Killer of Killers (21 page)

Trent heard the cheers.
“Midori no Me no
Tora!”
Over and over again.
“Midori no Me no Tora!” “Midori
no Me no Tora!”
He panned the crowd. Asian faces smiled and
waved, attesting devotion, happy and proud.

There were also cheers for his opponent. A
large group of spectators had crossed the Sea of Japan to witness
the fight.

The Chinese champion hurled another barrage
at Trent. Again, he ducked, dodged, and parried every strike. No
blows landed.

Trent countered with his own flurry. Faking
roundhouses, he connected with the
Seiken
,
Hiraken
,
and
Ippon-Ken
blows. Next, he threw the more powerful
Mawashi
,
Ura
, and
Gyaku-Zuki
punches. To
finish, Trent landed the
Tettsui
, deliberately avoiding
targets where the strike would be lethal. The man from Beijing was
stunned, and Trent executed a
Kane Suta
, and reapplied the
Tatsumaki Shime
. The flying scissors throw took his foe
down, and the chokehold would win the match. He wouldn’t be fooled
again.

Trent heard the Chinese corner call for a
penalty. There were no penalties. He would win the match. Trent’s
opponent was out, and he released the hold. This time he was
sure.

Chinese staffers glared with a palpable
malice. Medical personnel tended to the motionless contestant.
People looked worried. Women covered their mouths. The Chinese
fighter didn’t respond. He was limp and pale. Did he die?

“
Murderer!”
people yelled in assorted
Asian tongues.
“Go back to your land of murder!” “Go back to
America, your home of murderers!”

Trent confronted the crowd. People backed off
afraid. As if he would spit a cobra’s deadly venom, they cleared a
path and turned away.

No one cheered
Midori no Me no
Tora
ever again.

Trent swept his head clean of the memories,
but one thing remained—a resolve to follow through with his agenda.
As for what he learned of the details involving the murders, to
him, it didn’t matter. Hormones, pheromones, or whatever, each man
freely chose to murder. In his mind, all of them were responsible
for their decisions, and all of them were going to pay for their
crimes. It was only a matter of time.

The evening hours mounted, and Trent realized
he was standing before an eerie cloud of dense and swirling fog. He
peered into it, confused as to where he was and why he was there.
Could it be he was dreaming?

A large black man formed inside the haze. He
stepped forward, looked into Trent’s eyes, and shouted, “Who’s da
Bomb?” Then he backed away and vanished in the mist.

Another black man emerged. His bulk matched
the first man’s, and he shouted in an even louder voice, “Who’s da
Bomb?” He backed away until he, also, vanished in the mist.

Trent remained unresponsive until a third
black hulk materialized. This one boomed the loudest of all, “Who’s
da Bomb?”

Trent popped awake by the noise of a TV
advertisement featuring the rap star Shalom DaBomb. The name caught
his attention, and up he sat. The first thing he saw on the
television screen was the face of the rapper announcing, “I’m da
bomb!”

The commercial advised the television
audience that the controversial performer had just released a new
book about his life and experiences. It featured his rise to fame
and the killings to which he confessed. He planned a New York
appearance to promote the publication with a show in Central Park
followed by an autographing session at the Manhattan Central
Mall.

With this development, Trent saw an
opportunity to cross another name off his list. It also presented a
good reason to keep his promise to Susie Quinn. He felt compelled
to relive the love she had to offer and decided it would happen. He
wanted to let her know he’d be in town, but he had no telephone.
The call would have to wait until tomorrow.

* * * *

Inside Susie Quinn’s apartment, Connie Perez
sat on Susie’s bed, peeling an orange with her personalized,
green-handled pocketknife. Susie was in the shower, singing a
favorite tune, and Connie smiled. She loved listening to Susie’s
melodies. But then the phone began to ring. It was Susie’s
landline. Connie was quite aware that the shower’s running water
and Susie’s own singing prevented Susie from hearing it.

