Dave raged inside. This can’t end now. Not like this. Impotent on the floor. He hadn’t felt this defeated since the night Chen died. He’d been living with those regrets for years.
One last effort. He took a deep breath and drove a knee up into the Jap’s backside. Twisted toward the knife. Aota reared back and slugged him on the side of the head. Dim delivered a savage kick to his ribs, then another. Aota settled on top of his legs again. The other two had his arms.
“You finally found fight, ah?” Aota tipped his chin toward the nail. “Too bad your weapon so small thing.” His face twisted into a malevolent sneer. “I kill you, horyo. But not today.”
Aota’s next punch was the last thing Dave knew.
Thirst. A wide, blazing desert of thirst.
Pain. Head thudding. Wrist throbbing. And Dave’s chest—right side burning. Severe constriction when he breathed.
Something had a vise grip on his torso. With his arms bound tight against his side, he squirmed to make space for his lungs to work. Nothing gave.
Feral panic mounted. Have to breathe. Even if each breath turned his brutalized ribs into a smoldering firepot of pain.
Dull gray light stabbed through his eyelids. He opened his eyes to a slit and took stock. He was in his cell, crumpled on the floor. Wrapped tight as a mummy in sturdy white canvas—a straitjacket. That’s why he couldn’t breathe. Straitjacket too tight. The animal panic subsided. He just had to take shallow breaths.
What? Why?
Memory returned in a lightning strike. He groaned.
Failed. Defeated. Again.
Considering his situation made his gut go liquid. These fiends were inventive. The penalty for what he’d done would be severe. Well, that was that. Someone had to stand up to the school bully like a man—and pay the price.
Another breath. Another jolt of agony. He rolled onto his back. Tried to sit but couldn’t. A moan escaped him.
The eye-slot slid open. The bolt on the door shot back. The door swung out into the corridor. Aota and Dim strolled in, stood over him, Aota with his trademark smirk. “Ah. You awake, horyo. Very good.”
He swallowed, wordless.
They rolled him over onto his chest. Someone’s full weight landed on his thighs. Something jerked at the back of his straitjacket.
He gasped at the sudden pain. One of the thugs was sitting on him, tightening the straps. He was certain his ribcage couldn’t compress any farther, but somehow—eighth inch by eighth inch—it did. If his ribs weren’t cracked from the beating they’d given him, they were now. It took everything he had not to let loose a shriek.
He wheezed. Got a tiny swallow of air through the burning pain in his side. Wheezed again. Another tiny swallow. Each individual breath came with excruciating effort.
It was drowning without water. His head throbbed, brain cells crying for oxygen. He felt his eyes bug and his nostrils compress. He couldn’t form a coherent thought, except about his need for air. He gasped and writhed in an agonized battle for life. Opened his mouth to scream but he had no breath. Nothing came out but a raspy squawk.
His desperate fight for air pitched him onto his side, then his back. The pair of demons in yellow flesh stood over him, watching. Aota wore the same sadistic little grin he’d worn after he slugged Watt. Dim—a study in clinical disinterest—pulled out a stopwatch and started it ticking.
Dave thrashed and strained, drifting from pain to numbness and on to detachment. His body no longer felt like his own. In fact, whatever it was that was him lifted away from his body—peeled up like a Band-Aid. He found himself observing the scene from a point near the ceiling, watching with vague interest as Dim and Aota loomed over a twisting figure on the floor.
His focus drifted around the room. His desk below him—the size of a kid’s toy furniture. The Bible lay on it, a silver-embossed cross glinting on its cover.
The cross. Did it feel like this? Lifted above the action, watching them kill you?
Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.
But this was different. That slant-eyed buzzard with his stopwatch. That twin set of smirks. Those two Japs knew exactly what they were doing.
The words repeated in his mind. Insistent. They know not what they do. Realization came. They included him—the agonized figure writhing down there. This was about him.
Forgiveness for what? But he already knew. Up in Payback. Roaring props. Avgas fumes. Watt’s sweat-slicked face reflecting the instruments’ green glow.
