Final Settlement

by Vicki Doudera

Donny struggled to his feet, crunching several nuts as he did so. “What am I doing?” He was clutching the white plastic bag in one hand, and supporting himself against one of the closet walls with the other. “I’m the one who should be asking you that question, Earl.” He fumbled in the bag and pulled out its contents. Holding two white stilettos with sparkly buckles before the rest of the men, he demanded, “Just what the heck are you doing with my girlfriend’s sister’s shoes?”

  _____

  Darby stared at the dark-haired man for a good thirty seconds before he cleared his throat.

  “Ms. Farr?” His English was perfect, with a hint of an accent that Darby couldn’t place. “I’m Kenji Miyazaki. I’m sorry if I’ve startled you.”

  Kenji Miyazaki. Where had she heard that name before? Darby’s thoughts swirled before her like the blizzard outside as she racked her brain to remember.

  “Mr. Miyazaki, forgive me for not letting you in, but I don’t know who you are, and I don’t understand why you’re here.” Snow was collecting on the wood floor at Darby’s feet, but she wasn’t about to let a stranger enter without knowing just who he was.

  “Eric Thompson, the curator at the Westerly Art Museum, suggested that I get in touch with you. He said that he told you I was in the area?”

  Darby gave an inward groan. So this was the person Eric Thompson had met at a cocktail party, the one he thought could shed some light on the red lacquered box’s journal.

  “Yes, Eric did mention you. But he said he would call me with your contact information.”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault. I stopped into the museum shortly after you were there, and I persuaded Eric to let me get in touch with you.” He paused. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a few months now.”

  A few months? Darby thought back to late summer. Hadn’t her office told her of a Japanese man trying to contact her in California?

  “I work with Hideki Kobayashi,” he explained. “At Genkei Pharmaceuticals.”

  Another silent groan. Darby remembered glancing at a message from a senior vice-president of the mega-company headed by Mr. Kobayashi, a client she’d helped to purchase a large Florida estate. I threw that message away …

  Finally she stepped aside. “Come in. It’s a crazy night for anyone to be out.”

  Kenji Miyazaki gave a self-conscious laugh and dusted the snow off his shoulders. “You’re right about that. I was foolish to go anywhere in this storm.” He stomped off his boots and stepped into the house.

  Darby closed the door behind him. “Let me take your jacket.”

  He was surprisingly tall—about six feet—with neatly cut black hair, an athlete’s trim muscular physique, and an open, friendly face. “Thank you. I promise I won’t stay long, and I’m so sorry for interrupting your evening.”

  Darby hung the dark blue jacket on a nearby hook. “Where are you going from here, Mr. Miyazaki?”

  “I’ve got a room on the mainland.” He glanced at his watch, a jet black timepiece with an etched black dial and luminous silver hands. “I’ll catch the ferry at five.”

  “Have a seat by the fire. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “No, thanks, I’m fine.” He gave a little nod and Darby was reminded of her mother. A small gesture, but one she used to do as well, here in this very house.

  Darby took a seat. “Why have you been trying to reach me, Mr. Miyazaki?”

  “Please, call me Ken.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “As I mentioned, I work closely with Hideki. He asked me to contact you, which is why I left messages at your office.” He paused. “I’m in California quite often. On my last trip I stopped in at Pacific Coast Realty and tried to see you.”

  “And now you’ve tracked me to Maine?”

  He laughed, showing straight white teeth. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve been hunting you down, Darby Farr.” His grin was boyishly attractive. “Actually, it’s pure coincidence that I’m here at all. I was in a snowboarding competition over the weekend.”

  So Kenji Miyazaki was an athlete. Darby dimly recalled her new sales agent Claudia mentioning something about some sort of competition, but that had been months earlier. “Weren’t you competing in an event in California, too?”

  He nodded. “Hang gliding, out on Point Loma. I’m afraid I’m an extreme sports junkie. I like the adrenalin rush, so whenever I have time, I indulge.”

  “I see.” She looked into his face, so open and guileless. “We’re several hours from the mountains here on Hurricane Harbor. What brought you to the coast?”

