Toward Night's End (4 page)

“We’re at Old Man Pete’s,” whispered Tom as he peered through the barn door that he had cracked open just a few inches.

“Where’s Pete?” Matthew asked. The strawberry farmer was a crotchety old geezer who kept to himself. His wife and young son had been killed years ago, before Matthew was even born, when the boat they had taken from Seattle capsized in a storm. Ever since, Old Man Pete hardly spoke to anyone. But his strawberries were still considered the best on the island.

“No idea,” Tom replied. “He has a truck, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. See it?”

“Nope. I think we’re alone.”

Tom turned to Matthew. His face was considerably swollen, his left eye nauseatingly massive and still sealed shut. “Which way?”

“I’ve got to get to the harbor.”

“Right.”

With that Tom opened the door a little more and silently left the barn, Matthew right on his heels. Matthew could see Old Man Pete’s ancient farmhouse about seventy yards away. One of the first homesteaders, Old Man Pete’s grandfather had built it in the early 1800s. As they left the barn, Matthew had to agree with his friend that they were probably alone on the farm.

But what did it all mean? What did Old Man Pete have to do with the two thugs that had jumped them the night before? Matthew thought about the man he had killed. Not even twenty-four hours ago. While he very much wanted to confide in Tom, he was still trying to comprehend that he had actually murdered someone, and found that he wasn’t ready to discuss it. With anyone. So he had kept quiet.

His only goal now was to get on the ferry and put as much distance between himself and the dead man as he could. He wasn’t worried about the killing being pinned on Tom, because he knew Tom had been at Sally’s that evening. Having his usual Friday night dinner with his girlfriend and her family. Of course, now he couldn’t help but wonder what the men had done when they had found the body. With any luck, they would take it into the Sound, tie it down with heavy blocks, and pitch it off a boat. After all, they certainly weren’t upstanding citizens, and they probably didn’t want to be tied to a killing any more than he did.

“What do you want me to do about Mr. Porter?” Tom asked as they scampered across the strawberry fields as quickly as they could, Tom out in front.

“I dunno,” Matthew answered, his breaths coming in rasps that sounded odd to him. Truthfully, he hadn’t even thought about Porter. “Just keep quiet. Don’t let on that you were even going to see me.”

“He’ll probably think you ran away so you wouldn’t have to go to the camps.”

“Let him think it.”

“Suppose the truck’s still on the island?”

“No idea. Get up to the road and we can try to hitch a ride,” Matthew said, pointing to the small hill in front of them. The dirt road lay just beyond the hill and intersected with State Highway 305 approximately three miles to the south. The highway would lead to Winslow and the harbor.

Following Tom’s footsteps up the steep embankment, Matthew thought that his head was going to explode. He was about to ask Tom to slow down, when his friend called out, “Car!”

Tom had always been the stronger of the two, and now he easily scurried up the dirt hill, leaving Matthew farther behind. “Looks like a Chevy sedan.”

Matthew was just halfway up the hill when he heard the car for the first time. His hearing was definitely askew. The car slowed and came to a stop. “Where’s the Jap?” Matthew thought he heard. It was a deep voice.

“He’s dead,” Tom answered. Then in a louder voice, clearly for Matthew’s benefit, “You killed him!”

Matthew immediately fell to the ground and tried to remain perfectly still. His mind raced. Who was in the car? One of the two men? Both? Old Man Pete? The next thing he heard was a deafening boom. He looked up the hill just in time to see Tom flying through the air toward him, his arms outstretched. He landed on his back a few feet away, his head thumping hard on the ground as his body slowly slid downhill.

Crawling over the dirt and rocks, Matthew could see the gapping hole in Tom’s chest, blood gushing out in short, rhythmic, pulsating spurts. His friend’s eyes were wide open in surprise, but Matthew knew they were like his grandfather’s – unseeing.

Still on his stomach, Matthew looked up the hill. He expected to see someone gazing down on him. Someone with a shotgun, considering the thunderous noise and the crater in Tom’s chest. But there was no one. A moment later he was certain that he heard the car slowly pull away.

