Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  He turned his attention away from the stream bed to the bank where it had been altered to support the bridge span. It only took him seconds to find a stone he hoped would work.

  He ran back to the post, grabbed it with one hand and started pounding on the top attachment. It took only three blows to break it, the bottom one lasted only two.

  Triumphantly, Kaye yanked the post from the ground. It was easily seven feet long, with the expected barb near the bottom end. The side that formed the top of the ‘T’ bore short studs designed to keep wire from sagging to the ground.

  He hefted it with both hands, his mind going back to his pugil stick combat training in boot camp. He’d been good at it, his speed and overpowering strength besting even the instructors.

  The barb slightly overbalanced one end, but a grip change compensated nicely.

  “Okay,” he said, “onna-musha, or tengu, or whatever the hell you think you are, bring it. Benkei is ready.”

  He turned and headed for the bridge, another drink, and some shade.

  Two steps later her heard the sound of the helicopter. He scanned the sky and saw it off to the northwest, about a half-mile out.

  Headed directly for him.

  ***

  Less than a minute later the helicopter hovered one hundred feet above the tree. The rotor wash whipped the topmost branches, and even at ground level Kaye could feel the turbulence.

  The noise disturbed Auggie. She rolled, sat up, saw Kaye, smiled and wordlessly sank back into the dark abyss visited only by addicts coming off a high.

  Kaye walked to a point where he could look up and see which way the chopper cockpit was pointing, assuming that would be the direction Goschen would come from, and turned to watch.

  He didn’t wait long.

  A figure crested the small rise to the south and headed down toward the bridge. The silhouette was odd, and from a distance Kaye couldn’t really tell who it was.

  As the figure got closer, though, Kaye recognized Goschen. She wore a tight-fitting cuirass of many small pieces lacquered a deep, blood red, a set of similarly constructed shoulder guards, thigh covers and a helmet shaped and painted into the image of the tengu tattooed on her shoulder.

  When she was fifty feet away Kaye stepped from the shelter of the oak, fence post in one hand, strode to the middle of the bridge and stopped.

  Goschen saw him and stopped. She waved to the helicopter, which peeled away and took up a new position some distance away.

  Goschen came on, then stopped again just before stepping onto the bridge.

  Kaye saw her smile beneath the nose guard of her helmet.

  “Your irony honors me, Benkei,” she said, nodding her head in a quick bow of acknowledgement.

  “What irony would that be?” Kaye asked.

  “That you will die on a bridge today as you did for your Lord, Yoshitune.”

  “I have no intention of dying today, on a bridge or anywhere else,” Kaye said. “I’m a police officer. You, Tamara Goschen, are under arrest for kidnapping and murder. If you come after me with a sword I’m within my rights to kill you. Surrender now.”

  Goschen laughed.

  “You study, Benkei,” she said, “but you do not truly believe.”

  She echoed Roshi’s words, and they stung Kaye.

  “Believe what?”

  “Eternal consciousness. We have each lived and died many times since Yoritomo became Shogun. Today will be the next re-birth for you.”

  Goschen withdrew her katana from its scabbard, grasped the long hilt with both hands, held it directly in front of her body, tip pointed at Kaye, and started forward with long, sliding steps.

  As she advanced, Kaye developed a strategy. Goschen’s katana blade was about two and a half feet long. With his two-handed grip, if he kept at least the equivalent of the blade length outside each hand and kept her hands outside the post, her blade couldn’t reach him. The t-post was at least seven feet and change, giving him more than enough length.

  He held the post so the studs faced Goschen, hoping they would provide some measure of protection should her blade slide down the post toward his exposed hands. She was clearly right-handed, so he held the barbed end of the post out to his left.

  Kaye knew he was overthinking, and he also knew it was because he was afraid. He thought of his family, his often contentious relationship with his father, his time in the Corps, his life with Amy and how much he still missed her.

  That caused him to steal a glance toward Auggie McMaster.

