The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  So he wanted to protect her? It was a little late for that. “These are important people.” She shook her head. “You’re so nice, George-san, but this too big fight for you.”

  “You’re telling me someone hurt my sweetheart, and the fight’s too big for me?” His fists came out of his pocket and hung poised, loose but ready, at his hips.

  “George-san—”

  “You know who they are, right? You could point them out in a lineup?”

  “Hai, but—”

  “If you can find these guys, that’s all we need. I’ll talk to Captain Peterson and we bring them in. We’ll make sure they get some good old Yankee justice.”

  “They’ll believe me, George-san? A pan-pan?”

  “Well, look at you. Obviously something happened to you.”

  “They can say it was anyone. They can say it was”—she looked straight in his eyes—“you.”

  “What?” He stared at her and stiffened. “I would never do that.”

  “Hai. But how you prove it, ah?" She gave him a pleading look. “No. George-san. No. Please hear. You don’t know what they do.” The questioning. The detailed reenactments, living through that hour again and again. The scrutiny—maybe very public scrutiny. Which she couldn’t afford. Not that week, with Delham coming. “And how it ends, George-san? I’m shamed enough to die. And they do nothing to those men.”

  She’s a whore. Who’ll believe her?

  Who’ll care?

  Her rapists were right.

  He folded her in his arms, his expression melting. “You’re sure?”

  She relaxed against his chest as a lovely warmth flooded her. “Hai.” As sure as she’d ever been of anything.

  “Absolutely sure? One hundred percent?”

  “Hai. Most men not like you, George-san.”

  “Okay.” He cradled her head against him. “Okay. Have it your way for now. But you ever show me the guy who did this to you, and I swear—I swear to you—I’ll rearrange his orifices.”

  She nuzzled into him, breathing in the smell of damp leather. Was it possible Kimi was right? That he still wanted her? In spite of her marred face. In spite of everything.

  He ran his hand along the curve of her back. “I thought I’d go crazy when you didn’t turn up last night, babe. I didn’t even know where to look for you.”

  A raindrop burst across her cheekbone. He gave her a relieved grin as he wiped it away. He took her elbow and guided her along the block into a doorway’s shelter.

  She leaned against him and toyed with his collar. Drank in the clean, manly scent of his shaving soap, his leather jacket, and the beer on his breath. She riveted her eyes on his. “George-san, you still want to look at rooms? Or—”

  “Yes. I still want that, baby. In fact, let’s put all this behind us. You know that mountain inn you always talk about?”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “The ryokan. Hai.” It was a dream she’d had for years. The Ryokan Montei with its beautiful natural hot springs. Private caverns where couples could take the waters together. Papa-san took her mother there that last summer before he shipped out. Mama-san came back glowing. And Miyako had imagined it ever since.

  He flashed his easy grin. “I think it’s time to plan a little celebration. You and me, some good whiskey, a deck of cards, and that hot spring place you told me about.”

  “Really, George-san?”

  “Why not?”

  The warmth she’d been feeling ebbed. A knot at the base of her stomach took its place. There was the Delham thing.

  “I’m on leave on Sunday.” His grin broadened.

  “Sunday?” Delham’s presentation. “I can’t leave Osaka Sunday. So sorry, George-san.” She groped for an excuse that would flatter his ego. “And I want to look pretty for you. I think I need more time.”

  “I don’t care about that, sweetie.”

  She beamed her brightest smile at him. “When you on leave next time? We go then, ah?”

  “Next Thursday it is, baby.” He checked his watch, then glanced in the direction Bill and his girl had gone. “But I have to go now.”

  What? “You go to the Pearl?”

  “Yes, I have to meet them.”

  Miyako stared at him. Merciful gods. Why?

  “There you go with that look.” He shifted on his feet. “I’ll tell you the truth. I asked Bill to set me up with someone.” He shot her a sidelong look. “You disappeared, you know. With my cash, by the way.”

  “Ah! I have your money, George-san. It’s at home.”