On the fourth ring, the automatic greeting
responded, and a man’s voice sounded over the speaker: “Hi Susie,
this is Trent, and I just wanted you to know that I’ll be returning
to New York on Monday. I need to take care of some business, but
I’ll drop by to see you after that, okay? See you then.”

The recording stopped, and the memo light
flashed. Connie was very displeased. Instinctively, she raised her
knife, and for several seconds held it over the message machine.
But Susie’s singing diverted her rage. Instead of stabbing the
message away, she pressed the button to erase it.

Connie put the knife aside and mouthed the
last of her citrus. Focused on Susie’s singing, she ambled toward
it, dropping her robe on the way. She opened the shower door and
stepped inside, embracing Susie as the water flowed over their
bodies.

Connie was shorter than Susie, but she held
the masculine role in their partnership. She was a tomboy
throughout childhood, and past adolescence her sexual preference
was never in doubt. Her friends called her
‘Butch’
in her
years as a youth, and as an adult her role stayed the same. With
her arms around Susie’s waist, she looked up and asked, “Susie, do
you still love me?”

“Of course I do,” Susie replied.

“What about that white guy?”

“His name is
Trent
.”

Connie tensed her mouth. “Okay,
Trent
.”

“So what about him?”

“Do you want to see him again?”

“Who knows if I’ll ever see him again,” Susie
answered, nonchalantly. “You know how mens are.”

Actually, Connie didn’t know, having never
been involved with one. She rested her head on Susie’s breast
because she didn’t want Susie to see the tears in her eyes. Her
machismo was not always natural. Each year seemed more of an effort
to front the swagger needed to carry her image. She asked, “Do you
have to go back to work tonight?”

“Tonight’s the big night, girlfriend. I got
to be there. We all have so much to talk about. It will be exciting
to be up on the stage again.”

The reply was no comfort to Connie. “Why
don’t you quit that job? You know how much I hate that place.”

Susie answered as always, “So who’s gonna pay
the bills? You with your building job?” Susie’s tips alone dwarfed
Connie’s income as a construction worker, and it was a fact that
Connie could never live down.

“I just hate it when all those perverts are
staring at you,” Connie argued.

“You complain about the perverts, but you
don’t complain when I’m bringing home their money,” Susie
countered.

Connie shook her head. It was an argument she
could never win. “You can bring home their money,” she conceded,
“but if you bring home that alley cat again, I’ll kill him.”

Susie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you and TT,
baby.”

The words hurt. Connie heard how the
invincible Topu Tacau had fared against
that alley cat
, and
clearly Susie knew she posed him no threat.

As Connie brooded, Susie turned around and
lifted her hair. “Wash my back, will you?”

Chapter Eleven

Wipe Out

Standing in the doorframe
of Shoji Wada’s tea room inside the Tokyo Dojo, Trent was younger
and clean-shaven, but he was also distraught. “They deserve to be
wiped out!” The words were Japanese, and he spoke them in anger. It
wasn’t typical. Trent had been a fixture of twenty plus years at
the academy, and never before had he lost his cool.

Shoji was kneeling on the tea room’s mat, and
his wrinkled face remained calm. “Please, come in,” he said.

Trent entered and knelt opposite him. A low
wooden table separated them as distant repetitions echoed through
the paper-thin walls of the dojo. Teen girls in
kimonos
served tea and then scuttled away.

Shoji spoke again. “Please, share with me
this burden you bear.”

Trent, hands on knees, resolved himself to
reveal his double life. “Master Wada,” he began, “I know you will
not be pleased to hear what I am about to say, but it is better you
hear it from me. You have never approved of using our skill in a
ring of sport. I have learned that what we do here is for the
betterment of our physical and mental existence. But ever since
Jiro left...”

Shoji nodded. “We each follow our own path,
my son.”

“And if that path is not one to which you
would agree?”

Shoji smiled. “I would never presume to
dictate another’s road to self-fulfillment. I merely avail to each
the paper on which a destiny may be drawn. You are your own artist,
and you will sketch your own future.”

Trent eyed the table between them. He
searched for the right words. “Then you would not deny me the right
to express myself in the circuits of Japan?”

