The Man From Taured: A thrilling suspense novel by the new master of horror (World's Scariest Legends Book 3)

by Jeremy Bates

  Roughly an hour and a half after I’d been abducted, the Toyota van left the expressway, passing through a toll gate and turning right onto a smaller highway. According to road signs, we were in Yamanashi Prefecture, home to the iconic Mt. Fuji. We drove through a sprawling town, left the highway, and ended up parking before a small commercial complex with several buildings.

  Everyone exited the vehicle. The night air was cool and fresh, carrying the sweet scent of pines. Stars never visible above Tokyo filled the black sky. The cars parked nearby were an eclectic mix of luxury European brands and American V-8s which, in the land of four-cylinder econoboxes, were a rare sight.

  Tighty-Whitey asked me, “Do you know where you are?”

  “Near Mt. Fuji,” I replied. “Now will you tell me who you are and what you want with me?”

  He seized me by the shoulder and shoved me forward. I stumbled but didn’t fall. He opened the building’s glass door and directed me inside.

  The spartan reception lobby was devoid of typical furnishings. An elderly man behind a counter was arranging cherry blossoms in a red vase. Hanging on the wall behind him was an elaborate gold emblem depicting a Kanji character I didn’t recognize. He paid obeisance with a bow. Tighty-Whitey bowed back. Then I was being herded up a staircase. Upon reaching the second floor, I was steered through a door into a large room. A dozen men engaged in jovial locker-room chatter stopped speaking midsentence at our arrival.

  All of them straightened simultaneously and bowed to Tighty-Whitey, who dipped his head slightly in return.

  Most of the men, I noted, were in their late twenties or early thirties and wore well-fitted suits like those of my escorts. One was dressed in a blood-red Champion tracksuit. The jumper was unzipped, revealing a heavily tattooed chest.

  And two of his fingers were missing.

  Grinning, he raised his hand and cracked a joke in Japanese, saying his fingers had flown away.

  “Yubi o tobasu!” another man with russet hair shouted, and everyone broke into laughter.

  Everyone except me.

  I was frozen stiff with fear as I realized that I was standing in the heart of a yakuza lair.

  ∆∆∆

  Tighty-Whitey once more shoved me forward. As I moved through the room I glimpsed more missing fingers, tattoos poking out from cuffs and collars, flashy cufflinks, ice-crusted wristwatches, groomed hands, perfect haircuts.

  All the while I was failing spectacularly to grasp what was going on.

  Why had the yakuza brought me here? What did they want with me?

  I passed through a door into an office with bamboo lanterns and tatami mats. Behind a large desk were photographs of old men in wood-grain frames hanging on the wall, as well as an impressive man-sized wooden statue of a cobra poised to strike, a gold sake cup in its mouth.

  Tighty-Whitey pushed me into a chair in front of the desk. The twins collected chairs from the margins of the room and seated themselves on either side of me.

  “What is going on?” I demanded. “What have I—”

  Tighty-Whitey slapped me across the cheek. “Quiet!” he barked.

  I pressed my lips together and tasted blood.

  Tighty-Whitey disappeared through a sliding shōji door, returning momentarily behind an older man dressed like a 1970s porn star, decked out in a batik shirt with a kaleidoscope design, checkered trousers, and crocodile-skin shoes. A gold medallion hung around his neck, matching his belt buckle.

  Porn Star sat in the leather chair behind the desk, while Tighty-Whitey stood at his side, arms behind his back, legs spread, parade rest. The old man’s face was uncomfortably lizard-like with flat features, small ears, and thin lips. From behind a pair of gold Cartier eyeglasses, his emotionless gaze seemed to penetrate through me.

  “Say, ‘Yoroshiku onegai shimasu,’” Tighty-Whitey snapped.

  “Yoroshiku onegai shimasu,” I greeted.

  “Bow!” Tighty-Whitey said.

  I bowed.

  Porn Star continued to stare through me, seeming to judge and dismiss me at the same time. He spoke in Japanese, his voice gravelly, unhurried.

