Steel Breeze

by Douglas Wynne

  “I can’t say I am.”

  “It’s been in the national news lately because of the gruesome nature of the crime. Same as your wife’s…. I’m sorry.”

  “He was decapitated?” The word came out in a whisper. It still hurt to say it. An abominable word.

  “Yes. Forgive me if this is painful for you, but your cooperation would be quite helpful with regard to a technical detail I’m pursuing. I only need a minute of your time.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re calling me instead of the detectives in Sandy’s case.”

  “I understand you were the owner of the sword that was used for the crime, that it was a weapon of convenience, stolen from your home and used on your wife when she confronted the intruder.”

  “That was the verdict, yes.”

  “You have doubts?”

  “I was asleep. The sword was found in the possession of a local homeless man. Blood, fingerprints…I’m sure you know all about it.” He looked at the squat limestone building through sheets of rain and wondered what this Agent Drelick would think if she knew he was talking to her from the current residence of said psycho killer. It wouldn’t be difficult for her to find out that he’d just sat down for a little chat with the man, not if she was looking into Sandy’s case with the resources of the FBI at her disposal.

  “Yes, I’ve been over the case file. There’s a detail in there that matches a finding from Lamprey’s autopsy—a type of sword oil. I’m trying to track down a commercial source. You should understand that you are not a suspect in the Lamprey case.”

  “I should hope not. I’ve never even heard of him.”

  “I’ll get to the point. Before your wife was murdered, did you ever apply oil to the blade? For preservation, maintenance, that sort of thing?”

  “No. I took it out of the sheath once or twice just to look at it when my father-in-law gave it to me. Then I hung it on my office wall and more or less forgot about it.”

  “It was a gift?”

  “Sort of. It belonged to Sandy’s grandfather. When he passed away, her father didn’t want it, so he gave it to me.”

  “Do you remember if the blade was oiled when you first received it? Maybe your father-in-law had oiled it to prevent rust?”

  “I don’t know, you’d have to ask him. He takes good care of tools, so maybe he would know to do that.”

  “I’d like you to think about the first time you unsheathed the sword. Was there a scent?”

  “A scent?”

  “Try to remember.”

  Desmond closed his eyes. He was enveloped by the sound of rain on the roof and windshield. “I don’t remember it smelling like anything. The oil would have a scent?”

  “Common machine oil would have a smell, yes. And traditional sword oil would have a different smell.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cloves.”

  A memory flared in Desmond’s mind—a park bench, the day it all came back to haunt them, an old Japanese man smoking a cigarette, and the too sweet smell of clove smoke on the breeze. The rain reached a crescendo, pounding on the car and sending the crackle and hiss of static down the line.

  “Mr. Carmichael? Are you still there?”

  Chapter 13

  Shaun Bell tilted the katana. The hamon line glowed in the diffuse morning light. Outside, the sound of rain pattering on the rocks, dripping from the leaves. He had been meditating through the morning, listening to the rhythm of the rain, the rhythm of his breath. There was rhythm in everything. A time to watch, a time to strike, a time to withdraw. A time to reap. This was a universal dharma, written in the bible, written in Musashi’s Book of Five Rings. He examined the steel, watched the play of the light along the temper line like a slow-moving wave lapping at a riverbank in the moonlight, or plasma undulating in a dying neon tube.

  Musashi wrote that one must have no attachment to a particular weapon or to anything in life. If a warrior’s ability depended upon his preferences, he would be lost when circumstance took them away. Sensei had demonstrated this when he used the crude infantry officer’s sword to kill the woman. That weapon had symbolic and circumstantial value. Today, however, Shaun would enjoy the beauty and poetry of a true nihonto. Despite the council of Musashi, it was well known that swords forged by master smiths possessed souls of their own, and this was such a blade, his master’s blade. To untie the silk bag was to feel it awaken. To draw it from the saya was to hear it breathe. To watch the light run along the hamon was to witness sentience in steel.