“Certainly not. You will choose your own
path, just as Jiro has. We never begrudged him. Nor shall anyone
begrudge you.”

Trent lifted his head. “But that’s just it.
People
do
begrudge me. Not for who I am, but for where I’m
from. The news from America has tainted me. I have become a walking
time bomb. The
gaijin
who cannot be trusted.”

Shoji’s eyes closed and then reopened. “Do
not think you can manage the thoughts of others or the actions of
others. Be true to yourself, and no one here will question the
steps you take.”

“The steps I take will be steps that make a
difference. I must do the honorable thing by you, by Jiro, and by
the land of my birth.”

“I am troubled by your choice of words, Tora.
Let me remind you of the
Mon
we share. Translate into
English, please, and tell me what you see.”

Trent looked to the wall-mounted coat-of-arms
and answered, “I see
Ryu
, which means
school
.
Ko
, which means
old
. And
Sho
, which means
pine tree
.”

“Yes,” Shoji said. “And this was a very
special pine tree. It was old, but it was also strong and majestic,
cherished above all other trees that grew in the forest behind our
school. It symbolized great strength and well-being. With a fit
body and a strong soul, a man can be of prodigious service to God,
Buddha, and the community in which he lives. But I fear your soul
is succumbing to a sickness I cannot cure. The path you choose, I
pray, is one to make it well.”

“Then you know I must return to America. I
must administer the justice that so many killers have avoided.”

Again, Shoji closed his eyes, and during the
pause, Trent examined the lines on his aged face. They seemed to
map a destiny known only to the gods of which he spoke. But if the
destiny was his, Trent was determined to live it.

Shoji’s eyes opened. “What else do you see in
the
Mon
above?”

“I see
Ken
, which means
fist
,
and
Po
, which means
law
.”

“Yes,” Shoji confirmed. “The law of the fist.
Law is and has always been the preeminent commandment. It is the
earthly manifestation of God’s will.
Kenpo
must be practiced
with that in mind, and no one should at any time take the law into
his own hands.”

Trent shook his head. “It is the law that
sees these murderers acquitted and released. It is the law that
makes me ostracized amongst my Japanese brethren.”

“To that I say this: if proper authority
fails to settle a transgression, only then should the
Kenpo
arts be used, and only then in defense of human rights.”

Trent nodded. “Then you understand why I must
act.”

Yet again, Shoji closed his eyes, and they
remained closed as he placed the open palms of his hands together.
“I will conclude our discussion with this advice: should you find
yourself forced, even in self-defense, to hurt someone, you must
act in the best interest of humanity. And in this event, you must
notify the proper authorities. I understand that you hate the evil
deeds of a criminal, but do not hate the man himself. No matter
what path a man travels, he is still a creation of God. And the
taking of a life is contrary to God’s law. Never forget, Tora, that
the actions of those trained at the dojo represent me. All that you
learned here is a reflection of who and what I am.”

* * * *

The dream ended, and Trent opened his eyes
only to find himself staring at the ceiling in his Oakland
condominium. Shoji’s words often returned to him in dreams. It was
all he had left from his years in Japan. But there
was
something else. He pulled out the drawer on his nightstand and
viewed its hollow interior. Sitting on the edge of his coverless
bed, he wondered as to the whereabouts of what used to be in there.
He wondered if his heart was now just as empty. He wondered if his
soul was now just as bare. Wondering why he had no answer, he
slammed the drawer shut and planned his next kill.

* * * *

Dr. Jason Benson started Sunday morning
expounding on the formulas he had calculated the previous day.
Hunched over, inches from his monitor, his only moving body parts
were past his elbows. With his boss in the house, Jason dared not
allow the slightest notion he wasn’t giving full attention to their
shared priority.

Fortunately, there was good news. Dr. Wong
extended the drug’s shelf life, and Dr. Lee completed his first
successful pheromone equation. But Jason took it upon himself to
solve the riddle of nature’s reversal. The answer was near, and he
wanted no input from anyone else. This time he sought a solitary
breakthrough.