Collector of Secrets

by Richard Goodfellow

  She refocused her attention on the yellow slip of paper pressed tightly between her fingertips. It held the prince’s Nara address, but at the moment the edge was bending to and fro, preparing to form the wing of a crane. The folding effort usually proved a distraction, but now it was only serving to remind her of the transgressing note she had left behind and the wake of pain it had no doubt caused.

  Max had returned late to Toshi’s the previous evening, saying he’d gone for a long walk after his visit to the hospital. He’d seemed distracted, simply picking at the take-out dinner, claiming he didn’t have an appetite and saying little else.

  They had both been weary and afraid, unsure of what to do. Lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, he had coiled his arm over her, finally speaking. “We need to find the caretaker Mr. M told me about.”

  “But first I need to make sure my parents are okay,” she’d implored, hoping he would relent. “They don’t use computers, and I can’t call them in case their phone is bugged.”

  “You don’t understand, Tomoko. Mr. M wouldn’t explain everything, but that diary is even more dangerous than either of us thought.” He sighed. “We can’t do that. At least not yet.”

  She burrowed her face into the pillow. She wanted desperately to scream, realizing that his own phantom-like relationship with his family would never allow him to empathize with her plight.

  He was unbending. “First we go to Nara and then we’ll contact your folks. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She thought of Miki as she forced out a culpable breath against the tightly spun cotton. “That makes sense.”

  Sleepy lips kissed her ear, “I’m glad you agree.”

  Why did he force me to choose? Tomoko’s fingers involuntarily ceased folding as sadness flooded down, but there were no more tears, at least for the time being. She couldn’t stand to question her actions yet again—the choice would still be the same.

  Enough time had been spent watching the house. It seemed safe enough to make a move. Standing, she shook her legs and rubbed her lower back. Grabbing her purse, she stepped out from behind the hedge and crossed the sunlit laneway.

  Her father’s Lexus was in its usual spot. He would have taken the train to work early in the morning. She removed the house key from her pocket and stepped into the alcove covering the car’s hood. The lock clicked open easily. Warm air escaped through the open door and pressed against her face, carrying the wonderfully familiar smells of home. Stepping inside, she scanned the central hallway. The house was quiet, but nothing seemed out of place. Habit forced her to remove her shoes.

  Movement at the hallway’s end made her look up as her mother’s familiar figure appeared in the living room. She was dressed in a white blouse under a red sweater vest, her petite hands folded in her apron’s front pocket. Tomoko rushed forward, choked with elation. Her socked feet were half sliding on the hardwood floor.

  Then a shadow flickered on the living room’s wall and the glint of a silver blade appeared ahead of the Yakuza’s massive form. Her mother looked utterly helpless cowering next to him.

  Tomoko screamed and shook as the scowling man motioned with his head for her to continue down the hall. The thug thrust one paw-like hand over her mother’s face, covering her mouth, and the butcher’s knife in his other hand rested precariously at her throat. Her eyes blazed with horror.

  “Tomoko held arms up in surrender. “Don’t hurt her! Please don’t hurt her! I’ll do whatever you want.” She crept forward, steadying herself against the wall. She wasn’t sure her legs would obey the commands. Stepping into the room, she saw more clearly the scar running down the big man’s face. “Momma, are you all right?”

  “Silence!” The Yakuza’s deep voice boomed.

  Glancing left, she dropped her purse as she gasped. Her father was in the dining room, dressed in pajamas, bound upright in a high-backed chair. His head was drooping unconscious over his chest.

  Tattooed arms grasped her from behind and she stiffened, craning her neck to the side, struggling. The second man’s face was barely visible in her peripheral vision, but she recognized him. He’d run past her in the Shibuya plaza. Tomoko braced for pain as he pressed her forward and down.

  Lying against the sofa cushions, she felt her hands being bound, but he seemed oddly gentle, weaving a cloth around her wrists before binding them with rope. The incongruity made no sense as she fought back tears, trying frantically to draw a response from her mother. “Are you okay?”

