Toward Night's End (17 page)

“Meaning?”

The professor coughed again, then drank the last of his water. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, sat back, and announced, “If you heard that here in the U.S., I’d say it was a joke. Has to be.”

“Tell me about the saying, and I’ll decide,” the detective told him.

“Now you have to understand, there is no written definition, nothing you could look up in the finest library, at the finest university. But supposedly, well, let me back up. You know what a shogun is?”

Johnstone shook his head. “No.”

“Shogun was, well, a title for a military general. Top guy, top commander of the Imperial Armies of Japan. Now, without getting too complicated, the shogun would answer to the emperor. But in effect, the shogun had all the power of the country. Understand?”

Johnstone nodded.

The professor continued, saying, “From way back, I mean as far back as, oh, say the 800s, A.D., the shogun did as he saw fit. His enemies didn’t stand a chance because he would exterminate them with the dragon’s breath.” He could see the detective was still puzzled, and he added, “Dragons breathe fire, right? The legend says the dragon would breathe fire, killing all those in its way. So, if you were an enemy of a shogun, his dragon’s breath meant you’d be expunged.”

Johnstone mulled this over for a minute, then said, “This isn’t the 800s A.D., Professor.” When the man didn’t respond, Johnstone asked, “What does it mean today?”

“Today?” the professor repeated, glancing around. There was no one close enough to overhear them. “If I may, in what context did you hear this?”

Johnstone debated with himself on what he should reveal. He knew he needed this man’s assistance, so he said, “Some people, both Japanese-Americans and Caucasians were maimed. One was later shot dead. When pressing a possible witness as to who assaulted these people, who killed the one person, I was told ‘Dragon’s Breath.’”

The professor sighed deeply. “By a Japanese, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, of course. A Caucasian wouldn’t know the term.”

“You do,” Johnstone pointed out. Then he added, “Tell me exactly what they were referring to, please.”

Professor Paulson leaned forward and whispered, “This goes against everything I believe. I have written newspaper opinion articles on the forced evacuation. That it’s nonsense. The Japanese-Americans here love their country. This country.”

“Professor, with all due respect, I don’t really care about your beliefs. I care about what Dragon’s Breath means and how it pertains to my investigation.”

The professor shook his head. Then said quietly, “It would mean there is a shogun here, someone with great military power that is going to strike.” When Johnstone blanched, he added, “As I say, God help us all.”

The cheers were so loud. For both teams. It was the bottom of the ninth, score tied at four a piece. Daniel stood at third, ready. The boy at the plate had two strikes against him.
Just hit the ball
, Daniel thought. I’ll make it home, and we’ll win, five to four.
Just hit the ball.
Then the coach of the other team walked to the pitcher’s mound. Time-out.

Daniel relaxed and took his foot off the base. Henry came over. “You okay?”

Daniel nodded. He kneeled down, taking the opportunity to tie his right shoelace again.

“Anything but a pop-up, you go fast, got it?”

“I know,” Daniel told him.

“Fly ball, you wait and see what happens.”

“I know,” he repeated. The shoe tied, he stood up. He immediately saw his mother, a huge, proud smile on her face. Julia was saying something to their grandfather, gesturing with her hands. Probably explaining what was going on.

“New pitcher,” Henry said.

Daniel turned to see another boy run out to the mound. The original pitcher trudged off the field. “He any good?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “Doesn’t matter. Anything but a pop-up, run hard for home.”

“I will,” Daniel assured him, returning to third base, his left foot on the bag, his back to his family watching. Henry clapped him on the shoulder and left.

The cheering started up all over again. Daniel watched as the pitcher threw his first pitch and their hitter swung and hit the ball. The crowd erupted. A bouncing drive between first base and the pitcher. He could hear Henry yelling, everyone yelling as he took off for home. Running hard.

From his left, he could see their first baseman gather up the ball and throw it toward home plate. Daniel ran faster, then took off, sliding for the plate, feet first. The throw came in, Daniel ducked below the ball, his feet sliding across home plate. He made it!

