The Nicholas Linnear Novels (221 page)

She had done more than well; she had caused Shisei to fall in love with her. This was another important lesson that Kiku taught Shisei: there is only one thing more important in life than artifice, and that is
kokoro,
the heart of things. To control artifice, to be the master of illusion, is to control the thinking and the emotions of men. This, for a female, was the height of power, the ideal to which one must dedicate one’s life. It was, in effect, the ultimate outward manifestation of
seishinshugi,
the triumph of the will…

With consummate
iki,
so that even one such as he could not possibly take offense, see through her artful facade, Shisei said, “You don’t want me, Howe. Not really.” She immediately turned and walked away to make them both drinks. She needed time away from his incessant kineticism to allow the stillness to coalesce again, to accumulate in the dark corners of her psyche, to infuse her with strength, a sense of what she needed, step by step, to do.

“What would you like?” she asked him. “Scotch or vodka?”

“Clear liquor tonight,” Howe said, lurching after her. “I can drink more vodka, and tonight while Branding’s locked away in a cell, we’re gonna celebrate! We’re gonna get stinking drunk, because now all my problems are solved!”

…Shisei had realized that with her gift and with the doorway Kiku could provide for her, she could become the greatest geisha in Japan. But to what end? The power she could wield—considerable in those circles—was too limited. Her audiences would be too small to satisfy her thirst for adulation. Though she might entertain—and be able, ultimately, to influence—the rich and the powerful, these were, after all, only individuals. The stage of the geisha was already too small. Shisei needed to act out her life on a far wider-reaching scale.

And, of course, there was Senjin to think of. In retrospect she saw that he never would have allowed her to devote her life to the willow world. He had a master plan, and she was an integral part of it.

How many times, years later, had he repeated to her,
Shisei, I cannot do this without you,
as if those words, whispered into the delicate whorl of her ear, could ameliorate the pain he was inflicting on her with the bundle of ink-dipped needles that pierced her skin over and over for hours, days, weeks, months on end?…

Howe slopped half his drink over his shirtfront in his excitement, and Shisei had to mix him another. In the meantime he had ripped off his stained tie and shirt, and now, bare-chested, reached for his glass.

He was covered in curling black hair, even over his back and throat. Shisei, for whom smoothness of flesh was an ideal, was nauseated. She was reminded of the stoat whose neck
sensei
had cracked just before he had skinned it in thin, delicate strips.

She had never before seen Howe naked, and she wondered why he should want to reveal himself to her, the mastiff, now. It could not be for any sexual purpose, for she knew that Douglas Howe was a man for whom sex’s pleasure was defined strictly by the amount of power it gave him. Otherwise, he was content to satisfy himself; who knew better than he what gave him pleasure? He would never take a mastiff to bed; he was too class conscious to ever again lie down with dogs.

Perhaps, she thought, it was her triumph over Branding that gave her, at least for now, a position above the dogs, a kind of status with which Howe would wish momentarily to mingle.

Smiling at his hideous masculine fur, Shisei imagined herself back on stage, swathed in the burning spotlights, aflame with the adoration of young Japan, acting the coquette and then—as the powerful lights turned the amphitheater into a bowl of seething energy, illumined that vast seething throng, their arms outstretched, their faces yearning toward her, toward
her—
and she drawing from them, like milk from an udder, their innocent ardor.

There was a certain pleasure close to her heart in seeing his response, how he melted and strutted at the same time. But he was such a gross, despicable creature that Shisei’s secret triumph was demeaned, made meaningless, and she wanted only to be rid of him, to end as quickly as possible this shameful charade she had been duty-bound to play.

He finished off his drink, pulled her to him, swinging her around, pushing his face into hers. His breath stank of liquor and decay. She was dizzy from his baseness, faint from his brutality, as if these traits were a kind of radiation he gave off that had begun to affect her in much the same way the atomic radiation at Nagasaki had affected Haha-san.

She gently disengaged herself from his clumsy embrace, said, “Why don’t we save this victory celebration until my job is done?”

Howe stared at her. “What do you mean? It’s over. Branding’s in jail.”