  “I have a retired friend in Westerly, and I decided to pay her a visit. She took me to a little cocktail party, and there I met Eric Thompson. We talked about Japanese translation. I gather from what he said that he told you about me.”

  “Yes.” She’d forgotten about the contents of the red box. Was Kenji Miyazaki here because of the journal, the little Buddha, and the lovely kimono sash? Or did his visit have a darker intent, one having to do with Darby’s grandfather’s past?

  As if reading her mind, Kenji Miyazaki said, “Hideki told me you were quite upset to learn about your grandfather’s involvement in northeast China during the war. It must have been a terrible shock.”

  Darby flashed back to her time in Florida. She felt the same sinking feeling she’d experienced when kindly Mr. Kobayashi had laid out the fearful facts. Her grandfather Tokutaro Sugiyama, a scientific officer for Genkei Pharmaceuticals, had been sent by the Imperial Japanese Army to a remote part of China where secret experiments in biological and chemical warfare were conducted against civilians.

  “Do you have information about him?”

  A slow nod. “I have been trying to find you, to set the record straight.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but I’m listening.” She looked down at her hands, steeling herself against whatever awful stories she was about to hear.

  “I believe your grandfather was an innocent man, Darby.” Kenji Miyazaki’s eyes searched her face. “He knew that the so-called research was terribly wrong, and he risked his life trying to stop the experiments.”

  Darby’s head jerked upward.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I discovered archives of the statements from scientists who were questioned. They admitted that there were a few men who refused to participate in the Unit’s activities. I think that your grandfather, Tokutaro Sugiyama, was one of them.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.”

  “No.” He gave a small shrug. “It’s more of an instinct at this point. But the answer may lie in the diary he kept, if that’s indeed what you found.”

  Darby felt her heart pound. Perhaps my grandfather wasn’t complicit after all. Perhaps he’d tried to stop whatever human suffering he could.

  “I’ll get the journal.” She hurried to her bedroom, picked up the jewelry box, and brought it back into the living room. She swallowed, conscious that her mouth was dry. I’m an emotional wreck, she thought. These events took place more than sixty years ago, and yet I am trembling.

  Kenji Miyazaki placed his hands on the lid, grazing her own as he did so. “May I?”

  She nodded. “It’s nearly four-thirty, and I know you need to make your ferry. How long are you staying in Maine?”

  “I’m flying back on Sunday.” He smiled as he removed the box’s contents: the grinning Buddha, lustrous kimono sash, and the other items. “I tried to find a room on the island, but everything was booked. Some sort of wedding tomorrow.”

  “Yes. That’s my friend Tina.” Darby glanced out the window at the storm. The snow was piling up quickly, nearly drifting against the glass. Getting Kenji’s car out of the driveway would mean starting to shovel immediately. And then when would she learn about the journal’s secrets?

  He opened the book and scanned the pages. “I can tell you right now, it’s a daily record of his time at the camp. I wish I had time to read it. I believe these entries hold the answers we need concerning
Tokutaro’s involvement in China.”

  Darby exhaled. She hadn’t appreciated how desperately she wanted to know of her grandfather’s innocence until that moment. Should she give Kenji the journal to take with him and translate at a later time? She didn’t like parting with such an important piece of her family’s history. And yet she couldn’t bear the thought of waiting to know of her grandfather’s involvement any longer.

  She took a breath. “Kenji, I have a very strange request.” She felt her face flush as she continued. “Would you consider spending the night here so that you can translate the journal? I have a guest room, and I’d be happy to fix us both dinner.”

  She braced herself for some sort of lewd grin. Instead, Kenji lifted his gaze, his face serious and striking at the same time.

  He held up the diary. His black watch caught the firelight, reflecting sparks that danced on his wrist. “This means that much to you?”

  She nodded. “I need to know the truth, one way or another. If my grandfather’s journal holds any information at all, I want to know what it is.”

  “I see.” He rose from the chair, placing the book on the coffee table in a careful fashion. He thought for a moment. “I understand how you feel, but I do not think my staying here would be appropriate. Perhaps we can meet when I am on the West Coast for business?”