  “That’s a relief.” He pulled her closer. “I’d rather be with you, babe. Honest. But I’ll never live it down if I don’t show this girl a decent time this once. It is New Year’s Eve.”

  A bitter smile wanted to play at her lips, but she smothered it. She had to admit she’d given him some justification.

  She allowed a vision of her rival to form in her mind. Wide eyes. Smooth skin. A plunging neckline and pronounced cleavage. A straight line of white teeth with the slightest Lauren Bacall gap in front. Dwelling on that image made it a bit easier to do what she she had to do next.

  “I understand, George-san. I take care of everything.” She used her softest, throatiest voice. “But the inn, the train, our new apartment. I buy good tickets, so we have the best. It all takes a little, ah, tea money.” Could she make it enough tea money to buy the poison?

  Kamura-san would cover that, surely. This was insurance.

  She went on tiptoes to graze his neck with her lips, breathed into his ear. “I want it to be special. For you.”

  He rolled his eyes, but then he smiled a little. “How much is that gonna run me?”

  “Ten thousand.” She held her breath.

  “Ten thousand?” He took a step back and stared at her. “Ten thousand yen. You know that’s more than a week’s pay?” He whistled. “I have missed you, but that is a chunk of change.”

  She moved to him and coiled his tie in her fingers. “It worth it, I promise.”

  He looked out at the street a little too long. Was he deciding how he would raise the cash? Or whether he should raise the cash? He had to agree to it tonight. She couldn’t count on seeing him again before Sunday.

  He broke into a smile. “You know, you deserve a nice break, after all this. I’ll try. I have some gambling debts I might be able to call in.” He grazed her forehead with his lips.

  Relief welled up. “I need the money to buy the tickets, George-san. Please. Maybe you have it Sunday?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Meet me here? Three o’clock?”

  “Okay.” He gave her a hungry kiss. “Look, I’ll catch up with you then. With the cash for that trip, if I can.”

  She cringed inside. Surely—surely—Kamura-san would come up with the money so she wouldn’t need George-san’s.

  But at that moment, he had to do her one more favor. He had to help her get away. She went up on tiptoes and sought his lips. Lingered there a long moment. Shuddered with practiced ecstasy when his mouth found hers.

  “Whoa, babe.” He cleared his throat. “I—I missed you too.”

  “Oh, George-san,” she said, in her best breathy tone. “I can’t wait for Thursday. The ryokan will be so fun. But...” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Tonight, I need you to do this one thing for me.”

  “What?”

  She looked up at him with her softest smile. “Please take me into the club. I need to leave through the back.”

  “Why, babe?”

  She felt his arms, strong and protective. Saw the concern written on his face.

  I could tell him.

  For an instant, she teetered on the verge of giving him the truth. Imai-san and the brothel and the mountain of debt that was keeping her there. Not to mention the threat of the yakuza.

  No. He’d insist on going to the police. Which might work where he was from, but not here. And police scrutiny was something she didn’t need.

  “I’m
okay, George-san. And you need to find that”—she pinned him with a disapproving glare—“other girl.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. She was a mistake, but one I have to live with, at least for one evening. But seriously, babe, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”

  She laid her fingers across his lips. “I’m okay, George-san.”

  She could handle old Yamada-san.

  11 December 1943, Nanking, China

  601 Days Captive

  Dave sank to the floor with his ear to the door. Feet shuffled by. Meder’s door slammed shut, followed by another cell door farther along the hall.

  Nielsen and Meder were quiet as death in their cells. Thinking about the state Bob was in, and that they might lose him—it made Dave itch to break a Jap face or two. And he knew exactly which ones, but they were out of reach.

  Someday.

  Prayer? That’s what Meder had asked for. Sure, Dave would pray. He’d pray every one of these brutes got the journey to Hades they so richly deserved. But first, he was going to get Meder some medical attention.

  Three guards—from the sound of them—patrolled the corridor. He stood in front of his cell door and yelled as loud as he could, “Hey! Isha for Meder-san.”

  No response.

