The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  And what would he find on the ground? If Vitiollo was right, the odds they’d made it to free China were pretty long.

  He wasn’t a praying man, but it was almost a temptation.

  The black clouds beneath him parted to reveal an even blacker rift. Small, but coming up fast. He barely had time to wonder what it was before he slammed into the ground.

  With bone-splitting impact.

  Chapter Five

  Friday, December 24, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Discretion told Miyako it would be best to look for Kamura-san late in the evening, after the dinner crowd left. But she couldn’t make herself wait that long. With men that age, who could tell? If his health was deteriorating like Papa-san’s, he’d be home in bed long before she got there.

  Delham would be in Osaka in nine days. She couldn’t risk letting a whole day escape before she learned how Kamura-san would help her.

  She walked into Usukitsu, Kamura-san’s family restaurant, around three in the afternoon. The polished mahogany hostess desk stood empty. Only two patrons lingered in the dining room—a pair of ladies bent over china teacups near the front window.

  A slender girl sat at a table in the back, folding a pile of napkins. The girl invited Miyako to take a seat. She disappeared through the curtains that graced the kitchen entrance. After what seemed like half an hour but was only five minutes by her watch, Papa-san’s old friend, Kamura-san, appeared. His face creased in a smile. “Matsuura-san. I’m happy to see you.”

  She stood and gave him a deep bow. “I’m delighted to see you.”

  He bowed back. His hair had grayed a bit since she’d seen him last, and he looked less distinguished in a kitchen apron. But he still moved with subtle power, wiry muscles rippling beneath his sleeves.

  “How is your father, ah?”

  “Not so well. Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Hmm. Not so easy in the middle of the day. Perhaps in the alley. You’ll want your coat.”

  She slipped it on and followed him through the cramped kitchen and out the back door. Pungent odors of rotting seafood and cabbage mingled in the air. Thin December sunlight made it to a few second-story windows but didn’t penetrate to the pavement where they stood. She shivered and buttoned her coat to the collar.

  He closed the door behind them. “Please forgive me. But if you want privacy, I’m afraid this is the best I can offer. Now, how fares my old friend, Captain Matsuura?”

  Her eyes dropped to the broken pavement. Some kind of liquid pooled in a rut, streaked with an iridescent grease rainbow. “He suffers so much with the pneumonia. The doctor told me, with penicillin...” She looked at him. “I can’t get it. I’ve tried everything.”

  “Ah. This thing is difficult. Very difficult.”

  “I’m not asking you to take on that burden, Kamura-san. But Papa-san did send me with a request.”

  “What could be more important than medicine for a dying man?”

  She lowered her voice. “The final wish of a dying man. His wish for honor.”

  “Honor.” He spat onto the pavement. “As it goes for your father, so it goes for the nation. Who among us has any honor left?”

  “I have a chance to restore his. Ours. But I need your help, Kamura-san.”

  “You do?” He gave her a sharp look. “I’m listening.”

  She told him about Delham and his appearance in Osaka. “This gaijin war criminal took Hiro-chan’s life. Yet he’s a free man now. Talking to crowds. Coming and going as he pleases. How can Papa-san bear his shame? How can I bear it?”

  He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly, studying her through narrowed eyes. “What do you propose to do?”

  “What can I do? I’ll kill him with my own hands or die trying.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. “This is certainly what my old friend Matsuura Saburo would want,” he ventured at last. “But is it what Matsuura Miyako wants?”

  “Hai.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as the June rains.” She stood straight as bamboo. “I want what Papa-san wants, of course. My name is Matsuura, yes?”

  He sighed and gave her a grim nod. “So be it.” He dropped into a formal bow. “It is my honor to provide the daughter of Matsuura Saburo with what little help I can.”

  She bowed, pulse quickening with a mixture of triumph and relief. Kamura-san would be a worthy ally. “Domo arigato, Kamura-san. You are a true and faithful friend to our family. There is a matter you can help with now.”