  “Hiro, shut her up.” The muscular man yelled, while pushing her mother into a nearby chair. The older woman struggled and cried when he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrenching the cloth tightly across her mouth. A bloody trickle formed at one corner of her lips.

  “Stop it,” Tomoko shouted, “you’re hurting her!”

  “Not so hard. Jun!” The smaller man said with an air of authority. “Loosen the gag.”

  Jun sneered and then relented, adding a paltry dose of slack to the material.

  Tomoko felt herself rolled onto her back as the shorter Yakuza spoke. “Where is your boyfriend? What has he done with the leather satchel?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jun retrieved the kitchen knife and lurched aggressively across the room, kicking the coffee table from his path. Waving the blade over her face, he made slashing motions in the air. “Don’t lie! Tell us where he is.”

  Tomoko was desperate. “We broke up last night.” She knew she needed to give them something more in order to sound plausible. “He’s a stupid Gaijin. I hate him. It’s finished.”

  “Jun, get her purse. It’s over there on the floor.”

  The psychotic man stomped away while Hiro whispered at her. “You need to cooperate. Please. I don’t want to hurt—”

  The handbag struck the side of Hiro’s head and fell to the floor as Jun chuckled fiercely. “You check it if you want to. I’ll check her pants.” Pushing Hiro aside, he knelt on the sofa and straddled her body. His massive frame hovered close as he sniffed at her hair, while his tongue flicked reptilian-like back and forth across his lower lip. She could see the many fine cuts covering his face, and she recalled the sharp bushes dragging him from the SUV’s side.

  “Do you like what you did to me?” He jammed his fingers into Tomoko’s jean pockets. She tried to kick him, but he caught her knees with a single hand. The attempt made him almost giddy and he laughed harder, clearly enjoying the struggle.

  “Get off her!” Hiro commanded, to no avail.

  Jun’s thick fingers drew the folded scrap of yellow paper from her pocket.

  They were going to get what they wanted, and she was powerless to stop them.

  “I wonder who lives at this Nara address?” He pressed himself back to a kneeling position.

  Tomoko couldn’t watch. She turned her face to the side, instead focusing on her mother, trying to catch her attention, to project reassurance that everything would be okay.

  Jun reached down and twisted Tomoko’s jaw, forcing her gaze upward. “And now maybe we should have some fun with you, for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

  Hiro’s right hand, wrapped in a bloody bandage, thumped deliberately against his left palm. “You touch her and I’ll kill you.”

  Jun smirked insolence. “I won’t touch your new girlfriend, but we’re bringing her along for the ride. She may prove useful as bait.” He snorted bull-like. “And as for killing me . . . go ahead and try it sometime. I dare you.” He rose and stomped from the room.

  Standing in the hallway, Jun lit a cigarette and dialed the private number. The plan had been carried out and the enemy located. He inhaled deeply. Guts, the cartoon warrior, would be proud. The call went directly to voicemail. “Father, it’s done. I need a fast car. I know where the American has gone.”

  THE RHYTHMIC hum of the Shinkansen Bullet Train ebbed to an offbeat rumble as the high-speed locomotive broke its westerly run near Osaka.

  I can’t believ
e she left me.

  He’d slept at first, drifting in and out of consciousness; perhaps it was his body’s way of protecting itself from the rejection that stabbed knifelike when he was fully awake. The first-class cabin was packed, forcing Max to shift his feet to allow the young boy across from him to retake the seat beside his sister. They were playing a game using a stopwatch and Latin letters pulled from a cloth bag. It seemed the goal was to spell as many words as possible within sixty seconds. Their mother periodically shushed them when their squeals and giggles grew too loud.

  Max adjusted his sunglasses and watched the streaming landscape, thinking back to his arrival at the train station. The fact that the train’s coach seats had been sold out was unusual for a weekday morning. First-class tickets were more than double the price of the low-cost ones, but the next cheap fares wouldn’t leave until that afternoon. There was no time to wait. He’d cursed under his breath while withdrawing the precious money from an ATM.