Gazing back at Tom, he understood why the executioner hadn’t bothered to make sure his target was dead. The shot had ripped into Tom’s chest from just a few feet away.

There were no more surges of blood bubbling up now.

Matthew realized that he had seen two people violently killed in less than twenty-four hours. And one was his long-time boyhood friend.

Tom Bollgen.

Typical of the Army, the evacuation of the more than 200 Japanese residents from Bainbridge Island was handled with clock-like precision, and the ferry left at 11:20 that morning, as scheduled.

Of course, Kumiko told whoever would listen that her eldest son was supposed to be on the ferry and that they should wait, but her pleadings for more time were ignored. The only young man to pay her any attention was an enlisted man named Gilley who had reported to his lieutenant that Matthew Kobata was missing. But he was informed that both the Army and local police were already aware of the fact and were looking for him. Private Gilley was also told that there was speculation that Kobata had crossed over to the mainland the night before and was on the run. Authorities in Seattle had been given his description and were also searching for him.

Less than an hour after the ferry arrived in Seattle, all the Japanese were put on a train. By this time, Kumiko had finally resigned herself to the fact that Matthew was not going to be joining them. Now, as the train gathered speed, heading for a destination that remained unknown to the passengers, she studied Ido who sat across the aisle, by the window. All the window covers had been bolted down, not allowing them to see outside. Kumiko found it a bit nauseating to not be able to see out the windows and anticipate the train’s turns, but she didn’t dare complain, trying to keep her spirits elevated for her children’s sake. Her son, Daniel, sat next to his grandfather, neither of them speaking. Truth be told, they were both quite upset with the hand life had dealt them. Julia, on the other hand, sat next to her, her face glued to the tiny space between the window shutter and the sill, as she tried in vain to see something outside worth reporting.

Looking over at Ido, Kumiko could tell from his slumped shoulders that he was once again desolate. This was because, though the soldiers had let Ido take Osco down to the dock, the cat was taken from him before he boarded the ferry. Although he did not say a word in rebuttal, she had seen a tear roll down his cheek that he didn’t bother to wipe away. Now she wondered if Osco would be properly returned to the neighbor girl so that they could hopefully retrieve it when they were allowed back home.

Detective Elroy Johnstone, 34 years old and a detective for six years now, had seen his share of corpses, and this one wasn’t all that remarkable. The deceased was middle-aged, portly, and balding, and Johnstone surmised that, when the man had been alive, he probably could’ve passed dozens of people daily and not one, if questioned later, would remember anything distinctive about him. Right now, of course, there were several things that made him quite striking. One, he had a knife lodged in his throat. His eyes and mouth were both wide open, as if he had been screaming when the knife was plunged into his neck. Although he would examine the weapon later, he couldn’t help but notice that the handle had a distinctive black and red swirl pattern. Two, the deceased wore no shirt, pants, or shoes. Just an undershirt, underwear, and calf-high cotton socks. But what was most startling to Johnstone was that the man was missing all of his fingertips on his left hand. He also noticed there wasn’t a wedding band on the deceased man’s ring finger, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married.

As he knelt by the body, Johnstone held the man’s left wrist, carefully inspecting the fingers. Each one ended just at the top knuckle. An accident? Johnstone didn’t think so, because human fingers are not all the same length. If he had stuck his hand in some type of machinery, what were the chances that it would slice off all the digits at the top knuckle? Not a deformity, because there was scar tissue on each tip. The more he looked at the hand, the more sure he was that the fingertips had been purposely cut off. The question was, by whom? And did that have anything to do with his murder?

“Poor bastard,” said Stanton, a young uniformed policeman.

Johnstone didn’t say a word. He continued to study the hand, as if it held the key that would unlock the murder investigation. Finally, Johnstone put the hand down and stood up. He looked at the Bainbridge cop, a young man who looked like he should still be in school. But Johnstone knew that was only because he was getting older. “Body was found here?”

“That’s right. A woman walking her dog.”

Johnstone looked around. They were on the north tip of the island, which was fairly desolate. But it was clear from the well-worn pathway that people walked along the beach area.

“Got tire tracks too,” Stanton announced.

Johnstone looked up sharply. “Where?”

