Kage: The Shadow

by John Donohue

  That night, after almost a week at the dojo I’d come out at the end of a training session, still damp from the shower. The street was a busy one, and if I expected a wash of stars across the desert sky, I was disappointed—the city lights bled upward, obscuring the heavens.

  I was heading toward the car. Down the road an engine roared into life. Cars whizzed past. I was loose and calm, with the almost narcotic sense of well-being you get from a solid workout. As I headed toward the car, a voice called my name.

  I turned to see one of Hasegawa’s students, a burly guy with a military style haircut. He came up to me, casting a glance up the street.

  “Dr. Burke,” he repeated. I looked at him pleasantly, figuring maybe he had a technical question. The expression on his face was serious.

  “Tony Villardi,” he said. “I’m with the Tucson P.D.”

  “What can I do for you, Tony?”

  He looked around again. “You know anyone in this town, Dr. Burke?”

  “No, not really. Why?”

  “We tend to get out of the training hall at about the same time every night. When I come out, I always look around, you know?”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  “At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but I’ve been watching all week.”

  “Watching what, Tony?”

  “Every night, there’s a car parked across the road. A couple of guys are always in it. When you come out, they start up the motor, wait for you to pull out, and follow you.”

  So much for my powers of observation. “Did you run the tags?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “It’s a different car every night. Different guys for all I know. But it’s the same pattern. And I didn’t get a good look, but it seems to me that these guys are sporting gang colors.”

  “Gangs?” I asked.

  He nodded. “We got ‘em all over the area. They’re involved in everything from dope to guns to border trafficking. You got any reason to think you’ve run afoul of these people?”

  “No,” I lied.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’m imagining it, but I don’t think so. You want to keep your eyes open, Dr. Burke. These guys are not real smart, but they’re mean.”

  I thanked him for the warning and drove back to the hotel. My steering was a little wobbly because I kept trying to spot gang members in my rearview mirror. My vigilance earned me nothing except a few rude gestures from other drivers.

  7 Trackers

  In the mesquite and dirt of the Tohono O’Odham reservation, Oliver Jackson squatted, reading sign. The five other members of his team waited patiently. They, too, could read the significance in the boot prints they had discovered, but he was the senior man and had been doing this for almost twenty years. They waited out of respect, and because their trade demanded it.

  It was a time when infrared sensors and pilotless drones were just a few of the hi-tech tools that Homeland Security used along the Mexican border. But HSA was willing to use almost any technique if it worked. And sometimes, the most effective tools were the timeless use of men on the ground; men who had been raised to read the subtle signs left in the desert, and to track prey with a silent, dogged intensity.

  All of Jackson’s men were Native Americans. They had grown up in the outdoors hunting, tracking, and coming to know the land in a way few people could. A Dineh, what most people knew as Navaho, Jackson was stocky and compact, his skin like leather from years in the desert sun. His short cropped hair was just showing some silver in the tips. His dusty desert camo uniform was rumpled, but his gear was meticulously cared for and the CAR-15 slung across his back was well-oiled.

  The Tohono O’Odham land stretches across southern Arizona into Mexico, a vast area larger than the state of Connecticut. Seventy-six miles of the border with Mexico are contained with the Tohono O’Odham territory. In the seventies, the Tohono had agreed to let federal agents onto their land, but only if they were Native Americans. It was the genesis of the unit Jackson had served in for all these years.

  Although the border was long and easily crossed, the best routes combined terrain features that made crossings harder to detect and also provided possible resting spots and water sources. It narrowed down, somewhat, the choices for Jackson and his men. They tracked smugglers through this remote landscape intercepting groups of men lugging sixty pound bales of marijuana through the blasting heat of summer or the frigid desert winter. And lately, the activity had been picking up.

  Jackson’s team had been tracking a group of about ten smugglers since before dawn. In places where they left tracks, the team could see that their boot prints were deep and widely spaced—a sure sign they were carrying heavy loads. The latest imprints that Jackson looked at were clean ones, devoid of the tracks of nocturnal animals or insects. He knew that the men he was tracking were probably only a few hours ahead.

  The smugglers were headed north, away from the border. Jackson took out a map and laid it across his thighs. A thick finger traced their route so far. He showed his team.

  “Here,” he said. “They’re heading here.” The team nodded in silent agreement. Smugglers would typically come across the border and trundle their bales some forty miles north to little used roads where they would be transferred to trucks. Today was no exception.

  The sun was high overhead, pounding down on the group as they squatted amid the thorny scrub. One of the team noticed a small piece of fabric clinging to a bush. He plucked it, bringing it to his face and sniffed. He smiled and passed it on to Jackson, who cupped it in his hand and held it to his nose. The scent of burlap. A smuggler had snagged his load on this bush, leaving this thread in the passing.

  “OK,” he said. “Huddle up.” The team clustered around him. “Another hour or so and we should overtake these guys.” He eyed his men: they squatted comfortably in the sun, eyes invisible behind sunglasses. They drank quietly at camel-back canteens; the small sips veterans take who know water discipline. Nobody seemed tired. Everyone was eager for the hunt. “When we start to get close, I want to hold up and get ourselves set. The briefing last night said that the natives are restless.”

