The Gatekeeper's Son (7 page)

“Victorian is a style of architecture named after the Queen of England at that time,” I said, for the first time happy that I’d listened while Grandpa rambled on about this stuff. “The house is a Shingle style, built after the San Francisco earthquake in 1906.”

“Ah, earthquakes,” she said, nodding. “I know about those.”

“I would think
so
.”

“So your grandfather is rich?”

“He’s the richest businessman in San Francisco, not counting those Internet guys,” I said. “He owns hotels, banks, department stores, office towers—you name it. He even owns my favorite radio station.”

“What about railways?”

I hesitated. “No, no railways.”

She looked disappointed. “That is too bad. I like riding trains.”

Why couldn’t the man own a damn railway?

“So you are rich, too.”

Again, I hesitated. “Well, no, not really … but one day I’ll inherit his company.”

She looked concerned. “You are too young for such responsibility. It is best if Edward does not die soon.” Then she stood and bowed. “Thank you. You have been too kind, wasting your time with a common girl like me.”

“No, Shoko, I don’t mind.” I sprang to my feet. If I were Mack, I’d have been making out with her by now. She stopped and turned to face me, her eyebrows raised, smiling in a way that made her look older. “Maybe I could show you inside … sometime.”

She smiled again. “Now would be good.”

I hesitated. Well, I
had
offered.

William wasn’t home and there weren’t any security guys around, so I spoke to someone on the security intercom.

“This is my friend, visiting from Japan.” I smiled at the camera. “She doesn’t speak English.”

Shoko smiled and waved.

“Welcome to the Thompson Manor, miss,” the man said as the gate clicked and began to open. Shoko bowed low toward the camera. She looked impressed as we walked up the curved driveway and stopped several times to admire the flowers.

I gave her a tour of the main floor. She wanted to look at everything—the carpet, the furniture, the woodwork. Even doorknobs and light switches seemed to fascinate her. But it was when we walked into the huge kitchen with its rows of tall white cabinets and restaurant-grade stainless steel appliances that she looked like her eyes might pop out.

“What is this place?”

“It’s the kitchen.”

She held her breath for a moment. “My father could feed the whole village here.” She ran her hands along the smooth countertops, shaking her head. “This is fit for a god.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fancy,” I said as I steered her out of the kitchen.

She stopped at the stairs. “What is up there?”

I shook my head. “Grandpa wouldn’t—”

But she was already climbing. I hesitated and then followed.

She stopped in the center of Grandpa’s study and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. A breeze moved the air and I glanced down the hall, wondering if a window was open. Uneasiness settled over me.

Shoko was by his desk now, tracing the edge with her finger as she circled it. She looked so small next to it and even smaller when she hopped into his chair. Her feet didn’t reach the ground.

“That’s my grandpa’s chair.” My voice sounded hollow, like I was speaking inside a cave. “You probably shouldn’t sit there.”

She pulled the middle drawer open and looked in. She held up a stapler, turning it, peering inside. Then she put it back and pulled out a roll of tape. She examined it with the same curiosity.

“He has interesting things.” Her eyes rose to meet mine and I took a step backward. Her eyes were hard, dark—the same look I’d seen at the library. Like I was in her way.

She pulled another drawer open and leaned forward to peer in. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I crossed the room and stopped in front of the desk.

“Please, I’m gonna get in trouble. There’s nothing in there.”

“Nothing?” The leather creaked as she leaned back in the chair. “What about a book where he records his thoughts?”

I blinked. “You mean like a journal?”

She shrugged, her eyes still on mine.

“I’ve never seen one.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the stairs and lowered my voice. “And even if he did, my grandpa’s stuff is private.”

“I am interested in him,” she said. “I am—how would you say it?—researching him.”

I frowned. “Why?”

She put her shoe against the desk and slowly spun the chair. When it came full circle, she stopped and looked at me again, her dark eyes obscured behind strands of hair that cascaded across her face.

“Where is it, Junya?” There was nothing friendly in her voice now.

I stepped back. “I … if he has a journal, it’s probably in his safe.” I glanced toward the fireplace before I could stop myself. When I looked back at her, there was a smile on her lips.

“Please,” I said. “We should go.”

Her foot kicked out and she spun around in his chair again. She looked curious when she came back around. “What is a safe?”

My hands were flat on the desktop now, me on one side, her on the other.

“You don’t know what a safe is?” I frowned. “Where in Japan are you from?”

She spun the chair again. “Who said I was from Japan?”

“You’re visiting here, you speak Japanese, and you’re wearing a Japanese school uniform!”

Her shoe hit the edge of the desk and the chair stopped dead.

“Then of course I am from Japan.” She smiled, and a hint of red tinged her cheeks. “My family lives far from the city, so I seldom see modern things. That is why I do not know what a safe is.”

“A safe is a strong steel box with a complicated lock—it’s impossible to break into.” I stood up straighter. “Now let’s go.”

She looked at me with big innocent eyes and then pulled the bottom desk drawer open with her shoe.

