehow he couldn’t seem to find the energy. He knew it was useless, could read it in her cold, crazy eyes. There was no going back for her. She had killed Varga, and even if she was unbalanced enough to forget that, Yuki wasn’t.
Taylor glanced at Yuki again, and a chill ran down his spine. No, Yuki wasn’t crazy or stupid, and regardless of what Alexandra thought, Yuki was not going to leave Taylor here and trust that he’d get despondent enough to drink rat poison. Yuki wasn’t going to leave him alive one minute longer than he had to.
As though he read Taylor’s thoughts, Yuki offered the first glimmer of emotion he’d yet revealed. He smiled.
Chapter Eleven
The house felt weirdly empty after Alexandra and Yuki left. It felt as though Taylor were already dead. As though it were already far too late for him.
He had to hurry. He knew that. Yuki was going to come back just as soon as he unloaded Alexandra, and he was going to kill Taylor. No doubt about that; Taylor had seen it in the other man’s eyes.
He had no idea of how much time he had; he had to act based on the assumption that it was very little. He inched and scooted around, crawling toward the sake bottle. When he was within range, he drew his legs up and gave it good hard kick. The bottle went flying, hit the wall, and shattered into pieces, poisoned sake splashing against the wall and dripping down to the cement floor.
Taylor rolled over to the broken pieces and tried to kick a couple of the larger ones out of the pool of poisoned wine and line them up so that he could lean against the wall and saw the ropes without having to lie on the thick glass.
His bladder now felt in danger of bursting, and he knew he was going to have to give in to the indignity of peeing his pants. It added to his general fury — and discomfort — but once that was out of the way he was better able to concentrate on the task at hand.
Literally, at hand.
And now was the time to be grateful for his martial arts training. All that stretching and bending and limbering made it possible for him to move his arms out far enough from his back in order to saw awkwardly, frantically, against the dull chunk of broken earthenware.
Even so, that position quickly grew tiring and then painful and then agonizing. His shoulders and back ached with the strain, his muscles burned. Unable to see behind himself, he was unsure he was making progress.
Every minute or so he had to stop to rest his shaking arms. He used that time trying to free his legs, wiggling his ankles to loosen the ropes binding his lower limbs together. Alexandra and Yuki had not been taking any chances. The rope was looped around his ankles four times, but the excess of rope length actually meant there was play in the line, if he could just…
After a time he had to stop and rest. Had to. Getting slammed across the head, kicked in the ribs a few times, took it out of a guy. He rested, gulping, on the cool cement, willing the world to stop spinning, his guts to stop churning. Looking up at the faraway ceiling, he tried to calculate the time. He could tell by the reflected shadows that the sun was moving across the sky. How the hell long had it been now?
It felt like hours, but that was probably wrong.
Even so, Yuki might be on his way back to the house.
He wondered what Will was doing, tried to guess what steps Will would be taking to find him. He had no doubt that Will was hunting for him. No doubt that Will would find him — Taylor just wanted to make sure Will found him in time.
He heaved himself up and started sawing at the ropes around his wrists again.
* * * * *
Elegant brows raised, Alexandra Sugimori studied their badges for a very long moment.
She raised her milky blue gaze to Will’s. “Bureau of Diplomatic Security? It’s a long time since I’ve heard from the State Department.”
Mrs. Sugimori was a tall, slender woman in an elegant navy silk housecoat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon. She could not have looked more different from the description of the woman who had shot Denise Varga and helped to abduct Taylor, but as Will gazed into her pale gaze, he got that telltale prickle at the back of his scalp.
“Your name came up in connection with a case we’re investigating.”
“Oh yes?”
She sounded uninterested. Too uninterested. She smiled a chilly smile at Lt. Wray, who was — after some debate — letting Will take point on this, and said, “Well, we may as well be comfortable.”
She led them into a formal living room furnished with expensive Asian objets d’art. “Can I offer you something in the way of refreshment?”
“No, thank you,” Lt. Wray said. She looked around with the innocent interest of a tourist in a museum. She nodded to the credenza, where a silver-framed picture of a young Japanese man and a boy sat. “Is that your husband?”
“That’s Nori, yes. He died seven years ago. Seven years ago exactly, as of tomorrow.” She added into the awkward silence, “The boy is Yukishige, his younger brother.”
Will asked, “You’ve stayed in touch with your husband’s family?”
“I’ve stayed in touch with Yuki. He chose to attend school in the States.”
“Where does he go?” Wray asked.
The pale gaze rested on her. “Stanford University. The same as my husband.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother-in-law?” Wray asked at the exact moment Will opened his mouth.
He contained his impatience. He and Taylor had this kind of thing down to a science. There was no talking over each other, no waste of time or energy. Still, Wray was a smart cop, and he thought she was right there on the same wavelength.
