“Come on, Boxie. Talk to us.”
A bass monotone came metronomiocally from the box. “It was driving in the rain and it saw its waiting on the porch and it let its in because its had a gun but then the it with a broken eye began to move towards it and it screamed and it screamed and it said everything it ever knew and then they cut it up and rolled it into a blanket and took it away.”
I exchanged glances with Harvey. It didn’t take a brain scientist to figure this one out.
“Do you have names, Boxie? Do you know names, Mr. Crocket?”
“It was driving in the rain and it saw its waiting on the porch and it let its in because its had a gun but then the it with a broken eye began to move towards it and it screamed and it screamed…”
“Clean, rinse, repeat.” Harvey shook his head. “Standard recluse run-on.”
Jakes stood beside him. “Is that all there is?”
“Recluse have a way about them. They don’t even use any personal pronouns. They refer to everything as an it. When it says its it really means them.”
I stepped over and kicked the box. “We need more, Crocket.”
“… it went to a party where it had many naked its who served drinks to it but it wouldn’t talk even when it got drunk because it is a loyal it and it went to a party where it had many naked its who served drinks to…”
They tried for several more minutes, but other than the two stream of consciousness memories, there seemed to be nothing else.
I sighed heavily. We barely knew more than we knew this morning. Maybe with it all together we could make some sense of it. “What do we know, Nancy?”
“Adams and Crocket are scientists who are working on a top secret government missile project for Lawrence Livermore Labs. They recently traveled to Japan for a conference. Within weeks of their return, each dies at the hands of a creature with a broken eye, one we believe to be an satori. Additionally, Crocket recently attended a party where drinks were served by naked women.”
Jakes laughed hollowly. “This is San Francisco. I can’t toss a dead Chinaman without hitting a place where drinks can be served naked.”
I gave Jakes a look meant to convey that his words weren’t appropriate but he wasn’t paying attention. “He’s right,” I said finally. “Can we trace Crocket’s steps in the last two weeks?”
Nancy nodded. “We can do that, but we might not have to.”
I gave him a look of surprise. “What did you find?”
He produced a card and I took it. On one side it had a stylized calligraphy-painted Japanese butterfly. On the other was Japanese lettering.
“What is it?”
“An invitation to a party corresponding to when they were in Japan. This particular invitation is from Countess Mizuki.”
My heart stilled. “Haven’t heard that name in an age.”
Nancy nodded. “We thought she was dead.”
“That was Colonel Hermann’s operation ten years ago. Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he didn’t lie.”
“Remember what the purpose of the mission was?”
I scratched my head. “Wasn’t there something about a geisha house-vampire hive?”
“Exactly.”
“I think I need to contact Colonel Hermann. Harvey, take Jakes with you tomorrow and see if any other coworkers have interacted with Countess Mizuki. Nancy, I want a dossier on her, and make sure to include her pattern of movement.”
“What are you going to do?” Harvey asked.
“Talk to the Russian again.”
SAN FRANCISCO
CORONA HEIGHTS PARK
JULY 18, 1969. NEAR MIDNIGHT
I didn’t like the way we’d left it. His disclosure of the satoris had certainly freaked him out, leaving him acting more like one of the hippies tripping on Haight than a hundred and fifty year old Russian. The fact that he’d been so scared actually scared me. I couldn’t remember a time when the Russian had been scared. And why should he be? He’d been cursed to live forever.
The introduction of Countess Mizuki into the mix gave it a definitive Russian connection. I didn’t know a lot about her – after all she was supposed to have been ancient history – but I did know she was the daughter of an exiled Russian count and his Japanese geisha wife. Although her father and his father before him had been firmly Tsarists, she’d been linked to several Soviet operations, providing them instrumental support through her geisha vampires.
The Russian had to know something to help.
I parked at the base of the hill and began picking my way up the path we’d taken earlier in the day. The lights of the Castro Neighborhood blinked below. A cool wind brought the first hints of water-soaked fog. I shivered, pulling my jacket collar closer around my neck.