  “What?”

  She swallowed hard. “I know when and where I can find Delham. Apart from that, I don’t have”—she found this hard to admit out loud—“a plan.”

  “And no skills?”

  Her voice dripped with irony. “No skills in bushido, no.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Nine days.”

  “Nine days? Ah, I can teach you a trick or two, young woman, but bushido requires work and study. I can hardly make you a master in nine days.” He bowed his head in what looked like pained thought. “He’s a man, and a soldier. And they will have guards. How do we do this?”

  “I must find a way. And if I die for it, I die well.”

  A beat passed before he looked up at her. “Poison. Fugu. You will purchase it in a concentrated form and apply it to the blade. A mere scratch will kill him.”

  “But is that honorable?” The unsavory story of Takahashi Oden, who’d poisoned her invalid husband, sprang to mind.

  He frowned. “You want to risk prison and death for nothing? Your exalted ancestor Matsuura Takanobu didn’t become a legendary daimyo by going into battle without a strategy to succeed, did he?”

  “It’s true.” She bowed her deepest asking-a-favor bow. “You serve fugu here, don’t you? Perhaps—”

  “Could I find you some discards? That would be more difficult than you imagine.”

  By more difficult, she knew he meant no. She stared at him, waiting to see what rationale he could possibly offer.

  He cocked his head toward the restaurant. “Come back in, child. I can show you a few things.”

  They stepped inside. They had the kitchen to themselves. Kamura-san gestured toward a glistening steel counter. “Only parts of the fish are poisonous. The skin, certain organs. Our master chef, Nogumi-san, removes them himself. Always with gloves, and always right here. You remember that poisoning incident with the beggar last August, yes?”

  “Hai.”

  “So, there are new requirements. Now Nogumi-san must discard the poisonous parts here.” He gestured to a covered steel bucket under the counter. Soot caked its rim. “And he himself watches while we burn them each night.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Now you see. Could I sneak out one night with a bit of skin or a liver for you? It would be, as I said, more difficult than you imagine. But difficulty isn’t my only concern.”

  “What else, Kamura-san?”

  “Two very real problems, child. First, understand that Nogumi-san is a specialist. Without his training, you’re more likely to kill yourself handling the fish than someone else, ah? Second, each fish has a different concentration of poison. It would be very hard for you to prepare it in a way that would guarantee the gaijin’s death. So, Matsuura-san, if it’s poison you want, I regret to tell you I see only one way.” He fixed his eyes on hers. “You must go to the yakuza.”

  “The yakuza?” Her pulse mounted, and the familiar tight feeling gripped her ribcage. “Those goons have certainly never done me any favors. And I know I can’t afford what they’ll extort for it.”

  “No, it won’t come cheaply. But, if you make the right connection, you can buy a prepared extract. Safer for you to handle and guaranteed to kill.”

  She couldn’t say it, but every thread of her being shrank from the prospect of dealing with the gangs. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”

  “I’m convinced
this is the best way. And there is one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Think about this death, Matsuura-san. To remain conscious but unable to move. Unable to speak. To feel muscles lock, slowly until you stop breathing.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You know some have been buried alive. They lay so still everyone believed them dead. This pilot deserves such a death?”

  She pictured her father, gradually losing his own capacity to breathe. “Hai, Kamura-san.”

  “You feel this to your very core, ah? One must live without regrets.”

  “Hai. To my core.”

  Saturday 18 April 1942

  Jiangxi Province, China

  Moist earth pressed into the side of Dave’s face. The odor of damp soil and rotten vegetation filled his nose.

  Did he have to open his eyes? It was so much work. He’d rest just a moment longer.

  Something cold and wet burst on his eyelid. He blinked a frigid drop of water away. A second raindrop spattered his cheek.

  Awareness grew, and with it, pain. His head throbbed. His ears rang. His body ached in too many places to name.