  The warrior had risen at dawn. He had bathed and dressed, wound the straps around his waist over and under, tied the knots, arranged the folds, felt the board pressing into the small of his back. He had reached between his knees and slapped the fabric out to the sides, had kneeled in seiza, set his hands in his lap, and focused his mind. His stomach growled from fasting.

  Now he wiped a few drops of choji oil along the length of the blade with a folded square of rice paper as the last wisp of incense smoke curled in the still air. He laid the sword on the mat and pounded the blade with the powder ball, then re-sheathed it, and examined the hilt—checked the fit of the bamboo retaining pegs, the tightness of the silk wrap, the snug fit of the silver dragon ornaments in the hand grip.

  He set the sword down in front of his knees in the ceremonial manner, and bowed to it, left hand touching the floor first, then right. Rhythm in everything. A time to reap.

  * * *

  Vance Garrett popped a piece of chalk into his mouth, folded the extra foil under his thumb, and dropped the roll of antacid wafers into the pocket of his golf shorts. He selected an iron from his bag and swung it back and forth like a pendulum, loosening up, letting the weight of the head do the work. He scanned the putting green where the caddies were congregating around the door of the pro shop. No sign of Parsons yet. He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up at the cloud cover. It was starting to burn off. Grass was still wet, but he was better at putting on wet grass than Phil Parsons was. Maybe it wouldn’t dry too fast.

  His swing was fluid and easy this morning, nice and straight. He grinned and put the club back in the bag. The grin stretched into a yawn and he covered his mouth with the back of his white-gloved hand. Funny, how fatigue improved his form. He wondered if other athletes—pro baseball players for instance—played a better game when they were hung over and tired because it loosened them up. Probably not. Most games called for more cardio stamina than this one. Golf was supposed to be relaxing, but he knew that few of his peers would say it was. It brought out the competitive temperament, and even the bucolic rolling hills and glistening water couldn’t pacify that. Heartburn and hangover could. He thought of those twin antagonists as occupational hazards for a judge.

  This morning the hangover was from a late night of brandy and cigars with a Masonic brother who had insisted on picking his brain about zoning law loopholes, and the heartburn was from the too large brunch he’d been treated to by a town selectman’s niece who wanted to know how her husband might argue for a lesser charge when his DUI court date came up.

  The clubhouse door opened, and Phil Parsons strolled out. He spotted Garrett right away and touched the brim of his tweed derby hat in salute. Garrett raised his hand—not quite a wave—then fished his cell phone out of his pocket and shut it off so no one else could pester him for advice and favors while he tried to sink nine holes to a soundtrack of carefully worded custody questions.

  * * *

  Lucas liked his new sneakers. They had Iron Man on them, and they lit up red and blue when he stomped his feet. Nana liked how he liked them, but she didn’t like how he kept running ahead of her in them. Lucas thought that was funny. Too bad there were no puddles in the mall to splash in with the new sneakers. Maybe in the parking lot there would be some from the rain. Or the playground! Nana said they would go if he was good, and he was good. “I was good, right Nana?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I was good in the store so we can g
o to the Castle Playground and eat ice cream, right?”

  “We’ll see. And not if you keep running ahead.”

  “But I’m Iron Man!”

  “Help an old lady out, Iron Man. Walk beside me.”

  “You’re not an old lady, Nana.”

  “Already figured out how to play the ladies to get what you want, huh?”

  Lucas did the thing with his eyebrows, the serious face, the Daddy face that he made when he didn’t like or understand something. Nana brushed her fingers through his hair while they walked. Everyone was always touching his hair. He couldn’t wait until he was tall so he could do it to them and see how they liked it. “We need to get this trimmed,” Nana said.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “It’s getting hot, Lucas. Don’t you want short hair for summer, so you can keep cool?”

  “No.”

  “But you look so handsome with short hair.”

  “Like Daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “When will I see him?”