“Who made you Sky God?”
I made the best call I could.
Braxton. Smith. Chen. Chen’s father. All dead because of his pig-headed “best call.”
But I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know.
The strait-jacketed lump on the floor—his body—gave one more anemic jerk, then lay still. Very still. Was this it, then? Was this what it came down to?
His body was a container. He’d spent his entire life taking care of it, but now it didn’t matter much. They’d broken it and his soul had seeped out. He was deathly afraid for his soul. Maybe he wasn’t guilty of deliberate murder or torture like these guys. Maybe he’d mostly been a pain in the butt. Arrogant with his men. Self-centered with his wife—all those liquored-up fights. All the time thinking he was a pretty good guy.
He needed forgiveness.
Somewhere far beneath him, Dim conferred with Aota. They bent over the motionless body. Rolled it onto its belly. Worked at the back of the jacket. The pressure released. Air found the vacuum in his chest. He gasped, then gulped oxygen into lungs red-hot with pain.
They hauled him to his feet, peeled off the jacket. He slumped between them, drinking in air.
Not dead. I’m not dead.
Dim snickered and held out a handkerchief.
He still needed saving. From himself. He needed... Jesus.
Relief flooded the vacuum in his soul. As forcefully as air had rushed into his empty lungs. And then another sensation—something new. An overwhelming sense of being known through and through, yet unequivocally loved.
He basked in the feeling for a long moment.
He wanted to take the handkerchief and wipe the sweat and spit off his face. But he couldn’t raise either arm. He turned and stared Aota in the face, looked past the owlish glasses and the slanted eyes and the malevolent grin. Into the soul that had only been taught that might makes right. He had to wait until he could form words before he said it.
“I forgive you.”
“Ah?” Aota glared at him for a long moment. His brows drew together as he tried to understand.
Dave slumped against the wall. Slid onto the floor. “I forgive you.”
Aota shrugged and curled his lip. He stalked from the cell. Dim trailed him, slamming the heavy door behind them.
Dave took another shuddering breath and looked around. Same nine-by-four cell. Same pile of ragged blankets. Same filthy, stinking benjo. Same racking pain in his guts. Same stuttering heart. Nothing had changed in his circumstances. But something hard to define had changed in him.
He was still in solitary, but he wasn’t alone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Saturday, January 1, 1949
Osaka, Japan
Miyako didn’t have money for the subway. The walk to Kamura-san’s restaurant took an hour. Skirting puddles and piles of rubble, she stayed away from main streets and kept a sharp eye out for yakuza predators.
A cross-street brought her past the entrance to the narrow alley that led to the old Hozen-ji temple. Rain dripped onto broken fragments of ancient, mossy flagstone. The warm, spicy fragrance of sweet red bean soup hung on the damp air.
She picked up her pace, her chest feeling tight. The smell of that soup always took her back to the morning she’d lost Hiro-chan. To the dappled light under the cherry tree. To that last moment of innocence before she heard the first bomber.
Delham’s bomber.
She walked on. Her blistered feet took turns radiating p
ain after the long walk, but her tension lifted a little. She nourished the thought of breakfast and a few sips of green tea to warm her. Kamura-san would do that much for her—and, she hoped, a great deal more. Perhaps even a warm place to hide.
The entrance to the Usukitsu restaurant stood on a broad, fashionable street. She pictured the paneled dining room with its crisp tablecloths and sparkling china. She glanced at her own damp coat and battered shoes. She’d slept under that coat. Crawled through a garden in those shoes. Knocked a gangster cold in that outfit.
Maybe the kitchen entrance would be best.
She trudged around the row of buildings and turned into the alley behind them. She knocked on the kitchen door and called out a greeting. A boy cracked it open.
“We don’t have anything for beggars now.” He started to swing the door closed.
“Wait.” She put her hand on the door. “Could I speak with Kamura-san, please?”
He looked blank, but he admitted her. “Grandfather, there’s a woman here to see you.”