“But nothing’s been proved yet, and it won’t be, until I do my job.” She smiled, thinking of the stage where she had reigned until Senjin had come for her. “You want me to finish what I started, don’t you? It’s what you pay me for. You want it all nailed down, so there’s no chance of escape, no way that the outcome can be changed, don’t you?”

And Howe nodded, not understanding what he was agreeing to…

One day Shisei had gone to Kiku’s house and found that Kiku was gone—she had not been in dance class for over a week. There was no trace of her mother and father and sisters, and the family of farmers that now inhabited the house had no idea who had lived there before them—the house was empty when they had moved in three days before. It was as if Kiku and her family had never existed, had been, instead, a figment of Shisei’s imagination. This was impossible, but what other explanation could there be? Shisei’s dancing instructor ignored her questions about where Kiku had gone, and when she asked Haha-san to make inquiries throughout the neighborhood, Haha-san told her that she could find out nothing of what had happened to the family. But Haha-san had lied…

Howe’s sweating palms left dark stains on the bartop as he scrabbled for another drink. He was shaking with elation.

Howe began to laugh. “He didn’t know what he was up against when I sent you after him. Poor Branding,” he said thickly.

Shisei continued to smile at him, the talento again, the perfect icon, as her future, meticulously planned, resolved itself like a reflection in a pool…

How had Haha-san lied? She not only knew where Kiku had gone, it was she who had sent her away. Why? Shisei learned this many years later, when it was too late, when her life had already taken too many turnings for it to matter.

But it mattered.

How Shisei wept in the silence and the loneliness of her room, when no one could see, when
sensei
would not scold her for being weak, when Haha-san would not inquire what was troubling her, pulling Shisei to her pillowlike breast to console her when she did not want to be consoled.

She wanted Kiku.

If, as Senjin later surmised, Haha-san survived by pawning her weaknesses off on them, her charges whom she was duty-bound to raise, to love and sacrifice everything for, then surely she needed to pull them periodically to her breast. For all human life—even Haha-san’s—must wither and die without a reciprocity of emotion, even if that emotion be so savage as hate.

And would it not then be understandable that Haha-san would not wish to share her one source of nourishment with another? For this is what had happened. When Haha-san could no longer bear the threat of the relationship forming between Shisei and Kiku, she dispatched
sensei
to rid her of her fear. She had no more thought of Shisei’s happiness than she ever had. Only her children’s welfare was uppermost in her mind, which is why she sacrificed herself as she did to raise them as her sister would have raised them herself if she had had the strength and the courage.

Happiness did not enter into this equation. After all, Haha-san had no clear idea of what happiness might be. Whatever glimmering of this emotion she might have had as a child had been obliterated by the atomic detonation that had overtaken her and her family at Nagasaki.

In a very real sense, life had overtaken Haha-san before she was ready to accept it. No matter. It had overtaken her anyway, twisting her still unformed personality, lashing her to the unyielding mast of her duty. In the process her heart had turned to glass. And with each agonizing gale of recollection that blew through her, it was shattered into ten thousand fragments.

Shisei, of course, knew none of this at the time of Kiku’s disappearance, and if she had, it would have made no difference. She would not have understood, or been able to forgive Haha-san’s selfishness masquerading in the guise of altruism. She would have done what she ended up doing, her path had been set,
karma.

She, like Senjin before her, abandoned the nest, the sanctuary, the prison that had been her world virtually since the day she was born.

And Haha-san and
sensei
were gone from her life. But not forgotten. Never forgotten…

Shisei, looking down at Howe, said, “Stay here. I’ll get Michael, your driver, to get you out to the car.”

But Howe was already shaking his head. “It’s Michael’s night off.” But, of course, Shisei already knew this.

“Well, you can’t stay here,” she said, bending to lift him off the floor. “I’ll take you home.”

Nicholas said, “If Justine’s gone back to West Bay Bridge, then I’ve got to go after her.” He folded the note Justine had hurriedly left for him. Maddeningly, it said nothing of what had happened or how she felt, just where she was going. It was written as if she did not expect to ever see him again.