The catcher snatched the ball, tagging Daniel on the arm. But it was too late. He knew it.

“Safe..!” the umpire yelled. “Safe..!”

More cheers. Daniel stood up, a grin from ear to ear. Then suddenly, the catcher tackled him. He fell to the ground, momentarily dazed. The catcher straddled across him, pulled his right arm back, then whaled on him, his right fist slamming Daniel’s cheek. The blow stunned Daniel. Then another hit. And another. Then the crowd erupting again. Cheers? Were they cheering?

Another blow. This time across his nose with an audible thwack. He felt the blood pour out, pain like he had never felt before. Then he heard the chants. “Uragirimono.” Over and over again. “Uragirimono. Uragirimono. Uragirimono.”

Someone else piled on. More vicious hits. “Uragirimono..! Uragirimon...!”

Traitor, Daniel thought. They were calling him a traitor. He briefly wondered why. But he knew why. He tried to speak, but then a brutal hit across his mouth. He tasted his own blood. From his nose? Or his mouth? That was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

Professor Paulson was not allowed inside, and that was just fine with him. He sat on the front steps enjoying his cigarette and gazing out at the early morning light on the water. He had never been to the island before and he thought it was quite beautiful. He would have to bring his wife over. She loved the ocean. He briefly wondered what a house like this would cost. Right on the water. Its own private dock. Of course, he didn’t have a boat. But the setting was quite tranquil. For a moment, you could even forget there was a war going on. That is, if you could ignore the U.S. Army Jeep parked nearby. Or the four pairs of Army boots clustered near the door. But at least the soldiers had shown respect and taken off their boots before going inside the house.

“Professor?” a voice said from behind him.

Paulson turned to see Lieutenant Donald Bollgen holding a small book in his hand. “Found something.” He handed it over.

Professor Paulson took the small book, noticing the frayed cloth cover. He opened it. All the writing was in Japanese. He read the first page. Then the next. And the next. It didn’t take him long to flip through the pages skimming its contents since the book was quite small. He took a drag on his cigarette, turned back to the first page, and read it again.

“Sir?”

“Well, starting on this page, the first page here, it says ‘2 cans clams, minced, quarter cup butter, half cup vegetable oil, one teaspoon garlic—”

“What? A recipe?” Donald asked with surprise.

Professor Paulson went to the next page. “Here you have an assorted fish stew.” He glanced up at the young man. “Calls for tuna, some fresh tomatoes, basil—”

“Okay, got it.” He held out his hand and the professor gave him the recipe book, smiling to himself as the lieutenant headed back into the house. The door closed again.

Donald went back to the kitchen, slipping the book inside the open drawer where one of the three privates assigned to him found it. He closed the drawer and looked around. The house was extremely neat, the furniture clearly old, but not well worn. No holes or tears in the fabric. The wood floor was immaculately clean. He was glad he had made his men take off their boots before entering. Walking through the small living room area, he noticed quite a few lace doilies on the top of the coffee table, a nearby corner table and covering the top of a heavy, comfortable-looking chair.

“Sir?” a private said, standing on the stairs. He nodded upstairs. “More stuff up here.”

Donald followed the man up the stairs, his weight making one step squeak loudly. He had already looked through the bedrooms when they first arrived, seeing nothing at first glance. But he felt oddly uncomfortable in the Kobata family’s personal bedrooms and had quickly gone back downstairs.

He followed the private into a small bedroom with two twin beds. Both beds neatly made with identical bedspreads. The private went over to a small desk. All the drawers had been pulled out of the desk and laid out on the floor. A spiral notebook lay on the floor and the private picked it up, flipped a few pages and handed it to Donald.

A drawing, done in pencil. It looked like two tires joined by an axle. Written across the axle was ‘4’8”.’ Four feet, eight inches across? So not the front wheels of a car.

“Next page, sir.”

Donald turned to the following page. Another drawing. Some sort of tube. The dimensions read “7’ long, diameter 5 inches.”

“Keep going, sir,” the private instructed.