  Tighty-Whitey translated: “What is your—?”

  “Wakarimas,” I replied, telling him I understood.

  Porn Star raised his eyebrows in surprise before bursting into croaky laughter. Tighty-Whitey and the twins dutifully joined him.

  “My name is Gaston Green,” I continued in Japanese.

  Porn Star’s laughter fizzled, as did that of his sycophants. He folded his hands on the desk.

  “Why are you in my country?” he asked me.

  “I came to Japan for business,” I replied.

  “What business?”

  “I promote Glenfiddich for William Grant & Sons.”

  “The Scotch whisky distillery?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are some sort of whisky expert?”

  “Yes.”

  A smiled crept along Porn Star’s thin lips. He leaned toward Tighty-Whitey and mumbled something into his ear. Tighty left the room. To me: “What do you think of Japanese whisky?”

  “It is different than other single malt whiskys.”

  “You do not like it?”

  “To the contrary, I find it very enjoyable.”

  This answer seemed to please the old man. “The water we use is very pure,” he said. “It is mostly snowmelt from Mt. Fuji. Although Japanese whisky cannot claim centuries of history like its Scottish counterparts, it has come a long way in the last ninety years. It is no longer an exotic alternative.”

  “It has become extremely popular,” I agreed.

  Tighty-Whitey returned, carrying a filigreed silver tray with a bottle of whisky and two tumblers.

  Porn Star indicated the bottle with a barely perceptible tilt of a hand. “A man named Shinjiro Torii opened the first whisky distillery in Japan in 1923. It was called Yamazaki. This”—another effeminate hand tilt, the gems on his Rolex glinting in the soft light—“is Yamazaki single malt. Have you tried it before?”

  “Not for some time,” I admitted.

  Tighty-Whitey filled the tumblers and set one before me. “I would like to hear your expert opinion of it,” he said.

  Channeling my best whisky showman persona, I raised the tumbler to admire the liquid’s amber color and gold highlights. I lowered my nose to the glass and sniffed. “Jasmine, cinnamon…peach,” I said. “Plenty of nut oils and tropical fruits.”

  If Porn Star was intrigued, he didn’t show it.

  I sipped the whisky and swished the liquid over my palate. “Smooth, as expected,” I said. “Full-bodied. Sweet with vanilla and citrus notes. There’s an undercurrent of spice too.” I swallowed and waited for the finish. “Woody…sweet…delicious.” I smiled my approval. “A perfect introduction into the world of Japanese whisky.”

  “Do you know what I like most about whisky?” the old man asked me. “Each blend has its own distinct personality. It can be brooding or mercurial, spicy or sweet, mellow or intense. In that sense, whisky is much like women, would you agree?”

  “And, in some cases, almost as expensive,” I said.

  Porn Star appeared oblivious to the joke. “In the West,” he continued, “you have Scotch, which is very much like a Western woman: a wild clash of contradictions. Japanese whisky, on the other hand, is a crystalline spirit that knows what it is, knows what it should deliver.”

  “What should Japanese women deliver?” I asked, pursuing his metaphor.

  “Obedience, subservience…fidelity.”

  Porn Star raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Tighty-Whitey withdrew his cell phone from his blazer pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and set the phone down on the middle of the desk.

  “Look,” the old man ordered me.

  I retrieved the phone and looked at the screen. It showed a photograph of Okubo and I standing in front of Hachikō Statue at Shibuya Crossing.

  I blinked in surprise.

  “There are o
thers,” Porn Star said simply.

  I swiped left. The next photo was of Okubo and I emerging from the craft beer bar. The next, Okubo and I walking hand in hand to her apartment. The next, us standing on her balcony, smoking the joint. The next, us kissing…

  I set the phone on the desk and looked numbly at the old man.

  “Do you like this woman?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I told him, shaking my head in bafflement. “Is that a problem?”

  “It is a very big problem,” he said. “She is my girlfriend.”

  Chapter 43

  My head spun as I tried to make sense of this revelation, then said, “Shigeharu-san…?”