  If he died, she died, too.

  He wasn’t about to let that happen.

  He swung the t-post up into the two-hand grip and assumed a combat stance.

  The move brought Goschen to a halt. She studied Kaye for a moment, shifted the katana to her right hand, and with her left drew the short sword. Then she again advanced warily.

  Goschen’s first attack was a blinding fury of feints and slashes with both blades, Kaye’s head her primary target.

  Kaye’s speed and the length of the post countered each move. His hands stung from the impacts as the ringing of steel on steel filled the vineyard.

  Goschen backed off to regroup. She fixed Kaye with the flat stare of a predator measuring its prey, then launched a second attack.

  This time the target was Kaye’s legs.

  She came in with a low, crossing slash with the katana, which Kaye blocked. But she didn’t withdraw the long sword, keeping it locked against the post as she lunged forward with the short blade directly at Kaye’s belly.

  It almost ended Kaye’s life. Swinging the post in a block of the short sword would have let the katana through, and only his amazing strength and body control allowed him to twist just enough to avoid the thrust. Still, the blade sliced through his shirt and left a shallow cut on his side.

  Goschen retreated and smiled.

  “Benkei, you bleed.”

  Kaye looked down. Blood stained his shirt, but he knew it wasn’t enough to cost him the battle. But it did galvanize him, telling him he couldn’t win by just playing defense. Eventually, one of Goschen’s blades would find home.

  He needed to kill her before she killed him. And he needed a psychological edge.

  “You will bleed today, too, onna-musha,” he said. “It took archers to kill me at Koronogama Castle, and I, alone, first killed three hundred of Yoritomo’s samurai. You are only one.”

  She smiled and stared. “Ah, Benkei, you do remember. But I promise you that today the beauty of the falling sun will shine its light on your corpse.”

  Making small circles with the ends of the post, Kaye waited.

  She came at him, blades flying. She led this time with the short sword, sweeping across at waist level while she held the katana over her head and behind her back.

  Kaye saw the strategy instantly. If he stayed low with the post to block the short sword strike, Goschen would have a clear downward stroke at his head, no doubt cleaving him open all the way to his sternum.

  Instead, he feinted with the left end of the post and took a half-step to his right. The short blade found only empty space where milliseconds before he’d stood. At the same time, Goschen brought the long sword up, over and down with the speed and ferocity of a striking cobra.

  But Kaye was ready. He brought the t-post up at an angle, meeting the blade a foot outside his left hand and deflecting it downward, away from his hands. The blade played a high-pitched, staccato tune as it rode the studs toward the ground.

  Goschen’s own momentum overbalanced her just enough for Kaye to use the right side of the post to aim a vicious strike at her head. She deflected the blow with her short sword so it instead hit the armor of her shoulder covers, but it drove her to one knee.

  Rather than advance, Kaye retreated, and it saved his life.

  Goschen spun her katana in her hand and made an upward slash that would have taken Kaye’s arm and ended the battle had it landed.

  Kaye waited, watching Goschen. When she
stood he saw a first, fleeting glimmer of doubt in her eyes, but she masked it instantly.

  Instead of attacking head-on, Goschen now slowly circled Kaye, looking for an opening.

  It gave Kaye time to strategize. The blow to her shoulder should have broken bone, but the ancient rokugu armor had absorbed much of the impact. Only Goschen’s forearms and lower legs were not covered.

  He weathered two more attacks, sustaining a slight cut to his forearm, before he anticipated correctly and finally found an opening.

  Goschen came at him with the long sword and he again deflected the blow, but this time used all his strength to bounce her blade upward. Then, with lightning speed, he dropped into a spinning squat, letting the post slide through his hands until he held it near the barb-less end. The post carved a deadly arc, the barb catching Goschen in the lower left leg just as she stepped forward and put all her weight on it in preparation for a vicious, slicing blow directed at Kaye’s head.

