Toward Night's End (20 page)

Ido heard the gate squeak open, but he didn’t move. Instead he said firmly, “My grandson is not a traitor, sir. He is not a traitor.”

“That is not what others say. Please leave.”

Ido turned to where he thought Julia was. Again, he was off by a few degrees. “Julia.”

She promptly came forward, again draping a hand through his arm. She led him out of the coop, tears streaming down her face.

Peter Harkin, known by everyone on Bainbridge Island as Old Man Pete, was now scared to death. Like all the islanders, the violent death of young Tom Bollgen shook him to his core. But unlike his neighbors, it was because he was involved with Tom’s murderers, and he knew he couldn’t extract himself. He was in too deep.

He thought it odd that his fellow islanders were about evenly divided on the subject – many believing that Matthew Kobata had killed Tom before escaping on his trawler. Others insisting that Kobata would never kill anyone and he was probably dead too, his body either buried in the cedar forest somewhere or cast out to sea. While there were rumblings about another body having been found, no one knew who the man was. However, gossip about the man having been found wearing only his underclothes had spread like wildfire.

The few times Old Man Pete went to town for groceries or other items, he found that the fate of Matthew Kobata and Tom Bollgen was all people were talking about. That and the impending doom that was sure to hit them – the Japs would start bombing any day now. There was also much speculation about attacks by Japanese submarines, and fishermen swapped stories about possible sightings.

Old Man Pete, typical of his nature, never joined the discussions. So those that knew him never found it odd that he didn’t give an opinion about the current state of affairs. As far as they knew, his life had not changed at all.

But, of course, it had. It had started when he began going over to the mainland to gamble two nights a week. Poker had been his vice for years and overall he usually broke even. No harm in it, he thought. Just a hobby.

But then he had been invited to play with a more sophisticated group. At first he won. One night alone he took home nearly three thousand dollars. But then his luck turned. One thousand lost. Then a few thousand more. His run of terrible luck made him drink more than usual. More drinking led to more gambling, and soon he was over $20,000 in debt. At first, the men to whom he owed the money told him not to worry about it. They would work something out.

And they had. It was very simple really. They had basically taken over his farm. He had two barns on the eight-acre property – one quite large and closer to the house, the other was smaller and located in the southeast corner of the property. He knew some men now slept in the smaller barn at night. But he had no idea how many there were or why they were on his property.

As for the larger barn, he could only guess. His tractor and tools had been removed and placed near his house. He could hear activity from time to time, but he had absolutely no idea what was going on inside. And to make sure he wouldn’t know, the beefy, bearded man was usually outside the barn with a rifle in his meaty paws. Old Man Pete always made a wide berth around his own barn.

At first he didn’t understand why the men hadn’t killed him. But then it had dawned on him. If he was seen working his fields and going to town regularly, no one would suspect a thing. But of course, he was no longer allowed to go to town alone. Now, the leader of the group, a lean man named Carl, accompanied him, and Old Man Pete was forced to introduce Carl as a hired hand. No one knew that the hired hand always had a small revolver in his jacket pocket and that Old Man Pete was, in a sense, a kidnap victim.

Since Carl was adamant that things remain the same, during those times that Old Man Pete needed legitimate workers to help him in planting, irrigation or odd chores, he had been allowed to hire a few islanders in need of some extra cash. However, he had to warn the squatters a day in advance of their arrival. On those days all the men kept quiet in the large barn. But as soon as the laborers left, a flurry of activity would start once again.

His work done for the day, Old Man Pete made his way past the large barn. He glanced at the stout man guarding the barn and received a nasty glare in return. His own property and they acted as if
they
owned it. And in a sense, they did. It occurred to him that it was perhaps ironic that his disagreeable nature – which had not endeared him to the islanders – made it perfect for whatever Carl and his friends were doing since there was never any worry of unexpected neighbors dropping in. If he had just befriended a few people, he thought, someone might notice that something sinister was taking place.

He opened the backdoor of his farmhouse and glanced over his shoulder at the barn. The man was still glaring. He shuddered.

