Toward Night's End (7 page)

Rex just stared.

“You’re investigating this?” Donald asked.

“I am. And who are you, may I ask?”

“Lieutenant Donald Bollgen,” Donald said. He nodded to Tom. “My cousin.”

“Does either of you know Matthew Kobata?”

“Matthew?” Rex asked in surprise.

“You know him?”

“My God,” Rex said. Then he abruptly turned and walked out of the room. Donald was right behind him followed by Johnstone. Rex collapsed in a waiting room chair and put his head in his hands.

Donald turned to Johnstone. “I was at the Kobata house earlier today. Matthew never came home last night. His family refused to evacuate until he showed up. We have our personnel and the police looking for him.”

“No, no, no...” Rex suddenly raged, sobbing, his hands still covering his face.

The room fell into awkward silence. Then the entrance door abruptly opened and Sally Grazer walked in. She stopped short, surprised to see so many people standing around in the small waiting room. A good-natured girl, she was all smiles as Dr. Charlie started toward her.

Rex suddenly looked up and glared at Johnstone. “Why? Why would anyone kill my boy? Why, in God’s name?”

Sally saw Rex for the first time. Slowly, his words began to register. She looked at the others. Donald, whom she knew, but not well. The tall man. And Dr. Charlie who, for some reason, was now holding both her hands.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Dr. Charlie said.

“I don’t understand...Tom?” Sally sputtered. Then she turned to Rex. Tears silently rolled down the man’s cheeks. In the back of her mind, she noted how old he suddenly looked. “Tom? What are you saying? Has something happened to Tom?”

“He was killed, dear,” Dr. Charlie said.

She stared at him in disbelief, then angrily pulled away and started for the open exam room door. But Donald grabbed her before she had a chance. She just searched Donald’s face, saw his own anguish, and slowly wilted.

Johnstone squatted next to Rex. “Sir, I know this is a bad time, but I need some answers. I need to know where Tom was. The last you knew.”

Rex took a deep breath. Nodded in Sally’s direction. “He went to Sally’s for dinner.”

Johnstone pivoted to look at the girl. “Ma’am, you had dinner with Tom last night?”

She could only nod. Johnstone rose and approached her. “When did he leave, do you remember?”

Her breaths were coming rapidly now, and he worried that she was hyperventilating. He caught Donald’s eye and nodded to the other chair. Without a word, they carefully guided her to the chair. She sat down. Johnstone kneeled next to her and tried again, “I’m a detective from Seattle. I need to know what time he left you.”

“About eight.”

“Eight, okay. Did he say where he was going?”

“No,” she mumbled.

Johnstone felt disappointed. He started to rise, but her hand shot out and pulled him back down.

“He never thought I knew about it. But, I did.”

“It?” Johnstone asked, puzzled.

Sally nodded as she gasped for a big breath and continued, “He would leave my place and go do something with Matthew.”

“Matthew Kobata?”

She nodded. “I mean, everyone knew that they used Mr. Porter's truck. Matthew would take his catch over a couple times a week, and Tom would hitch a ride to get fresh fruit and vegetables and things for the restaurant. I mean, I even went once. Matthew left us at the big wholesale market, he got rid of the fish, and came back to pick us up. But, well, I just know something else was going on.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged, “I don’t know. I wish I did. I just know something had changed. Something they didn’t want to talk about. They had both changed recently. More serious. Something was going on…I just don’t know what.”

“We need to find Kobata,” Donald declared.

“Matthew’s not a part of this,” Rex suddenly announced. “Known that boy all his life. He’s a good boy. If he’s missing, it’s because he’s dead too.”

Sally looked at Rex in surprise. “No, I just saw him.”

“What? When?” Johnstone demanded. “How long ago?”

“After I took Mrs. Perrgle home.” She said.

The physician clarified for Johnstone. “About eleven, then. When I got called by you to the north end of the island.”

Johnstone quickly nodded. He turned his attention back to Sally. “So you saw Matthew where?”

“He was going over to Seattle,” she told them. “Said the Navy had bought his trawler. He had to take it over himself.”