  He drummed on the door, then hurled himself against it, yelling, “Isha! Meder-san no tame no isha. Kudasai.”

  Boots pounded along the corridor, converging from both directions. He had their attention.

  Someone—perhaps Cyclops—tried to hush him from outside his cell door.

  Nielsen, in the cell on Meder’s other side, took it up as a chant. “Isha. Isha. Isha.” Watt’s baritone, now thinner than in their old days at Eglin Field, joined in too.

  Dave joined the men’s chant. “Isha. Isha.” He backed into the corner farthest from the door and knelt. His cell door swung outward and three of them rushed in, each brandishing a weapon. Aota came first with his long knife held high, still in its scabbard. The second guy, a fellow they’d nicknamed Dim, waved his club. Cyclops followed a half step behind. His palm rested on his club as well.

  “Damare, horyo,” Aota thundered.

  Dave put his hands in the air and repeated the Japanese word for please. “Kudasai, kudasai.”

  They surrounded him, staring. Aota unsheathed his blade. Dim growled something and poised his club behind his shoulder like a slugger at bat.

  They had no power over him. He was past caring what they did to him. “Kudasai.” He gestured in the direction of Bob’s cell. “Isha. Meder-san no tame no isha. Isha.” That moisture around his eyes was back. He bowed to the floor. “Kudasai.”

  “Sumimasen, Aota-san.” Cyclops begged Aota’s indulgence, then spoke a couple more sentences in an obsequious tone.

  Aota’s feet shifted, and Dave looked up. The man was glaring at him, but he’d lowered his weapon. After a long moment, he gave Dave a grave nod. He cocked his head at Dim, who shot a savage kick into Dave’s solar plexus.

  They left him doubled up and groaning. A minute later, a sharp cry pierced the wall from Nielsen’s cell. Then a brief scuffle and a yelp from Watt’s.

  Watt. Watt had developed a ferocious case of dysentery in Kiangwan. The devils had the decency to send some kind of medic then—the sole time the airmen had seen one. He had called on Watt daily and looked genuinely concerned. Watt told them later he gave him injections.

  Watt came around. Why not Meder? Out in the yard, Bob had asked for prayer. Dave figured at least he should try, for whatever weight his prayers might have with the Almighty. He pushed himself to his knees, folded his hands and bowed his head.

  Dear Lord, Bob’s a good man and a true believer in you. And I don’t know what we’d do without him. Please bring him through this alive. He kept at this prayer through the afternoon, putting all the feeling in his heart behind it.

  Daylight was fading when Dave heard a pair of Japanese in Bob’s cell. Dragging sounds, then a low-voiced discussion. He thought Bob mumbled a few words.

  Surely they’d brought the camp doctor. Surely he’d see how sick Bob was.

  Bob, you’re going to make it now.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  12 December 1943, Nanking, China

  602 Days Captive

  The next morning, Cyclops delivered what passed for breakfast. When the eye-slit opened, Dave strode to the door. “How is Bob?” he whispered.

  Cyclops took a furtive glance around before he whispered back. “Don’t know. Medic still here.”

  “He spent the night?” That was a definite first. It had to mean Meder’s condition was desperate.

  Cyclops’ eyebrows bunched with concern behind his thick glasses. “Hai. He good medic. But I think he worried.” He gave Dave a grim nod and moved on.

  Dave slouched at his desk and stared at the featureless wall. He tried to keep his thoughts focused on Meder, but inevitably, his mind drifted into a state of delirium that had become increasingly real to him. The room faded.

  Mom. Clear as day. She paraded before him, beaming, with a heaping platter of fragrant turkey. Her hair carefully coifed, a new lavender dress—it was Thanksgiving, and he was home.

  Home. Dad at the head of the dining-room table. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the bay window, making lace and china gleam.

  Eileen followed Mom with steaming stuffing and green-bean casserole. The works.

  He saw himself lifting the fork. He knew it wasn’t real, but it felt real. And it sure beat any reality he had.

  A sharp thud shredded his reverie.