He needed a drink.

They sat at a picnic table under a tan canopy that shaded them from the hot sun. The canopy was only there because the picnic table was just behind the camp’s main administrative office, and the table was used by Army personnel. But it was a nice touch, thought Johnstone. He sat on one side of the table, his file in front of him, Commander Merrick was next to him, Kumiko Kobata on the other side, facing them. Although the administrative office was bustling with activity, they were alone outside and at least had some privacy.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Kumiko said, nodding her head sadly, her eyes on her lap. “So sad.” Then she glanced up at Johnstone and Commander Merrick. “Matthew did not kill Tom.”

“I agree,” Johnstone immediately replied. He could see the surprise on her face.

“Why you say that?” Kumiko immediately asked.

“Tom’s body was found in Mr. Porter’s truck. Right next to your house.” He watched. She was mesmerized. “But Sally Grazer, Tom’s girlfriend, she was in the area and saw Matthew going to his boat. She asked him where he was going, why he wasn’t on the evacuation ferry, and he said that the Navy needed his boat. He was taking it to Seattle.”

“I not know. Navy want his boat?”

“I think that was a lie, ma’am. He was leaving. But the point is, when Sally was there, Mr. Porter’s truck was not there. So I tend to think someone left it there on purpose. To point the finger at Matthew.”

“But where Matthew? He go to Seattle?”

“No, ma’am. As I said, I think he was lying to Sally so he could get her to keep quiet. He acted like it was all hush-hush. I think he was trying to get away. Get away from whoever killed Tom.”

She seemed to digest this for some time. Johnstone opened the file and pulled out the Navy’s official file photo of Carsteen. “Who is this man?”

Kumiko carefully touched the photo, moving it closer to her. She shook her head. “I never see him.” She looked at Johnstone. “He kill Tom?”

“No, ma’am, he was already dead.”

This answer also greatly surprised her. But she didn’t say anything more.

“I do think however, that for some reason, Matthew killed him.”

Another shock. “Matthew?”

“The man was stabbed. The knife was still, well, it was still there.” Johnstone waited a bit, then added, “A very distinctive knife. A red and black handle.” He saw an instant recognition in her face, then it was gone. He pressed on, saying, “I saw an identical knife on Matthew’s fishing boat.” She focused on her lap again, shaking her head in disbelief. Johnstone tapped the photo. “You sure you’ve never seen him?”

Fighting back tears, she answered, “No. Sorry.”

“Ma’am, who had access to the fishing boat?” Merrick asked. “Matthew’s fishing boat?”

She seemed puzzled. “No one.”

“No one could go on board, maybe go below?” Merrick pressed.

“I don’t know. Why would someone? It is a fishing boat. That is all.” She thought of Julia and added, “If you not fisherman, you say it stinks. My daughter say that.”

Merrick gave a small shoulder shrug to Johnstone. No answer on if someone could have stolen the knife from the boat in order to frame Matthew.

“Did Matthew ever cut any of his fingers?” Johnstone asked. He demonstrated, touching the tips of his left fingers with his right hand. “The tips of his fingers? Maybe a fishing accident?”

Another shaking of the head. “No.”

“Maybe just one finger,” Merrick injected, thinking of the single fingertips belonging to a woman and her son.

“No,” Kumiko frowned. “Why?”

“We don’t know, really,” Johnstone said. He sensed Merrick’s quick look, but ignored it. He tapped the photo again. “This man had cut fingers. Not when he was killed. Some time before. Same with Sean Kanagawa. You know him?”

Kumiko shook her head with a heavy sigh. “No, sorry.”

“He and his family have Ueno’s restaurant in Seattle. Good Japanese restaurant?”

She shook her head again. Time to change tactics. “Tell me about Matthew’s tattoo, please.”

Kumiko appeared quite surprised. “Tattoo?”

“Yes. When he got it, things like that?”

She shook her head, saying, “Matthew no have tattoo. No tattoo.”

“Maybe you never saw it,” Merrick offered.

Kumiko looked at him and shook her head again, adamant. “Matthew no have tattoo,” she repeated.