  Darby rose as well, disappointment so palpable she could taste it. “Alright then. We’d better go shovel.”

  EIGHT

  THE WHEELS OF DONNY’S truck gripped the snow-covered road as he turned slowly into Tina’s driveway. He parked behind a big SUV with Massachusetts plates and climbed out and into two feet of fresh snow.

  Tina’s split-level ranch was lit up like a Christmas tree. Donny trudged through the drifts, making a narrow path to the front door that would be gone in ten minutes. Man, it was snowing hard, the flakes piling up so fast the plows were having trouble keeping up. The wind was howling, too, heaping piles that took an unsuspecting driver by surprise with their depth.

  He knocked twice on the door and then entered. The twang of country music—most likely the Dixie Chicks—met his ears, along with the sound of lilting female voices floating just above the melody. He grinned. Tina was never happier than when she was with her kid sister, Trixie.

  He found them in the kitchen, a huge, half-full bottle of white wine on the counter. Plates holding colorful salads waited to be eaten, but the women were too busy catching up to pay their dinner much mind.

  Donny cleared his throat so as not to scare them, but both women shrieked just the same.

  “Donald Duck Pease! You scared the living crap out of me!” Trixie Ames squealed. “Get yourself over here so I can give you a giant hug!”

  “What the heck, Donny, are you trying to give us both heart attacks?” Tina was laughing as she asked the question, holding her sides as if she would burst. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

  Donny bear-hugged Trixie and then turned a triumphant face to Tina. With a flourish he pulled an exquisite pair of white stilettos out of the plastic bag.

  “Just some old shoes I happened to find.”

  More high-pitched squeals of delight from the women.

  “You rascal! Where in the world did you get your hands on them?” Tina reached for the heels.

  “The bartender at The Eye, the new guy, Earl. He says he came across them on the sidewalk but I don’t believe him one bit. Deputy Allen’s gone over there to search. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds a lot more stolen goods.”

  “Earl is the Name Brand Bandit?” Tina ran a hand over the stiletto heels and turned to Trixie. “Darby came up with that. Catchy, huh? Wait until she hears we got these babies back.” Tina jumped up from the table, pulled off a pair of heavy wool socks, and slipped her feet into the shoes. “Oooh, Trixie! You can’t believe how amazing these feel.”

  Donny shook his head at his wobbly bride to be. “Can you walk in them? You don’t want to break an ankle for our trip to Beach Lady.”

  “Don’t you worry, Donny Pease,” Tina said, making her way to his side on unsteady legs. She towered over him in the heels and had to bend down to drape her hands over his sloping shoulders. “I will not let anything get in the way of having a wonderful time with you down in Mexico, not even my jitters over flying.” Abruptly she did a little spin and faced Trixie. “Guess what? I’m starting to look forward to this trip!”

  Her sister laughed. “Well of course you are, silly! Everyone likes a vacation, especially to a nice, warm, beach!” She pointed at Tina’s feet. “Are those the ones that Terri gave you?”

  Tina pulled away from Donny and yanked off the shoes. “Darn right. Don’t let her know anything about them being stolen, okay?” She put the shoes on the kitchen table and turned to Donny. “Terri’s getting her little one settled at the inn, then she’ll head on over here. Your timing, Mr. Pease, is perfect.”

  Trixie lifted the shoes and scrunched up her nose. She was a shrunken-down, more voluptuous version of Tina, petite and curvy, with the same wild curls in a delicate strawberry blonde hue. “They are kind of pretty, aren’t they? I like the sparkly buckles. But I can’t believe they cost hundreds of dollars.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tina snorted. “Like a thousand bucks. Believe me, I’m glad I don’t have to replace them.” She turned to Donny. “You are so amazing! Finding these for me, and catching a thief in the process! I’m going to have to give you a kiss.”

  She leaned forward and planted one on his lips, making a loud, smacking sound.

  He blushed and shook his head. “You girls are a little tipsy, I can see that.” He leaned back on his heels, trying to regain control of the situation. His own buzz had worn off after he’d crashed to the floor of Earl’s stockroom. “Speaking of Darby, I thought she would be here?”