  Kaye heard the sound of breaking bones as the barb tore flesh from her calf and blood misted the air.

  Screaming in agony, Goschen went down onto her left knee, her leg grotesquely torn and twisted, but blades still raised and ready.

  Kaye stood up. Careful to stay beyond the reach of the katana he stepped forward and forcefully placed the barbed end of the post against her neck. Twice she slashed viciously at the unyielding steel before looking down in defeat.

  “Fight’s over,” he said. “You lose.”

  Goschen looked up, glaring at him, then tossed her long sword to the ground in front of his feet.

  “We will meet again, Benkei,” she said, then lowered her right knee to the ground and pulled her helmet off, tossing it aside. “My tengu will find you again, and you will fall.”

  Before Kaye saw it coming and could react, Goschen reversed her short blade, grabbed it with both hands and plunged it into her lower abdomen below the body armor. With one last, quick stroke she disemboweled herself while staring into Kaye’s eyes.

  “Do not let me die without honor,” she whispered, her eyes beginning to lose focus. “Take…my…”

  She toppled forward and died.

  As Kaye stood over the body and his focus widened, he became aware that the noise of the helicopter was growing.

  He looked up and saw the chopper coming at him, low and fast. Standing halfway outside, his foot braced on the right side landing skid, was Renzo Maisano. He held a rifle in his hands.

  Kaye waited, the t-post in his right hand, and hoped the pilot was daring.

  At only fifty feet away, and less than fifteen feet altitude, the pilot flared the nose of the chopper up and spun it to the left, offering Maisano a clear field of fire toward Kaye.

  As Maisano raised the rifle, Kaye took the t-post up and back, took two quick steps forward and with all his strength launched the post like a javelin.

  Then, without waiting to see if he’d even hit the helicopter, he turned and ran to his right, across the nose of the aircraft, hoping to take away Maisano’s angle.

  The noise of the chopper was deafening and Kaye suddenly felt himself engulfed by the main rotor’s downwash as it passed directly over him, gaining altitude and taking a south heading.

  Confused, Kaye stopped and watched as the helicopter flew away, then turned and ran for the tree.

  As he crossed the bridge he glanced to his right and stopped. Renzo Maisano, the barbed end of the post protruding from his back, lay dead in the creek.

  “I don’t think grandpa is going to be happy,” Kaye said aloud, then headed for the tree again.

  Auggie was still only semi-conscious. Kaye gently picked her up, cradled her in his arms, and started walking north.

  ***

  It took thirty minutes to reach the edge of the vineyard, and another twenty before Kaye spied a house in the distance. It was clearly a cattle operation, not a vineyard, and, Auggie still in his arms and hers wrapped around his neck, he jogged across the pasture.

  They were met by a woman cradling a .30-.30 Winchester in her arms.

  Less than a minute later he was on the phone to a 9-1-1 dispatcher, requesting an ambulance and the Sheriff’s Office.

  Less than an hour later he and Auggie were both in the ER at the Santa Ynez hospital. Kaye had stitches in his side and a dressing on his arm wound. Auggie’s blood work came back and the doctor immediately arranged for critical inpatient care in Santa Barbara.

  He watched as Auggie was loaded into an air ambulance for transport. She was conscious and aware enough that he gave her a kiss on the forehead before the paramedics pushed the gurney aboard.

  “Ben, what happened?” she asked, her voice soft. “I remember some strange stuff, but…”

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Over a great glass of wine.”

  She smiled and said, “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later Deputy Stephenson walked around the exam room curtain. The man’s jaw dropped when Kaye told him what had been going on at Valle delle Viti.

  “Late yesterday I got an urgent bulletin from someone named Mitchell,” Stephenson said, “but I had no idea.”

  “That’s what happens when the bad guys dress up like the good guys,” Kaye said.