  The reason for the crowded state of affairs became clear while he stood waiting on the train platform. Overhead, row after row of Golden Week banners hung from Tokyo Station’s iron girders. Glittering letters announced the year’s longest holiday period. In a work-obsessed country, it was monumental to have a stretch of four vacation days.

  The yearly celebration kicked off on April twenty-ninth, Greenery Day. At least that had been the case historically. But after numerous legislative attempts, the government had finally pushed through a recent amendment. Jeff, a fellow teacher and friend, had pointed out a back-page article in the English newspaper. April twenty-ninth was former Emperor Shōwa’s birthday, but the tongue-in-cheek commentary noted that beginning in 2007, the first holiday of the week would now officially be called Shōwa Day. It struck the cynical columnist as ominous that Japan would want to honor a period covering two world wars, especially conflicts they helped start. The people are forgetting the past.

  He stared out the train’s window. The rice fields racing by gradually gave way to houses, factories, apartments, and finally unrelenting urban sprawl. His fragmented brain barely registered the gradual decline in speed. A crushed piece of paper—printed at the train station’s Internet café—was clutched in his hand, and he read it over again:

  From: zoepitman69@hotmail.com

  To: maxdawg@gmail.com

  What the HELL is going on?

  Date: Wed, 25 Apr 11:54:36

  Where are you? Police raided the house yesterday. It was dreadful. Itzhak was badly hurt, but he won’t go to a doctor. What am I supposed to do? I’m not a bloody nurse! They took us all in for questioning. Everything they asked was about you. What happened at your office? After six fucking hours they let us out, but the two Kiwis are gone—expired visas. Some guy from the U.S. Embassy showed up today, wanting to speak with you. A real weirdo with bright green eyes. He gave me a card—Lloyd Elgin (090-8849-1212)—but I think his story’s bollocks. I got a really bad vibe from him. We need to talk, Max. Call me!

  Z

  It just didn’t make sense that the U.S. Embassy would send someone to the Tokyo Poor House.

  I never made it to the embassy when I tried. How could they possibly know I need help?

  Max checked his pocket watch—9:25 a.m.—Tomoko would be home by now.

  God knows what she’s found.

  The harder he tried to squeeze the hurt from his mind, the more it refused to budge. Not only had she abandoned him, but how could she not see that by going to her parents’ she was taking the danger with her?

  Finding this caretaker may be the only way out. I just hope he can help me, or else . . .

  Across the aisle, the boisterous action from the kids’ word game caught his attention. They noticed Max’s gaze and grew louder as a result. To distract himself, he played with anagrams on the paper in his hand. The letters in Zoe’s name rearranged to make “zap time on” or “at omen zip.” Lloyd Elgin became “no idyll leg” or “old yelling.” Max rearranged the letters once more and gasped when he saw the result. Self-consciously he glanced around, confirming that no one else had noticed his astonished reaction.

  Sweat formed on his skin as he stared at the final combination of letters. It had to be a mistake. Flipping the page over, he quickly sorted the letters again, but with lines to account for each one. It was crazy and wrong, yet staring at the result he knew with growing certainty that it was no coincidence.

  A sinister energy wrapped its arms around the compartment and squeezed tight. As bad as the situation already was, it had just grown far worse. Someone else was hunting for him, someone who obviously knew where to look.

  But who is Lloyd Elgin? And where could the guy possibly have come from?

  It was impossible to know, but one thing was certain, given the evil history of Golden Lily—the decades of plundering and raping Southeast Asia, the elaborate plans for hiding the emperor’s stolen treasure—it seemed doubtful this new hunter would be the least bit friendly.

  The train arrived in Osaka and slid smoothly up to the platform as the surrounding passengers rose and gathered their belongings. Both kids smiled and waved goodbye as the compartment emptied.

  Max stuffed the anagram in his pocket while remaining seated with his head down. It would be better to depart with the final swell of passengers to avoid police eyes. Through the window, he watched the pre-holiday passengers surge onto the platform stairs.