Mrs. Sugimori didn’t hesitate. Her eyes slanted right as she said thoughtfully, “We met for dinner two weeks ago.”
The right-eye movement was a cue that she was visually remembering an actual event. Taylor put a lot of stock in these visual access cues; he was very good at reading them. Will was less sold on body language and eye movement, but he observed that their suspect was holding herself stiffly as she tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. All supposedly indicators for lying.
Lying by omission?
He deduced that Mrs. Sugimori had had dinner with her brother-in-law two weeks ago but had seen him more recently. “Where could we get in touch with Yukishige?”
Her eyes slanted left as she said, “Through the university, I suppose. I would call his dorm. Forgive me for asking, but why would you need to speak to him?”
Instead of answering, Will said, “We apologize for having to bring up what are undoubtedly painful memories, but we wanted to ask you one or two questions about your husband’s death.”
“Why?”
Seven years later it was clearly as
raw as if it had just happened.
Wray said, “A federal agent has been killed and another abducted. We believe these crimes may be somehow connected to your husband’s death.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sugimori was on her feet and walking agitatedly around the room, keeping tables and sofas in between herself and them, Will noted. That could be an indication that she was lying — or that she was going to try and pull a weapon out of that big flower arrangement. “That’s insane. And you think Yuki is part of this?”
Wray asked, “Was he very close to his brother?”
“Yes. They were close. But what you’re suggesting is ridiculous.” She stood still. “Why would Yuki wait seven years to avenge his brother?”
Avenge.
Will said, “Your father-in-law recently passed away, I believe. We thought that perhaps some new information might have come to light at that time. Families often have secrets.”
“I don’t care for what you’re implying.”
“We’re not implying anything, ma’am,” Wray said. “We’re just trying to get to the truth. It’s nothing personal.”
Maybe not for Wray. As far as Will was concerned it was time to take the kid gloves off. They needed to break Sugimori and break her fast, because if they walked out of this house without the answers they needed, she was going to make two phone calls: one to a lawyer and one to Yukishige Sugimori. There was a more-than-good chance that the first thing she told little brother would be to kill Taylor — assuming he was not already dead.
Will refused to consider that. If they’d wanted Taylor dead outright, they’d have executed him in Will’s front yard when they shot Varga.
“Why do you think your husband killed himself, Mrs. Sugimori?” Will inquired.
For an instant the pale mouth seemed unable to form words. “He was…depressed.”
“I’d say that goes without saying.”
She blinked at him, nonplussed by the sudden, blatant aggression.
“Marital problems?” Will pressed. “That’s the usual thing, isn’t it?”
“No!”
He could feel Wray watching him, but she didn’t try to intervene. “You weren’t with him in Japan. That could have made a difference. Why weren’t you there with your husband?”
Her lips were parted, but no words were spoken.
Wray interjected, equally cool, “Do you happen to own a brown Chevy, Mrs. Sugimori?”
The pale eyes widened like an animal at bay.
“Mrs. Sugimori, do you own a gun?” Will asked.
* * * * *
The broken edge of the earthenware jug had to be fairly dull, because his hand slipped several times but he didn’t cut himself — maybe a good thing, if the contents of the bottle had been laced with rat poison. Not so good for cutting through these fucking ropes.
Jesus, he was tired. If he could just rest a few minutes.
But he was making progress. He’d kicked his legs free of the ropes a short while earlier.
He just needed…a few more…minutes…
A door slammed, the bang as loud as a shot in the empty building. Taylor’s head jerked up. Time. He rolled onto his knees, tucked his feet, and stood. Thank you God for the use of his legs, because he’d be a sitting duck otherwise. He leaned back against the wall, fighting his dizziness, trying to contain his breathing.
Footsteps approached briskly. Yu-Gi-Oh! was going to make this fast.
Taylor hit him coming through the door, a shoulder ramming into the other man. Yuki slammed into the opposite wall and dropped the gun he held. It clattered on the cement floor. After a fleeting second of astonished realization, Yuki dived for it. Taylor kicked him in the jaw, and Yuki went flying. He landed on his back and was back on his feet in a reasonably steady kip-up.
Terrific.
Taylor gave a hard, despairing yank on the rope around his wrists and felt it give. Not enough, though, and Yuki was coming at him Fists of Fury-style, throwing kicks and chops like a crazy windmill. Taylor ducked away, kicked the pistol through the door into the other room, away from their area of combat. He delivered a couple of roundhouse strikes.
Yuki staggered back and laughed. “You think you’re Chuck Norris, dude?”
Taylor didn’t have the breath to spare. Sweat stung his eyes, soaked the back of his shirt. This had to be fast, because he didn’t have the strength left for extended combat.
Yuki flew at him again; this time Taylor turned aside and let the kid hit the wall. He smashed into it but was up again, fists and feet flying, laughing.