  His men grinned at that: brief flashes of white teeth in dark faces. They were the natives.

  “Border Patrol units have been fired on recently. The number of incidents is increasing. And the armaments being used are not your typical border guns.” Jackson scanned the jumbled terrain that stretched before them. “Something’s changing out here. I can feel it. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it…” He looked out into the far hills, straining to sense a clue embedded in the gusting heat of the desert.

  Jackson was a quiet man in the field. His team was used to silence and comfortable with his quiet competence as a tracker. But he was also a hitaali, a singer, among his people. He practiced the old ways of healing and the chantways of the Dineh. There were times when his team members swore that his success as a tracker was due to more than just skill.

  Jackson was a legend, a man at home in the desert who had an almost mystical link to the land. He could see minute traces of a smuggler’s passing that nobody else noticed. He could intuit a prey’s intention with almost no clues. It was said he saw things on the wind.

  The team members looked at one another quizzically, but made no sound. Their people knew of the power of the men who could read signs in the air and see far distances. When Jackson gazed off into the invisible world, it was best not to rouse him. After a moment, Jackson stirred, returning to the imminent. What was the lanky form he had seen, trotting among the shimmering rocks? A coyote. A bad sign. He looked down, taking a deep breath to shake off the sense of dread. “When we get close, keep alert. Stay down and behind cover, till I give the signal. I’ve got a feeling…”

  He looked from one of his men to the other. They nodded solemnly. “OK,” Jackson said, “let’s go.”

  A sandy patch of open desert bore clear evidence of the smugglers, a churned trail of boot prints leading to a dirt road that
was sketched in on Jackson’s map. The afternoon sun began to take its toll, and even Jackson’s men began to tire.

  Almost there, he thought, checking his map. The others sensed it too: Jackson could see the renewed eagerness of their movement. They love the hunt. But we’re tired. And eager. This is when mistakes get made.

  He held a hand up and waved it in a circle. The team collected around him in the shadow of a sandstone rock that was angled into the sand like a listing vessel. Jackson spread out the map, pointing out terrain features and what seemed to him like the likely route to the smugglers’ transfer point. He directed individual members of the team to take up positions on high ground overlooking the rendezvous site.

  When he was sure that everyone knew their role, Jackson unslung his rifle and pulled the charging handle back to load it. His men did the same. Jackson paused and sniffed the wind. He moved slowly up a rise, ears straining for sounds out of place. The land was too rough for clear line of sight and its gnarled terrain created acoustic shadows that swallowed sound. He knew that somewhere around this slope and downhill, the road would come into view. But he was moving blind. And the feeling of unease was growing stronger. He listened intently. Wind. Birds calling in the distance. He sniffed the air: sometimes you could smell tobacco or the pungent aroma of the marijuana bales. There was instead a faint oily scent, something mechanical and deeply out of place.

  He brought his weapon up and crept around the slope, motioning his team into position with hand gestures. When the road came into view, Jackson’s gut lurched.

  The smugglers had reached the drop off point. But they would never return. A late model Ford F-150 sagged, riddled with bullet holes. He could see a body slumped over the wheel. The smugglers’ bodies were scattered across the churned-up sand of the rendezvous. The blood that had not seeped into the dirt had thickened and grown black. Flies congregated and birds were wheeling in anticipation.

  Jackson and his men lurched warily down the slope and checked for survivors. There were none: all the smugglers had had their throats cut for good measure. We were too late, he thought. The tire treads of multiple vehicles crisscrossed the area. The marijuana bales were long gone. Ambush.

  “Bad medicine, Boss,” one of his men commented.

  Jackson thought of his vision of the coyote loping ahead in the shimmering distance, tongue wagging as if in mockery. He sighed and radioed for help.

  8 Lair

  I was summoned to the dragon’s lair a few days later. I’d been working steadily, putting together a picture of Eliot Westmann and the process he used to write his books. In the evenings after I came back from Hasegawa’s dojo, I worked my way through the hidden journals as well. They weren’t directly relevant to the issue of authenticity in his books, but they gave me an insight into the man and, as an aside, also fleshed out what he had been up to just before he joined the Martini Diving Team.

  I got a call from Roy just before 10 pm to let me know that Ms. Westmann would expect me in her office tomorrow morning to present a status report. In my mind’s eye, I could picture Roy, poised with quivering pen over a checklist of tasks he had to complete for his mistress.

  “A status report?” I said, and my tone must have betrayed something of my amusement. It was not an emotion that Roy associated with his employer, however.

  “Ms. Westmann is very eager to hear the details of your work to date, Dr. Burke,” he told me earnestly. “A brief written synopsis should do—Ms. Westmann is extremely busy—along with an oral report. Please let me know whether you’ll require anything from our business center—a projector for a presentation, copying services. We’re at your disposal.”

  “How nice,” I answered but I could sense that I was going to be a real disappointment to Roy. There wasn’t going to be a PowerPoint presentation in my briefing. No handouts. I toyed with the idea of multicolored pie charts, but dismissed that as well. I could pretty much deliver a report on my progress without audiovisual aids. The only thing I had to work on was to find a nicer word than “shyster” to describe Eliot Westmann.