She whisked off her grimy coat. The sound of chopping and the savory fragrance of toasted onions filled the air. She breathed in a mouth-watering whiff, then kicked off her soggy shoes and lined them up next to a few other pairs at the door. She wriggled her toes, soaking in the room’s warmth.
Kamura-san sat at a small table at the far side of the kitchen, his back to the door. He set an abacus down on a ledger book and turned toward her.
His mouth gaped. “Matsuura-san. What are you doing here?”
She gave him a deep bow. “Please forgive me, Kamura-san. I, ah, I guess I’m a few days late.”
He hurried over, shaking his head. “You can’t be here.”
“Why not?”
He grabbed a large umbrella from the coatrack and opened the door she’d walked in only a moment ago. Cold, damp air hit her face, seeming to shrivel her soul.
“I’m sorry, Matsuura-san. We’ll talk outside, perhaps?” He took her elbow and steered her to her shoes. She slipped her blistered feet into them and put her coat on. He conducted her out the door into the rain, popping the umbrella open so it sheltered them both.
She looked up at him. “What is it, Kamura-san? What’s wrong?”
Concern creased his face. “You look terrible. What— Never mind.” He took a deep breath. “When you didn’t come last week, I worried. After a few days, I thought I should investigate this thing. I had my son-in-law take me to your apartment. If I didn’t find you, I thought I’d find your father, yes?
“But I found neither of you. Your landlady told me where I could locate Captain Matsuura. I went to the hospital. And he told me everything he’d learned about you.” He pierced her with a look that made her heart plummet. “So now I know it all, child. How my esteemed friend’s daughter has been sustaining herself these years. Lying to her father.” He paused, his mouth taking on a wry twist. “And to me, ah?”
She winced. How many others had she lied to? If only he knew what good company he’s in. “I humbly beg your pardon, Kamura-san.”
“Captain Matsuura is disappointed. I can understand this. But I believe you’re a woman of some worth, in spite of”—his eyes rested on a large stain on her shoulder— “appearances to the contrary. I see something more when I look at you.”
She shook her head. “What, Kamura-san?”
“The poet said it best, perhaps. The plum is not the showiest of flowers, but when you see its red blossom against the winter snow, you won’t soon forget it. Beauty that thrives in adversity is of inestimable value, Matsuura-san. Always remember that.”
“Then the women of Nippon must be the loveliest in the world.” She did her best to keep the irony out of her voice. “And as for me, I’ve got the radiance of the moon, ah?” She bowed to mask her impatience. “Kamura-san, are you able to help me?”
“You saw Tsunada-san?”
“Hai. And the good news is, he agreed to get the poison for me. But the price, Kamura-san...”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand yen. I negotiated him down from thirteen.”
“Ten thousand.” He shook his head. “I guess that’s not a complete surprise.” He watched her for a second, biting his lip. “So you’re a baishanfu, yes? Can’t you get an advance?”
“Of course. But not until I start work. And look at me, Kamura-san. Who’s going to pay for me?”
He heaved a sigh. “I see. And this gaijin comes when?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“That’s what I thought.” The next sigh seemed to well up from the depths of his lungs. He studied the ground for a moment, then shifted his gaze to her face. “The problem is my son-in-law. He heard your father’s story too. Unfortunately, he thinks he needs to hear nothing more. If he learns I’ve helped you, things will get very tense around here.”
If he learns. Kamura-san intended to help her secretly, then. “Hai. I see it would be difficult for me to stay around. But please forgive me for asking, what about the money for Tsunada-san?”
He gave her an agonized look. “I don’t have that kind of cash, Matsuura-san. Not that I can get hold of overnight. Ah, if only you’d come to me sooner.”
He couldn’t help her at all? Her mind hummed with disbelief. “Merciful gods. I tried, believe me. This is the soonest I could get here.”
“Forgive me, Matsuura-san. Please forgive me. I pledged I would help you. If I could get to the money, believe me, I would. But as it stands, what can I do, ah?”