Oh, to be twenty and a fucking psycho again.
Taylor was only too conscious of the fact that if one of those strikes connected, it was all over for him. He kept moving, ducking, weaving, managing to deliver a few good kicks. His basic strategy was to wear Yuki down a little. The problem was he was wearing down too.
He kept working at the rope around his wrist, tugging and rubbing at it, ignoring the pain of his flesh being scraped raw.
Yuki came hurtling at him again, delivering a succession of showy tornado and 720 kicks. Exhibition stuff. The prick was playing with him, cat and mouse. Taylor faked a retreat toward the doorway and, when Yuki charged after him, dropped him in his tracks with a jackknife kick to the head. Unfortunately, unable to use his arms for balance, it landed Taylor too. Hard.
It was like flipping a turtle on its back. Taylor rolled over, trying to get his feet under him. Yuki, stunned for a few seconds, was getting up again, and the look in his eyes said he was through playing games. He rushed at Taylor.
Taylor gave one last desperate yank to the restraints around his wrists and felt the rope give. He dived through the doorway, scrambling for the gun.
* * * * *
“You have no right to insinuate these things!” Alexandra Sugimori cried. There was color in her face now; her eyes seemed to glitter.
“Have you heard of the Federal Death Penalty Act of 1994?” Will inquired. He felt Wray’s double take, but he had no time for that. Time was running out for Taylor. He knew it; call it instinct or intuition or gut feeling. He knew it as sure as he was standing there. It was now or never. It was now. He was not standing by while Taylor died.
“No,” Sugimori said defiantly. “No doubt you’ll tell me.”
“It means if you’re responsible for the death of Federal Agent Varga, you get the death penalty too. But if you help us save the life of the remaining agent, that could go a long way toward making a difference to what happens to you.” That wasn’t exactly accurate, but it was close enough for their purposes.
Sugimori seemed to struggle internally. Her face worked. She said, “I have nothing to do with anyone’s death.”
“Bullshit.”
“How dare you? How dare you come into my home and accuse me of these things?”
“There’s an easy way to solve this,” Wray said, a voice of calm in the high seas. “Mrs. Sugimori, we’d like to ask you to voluntarily come downtown to take part in a lineup.”
Sugimori froze. She said finally, “I’m not going anywhere with you people. I’m calling my lawyer!”
* * * * *
Taylor’s fingers brushed the butt of the pistol as Yuki landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of his lungs, sending the pistol skittering. He heaved the younger man off, crawled for the gun. They were in a large open room and not far from away was a sliding glass door. And beyond the sliding glass door was…nothing. Empty sky and then the vast blue stretch of ocean.
The house perched precariously on a hillside that was being steadily eaten away by the waves below. The yard, the deck, the steps — all gone into the ocean.
No wonder Alexandra had been so confident no one would ever find him.
Yuki tackled him around the waist, and they both rolled away from the gun. Taylor head butted Yuki, and as Yuki’s grip relaxed, he wriggled free and stretched for the pistol again.
Yuki grabbed his waistband, dragging him back, and Taylor flipped ove
r and kicked him in the chest as hard as he could. Yuki stumbled back and crashed through the glass doors, dropping from sight with a scream.
Trembling, gulping for breath, Taylor lay on the floor, staring at the man-sized hole in the shattered glass, at the gaping hole in the sky. He half expected Yuki’s bloody hands to appear over the jagged glass in the door track, see Yuki drag himself back, invincible like those villains in movies.
Nothing happened. He could hear the thunder of the surf, feel the pound of it hitting the rocks below. The chill, salty air gusted in through the broken door and cooled his sweating face. He could hear the cries of the gulls wheeling outside the glass door.
He rested his forehead on the cement.
At last he pushed to his feet, picked up the fallen pistol, and went over to the broken door. He looked down at a dizzying sheer drop of rocks and swirling water. There was no sign of Yuki. If he’d missed the rocks and knew how to swim, he might have survived the fall. Probably not. Taylor hoped not. That one had been for Varga.
Far out on the blue, diamond-dazzled water, he could see sailboats beneath the bright yellow sun. He remembered the card Will had given him for his birthday. Abruptly all the strength seemed to drain out of him. He sat down slowly, carefully, as though he were a thousand years old.
* * * * *
Alexandra Sugimori was tougher than she looked. From some hidden reserve of strength, she found the will to ignore their threats and reject their bargains. Finally she refused to answer at all, sitting and staring into space, her face as remote as one of those Shinto goddesses.
“We can’t continue to deny her access to her lawyer,” Wray warned Will in an undervoice as they took a break from hammering at their suspect’s walls. “Even if you are the federal government.”
“No way does that bitch phone anyone without us knowing exactly who and what instructions she’s giving.”