  Sweetheart. Mom. Come back. And he was forced to confront his dismal cell.

  The ladies, the turkey, gone.

  Another thud. What the—what is that dang noise? How was a fellow supposed to think?

  The racket went on with annoying persistence. He’d heard something like it before—long ago, in a different lifetime. His clouded brain worked to dredge it up.

  He finally placed the noise. Hammering. They were building something.

  The hammering went on for a while. Reverberating through the building, shattering his thoughts. What in blazes were the ghouls up to?

  They sure weren’t crafting furniture for his cell.

  He paced the room. The floor swayed like Hornet on the open ocean, but he had too much nervous energy to sit still.

  A scaffold? Nah. The Japs wouldn’t hang a man. Not enough blood.

  A row of big stakes for a firing-squad execution?

  Maybe.

  A brooding sky produced gusts of soggy snow that drizzled streaks down Dave’s grimy window. The close weather made him feel even more socked in than usual. He spent the morning pacing like a caged lion until his legs wouldn’t hold him up, then sinking onto his chair to agonize.

  It was well after lunch before a guard swung his cell door open. It was Cyclops—and one glance at his face sent black bands of dread coiling around Dave’s heart.

  Cyclops inclined his head in something that was almost a bow. “Derham-san. Prease come outside.”

  Dave took halting steps along the corridor and out the cellblock doors.

  A large pine box rested on the frost-hardened earth in the center of the yard.

  No.

  He took a slow step toward it. Another.

  No. No, no, no.

  He covered the last few feet at a run, stared into the box.

  Meder—or all that was left of him. Irretrievably dead.

  Dave dropped to his knees, eyes fixed on what lay in the coffin. The broad shoulders that towed a fellow airman across miles of tossing sea. The eager intellect that challenged them in prison. The unrelenting heart that spurred them on.

  Nothing left of any of that but a cold corpse. Not even twenty-seven years old, and his life gone like a mist.

  All his faith? All his philosophy? Dead along with him.

  The pine box Meder lay in was the biggest piece of kindness the Japanese guards ever showed him.

  What kind of miserabl
e human beings were these people? How could a man stuff another man in a cage and stand back and watch him starve? A decent man wouldn’t treat an animal that way.

  Dave’s breath came faster. Braxton, Smith, Hallmark, Meder. I suppose they think they can keep on killing us, one by one. And no one knows we’re here, so no one is the wiser.

  He slammed both fists into the sodden earth. He pushed to his feet, turned to face the guards behind him, and yelled outright. “No! You sick bunch of murderers. Meder was—”

  That was all he got out before they swarmed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Friday, December 31, 1948

  Osaka, Japan

  Miyako kept up a vivacious stream of talk as George-san walked her into the club. The mountain resort and its charms. The natural hot springs. The private caverns. Housekeeping details she made up as she went, but that were sure to be expensive.

  She glanced over her shoulder a few times. She expected Yamada-san would follow at a discrete distance, but she didn’t see her. The key would be to slip through the club and out the rear door before the older, stouter woman could.

  She giggled up at George-san, doing her best to act like it was a game, and led him as fast as she could through the jostling shoulders in the bar area.

  Yamada-san didn’t appear. She must have gotten held up by the traffic light before she could cross the street.

  There was a rear door at the end of the narrow hall that led past the bathrooms. A line of women clustered there, waiting. She pressed through them, George-san following.

  He held the door open for her. “Don’t say I don’t take you to the nicest places.”

  They passed into the alley. She stepped over a broken beer bottle. “They’re all nice, with you.” Still no sign of Yamada-san. She tried to exhale away her tension.

  He took her arm. “Let me walk you to the station. It’s on my way.”

  Anywhere would do, as long as it put distance between her and Yamada-san. “Domo arigato, George-san.”

  Four long city blocks stretched between them and Namba Station. Miyako had to scurry to keep up with George-san’s strides, but she was happy to do it. This would put her Yamada-san problems behind her. She kept a sharp eye out, but Imai-san’s lieutenant made no appearance.