  Passed out. How long had he been here? Seconds? Hours? It was pitch dark.

  Images flooded back. Flames licking tile roofs. Watt’s face. Vitty’s. Arguing over the charts. And then that crazy plunge into the storm.

  A sense of wonder filled him. He was still in one piece.

  But Payback was lost. His gut did a slow churn. His proud war bird, crumpled and smoldering in a hole somewhere miles away. And he was on his own, on a cold wet hillside who knew where.

  He groaned and rolled onto his side. Legs, right arm responded. But when he tried to push up with his left arm, pain speared his shoulder. He cried out in surprise.

  Something’s very wrong there.

  He rolled—carefully this time—onto his right side and probed the sore shoulder. It took only a slight touch to send white-hot daggers shooting along every nerve. He gritted his teeth and explored gently. There was an unmistakable bulge at the front of his shoulder. His arm hung immobile.

  Dang. What’d I do?

  He sat up. Except for that arm, everything moved like normal, more or less. He ached all over, and his head felt like it was in a vice.

  It could be worse. Now get a move on.

  The shroud lines twisted around his bad arm, across his back and over his shoulders. He tried to untangle himself, but his one-handed efforts accomplished nothing, except to snarl things up even more and send darts of pain that made him gasp.

  A fly in a web.

  He’d have to cut himself loose. Getting to his knife and flashlight was an awkward process that involved a little twisting and a lot of pain, but he found them. And, to his profound relief, two intact bottles of rye. That would help, anyway.

  It was likely to be a couple of days before he found his way to civilization. He patted the breast pocket where he’d stowed one of the bottles. How long are you two bad boys going to last me?

  He moistened his lips with anticipation. Once he got himself situated, he’d throw back a swig or two. But the rest might have to last him a while.

  The crickets and frogs had a regular big-band concert going. This unknown world suddenly felt very large. And he felt small and exposed.

  Japs. If Vitty was right, they’d be somewhere nearby.

  One of his frat brothers had been a journalism major who subscribed to Life magazine. One month they ran a photo spread of the action in China. Pete had shown it around, and an image left an impression Dave couldn’t erase.

  The camera captured a Japanese soldier at the apex of a forceful lunge, the length of his bayonet buried in a Chinese prisoner’s ribcage. A second soldier pricked at a helpless prisoner. The caption explained he was prodding him into position for his final thrust. The victim lay curled up in an effort to protect his torso, but it was clear how the scene was going to end.

  There’d been talk in the barracks at Eglin Field too. Grisly reports from Manila. American civilians herded, penned, tossed meals like dogs. Philippine “offenders” lashed to street lamps. Mere children, some of them. Bayoneted, beaten to death for slight infractions.

  And from Hong Kong. Wounded British soldiers run through in their hospital beds.

  Japanese soldiers were demons, not men. Capture would be a ticket to hell.

  He’d been so sure of himself on Payback. Thousands of feet above it all, encased in aluminum. But things looked different on the ground. No plane, no crew, no machine guns, and a useless arm. And in bayonet range.

  He shivered from more than the cold.

  His men were around somewhere, trying to figure out how to avoid becoming shish kebabs. He reached for his Colt. He’d fire a round, see if any of them responded.

  Stupid idea. Too much risk of the wrong kind of attention.

  Find a hidden spot to wait for daylight. Or was it better to travel by night?

  Ha! Travel where? To move by night, he’d have to know where he was going.

  The math he’d done on Payback came to his mind. His men were scattered miles away, somewhere to the east.

  His arm would need a sling. At least he had a ready supply of silk. It took several minutes to cut himself free, follow the cords to the ’chute, and produce a crude sling. He was ready to move out.

  Time for a little recon work.

  His flashlight presented the same problem as his pistol—it could draw the wrong kind of attention. But he couldn’t see a thing in the velvety darkness. He flicked the flashlight on and trained it around.