  Stephenson excused himself and returned about fifteen minutes later.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the Sheriff. He’s gathering our people and called the State for all the CHP officers they can spare.” The deputy saw the look on Kaye’s face, smiled, and added, “There’s about to be a hostile takeover at the Village of Chumash Oaks municipal building. Care to come along?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Kaye said grimly as he stood up.

  On the way Kaye called Kai Iwamura.

  “The bad news,” he told the FBI agent after filling him in, “is that Elizabeth Latham, or whoever she really was, is dead. I’m assuming she was Bureau.”

  There was a protracted silence.

  “I can’t confirm that, Ben,” Iwamura said at last. “But can you tell me who killed her?”

  “A woman named Tamara Goschen. Her body, and Maisano’s, are in the vineyard north of the house, maybe a mile and a half.”

  “Thanks for that,” Iwamura said. “Don’t worry about Gagnon or Feinmann. We’ll pick them up.”

  When Kaye and Stephenson arrived in Chumash Oaks things were firmly in the hands of State and County authorities, with officers in tactical gear and carrying long guns stationed at strategic locations. One of them directed Stephenson to the CHP Chief in charge.

  Stephenson introduced himself and Kaye.

  “Nice work, Deputy Stephenson,” the Chief said.

  “Don’t thank me, sir. Detective Kaye from LAPD broke this open, not me.”

  “Really?” the Chief said, looking Kaye, bedraggled and bandaged, over. “I should think you’ll be in line for a commendation.”

  “I don’t want a commendation,” Kaye said. “Right now I just want my truck so I can go home.”

  The Chief waved another trooper over and told him to help Kaye find his truck and the keys.

  “Before you go, Detective,” the Chief said, “is there anything else you can tell me to help me out? This is a mess and will take a while to sort out.”

  “One thing,” Kaye replied. “Look close at all the people. They’re not all regular cops, some are contractors, and I know some of them are in this up to their eyeballs. You might also want to check the surrounding counties and see if they contract with an outfit called Black Scimitar for drug interdiction.”

  Ten minutes later Kaye had his truck and keys.

  Three hours later he’d called Santa Barbara to make sure Auggie was in good hands, and was asleep in his own bed.

  DAY 26

  Friday Week 4

  It was mid-morning when Kaye, still tired and sore, pushed through the doors into the Squad. Captain Thompson saw him and went to meet him.

  “What are you doing here?�
��

  “Working,” Kaye replied. “I’ve still got a murderer to catch.”

  “Bettencourt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s in the system. Somebody will pick him up.”

  “I don’t want ‘somebody’ to pick him up, Captain. I want it to be me.”

  “You sure you’re up to it? Are you taking anything not over-the-counter?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then,” Thompson said skeptically. “Just don’t do anything stupid because you’re tired.” He spun on his heels and headed back to his office.

  Kaye started organizing his hunt for Dennis Bettencourt. It would take time to get up on the killer’s phone and credit cards – he realized he didn’t even know if Bettencourt had a cell phone, and if he did, what the number was. That made him sit back and re-think.

  It had been four days since he’d arrested Megan Sullivan. She had certainly been arraigned, and odds were she’d posted bond and was no longer in custody. Unless she was smart. But Kaye knew that one night in jail had probably made her forget all about the threat Bettencourt posed.

  He snatched his desk phone handset and called the DA’s office.

  “Good morning, Counselor,” he said when Kayla Okafor answered. “Hey, can you tell me if Megan Sullivan is still in custody?”

  “She is not. She bonded out day before yesterday. Fifty thousand dollars, to be exact.”

  “Who posted it?”

  “You’re going to love this,” Okafor said, paused a beat, and added, “Howard Feinmann.”

  “Seriously? Conditions?”

  “None. No prior record. Solid citizen with a job, cooperating with the prosecution. Close ties to the community, so the judge didn’t consider her a flight risk. For the record, I argued against bail at the arraignment, but….”

  Kaye was stunned. In his mind, Megan Sullivan was probably in the wind, if not dead.

  “We can probably kiss her good-bye.”