The pavement seemed to shrink, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope. A whirring like wasps’ wings rose in her ears. His voice went on, barely audible behind it. “I can spare a few yen from the till. A little won’t be missed. But I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do before Monday.”
A long moment passed before she could look at him. In spite of the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, she gave him another polite bow. “Arigato, Kamura-san. I’m grateful for anything you can do.”
He pushed the umbrella at her and disappeared into the restaurant.
She paced the alley. Rain clattered on the tile roofs and trickled through the drainpipes beside her. She watched it plink onto the wet pavement, puddling in the network of cracks.
He returned and pressed a wad of bills into her hand. “This should take care of a few days’ expenses. I wish I could do more.” He gave her a quick hug, and then a very formal bow. “Destiny has dictated your field of battle. Acquit yourself with honor, Matsuura-san. If you should need anything in the future, I hope I can be of more help.”
She thought she saw his eyes glisten as he slipped through the door, leaving her standing in the alley, as gutted as the rotting fish she smelled. She aimed a kick at a dented can.
What about the plum that blooms in rubbish? Is that one special, too?
The last time she’d been here, Kamura-san had advised her to get two things—training and poison. A week had passed, and she had neither. How could she have let this happen?
Everything now rested on George-san. As much as she’d hoped it would not.
20 August 1945, Peking, China
1219 Days Captive
Things felt different at the prison. Kind of eerily different. And they had for several days.
The guards seldom came around. Exercise periods had stopped, and the books were gone. Dave’s thoughts drifted in thick, morose clouds, like the smoke he’d seen billowing outside a few days earlier, black as an octopus’s ink. With bits of burnt paper floating in it.
The Japs knew something they weren’t talking about. He felt it in his gut. The war was winding down. That was why they’d stopped their rounds and why they were burning papers—reams of papers. They’d gotten orders to destroy evidence.
It was a good thing Dave had memorized portions of the Bible. Bits of it floated through his delirium and depression like that paper floated through the smoke—the only thing that anchored him.
Faith as a grain of mustard seed. It
took effort, but he gathered all the energy he had left and mouthed the words to that verse. “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed...nothing shall be impossible unto you.”
Nothing impossible? For Dave to make it home alive seemed impossible. Home, where bellies were full and chairs were soft and people actually cared about you. Humanly speaking, he’d never see it.
Faith as a grain of mustard seed. He didn’t know much about seeds, but Jesus said a mustard seed was less than all seeds, so it had to be pretty small. Surely even Dave Delham could pull that much faith together. And he had a mountain that needed shifting.
Pray, then. The words impressed themselves on his mind. A command issued by something that was almost, but not quite, a voice. He turned to face the door and sank to his knees. That was against the current set of rules, but if the guards beat him, they beat him. This was life and death. And come hell or high water, he wasn’t getting up until this mountain moved.
The stifling August heat made him woozy. Still, he prayed.
The mat ground into his bony knees and shins. Chafed on his boils. Still, he prayed.
His hips and knees ached, and his thigh muscles throbbed. Still, he stayed on the floor, praying that he and his buddies would live to see freedom. All four of them.
Boots tromped in the corridor. Dave flinched, his mind flashing to the feel of those boots striking his kidneys. Do I fear God? Or do I fear the guards? He stayed on his knees.
The cell door creaked open. He cringed in spite of himself.
The guard didn’t come in. Didn’t brandish a club or a fist. Instead, he stood in the corridor and bowed. “Kocchi ni kite, kudasai.”
What in the world?
He heard another guard at Nielsen’s door, repeating the same words. He pushed himself onto legs that wobbled like a young foal’s and made his way out of his cell.
Watt joined the two of them in the corridor. Vitty came a moment later, draped over a Jap’s shoulder. The guard had to prop him against a wall.
The prisoners looked at the Japs, then at each other, faces creased with suspicion. Dave noticed Watt’s knees go soft and his hands ball into fists and realized his own had done the same.
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 28