  “Sometime soon. We’ll see.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know, honey. Just sometime soon.”

  “If I get a haircut will I see Mommy soon, too?”

  “Oh, baby….” Nana stopped walking, knelt down, and put her hands on his cheeks. “My boy. If your mother could come back she would.”

  “Why doesn’t she?”

  “She’s in heaven now. But she’s watching you, dear. And she still loves you so very much.”

  That was what they always said. Lucas broke away and ran as fast as his new sneakers could carry him to the carousel in the middle of the mall. He heard Nana yelling and looked down at the flashing lights on his sneakers. He wanted to know where heaven was. When he found out, he would run there.

  * * *

  Garrett made a short putt and watched the ball roll up to the edge of the hole. Right up to the edge but not in. His earlier calm was gone, wrecked by the barrage of questions Parsons didn’t have the courtesy to dole out at a pace that was sensitive to a man’s game. He popped another tab of chalk and answered the latest query with an edge in his voice. “No, I don’t think it’ll hold. Not if he gets an even halfway decent lawyer. You can’t show a pattern of reckless behavior.”

  “But he was fired for drinking.”

  “He’s a writer, for Chrissake. They practically get paid to drink. Still gainfully employed at that?”

  “Barely.”

  “You said he’s been off the sauce for almost a year. If he was bringing whores home, you might have a leg to stand on.”

  “Desmond says he stopped drinking, but he didn’t join a program. He doesn’t have a sponsor who can vouch for him or a six-month medallion to show for it.”

  Garrett knocked the ball into the hole and marked his card. “He’s the child’s only living parent, Phil, and he’s never raised a hand to him. That’s what’s going to carry the day with a judge.”

  “With any judge?”

  Garrett took a long look at Phil Parsons and didn’t like what he saw. He bent and plucked his ball out of the hole.

  * * *

  The sound of thundering taiko drums rolled out of the car stereo speakers, just loud enough to mask the gravel crunching under the tires. Tree branches cast shadows over the dusty dashboard as the car rolled to a stop in the tunnel of oaks. The driver climbed out and unclipped a rusty chain with a weathered, illegible steel plate sign suspended from the middle. He tossed the chain into the bushes, got back in the car, swept the hem of his hakama clear of the door as he pulled it shut, and then continued up the road, which was now little more than a double-rut dirt path. He parked the car deep enough into the woods that it couldn’t be seen from the road, yet close enough that he could get out fast.

  With the car engine and the music off, silence settled on the woods, punctuated only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the chatter of birds. The rain was burning off of the trees now, rising in little wisps of steam. The air was still. The sword slept in an aluminum gun case in the trunk, waiting to wake, and hiss, and sing a song of blood, the tachikaze, the sword-wind song. A song for him alone, as the blade would travel too fast for that sound to reach living ears.

  * * *

  Lucas walked beside Nana and let her pet the back of his head, his shaggy hair. They were looking for the shortcut to the barbershop—the gap in the fence where the litter-strewn path cut through the woods that separated the Big Mall from the Little Mall. The Little Mall didn’t really seem like a mall to Lucas because the stores weren’t connected inside, but Nana said she always parked there because you could always find a good spot, and Nana liked to stop in and have coffee at the barbershop where Mary worked. Mary was okay. She cut his hair before and gave him a lollipop when he was little and used to have more days with Nana like today.

  Lucas was worried. He didn’t know if he’d still be allowed to have ice cream later if he had a lollipop.

  Once they were on the trail, in the shade of the trees, Lucas could see the lights on his sneakers better. They were away from the cars now, so he asked Nana, “Can I run in my new sneakers?”

  “Okay, but not too far.”

  He stomped two times and watched the lights chase each other around his soles, then he tore through the tunnel of trees toward the lattice of sunlight on the brick wall of a store-back ahead, beyond the black shadows of the low hanging branches.

  The air smelled smoky and sweet.