  I did show up as requested—time has mellowed me somewhat. The Burkes have a lifelong issue with authority. It may come from the unique cultural experience of being raised as Irish Catholics. It was composed, in part, of a dramatic emotional oscillation between struggling to stand on your own two feet and being forced to sink to your knees. Either way, someone was always pushing you around.

  I had made some quick notes for the meeting, but I left my laptop in the room. Bad enough that I had to show up when ordered. There was no sense in appearing eager or overly efficient—an attitude that is responsible for my notable lack of career advancement.

  Charlie Fiorella was waiting for me outside Lori Westmann’s executive suite. He was as dapper as ever; looking relaxed and fit in a lightweight tan suit. He seemed at ease in the corridors of power. The office suites of the powerful smell faintly of good cologne and furniture polish. There’s a subdued, efficient-sounding hum pulsing out from secretarial cubicles. The air is heavy with importance.

  I’m always suspicious that the people in these sorts of places have invited me there to help move furniture. It’s delusional, of course. The people there are just people, but they’re working franticly to prove that they are smarter and better than everyone else. Some of them may be smarter than I am, I don’t know—I’ve ceased evaluating people in that way. What I do know is that in places like this, generating a collective sense of importance is vital. The alternative is often too painful for these folks to contemplate.

  Lori Westmann was as smooth and well coiffed and hard as ever. She was wearing a dark blue business suit with a pink collarless shirt of what looked like silk. Her large office was finely appointed, but the curtains were drawn and muted lights set in the ceiling created pools of brightness amidst a general gloom. She sat strategically in a cone of light that made her appear to glow. We were relegated to a less brilliant zone. Westmann gave me a cursory smile from the other side of her large desk. Roy pointed me to a seat. Charlie followed me in and sat down, crossing his leg casually but being careful to hike up the trouser leg to preserve the line of the crease. His socks matched his suit color perfectly. I wasn’t sure what color my socks were. I couldn’t even remember whether I was wearing any. It seemed to me that our chairs were slightly lower than Lori Westmann’s.

  We exchanged ritual pleasantries. Roy brought us all coffee, but once the fidgeting with cups was over, his boss simply turned an inquiring look my way. I launched into an overview of my activities. When Westmann concentrated, a small crease appeared at the top of her nose, pulling her well-plucked eyebrows closer together.

  “So,” she interrupted at one point, “your work to date has been in large part a re-reading of my father’s works as well as commentary from various reviewers?” Her tone was not pleased. She was a woman in a hurry and the sooner I could complete my analysis, the better.

  “In part, yes,” I answered. “The structure and themes and images your father employed in his work are central to any analysis of his …” I hesitated for a moment trying to find the correct word, “… authenticity.”

  “And?” I thought she seemed a little testy so early in the morning, but I suppose that a chief executive’s work is never-ending. Then again, I did notice that her nails appeared freshly manicured.

  “His writing is highly creative, certainly,” I offered. “But any evaluation of his claims to have used primary sources is going to be built on a comparison of his writing to published sources available at the time.” She looked at me skeptically. Her eyes were very blue, like the slick underbelly of an iceberg. “I’m not disputing the fact that your father was a talented writer, Ms. Westmann. That’s not what you hired me to do. I’m looking for elements in his books that could or could not have been lifted from other sources. It’s the only way to begin to prove any original scholarship.”

  “Your opinion, Dr. Burke,” she put a sarcastic emphasis on the doctor p
art. “After reading the material, what is your opinion?” She began to tick points off one by one, tapping a forefinger on the desk for emphasis. The pink of the nail polish matched her blouse. “The whole description of the mountain temple, the prevalence of deep red color symbolism, fox statues. Even the name for the trainees there…”

  “Kitsume,” I supplied. “Shape shifters.” I began to suspect she knew more about her father’s work than she had let on.

  “Precisely,” she said. “I’ve done my homework, Dr. Burke, “she said scornfully. “I expected something more from you.”

  I probably let a little too much energy seep into my answer, but she was beginning to annoy me. “They’re the type of details I can dig up in about thirty seconds using the Internet. When your father wrote his books, it probably took a bit more digging, but I’ll bet there were sources available that he could have drawn from. Not his own experience.”

  “Prove it!” she demanded.

  “I will. But there are other things that don’t fit with my knowledge of the literature. Sure, the Shinto deity Inari was sometimes thought of as the patron god of sword smiths. But there’s no record that I know of that speaks of a secret cult of nature worshipping ascetics training in warrior systems up in Hokkaido.” I now had a full head of steam up. “And I’m a little disappointed at the resources in your father’s library. Most of the stuff there seems to be copies of manuscript pages…”

  “My father was very protective of his life’s work. He routinely made copies and sent the originals off to an archive,” she noted dryly.

  I waived it away. “I can live with the copies. That doesn’t matter. But the types of notes a scholar would make before getting to the point of a completed manuscript aren’t present. Some marginal notes relating to sources appear occasionally, but not enough to permit a reconstruction. And there are frequent notations that simply say ‘PO’. What’s that all about?”

  “My father told me that meant ‘personal observation.’”