  Tina waved a hand in the air. “A mysterious visitor stopped in, so she bagged out on us.”

  “Miles? I thought the airport was closed.”

  “No, not Miles. He’s stuck in Chicago, poor thing.” She shook her head. “This is some Japanese guy named Ken. Darby didn’t go into details.”

  Donny frowned. For some reason he couldn’t quite name, he did not like the sound of that.

  _____

  The painting was finished. Alcott Bridges stood back and surveyed it with a critical eye. A decent composition, yes, anyone could see that, and his command of brush strokes and shading were superb. Technically this canvas was one of his best works. But did he feel the emotion?

  Bridges disposed of his brushes, palette, and smock. Nearly ten-thirty—no wonder he felt exhausted. His burst of frenetic creativity had lasted several hours, and during that time he’d done nothing but paint. Now he was spent and starving.

  He flicked a light on in the kitchen and pulled a stuffed chicken breast from the refrigerator. Into the microwave it went for several minutes. Sage-scented poultry filled the room, making Alcott’s mouth water. Removing his entree with a fork, he transferred it to a chipped plate and sat down at the table.

  The Breakwater was finished. He felt a sense of relief and grati-tude, the same sensation he always experienced when completing a big work. He cut a piece of chicken, stabbed it, and chewed thoughtfully. This called for a drink of something special.

  In the upper cabinet Alcott kept a half-full bottle of single malt whiskey. He stood on a step stool to reach the bottle and climbed down carefully. He then uncorked the bottle and took a long pull. A moment later, he’d found a small tumbler, filled it nearly full of the amber liquid, and sat down again.

  The chicken was rubbery but Alcott was too hungry to notice. He ate nearly the whole portion, put his plate in the dishwasher, and headed back to the studio with his Scotch. He stood before the painting for a long time, sipping the whiskey and waiting.

  Slowly a warm feeling crept over him, partly the result of the alcohol, but also a sensation from his study of his work. It was affecting him, yes, it was reaching him at the spirit level, lifti
ng him to a higher place. He felt as if he were floating, hovering inside the landscape of the painting, experiencing the angles of the granite rocks, the spray of the foamy water, and the turbulence of the waves. He closed his eyes and whispered to the woman who remained, even in death, his muse.

  We did it, Gracie. We did it again.

  He set down the glass of whiskey and turned off the light. Gracie was pleased, he sensed that, and her spirit was at rest. He shuffled slowly to his bedroom, thinking back over the extraordinary day. The news he had longed to hear had finally come. His tormenter was gone. He had nothing to fear, no need to worry. He changed into a flannel nightshirt and eased his body into bed, feeling as light as the snow that fell steadily outside his bedroom window.

  _____

  Darby let out a long, slow, breath. “My grandfather was a good man,” she finally managed.

  Kenji Miyazaki looked up from the journal. He dipped his head gently and closed the little book. After hours of reading, one thing seemed clear: Tokutaro Sugiyama had been an outspoken critic of all that had transpired at the notorious Unit 731. Whenever possible, he had worked to release the Chinese people under his care, had warned others about impending experiments, and even sabotaged the work of his superiors to end suffering. He had done the best he could do in a horrible situation, a situation he neither chose nor desired.

  Darby realized her grandfather had been as much a prisoner as any one of the Unit’s victims. And yet he had never given up trying to change the awful reality of the place.

  Tears slid down her cheeks and she wiped them with her sweater. “Ken, I don’t know how to thank you for tonight. I’m—I’m overwhelmed.”

  He stood and crossed the room, lowering himself so that he was kneeling beside her. Very gently he said, “It’s a lot to take in. The things that went on there are nearly impossible to comprehend.”

  Darby nodded. She didn’t quite trust herself to speak about the horrors her grandfather outlined in his entries. The testing of innocent Chinese men, women, and children at the hands of the Imperial Japanese Army’s scientists and doctors had been horrific, an inhumane period in which all thoughts of decency and morality had been ignored.