Johnstone glanced at Merrick. He guessed that Matthew’s mother never knew about it. He reached into the file again and this time took out the drawing identical to the tattoos. “This is what it looks like, ma’am.”

Again, she brought it a little closer, carefully inspecting it. Then she frowned at Johnstone. “You think Matthew have this? Tattoo with this?”

“Yes. We have that on very good authority.”

She pushed it away from her. “Matthew no have tattoo. Why would he? He wouldn’t.”

Johnstone pointed to the drawing. “Ma’am, have you seen this design before? Can you tell me what it means?”

She gazed at it for just a moment. “No. I not know. Matthew no tattoos.”

One quick glance at Merrick, then Johnstone said, “Okay. One last thing, ma’am. Your husband was a fisherman, correct?”

“Yes,” she replied, a little dubious as to why the detective wanted to talk about her late husband.

“I heard that he started taking the fish he caught to other places instead of the south-end fishery. He took the catch by truck.”

“Yes.”

“It just seems like a lot more work. You bring your boat home, you unload your catch, load it in a truck, and put it on the ferry to the mainland.”

She looked puzzled again. “He come home after fish gone, after he collect money, yes?”

Now it was Johnstone’s turn to be puzzled. “You mean he took his boat over to Seattle, off loaded the catch there?”

She nodded. “Of course. What you say, that makes no sense.”

“The truck in Seattle? Where’d he get that?”

“Bank.”

“Bank?” Johnstone repeated.

“Bank give money, he rent it. Every day from two in the afternoon, to five. Six days a week. No work Sunday. Never work Sunday.”

“So, he took his boat over to Seattle, then put the catch in a truck he was renting a few hours each day and then where? Where’d he go?”

“Other places. They buy fresh fish. South-end fishery close, yes? But he sell to different people. Make more money.”

“He ever have a feud, a disagreement with someone about this? Selling his fish this way?”

She frowned and shook her head. “No.”

“He was doing it until he died, is that right?”

“No, he quit. Too much work. More better take fish to fishery.”

“Like all the other Bainbridge fisherman do?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Johnstone replied, still thinking it over. “So when Matthew started doing that with Mr. Porter’s truck? What did you think of that?”

She shrugged. “Take longer. By boat, go quick to where my husband meet truck. Matthew, he take fish to Porter truck, wait for ferry to go to Seattle, then go to markets.”

“He go to the same markets your husband did?”

A brief smile. “I do not know. Sorry.”

Johnstone nodded. He wasn’t sure it had anything to do with his investigation, anyway. Just a loose end he’d like to be rid of. He gathered up the photo and drawing, putting them back in the file. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Kumiko bowed at them, then said, “Question please?”

“Sure,” Johnstone replied.

She glanced behind her, at the administrative office. “They ask, Army officer, he ask if we have tractor at home.”

“A tractor?” Johnstone repeated.

“Yes,” Kumiko said. “I say, no. No tractor.” She glanced behind her again. “He ask if we going to get tractor, I say no.” She gave him a very puzzled look. “I no understand. You? You understand why ask tractor?”

“No, ma’am,” Johnstone answered. “Not at all.”

She seemed disappointed, Johnstone thought. But ever since the evacuation, her life was probably just one big disappointment.

He was amazed at how weak he was. It had taken all his strength just to dress himself in his pants and shirt, which he found hanging over a chair. After resting from that excursion, it took all his energy to leave his bed and walk down the passageway. Then he had to stop twice heading up the metal companionway, resisting the urge to sit down. Finally, he made it to the main deck and stepped outside. Now, as he tightly gripped the side rail, the wind whipping through his hair, Matthew basked in the crisp, fresh air and sunshine.

“You’re supposed to be in sick bay.”

The deep voice came from behind him, and Matthew quickly turned. He faced a tall man with a deeply lined face, gray hair and a thick gray beard. “Needed some air,” Matthew said, his voice still weak. He thought the man was at least sixty. If not older.

The man studied him for a moment. “You never said where you’re from,” said the man with a suspicious tone.