  “Ah!” Porn Star/Shigeharu said. “Okubo has spoken of me then? What did she say?”

  “She told me…” My tongue felt thick, uncooperative. I heard a slowness in my voice. “She told me she met you at a casino in Manila, and you took her on several dates.”

  “What else?” he pressed.

  “Nothing else,” I lied, as almost everything she’d told me had painted an unflattering picture of him. “That is all. I—I only met her recently.”

  “Yet you have made a very strong impression on her, it seems. I am told you have not left her side in the last two days.”

  “No, well, yes.” My mind raced. “My hotel is…not close. I didn’t know she was still seeing someone…”

  “Which is why you are not dead already,” he stated flippantly. “Even so, ignorance is not an excuse. You have dishonored me. You must be punished.”

  I went momentarily woozy.

  Punished?

  Shigeharu slid open a drawer and withdrew a white cloth napkin that was rolled up like those in an expensive restaurant. He pushed it toward me.

  “Open it,” he instructed.

  I unrolled the napkin and found a gleaming knife inside.

  “The ritual of yubitsume,” Shigeharu said in his unhurried way, “can be traced back to feudal Japan. If a Samurai committed an offense that caused him or his clan to lose face, he would cut off his little finger in atonement. His little finger’s grip is his tightest on the hilt of his sword. Amputating it weakened him in battle, making him more dependent on the protection of his brothers. Under the yakuza code, yubitsume is also performed to atone for an offense, and to show apology to another.”

  “But I am not yakuza!” I blurted.

  Shigeharu waved dismissively. “This is your punishment. There will be no discussion.”

  I stared at the short, small knife in horror. The blade featured a high point with a flat grind, almost like a sword. I can’t do it! I thought. I can’t cut off my own finger! Yet at the same time I knew I wasn’t getting out of here if I didn’t.

  And losing your finger’s better than losing your life.

  Mustering all of my resolve, I forced my left hand palm-down on the napkin. I picked up the knife in my right hand. I hovered the blade between the top knuckle of my pinky finger and nail plate.

  “No!” Tighty-Whitey said, rounding the desk to stand beside me. He pointed at the first knuckle in the center of the finger.

  I reluctantly repositioned the blade.

  “Now apologize,” Tighty-Whitey ordered. “Say, ‘All my mistakes and debt, I now repay to you by cutting off my finger. I hope you forgive me.’”

  I repeated the instruction word for word. Before I could think about it, I rose slightly and leaned with my full weight onto the knife.

  My severed nerves screamed all at once as an unbearable jolt of electricity shot through my finger and up my arm. In the amputation’s immediate aftermath, the locust-like throbbing remained cold and hot and stinging all at the same time.

  “Wrap it in the napkin,” Tighty-Whitey told me.

  I only stared in shock at the flat, offal-red top of my finger stump, and the ruined, discarded tip. My heartbeat pounded inside my head.

  “Wrap it!” Tighty-Whitey shouted, slapping me on the back of the head.

  This caused me to knock the stump against the table, firing off another jolt of electricity.

  Unprepared this time for the pain, I cried out, a pitiful sound that tapered into a hiss. I folded the napkin around the dismembered fingertip and slid the package across the table.

  Shigeharu didn’t glance at the offering. Instead, he leaned forward and stared at me with his reptilian gaze and lipless sneer. “You must leave my country by tomorrow morning. That is your deadline. If you don’t, I will know, and I will have you killed.”

  I stared at him in shock and dismay.

  Leave Japan? How? I didn’t have a passport!

  I didn’t dare mention this, for fear he would have me killed right then and there.

  “Also,” the abhorrent old man added, leaning back importantly in his chair, “you must never return to my country again. If you do, I will know, and I will personally feed your balls to you.” He flapped his fingers, as if brushing aside crumbs. “Get this foreigner out of my sight.”

  Chapter 44

  After throwing me a fresh napkin for my bleeding finger, Tighty-Whitey gripped the neck of my shirt and dragged me through the building as though I were a dog on a leash.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he reminded me ominously as he pushed me through the front door with an added kick to my rear.