  The beam seemed to soak into the drizzle, limiting visibility to less than twenty feet. He could make out a gentle slope cleared of trees, but clumps of soggy vegetation masked the landscape. A series of hedges crossed the grass. He played the light up and down the closest one.

  “Hedge” wasn’t the right word. A row of stone slabs. About three feet tall with arched tops.

  An owl hooted its loneliness in the distance. A rustling sound at his feet made him jolt. He caught his breath, took a small jog-step back—sending a fresh wave of pain shooting down his arm and along his shoulder blade—and pointed the beam at the noise.

  A flash of motion. A rat skittered into a tuft of grass beside one of the slabs.

  He exhaled his relief. Don’t be a girl.

  He switched off the flashlight and stood still, listening for any other signs of life. Nothing. He flicked the beam on, directing it at the ground three feet in front of him.

  His relief faded.

  The light revealed the base of a stone slab. A cove in its face housed a collection of small items weighted in place with stones. Chinese characters crisscrossed it.

  A grave marker. Different from the ones back home, but recognizable. He’d landed in a cemetery. Probably buried his face in some poor Chinaman’s fresh plot.

  He took an immediate step to the side as adrenaline jolted him once more. He’d been standing on a low mound. Both feet on a grave.

  He stared around for a moment, barely breathing, ears tuned to the night noises. He wasn’t much for superstitions or omens or nonsense like that. But there was something about a graveyard at night that put a man’s nerves on edge.

  He had to fight a sinking sense that this wasn’t mere chance. This Chinese adventure could be fated to end the way it had begun—in front of a gravestone.

  Chapter Six

  Friday, December 24, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Kamura-san sent Miyako home with two cartons of hearty fish stew, with rice and a pair of fragrant persimmons for dessert. She felt rich as a baroness carrying this bounty to Papa-san.

  She slipped off her shoes in the hall outside their room and slid the shoji open. “Papa-san, I saw Kamura-san. And I’ve got another treat.”

  No reply. Papa-san lay on his futon, very still. She put down her bags and dropped to her knees beside him. There was a yellow pallor to his skin, a blue tinge around his lips she hadn’t seen before.


  She shook his shoulder. “Papa-san?”

  His only response was that wheeze.

  She shook harder. Nothing.

  “Papa-san!” She suppressed her rising panic. She cupped his face in one hand, slapped him gently with the other.

  No response. She tried again. Same outcome.

  Fear choked her. What was the quickest way to get a doctor?

  She had to think. Dash out to a phone, call Dr. Furuta’s office, try to get him here on a house call? It’d take too long.

  What about the hospital? She snatched a tin from the cupboard and rifled through her yen. There might be enough of her own money there for the taxi and a payment that would get him seen.

  And after that? She pushed away any thought about how they’d get by if he needed to stay there. Or how she’d pay the rent after the hospital got their share of what was in that tin.

  She stopped long enough to bow twice to the family altar, then pelted along the corridor. Hammered at the Tanakas’ door, entreating her ancestors she’d find them home.

  The door slid open and Tanaka-san appeared. Miyako gave her a hasty bow, relief coursing through her. “I am so sorry to trouble you, but I can’t wake Papa-san. I need to get him to the hospital right away.”

  The lady’s eyes went wide with concern. “Of course.” Thanks to all the deities, Miyako had always been able to count on Tanaka-san’s good heart.

  Tanaka-san called to her son kneeling behind her at the table. “Ki-kun! Take your father’s bike and go for a taxi.”

  The boy stared at her.

  “Hurry. Go!” She gestured Miyako into the room. “Excuse me.” She bobbed a bow and disappeared behind a shoji partition. Miyako heard the hum of urgent voices, and Tanaka-san emerged less than a minute later with her husband, worry etching furrows across his forehead.

  Miyako dashed to her room, the older couple following. The three of them worked together to hoist Papa-san onto Tanaka-san’s husband’s shoulder. Papa-san moaned. His eyes drifted open, but only for a moment.