“He was at his house?”

“At the dock. He was just leaving.” She thought for a minute. “I was surprised, because we had said our good-byes yesterday. He was supposed to be on the evacuation ferry. But when I asked, he said that he had secretly sold his boat to the Navy. And they wanted it in Seattle.”

“And you have no idea what he and Tom were doing last night?”

“They weren’t together.”

“Why do you say that?” Johnstone frowned.

“I asked,” Sally explained. “I mean, I knew that’s where Tom usually snuck off to – somewhere with Matthew – so I asked if he knew where Tom was. I asked if he saw Tom last night. He said no.”

“And you believed him?” Johnstone challenged.

Sally got quiet and simply nodded, not sure if she had made a terrible mistake.

“So, Owens Valley, right?”

Matthew just stared at the man, unsure. Then he nodded. Although he had no idea where Owens Valley was.

“My nephew, he’s been down there. Building barracks and such,” the man explained.

Matthew decided to take a chance. “Where is it?”

“Very close to the Nevada line. Across from Fresno, if you know where that is.”

Matthew nodded. He didn’t really, but he didn’t want to prolong their conversation anyway. He wanted to get underway again. So far, his luck was holding. The man was alone on the large vessel. Normally he worked with his son, but the fisherman explained that his boy had joined the Navy the day after Pearl Harbor. Matthew had waited for some derogatory comment about the Japanese, but it was like the man hadn’t noticed Matthew’s ethnicity.

When Matthew had come aboard, the man explained that he just needed some muscle. Air had gotten into the diesel engine’s fuel line causing vapor lock. He needed someone to help raise the massive engine from its berth so he could clear the line and change the line’s banjo washers. Using a pulley and thick rope, it took all of their strength to lift the diesel engine. Once it had been raised a couple feet, the man had put two large blocks under it. Now the man lay on his back, covered in grease, filling him in on some internment camp in California.

He, too, had worked on diesels, and he knew the man wouldn’t be under the engine for much longer. It was time. “Got to go topside for a minute,” Matthew told him.

“I hear you. Drank so much coffee this morning, I’m still pissing it out.”

Matthew didn’t know what to say to that, so he just left the engine room. Making his way up to the wheelhouse, he immediately located the ship’s radio. He felt slightly guilty for what he was about to do. A fisherman’s radio was his link to civilization and help if he needed it. But Matthew didn’t want to take a chance that the man would hear another Coast Guard bulletin.

He carefully slid the radio from its cabinet, revealing a tangle of wires. He was just about to grab a handful of wires when he heard, “Please don’t, son.”

Matthew spun around, startled. The fisherman stood just a few feet away wiping his grease-stained face with a rag. “I already heard it.” Matthew froze, not comprehending. “My boy rigged it for me, before he took off.” He carefully wiped his hands on the rag before adding, “Wired an outdoor speaker. He didn’t want me to be topside and not hear the air-raid warnings.”

Matthew just stared at the man. His luck had just run out.

They stared at each other for a full minute. Finally, Matthew spoke. “May I ask you a question?” The man just tilted his head to one side, obviously waiting, so Matthew continued, saying, “How old is he? Your son?”

“I have two. Oldest is twenty-eight. The other twenty-two.”

Matthew nodded, stepping away from the radio. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Or against this country.”

But the man didn’t answer. He just continued to wipe his greasy hands with the rag.

“Sir, all I want is to serve my country. You know as well as I do that if I had been on the evacuation ferry, I’d now be on my way to that town, the one you talked about. Owens Valley.”

“It’s an area, not a town.”

“Whatever,” Matthew retorted. “They’d keep me there. For however long this war’s going to take. But your son, he could join the Navy. Help his country. I want to do the same. That’s my crime.”

The man pondered this for a minute. But he didn’t say anything.

“Are you going to tell them?” Matthew asked, holding his breath.