I heard a shout.
Then a scream.
I jerked my M1911 .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol free of its leather shoulder holster and broke into a run. I tripped several times once I veered off the path, but managed to stay upright.
Another scream. I was close enough to hear the sounds of scuffling and be drawn to it. Two men were fighting each other, while another, dressed in a long fog jacket, looked on.
“Hey! Stop where you are.” I held the gun in the air for them to clearly see.
The man in the long jacket turned towards me. For a moment, I thought it was a woman, long tresses hanging from its head. But then I saw it for what it really was. The tresses were over its face, too.
A satori!
I slowed just as a shot rang out.
One of the figures slumped to the ground.
The air crackled and sizzled. I felt the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise. A slice of blinding white lit the night. Both figures disappeared into it before a great zipping noise, then silence.
I stared for a stunned moment, before I ran to the downed man. It was the Russian. Shot between the eyes. I guess he wasn’t eternal. I suppose he could be killed.
I spun, trying to ascertain if I was truly alone. A breeze swirled the approaching fog. A horn came from somewhere out in the bay. At my feet lay a spilled can of caviar and half a bottle of vodka. Three cigarettes lay in an area a little ways off, one still smoldering. The filters were constructed of gold foil, telling me immediately of their origin – Sobrainie Black Russians made in Ukraine.
I regarded the Russian. I could try and find a spider, perhaps take it with me to the Box Man, but looking at the old face, a face older than any other in the city, much less the state of California, turned me against the idea. I felt it was time to give him some rest. God knows he earned it.
SAN FRANCISCO
JULY 19, 1969. MORNING
I was early into the office, receiving reports from my other agents. A Chinese-American worker had been caught trying to place a statue of a dragon inside a wall of the twentieth floor of the TransAmerica Pyramid. We couldn’t be sure what it was, but on the off chance it might be something harmful, we sent it to the Skunk Works for evaluation. I also sent a telegram to D.C. detailing the death of the Russian and the positive identification of an satori at the scene. I mentioned the light and their disappearance. I hoped they could explain it.
Doris informed me that Apollo 11 was out of contact with Earth and was now on the back side of their lunar orbit. This marked the first time an astronaut had ever been completely out of contact and Houston was all pins and needles.
Jakes and Harvey had left earlier for a meeting with the deceased’s co-workers at Lawrence Livermore. Nancy was hard at work, pulling files and adding to the dossier of the countess whom we’d thought dead. Luckily, Colonel Dieter Hermann had retired in the Bay Area, and was due at our offices within the hour. If anyone could shed light on the countess and her activities, he was the one who could do it.
I was working on fitness reports when Hermann stormed into the office. Doris stood to greet him, but he ignored her, glanced around the main room until he saw me sitting at my desk, then marched in my direction.
About seventy and bald, he was still fit and hale. He had the face of a bulldog and the glare of my ex-wife. He wore yellow pants and a white golf shirt.
As he entered my office, I stood. I was prepared to welcome him, but never got the opportunity.
“What the hell is it with you people?”
You people?
He placed his hands behind his back and leaned forward, inspecting the wall behind me and my military memorabilia from previous units.
I stood for several moments, feeling more and more ill at ease in my own office. It was as if I were back at West Point as a plebe and being inspected by a senior cadet. I smiled, but it was lost on him as he continued to rack and stack my place on the military pyramid. Regardless of the fact he was a colonel and I’m a lieutenant colonel, there was a significant event which separated him from me – his retirement. Whatever power he’d wielded before, whatever ability to make people feel small and insignificant he’d used before, it had no bearing on the current situation.
Then why is he making you so nervous? my inner voice asked.
Shut the hell up, I told it.
He finally stood straight and appraised me, his gaze raking my civilian clothes; his nose twitched, signifying his distaste.
“Welcome to Special Unit 77, Colonel Hermann.”
He sighed and sat in one of my chairs. “I’m retired. I keep telling you I’m retired.”