  * * *

  Phil Parsons tugged on his glove and said, “You know Tom Carter, right? Isn’t he one of your Masonic brothers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you think he’d rule in favor of caution where a young boy’s welfare is at stake?”

  “That’s not the only measure a judge goes by in a case like this; he has to cleave to the law. What rights does the father have? Have there been transgressions of his parental role and so forth.”

  “But you know him. How do you think he’ll go?” Phil said, placing his ball on the tee.

  Garrett was pulling various irons from his bag, examining each one before dropping it back in, buying a little time, and doing his best to avoid looking at Parsons’ haggard face. Parsons who had served on the force, who had lost his beautiful daughter to an act of supreme brutality. Parsons, once a fearless man, who now kept a house like a fortress and feared for his grandson’s life. Garrett had tried to read one of Desmond Carmichael’s novels, even though fantasy wasn’t his cup of tea—he preferred thrillers. There had been swords, yes, but it was no more violent than other books he admired. Violence drove plot. Just because a book was violent didn’t mean…well, he doubted that Harlan Coben or Dennis Lehane had ever killed anyone. He hadn’t finished the Carmichael book because he couldn’t keep track of all the weird names, but he’d read far enough to appreciate the author’s sense of compassion for his characters. Even the bad ones. He supposed judges and authors needed to have that in common if they were to be any good at their jobs.

  “I’ll tell him you’re a friend and that I’m interested in hearing how it turns out,” he said. “But that’s all I can do for you, Phil. I can’t pull any strings. You know that.”

  “Thanks, Vance, I appreciate it.”

  Parsons tested his alignment with two practice strokes, then brought the club back and made his drive. The ball soared over the fairway far enough off center to fall prey to the crosswind that was presently scattering the cloud cover, and sliced into the scrub.

  Garrett chuckled. “Want to put down a fresh one?”

  “Hell no,” Parsons said. “Game’s still close. I can hit it out of there.”

  Garrett watched Parsons stroll over to the wood line, the limp from his old injury barely visible today. He considered following to give moral support and to see just how badly the ball was trapped but decided not to. Parsons might think he was watching out of distrust, and that wouldn’t be true. He didn’t think Phil Parsons would move an unwatched bal
l so much as a millimeter. Vie for leverage with a judge? Sure, but that was part of the judicial game, and Parsons was a man who stuck to the rules of whatever game he played. He’d certainly never been the kind of cop who would dream of tampering with evidence, and Garrett knew that to a cop, the location of a trapped ball fell squarely into the category of physical evidence. Too bad Parsons had never expressed an interest in becoming a Mason. He would have made a fine one.

  Parsons had only just disappeared into the thicket when a shriek ripped the tranquil air like a knife through a bed sheet. Garrett’s stomach dropped at the sound, sudden and visceral. He looked around for a woman; maybe someone struck by a flying club that had slipped free of a player’s grip…but he saw no one. Perspiration tingled in his armpits, eliciting a burning sensation from his deodorant. He knew exactly which direction the sound had come from. The wood. A clang of metal on metal followed.

  Garrett scrambled to free his phone from his pocket with fingers that suddenly felt distant from his hands. He clicked it on, hoping, praying, for signal bars. “Phil?” he called to the sky, taking a few tentative steps toward the wood line.

  Parsons staggered backwards out of the trees, his white polo shirt emblazoned with a vivid crimson slash. He was holding his club with one hand at each end, guarding his face with it. Garrett pulled a nine iron from his own bag and hurried down the slope toward the bleeding man. “Phil!”

  Parsons shot a quick glance in Garrett’s direction, then looked back at whatever had cut him. That half second of eye contact was enough to tell Garrett that Phil Parsons was a man about to die. A man who knew it. A loop of purple intestine squirmed out of the bottom of the gash that ran from his right collarbone to his left hip. He made an awful groaning sound and dropped one hand from the club to try to push his guts back in where they belonged. It was enough to present his attacker with an opening.