“I think it is in here.” Her eyes held mine, daring me to stop her. When I didn’t, she let out a deep sigh. “I did not imagine this would be so easy.”

My stomach was in knots. What was I going to do, beat her up?

She reached into the drawer, to the very back, and withdrew a leather-bound book. It
was
a journal, the cover worn and darkened from years of use.

“How did you know?” I said.

“I could feel it speaking his words.”

My mouth dropped open.

“I came a long way to get this, Junya. I
will
read it.” Her expression softened. “But I will return it, I promise you.”

My hands went to my temples. “So … you planned all this?”

Shoko nodded. “I want to see if Edward wrote about my mother.”

“Why would he write about your mother!?”

She sighed. “My mother was in love with Edward.”

If my jaw hadn’t already been on the floor, it was now. I was dumbfounded but growing angry. “You’re wrong.”

She waved a hand, dismissing my comment. “I want to know what Edward thought. Did he know she loved him? Does he regret losing her, or did he throw her memory away as he has done with everything else he loves?”

“There’s no way my grandpa knew your mother!” I felt something build inside me, a swelling in my chest. “Put the journal back—we’re leaving!”

She clutched the book to her chest like a little girl. “Please, I will give it back. I promise.”

I wasn’t falling for it. “No way. You tricked me. Now put it back.” I tried to sound strong, but the energy was already slipping away from me.

Shoko stood up and faced me and we stared at each other. Beads of sweat ran down my sides as my antiperspirant failed. Then I remembered the emergency button on his desk, within my reach, and a smug smile spread across my face. “One last chance,” I said.

She took a step back to where she’d left her backpack beside the desk and leaned toward the drawer, but her eyes never left mine.

“Have you ever been in love, Junya?”

“I … well, no. I mean …” I glanced away.

The drawer slammed closed.

A wave of relief swept through me—she wasn’t holding the journal. She must have put it back in the desk. She shouldered her backpack.

“He should have chosen love over gold,” Shoko whispered.

I turned toward the fireplace, toward the painting with the steel safe behind it. There were gold bars inside that Grandpa had showed me when I was little. But how did she know?

When I looked back, Shoko was near the door.

“I am sorry about my behavior.” She bowed low and her braids tumbled over her shoulders.

“You should be.” I pointed toward the stairs. “Now let’s go.”

We went downstairs in a silence so dense that I could hear my heart beating. She kept her head down until she was through the gates. Then she turned to face me.

“Thank you for showing me the house. It is more beautiful than I could have imagined.” Then she turned and walked out the gate, through the shadow of the archway. At the sidewalk, as the sun illuminated her again, she bent low into a formal bow. “I will see you again, as I promised.”

What did that mean? I watched her walk across the cobblestone street. She never looked back.

There was a loud clunk behind me—the gates were closing.

“My backpack!” I darted through the shrinking gap and then slowed to a walk. I’d barely reached the front stairs when I heard the roar of the wave.

I spun in time to see it rush over the hedge, bending the trees as if they were blades of grass. It hit me and I flew backward. Then it was gone, leaving me breathless and flat on my butt in the garden.

Mr. Sugimoto came around the front of the house about then. His straw hat flew off as he ran toward me—he moved fast for an old guy in rubber boots.

“Junya, are you all right?” He reached out and pulled me onto the pathway without effort. He was in his late fifties, but bulging muscles showed through his damp work shirt.

“I’m not sure.” I was trying to steady myself. “I hope I didn’t hurt your plants.” I always got nervous when I spoke Japanese with a man. I worried that I sounded like a girl because I listened to Okaasan so much.

He looked around, poised and alert. “What happened here?”

I hesitated. “There was this big gust of wind … It knocked me over.”

“I felt something, too … but that wasn’t the wind.”

“Then what was it?”

He took in a deep breath. “It was like a door opened.” He paused and an odd expression twisted his face. “And a breeze came through … a very pleasant breeze.”

He touched one of the sharp, menacing-looking tools that hung from his belt and looked at me with interest. Then he walked away.

I got my backpack out of the hall closet and stood for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. I couldn’t explain that wind, that wave of energy. At least I’d stopped Shoko from getting the journal, but I still didn’t understand why she wanted it or how her mom could have known my grandpa.

I will see you again, as I promised.

A sinking feeling overtook me. I dropped my backpack and climbed the stairs.

When I sat down in the chair, the leather was still warm from her body, and there was a small shoe print on the dark wood of the desk. When I reached to wipe the print off, I noticed she’d left the bottom drawer open a crack. My heartbeat quickened as I stared into the thin dark space. Finally, I pulled the drawer open. Inside was a row of thin red file holders, each labeled in Grandpa’s handwriting. But at the back of the drawer, so far back I had to open the drawer all the way to see them, were five blue folders. Inside each were thick manila envelopes. I leaned closer. There was one folder, the third from the back, that hung at an odd angle. Its contents had stretched it wide. I reached in to straighten it.

A lead weight dropped into my stomach. The file folder was empty.

She’d taken the journal.