  He had been alone in the car for only a few seconds when he heard two voices; men were approaching from the car’s rear. It was a clear signal to move. The voices behind grew louder as he raced toward the car’s front end. He chanced a quick look back. At most, he hoped the two policemen entering the compartment had caught only a brief glimpse of a tall, brown-haired man disappearing from sight.

  “YES, HELLO?” Yoko shouted across the open floor. The resonance of her authoritative voice bounced off the white walls and echoed in the cavernous gallery space. “Can I help you?” The man standing near the front door didn’t respond. She could see only his charcoal suit coat from the back. He was Caucasian and seemed to be admiring the oversized canvas paintings. Probably a foreigner who couldn’t read the writing on the sign that said the art exhibit was under construction. Kenji must have forgotten to lock the door. She’d deal with her foolish assistant soon enough.

  Yoko turned to the two workers struggling to hold a mural at waist height. “Take a break, but be back in five minutes. You’ve been much too slow this morning.” She waved the scowling men away with a dismissive hand.

  Her shoes clattered on the hardwood floor as she descended the open staircase to the main floor. The mysterious man turned to watch her. The fact that he was handsome did little to alleviate her upset at the unwelcome intrusion.

  “The gallery is closed. You’ll need to come back on Saturday.”

  “How unfortunate. I’m only in town for a short time, and I’m a great fan of Jake Poyser’s paintings.” His voice held a refined edge.

  “Really?” A well-cut suit and liquid green eyes, she thought. “Where have you seen his work?”

  “New York. In 2005—his Ice World exhibit. They’re very good, but I can see his style has changed since then.”

  Yoko adjusted her blouse and her voice took on a mellifluous tone. “I’m very sorry if I seemed rude before. It’s just that we are setting up, and sometimes . . .”

  The man nodded. “Please, there’s no need to explain. I should go.”

  “No, no. Since you know the artist, let me show you the best ones.” She motioned with a sweep of her arm toward the far wall, where several large paintings rested atop plastic tarps. “They’re not hung but they’re still wonderful.”

  Vincent followed behind Yoko as she moved across the open floor. He noted her waist-hugging skirt and how well preserved she was for a woman in her late sixties. It was understandable why she’d been an effective tool more than forty years earlier. No man would have been able to resist her charms.

  “The exhibit i
s called Turbidity of the Soul,” she said.

  They were standing before a ten-foot canvas. The colors changed from bright red near the bottom to dark brown at the top. Abstract patterns swirled across the painting’s face.

  “Magnificent.” Vincent leaned in close. “Has he mixed wax in with the oil?”

  “You do have a good eye, Mr. . . ?”

  “Elgin. Lloyd Elgin.” He threw on a dazzling smile just as her cell phoned chirped. “Please take the call.”

  “It’s just the hospital again. I’ll call them back.”

  Vincent looked up toward the top of the canvas. Crossing his arms over his chest, he enjoyed the feeling of the dual ASP muzzles pressing against his ribcage. “Yes, it’s a shame about your father.”

  A look of confusion swept over Yoko’s face. “Excuse me?”

  “Your father and his unfortunate illness.”

  He watched as her shoulders visibly tightened. “How do you know about that?”

  “Your assistant mentioned it when he gave me directions to the gallery. He said something about an angioplasty procedure and that your father would be sedated for the day.”

  “Why would he tell you that?”

  “I’m not sure, but he was very chatty. He also mentioned a break-in that happened a few days ago. I hope nothing important was stolen.” Vincent was sure he saw a hint of anger cross her face, only to be replaced instantly with a calm, professional mask.

  “Kenji should never have bored you with so many personal details.”

  “Actually it’s quite all right. I’m in Tokyo doing research on crime statistics—meeting with the local police. It’s my field of expertise. Was anything valuable taken?”

  She lifted her chin slightly. “It’s a private matter, and I would rather not talk about it.”