  Grimacing, I turned around. “How will I get back to Tokyo?”

  Laughing, he shut the door in my face.

  ∆∆∆

  As I kept direct pressure on my finger stump with the reddening napkin, I crossed the parking lot and went north along a street studded with utility poles, which supported a messy network of electrical wires and cables. I entered the first drug store I came across and purchased medical supplies.

  Two blocks farther on I found lodging. It wasn’t a motel but rather a ryokan, or traditional Japanese-style inn. I stood in the stone-floored entryway with my bloodied hand tucked out of sight in my pocket and called out, “Gomen kudasai!” A pale woman wearing a kimono appeared from around the corner and invited me inside. I removed my shoes, stepped up to the main wood floor, and stuck my feet into the provided slippers. The woman led me to a reception area where she handed me a form to fill out.

  While I was doing this, she asked, “May I have your passport?”

  “My passport?” I said, recalling this was protocol in Japan when checking into any reputable lodging.

  “It is required by law,” she said. “I will give it back after I photocopy it.”

  “I do not have it with me,” I replied. Thinking quickly, I added, “I live here. I am a resident.”

  She frowned. “You live in Japan?” She pointed to the address line on the form. “You wrote you are staying in the Park Hyatt Tokyo?”

  “I live in Osaka,” I lied smoothly. “I am staying in the Park Hyatt while I am in Tokyo.”

  “Then please write your permanent address there instead.”

  I scribbled away, hoping my rushed handwriting masked any glaring inconsistencies in the complex designations that made up a Japanese address.

  Thankfully the milquetoast woman barely gave the false address a second glance before detailing the ryokan’s available facilities. On the way to my room, she pointed out both the indoor and outdoor hot springs and their opening hours, as well as the dining room and the times of the meals (unfortunately, I had just missed dinner). In my room, she showed me where to find the yukata, air conditioning and heating control, and other amenities.

  As soon as she left, I went to the bathroom, upended the paper bag of medical supplies I’d purchased onto the sink counter, and turned on the faucet. When the water was as cold as possible, I jabbed my pinky stump beneath it. The open wound stung with the ferocity of a thousand paper cuts. Gradually the gushing water worked its magic, numbing the pain while also cleaning away all the dried, brownish blood that had stained much of my hand. After five minutes, I shut off the tap and rinsed the stump with sterile saline before patting it dry with a towel. As delicately as possibl
e, I applied antibiotic cream to the wound, covered it with a non-adherent gauze pad, and wrapped it with a stretchable adhesive.

  Satisfied with the dressing, I left the ryokan and entered the first convenience store I spotted. I went directly to the refrigerated area and grabbed two cans of Asahi beer. After paying for them with my Western Union money, I stuffed one in my pocket and cracked open the other. The store didn’t have any pay phones, so I continued down the street. My search lasted another fifteen minutes and took me all the way to Kawaguchiko train station, which was a hub of activity even at this late hour. The station was a brown-roofed structure, old but renovated, featuring timber and stucco and gables. Behind it rose the imposing silhouette of Mt. Fuji.

  I squeezed between a pair of green tourist coaches and wandered through a gift shop and café before finding a bank of pay phones.

  With the change from the convenience store, I called Okubo.

  “Gaston!” she said even before I spoke. “Is that you?”

  “It is me,” I replied.

  “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I am okay,” I told her.

  “Thank God! I was so worried. Who were those men?”

  “Yakuza,” I said.

  A pause. “Yakuza? Yakuza?”

  She sounded genuinely confused, and I said, “You did not know your old friend Shigeharu was a yakuza boss?” I didn’t want to come across as scornful or snide, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d lost my finger and was being run out of the country because of a man she had dated.

  “Shigeharu? A yakuza boss? What are you talking about, Gaston?”

  “Shigeharu, from Manila, your ex. Those were his goons who threw me in the van. They brought me to some…headquarters, I suppose you would call it…where I had a lovely conversation with Shigeharu.”