“This way.” The cop led him across the dry, brittle grass. They walked about fifteen yards. The cop stopped and pointed. Johnstone saw the deep tire impressions on the hard sand, carefully stepped around the area, and once again kneeled down.

“You sure this is tied to the body?” Johnstone asked.

“Well, I would think so, after all.” The answer caused Johnstone to shoot him a puzzled look, so the cop was quick to add, “People never drive out this far. I mean, they park back there.” He now pointed to the end of the paved road where his own car was parked. “Plus we had rain two days ago. A lot. Those were made after the rain, I would think.”

Johnstone just nodded. Although he would never say it, he was impressed that the young officer could back up his theory with some logic. “Anyone see anything? A car out here? Maybe one from the mainland? Everyone knows each other out here, right?”

“Well, not everyone. But yeah, we tend to know each other a bit. Or at least know
of
each other.” When Johnstone just continued to look at him, he added, “It’s just me on this case, right now. Besides, there aren’t any homes right around here, as you can see.” Johnstone continued to gaze at him, so he quickly added, “But I’ll ask.”

“Why are you the only one handling this? Surely murder is fairly important. Even for islanders,” Johnstone said.

“It is, it is. But, well...We got a man missing. Jap. The Army’s pretty upset. They’re worried that he’s you know, well, one of them.”

“Them?”

“Like the real Japanese. That he’s plotting to help them attack us here. Maybe take over the island. Or bomb Seattle.”

Johnstone thought about upbraiding the young kid on what constitutes a “real Japanese,” but he let it slide. Instead, he asked, “When did he go missing?”

Officer Stanton shrugged. “Last night, I guess. Was supposed to come home, but didn’t.”

“Where was he supposed to have been?”

“He’s a fisherman. Uses a neighbor’s truck to haul the fish he catches. Takes it into town,” he explained.

“What kind of truck are we talking about?”

The young cop pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. He quickly flipped through it. “Belongs to Porter. Russell Porter. He owns it. A Ford. Fifteen-foot cargo truck.”

“Pretty good size.” Johnstone gazed back at the tire tread marks. Then turned to Stanton and said, “Call this Porter and see if he’ll bring his truck down here.”

“It’s missing,” Stanton said. “The Jap never brought it back.”

Johnstone stared at the officer for a minute. “You say he takes his catch to Seattle?”

“Yeah.”

“But that means he’d have to unload his boat, put his catch in the truck, and then unload the truck. Why not just go over in the boat?”

The young cop just stared at Johnstone as if he had asked him to explain the mineral composition of Mars. Finally, he admitted, “I don’t know much about how they manage their catch, I guess.”

“See if it’s unusual.” When Stanton gave him a baffled look, he added, “See what the other fishermen around here do with their catch.” And with that, Johnstone headed for the car.

“Hey!” Officer Stanton called out. When Johnstone turned around, he asked, “What about him?”

“He’s not going anywhere. Call the coroner and get him out here.”

The young man looked at the body, then trotted after Johnstone. “We don’t have a coroner!”

Johnstone stopped in his tracks, turning to the officer. “So what happens when someone dies like this?”

“I’m not sure there’s been a murder before.”

“Okay, what happens when someone dies?” Johnstone asked impatiently. “People do die on this island, don’t they?”

“Well, yeah. Then we tell Dr. Charlie.”

Johnstone turned and headed for the car. “Fine, call Dr. Charlie. Get him to fetch the body. And be sure he leaves the knife where it is.”

***

Matthew had seen the ferry crossing the bay and knew it had left on time. He took that as good news – they weren’t holding up the departure to search for him. He also knew his mother would be telling everyone that her eldest son was missing. He knew this stemmed from his father’s car accident, when he had driven off the road, hit a tree, and slowly bled to death while trapped in the mangled heap. She would be thinking the same fate had befallen him.

Of course, this also meant that the Army and maybe the police would be looking for him. He thought of going down to the dock and telling them that he had been in an accident – which would explain the large lump he could feel on the back of his head, but he knew he couldn’t account for Mr. Porter’s truck. This alone would lead to further questions he couldn’t truthfully answer. All of which meant that he had to get off the island.