The man eyed Matthew carefully, still wiping his dirty hands on the rag. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

Matthew became angry. “So, your son, he gets to serve, but I don’t, because of my skin? My eyes? I was born on Bainbridge Island! I know Japanese, I can speak it if I have to, but I don’t understand why they bombed us. I hate them for that. I want to serve. I swear. I’m not some traitor!” He then shut up, surprised at his own anger. The truth was, he had intended to get on the ferry and then properly petition the armed forces to join. But, of course, that plan was no longer possible. That’s what angered him. All his plans were for naught.

“Where you headed?” the fisherman asked.

Matthew was taken aback. He didn’t really know where he could sign up, but he knew he’d first need new identification. And even then he might just be sent to a camp. “I’m not certain,” he answered truthfully.

“Well, I guess Seattle is out.”

Matthew wasn’t sure if the man was just toying with him, but he decided to take a chance. “No, sir, Seattle will be looking for me. They’re probably angry that I got away.”

“If I were you, I’d go south. Down to Monterey.”

“Why?” he asked, surprised. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go all the way to California. Not with the Coast Guard looking for him.

“Navy and Army are close by. You might be able to sell the boat. And it would be far enough that they wouldn’t be looking for you there.”

Matthew mulled this over. Then shook his head. “Don’t have enough fuel. Or food, for that matter.”

This seemed to surprise the fisherman. “You didn’t really plan this, did you?”

Matthew hesitated. “No, sir. It was all last minute.”

The man nodded. “Show you something,” he then said and walked out of the wheelhouse.

Puzzled, Matthew followed the man to the stern of the large vessel. There were several large drums, each marked “diesel.” Matthew looked from the drums to the man, unsure.

“Two of these will be plenty to get you down there,” the man explained.

“I don’t have any money—”

But the man waved him off. “You serve this country, that’s payment enough.”

Matthew was at a loss for words. Then the man chuckled. “Course, food’s your problem. I suggest you try fishing.”

For the first time since they had met, Matthew smiled. “That’s very generous.”

Again, the man waved the thought away. “I know you heard the bulletin just as I did. But you still stopped. You didn’t have to.” He studied Matthew for a minute. “That took courage. Courage our country needs.”

By late afternoon many of the local fishermen were in the harbor, cleaning up their trawlers in preparation for the next day’s outing. As he made his way down the dock, Johnstone eyed three men on a larger vessel as they went about their chores. The detective could tell that they were seasoned pros as they squared the rig with such dexterity that he guessed they had done this same routine every day for many years.

No one noticed him as he walked up the steep gangplank that led to the boat’s deck. Two were on the bow, but he made his way over to a younger man on the stern laying out the fishing net. “Catch much?” Johnstone asked.

The young man didn’t seem to hear. Then he turned, saw Johnstone and a look of surprise crossed his face. Then it was gone. He went about laying out the net with practiced accuracy. Carefully side-stepping the net, Johnstone approached the man.

“Detective Johnstone, Seattle police,” he said as he displayed his badge to the young man.

The man didn’t seem to care. He picked up two corners of the large net and awkwardly walked across the deck before laying the corners down on the other two corners. He then picked up the newly folded corners, held them high, and walked until the net was folded in half again. Keeping out of his way, Johnstone said, “I need some help.”

The man continued to systematically fold the heavy net. “Can’t hear nothing,” said another voice. “Stone deaf.” Johnstone whirled around. This man was quite a bit older with gray hair and a long gray beard. He wore a floppy hat and his clothes were filthy. “Name’s Troy. Troy Davidson,” he said with a smile, offering his right hand.

They shook hands and Johnstone showed Davidson his badge. “Detective Johnstone. Seattle police. I’m just looking for some information.”

“I don’t snitch on my neighbors.”

Johnstone was taken aback for a moment, then smiled. “No, nothing like that. I’m wondering, when you catch your fish, where do you take it?”

“South end,” the man replied as if it was common knowledge.

“South end? In Seattle?”

“The fishery is right there. Closest one, anyway.”

“So, you don’t bring the catch back here? To the island?”

“Now why would I do that?” the man asked, clearly perplexed.

Johnstone kept his patience in check. “People here need fresh fish, don’t they?” He nodded to The Crow’s Nest on the hill overlooking the harbor. “Restaurants. Markets.”