“Me?”
“The War Office. The Pentagon. You know. And they keep calling me.”
I was beginning to feel awkward being the only one standing, so I sat. “They must have a good reason.”
“Where’s your uniform, by the way.” He made a hand gesture. “And what’s up with the long hair.”
First of all, my hair wasn’t long. And secondly, I was getting a little fed up. I waited a moment for my inner voice to pipe up, but it remained silent… which meant consent. It clearly agreed with me. “We have relaxed grooming standards here. No reason to announce that this is a military organization.”
“In my day we would have been proud of that fact.”
“Well, sir, it’s not your day.” And Hannibal has since crossed the Alps.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Clearly. Is that you with that upstart MacArthur?”
I nodded. “It is. I take it you don’t approve of him.”
“General Officers should be commanding men, not looking for photo ops and greasing the hands of politicians.”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying to stay alive.”
“Korea, right?”
I nodded.
“Nothing like World War Two. Now that was a real war.”
My mind’s eye returned to the frozen arms and legs of too many dead marines scattered across the Chosin Reservoir. “No, sir. Nothing like it.” Enough of the dick-measuring chit chat. “We need to discuss your operation against Countess Mizuki.”
He frowned. “That’s what I was told. Why bring up that old op? It’s done and done.”
“Your reports indicated that she perished in a fire. We have reports that she is still alive. I’m trying to examine those two facts and see which is real?”
“Are you challenging my integrity?”
“I’m questioning whether or not her death was verified or assumed.”
He paused and gave me a hard stare. I’m sure had I been a second lieutenant I would have found a sword and committed seppuku. “As I recall, there was a fire. No one could have survived.”
“Did you find her body after the fire was put out?”
He shook his head. “The fire was so hot it consumed everything.”
“Everything?”
He nodded.
“So you can’t actually verify that she was dead.”
“Listen. I shot her, she fell back and knocked over an oil lamp. That was it. The silk screened walls and cedar rooms went up faster than one could believe.”
“Where’d you shoot her?”
His eyes searched mine, but I kept my stare hard and dispassionate. “The chest. Yes, the chest.”
Nancy had come up behind him and stood with a file to his chest. I nodded to him.
“Do we have further evidence?” I asked.
Hermann spun in his seat and looked askance at my Japanese-American officer.
Nancy ignored him and pulled a black and white photo from the file. “We have this photo.”
Before I could look at it, Hermann snatched it away. “Where was this taken?”
“Japan… before your operation.”
Hermann laughed hollowly and handed the picture to me. “You call this evidence? Evidence of what?”
“When was this taken, Gunnery Sergeant Chiba?”
“February 12, 1917.”
Hermann’s eyes widened. “But that’s not possible. She looks the same as she did when… is this some sort of trick?”
“No trick. Did it ever occur to you that Countess Mizuki might be a vampire?”
He sat back and stared. “It had occurred to us, but she was killed by fire. Everyone knows that fire kills vampires.”
I could see the seed of his failure growing in the egotistical mulch of his mind. “But you found no body.” I shook my head and made tsking sounds. I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you for coming in Mr. Hermann. Your service, as always, is appreciated.”
He stood warily. My use of mister went unnoticed.
“What are you going to do?”
“Clean up your mess.”
“My mess?”
Nancy let the final shoe drop, surprising both of us.
“Customs reports that a woman matching her description landed at San Francisco International Airport three weeks ago. She took transit on TWA Flight 23 from Tokyo with an entourage of thirteen women.”
“Yes, your mess. Thanks to your shoddy work we now have a vampire hive to deal with. This, on top of all the other problems we are currently tracking, is going to be a problem. Now if you’ll move along and go back to playing your game with the little white ball, we’ll continue our mission to save America from the fate others would wish her.”
He stared at me, unable to move.
I sat down. Nancy handed me the file and stood next to me as I reviewed the documents. I paid particular attention to the customs form. After a minute or two, Hermann turned and tottered out of the office.