Nangi and Tomi exchanged glances. “Until we discover the whereabouts of the
dorokusai,
I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Nangi said. He had already told Nicholas all he knew: the computer-virus attack on the company’s core computers; the suspicions Kusunda Ikusa and Nami had of Nicholas; Ikusa’s order to dissolve the Sphynx joint venture, disassociate Sato International with Tomkin Industries; Nangi’s idea to bring in another company in order to salvage the merger, the agreement on the floundering Nakano Industries, the signing of the papers in Nami’s offices; the Pack Rat’s information concerning Ikusa and Killan Oroshi, Nakano’s chairman’s daughter.

“I haven’t heard from the Pack Rat in three days,” Nangi concluded. “We have been trying to find him ever since.”

“But what happened here?” Nicholas said. “You still haven’t told me—”

Nangi gestured. He had already risen. His legs must have been stiff, for he limped more than usual as he led the way outside, around the side of the house. This area among the trees and bushes had been staked off and was being guarded by more Metropolitan Police officers in riot gear.

Nangi pointed to a dark patch on the ground, which had been carefully outlined in lime. He nodded to Tomi, who produced a set of black-and-white prints.

Nicholas took them. They were forensic photos. “Who’s this?”

“A man named Han Kawado,” Nangi said. “He was one of the Pack Rat’s men. Very good. At my request, the Pack Rat had him keep track of Justine—”

Nicholas’s head snapped up. “Guarding her.”

Nangi nodded. “Even though I did not truly believe she was in any danger, I felt it prudent to—”

“Damnit, what happened here?”

“The
dorokusai
happened,” Tomi said. “He was here with your wife. We don’t know what happened, except that Han Kawado saw them. The
dorokusai
must have become aware of Kawado.” She tapped the photos. “This is the result.”

“And Justine?”

“Unharmed,” Tomi said. “As far as we can determine.”

“What do you mean?” Nicholas turned to Nangi. “Didn’t she call you?”

“No,” Nangi said. “The first I knew she had left the country was when Immigration informed Yazawa-san.”

“Immigration had been alerted some time ago, when we became aware of what now seems to be the bogus threat on your life from the Red Army,” Tomi explained. “We wanted as best we could to be able to monitor your and your wife’s movements.”

Nicholas handed back the photos. “Well, that’s it, then. I’m going after her. I’ve got to know that she’s all right. I’ve got to be with her.”

Nangi said, “As much as I sympathize with you, Nicholas, I have to disagree. You know she’s headed home to your house in West Bay Bridge. A simple phone call there will ascertain her condition. On the other hand, you’re needed here. This is where the
dorokusai
is. This is where the war is. Obviously he was trying to get to you through Justine. Don’t you see it’s a blessing that she’s gone out of the war zone? Do you really want to bring her back into it? Because that is precisely what you will do if you follow her home.”

Follow her home.
Why did that stick in Nicholas’s mind? Oh, Jesus!

He broke away from them, headed into his workout room. He pushed aside the post, knelt as he threw the tatami this way and that. Tomi and Nangi came into the room, stared at him.

He dug down, found the box. But when he opened it, he found the six emeralds gone, their blue velvet bed in shreds.

“Jesus God,” Nicholas whispered. “That's what he wanted. The emeralds. Kansatsu was right. He needs them. But what for?” It was clear that the
dorokusai
had somehow gotten Justine to show him where the box was hidden. He did not blame Justine; with the
dorokusai
’s powers, Justine would have been helpless.

Privately, Nicholas thanked whatever forces were looking out for him that he had decided to split up the cache. At least the remaining nine emeralds were safe. For now. With a dismaying lurch he remembered that Justine had seen him wrap the package. Could she have seen the address? Even if she hadn’t, she could reason it out. She knew, even if she didn’t know she knew, to whom he had sent the emeralds for safekeeping.

Nicholas got up. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to find Justine.”

“Correction,” Nangi said. “Your first priority is keeping yourself safe. You won’t be able to protect Justine or the company her father willed you if you’re dead.”

“What does Tomkin Industries have to do with this?”

“Everything,” Nangi said. “It’s part of the war. It’s being attacked along with Sato International, as surely as the
dorokusai
has attacked you.”