On the next page was a drawing similar to the first, with the two wheels, a crossbar or axle joining them, then three spokes that went at a 45-degree angle from the axle, if that was what it was, and each wheel. There were dimensions here too. Each spoke clearly marked as a little more than three feet. So, a yard.

Donald flipped to the next page. Nothing. Then the next page.

“That’s it, sir.”

Donald went back to the thin cardboard front cover. Looking for a name. Nothing. He remembered from his school days that most students wrote their name and homeroom class number on the inside cover in case the notebook was lost. He checked the front cover and back cover. Fanned all the pages. Some scribble writing on one page. He went back to that page. It simply said, “Tom 4 p.m. CN.” Crow’s Nest. So the notebook belonged to Matthew. And he was noting a meeting with Tom at the restaurant at 4 p.m. But no date was given. He fanned the remaining pages. Nothing. Just the three drawings and a note to go to the Crow’s Nest. Donald looked to the private. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the private admitted. “First I thought a car.” While Donald still held the notebook, the young private flipped to the first picture. The two tires and axle. “But then a car isn’t that narrow, right, sir?”

“No,” Donald agreed.

“So then I thought, oh, a tractor.” He saw the lieutenant frown and added, “I grew up in Nebraska, sir. We have three tractors. One is about this size. Width wise, if you get my meaning.”

“Okay,” Donald scrambled to remember what he knew of the Kobatas. Matthew took over his father’s fishing business. The grandfather, a blind man, managed to grow strawberries on the plot of land behind the house. Would he need a tractor to do that? He had no idea.

“But then, look at these struts,” the private continued, flipping to the last page showing the spokes.

“Tractors don’t have those?” Donald asked.

“Well, they can. Ours at home, no, they don’t.”

“But you’ve seen a tractor with struts, like this picture?”

“Yeah, but usually the tractors are a bit bigger.”

“But it’s possible it’s a tractor drawing?”

“Yes, sir, but…” The private frowned, looking at the drawing.

“But, what?” Donald asked when the private didn’t say anything more. “I asked for your opinion, Private.”

“It could be a bomb cart, sir.”

Donald frowned again. “Bomb cart?”

“You know our B-17s?” When Donald nodded, he continued, saying, “Now, I have a cousin that works there. Boeing. He told me the bombs, they are super heavy. I mean really heavy. I asked how many men it takes to load the airplane, you know? He said they have a cart that takes them out to the airplane.” The private reached for the notebook, “Sir?”

Donald gave him the notebook. The private went back to the middle drawing. “I guess the cart has wheels, like this, and the bomb rests here and a couple guys push the cart to the airplane, then load it with bombs.”

Donald nodded. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was why Matthew Kobata had drawings of a bomb cart.

He didn’t like the chief sitting in on what he considered his meeting, but he could hardly say so. It was the chief’s prerogative to oversee any ongoing investigation. Johnstone looked at the Coast Guard captain, a man named Kimball, and said, “You’re sure, then?”

“Covered the entire Olympia peninsula. The boat is not in the water anywhere near here. I guarantee you that,” Captain Kimball said.

“You still have a bulletin out?” the chief asked.

“No. There is no point.”

“Why not?” the chief asked curtly.

“Our bulletin covers the peninsula. As I said, the boat isn’t here.” The captain was resolute.

“But he could be in Canada by now,” the chief argued.

“That’s correct. Which would be out of our jurisdiction,” Kimball replied.

“Can we get a bulletin up and down the coast? In case he made it south?” Johnstone asked.

“You’ll have to go above me for that, but yes. It’s possible.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful,” Johnstone pointed out.

“We had vessels covering a 100-mile radius from the peninsula. Not because of the missing fisherman, but it just so happened when he disappeared we had a training exercise going on. It was a practice run as the second line of defense against incoming Japanese boats.”

“What’s the first line?” Johnstone asked.

“The Navy.” Johnstone nodded and Kimball continued. “We had tracked a storm coming in. We think maybe the Japanese will plan to attack under adverse conditions. It was perfect for our exercise.”

“But the storm reduced your visibility, right?” Johnstone theorized.