SAN FRANCISCO
JULY 19, 1969
AFTERNOON
We’d found her location with the help of some of the flatfoots. Count on street cops to know their own territories, and an older police sergeant had already noted the disappearance of homeless in his area as well as the opening of a new oriental massage parlor. He didn’t piece them together. Why should he have? But for Nancy and Brahm, it was clear as day. Soon after, I had Marshall and Evans conducting surveillance on the place.
Jakes returned early afternoon. Harvey wasn’t with him. Jakes said Harvey was following down a lead. When asked which one, Jakes explained how they’d discovered one other scientist who’d attended the party at Countess Mizuki’s. He was now under protective custody in a safe house in Marin County. He didn’t have much to add at this point, but verified the existence of Countess Mizuki, as well as her entourage of beautiful women.
What concerned me was what had also concerned Harvey: why hadn’t Rachel Nakamura told us about this third scientist? Surely she’d known about the three of them traveling together. It was as if she was intentionally trying to keep us from getting to the bottom of this. I was eager to hear what Harvey came up with.
I didn’t have long to wait. At three that afternoon, he called in.
“Where have you been?”
“Gilmore.”
“What took you to the Garlic Capital of the World?”
“Ms. Nakamura. Her security clearance paperwork indicated she went to Gilmore High School.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. I even saw her in a copy of the senior year book, as wel
l as a cheerleading photo.”
“So it was a dead end.”
“Not at all. Her clearance paperwork listed her as attending Lyman Gilmore Middle School. Turns out she did. All of the records indicate that she was here, then at Green Grass Elementary before that.”
“Doesn’t sound like you found anything?”
“I wouldn’t have. The paper trail was covered nicely. But whoever put it there couldn’t have counted on me encountering Ms. Magill who rules the front office of the middle school like a queen.”
“I’m listening.”
“Turns out she remembers when young Rachel Nakamura showed up and where she came from.”
“You’re drawing this out for the drama, aren’t you?”
Harvey laughed. “Caught me. Turns out the girl never even went to the elementary school. She arrived at the middle school during the seventh grade year.”
“Why’d she lie?”
“No one would have questioned the paperwork. Who would have actually taken the time to verify it? All the security clearance requires is that she fill in her high school and any colleges she attended. But thanks to Ms. Magill’s excellent memory, we now know that she immigrated to America from the Kuril Islands.”
The Kuril Islands were a string of Islands near Russia that were claimed by both countries. Some belong to Japan and the rest belong to Russia. All of them are heavily Russian influenced. I’d noted when we met that she appeared to be only half-Japanese and half Caucasian. I’d assumed it was American, but could just as easily have been Russian. “What does her paperwork say regarding her citizenship?”
“Says she was born in Los Angeles Memorial Hospital.”
“Did you check?”
“There are records there confirming that.”
I paused. We either go with the memory of an old woman or believe all the physical evidence before us. “What do you want to do?”
“Roll her up.”
I thought about it for a moment, but ultimately agreed. “Okay, but get Jakes to help you.”
SAN FRANCISCO
JULY 19, 1969. LATE AFTERNOON
I spent the rest of the afternoon working with Nancy, running down information about known Russian entities and any relationship they might have with the Kuril Islands. We had boxes and boxes of files and went through each file as fast as we could. It was an eye-straining, back-breaking two hours, but we eventually discovered that a shoemaker living in Pacific Heights had been flagged in 1957 for sending mail by way of Japan to Ekarma Island. The lead came when a Russian drop ship house was busted in Hokkaido in 1957 by Air Force OSI. The mail was read, recorded and translated, then sent on. I held copies of birthday letters the shoemaker sent his wife as well as young daughter. They were simple, filled with love and longing and nurturing a growing through line of regret as the girl grew from the age of three to fifteen. The OSI Detachment tracked the letters for hidden messages. Each letter had a cryptologic analysis attached to it. All read negative. It didn’t mean there weren’t hidden messages, just that none could be found.
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 12