by MF Bishop
Chapter Ninety Six
The next morning, Bobby met Marilyn Holtzman in the coffee shop of the Marriot. Marilyn wore a scarf and huge dark glasses. She waved to him and hurried across the almost empty room. There were few other diners at the early hour.
"I snuck away," she told Bobby, "my neighbor put me in her station wagon, under a bunch of clothes she was taking to the Goodwill. Bobby, there are reporters all around my house and clear down the block."
"That's why we're out here," Bobby said, "and it's only a matter of time before they find us. So I'd better talk fast." He took one of Marilyn's hands in both of his. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"
"How much worse can it get? Poor Alan. The police came to the house with a warrant at three that morning and just ransacked the place."
"At three? So early?" Bobby remembered that Helen had awakened him around three.
"He's sure it was just a little after three. The police wouldn't tell him a thing, but the paper said that Senator Loughlin's wife claimed that Helen killed the Senator." Marilyn gripped Bobby's hands tightly. "Helen couldn't have done all those terrible things. She didn't, did she?"
Bobby gently freed his hands. "So the police in Virginia were already after her when she got to me. I don't know if she did all of those things, but she did a lot of them. She told me that she killed the Senator, and...and some other people, too."
Marilyn put her hands to her mouth. "More?" she said, "she killed more people? Do you mean...."
Bobby nodded. "I'm afraid so, not with her own hand, not John at least with her own hand, but she helped in some way. I think she helped arrange it."
"But she was so upset," Marilyn said, "she bawled like a baby at the funeral, and she almost never cried."
"She didn't seem very happy about it when she told me," Bobby said, "but she felt it was necessary."
"But why," Marilyn shouted, "why was it necessary?"
Two of the other customers looked up from their newspapers. Bobby shushed Marilyn. "Keep it down," he said, "we don't want any attention."
"Why, Bobby, why did she do it? John was always good to her, he adored her, and she seemed to like him." Marilyn started to cry. "I,I,I'm s,s,sorry," she said, and blew her nose on a napkin.
Bobby noticed one of the other diners leaf to the front of his paper and scan the second page. Then he leaned over and poked his companion, said something. She turned and looked at Bobby and Marilyn.
"Christ on a crutch," Bobby muttered. "Look," he said, "I don't know why she did it. It wasn't because she had anything against John. It had something to do with the movement she was in, the group that wanted to discredit the Game and elect Loughlin President."
"John wasn't involved in any of that," Marilyn said positively.
Bobby sighed. "She thought he threatened her in some way," he said. Should he tell Marilyn just how much John was involved? No point in that. "Helen thought the cause was bigger than anybody, and the more low-down, murderous things she did in the name of the cause - 'saving the country' she called it - the more important the cause got to her, and that justified doing even more low-down murderous things. John got in the way, that's all."
Several customers were talking together now, all looking at Bobby. The counterman joined in, ignoring another customer's request for coffee. The news spread to the lobby, and more people crowded into the shop.
"Let's go," Bobby said, pulling Marilyn to her feet.
A tiny, old woman pulled at Bobby's sleeve. "Say," she shrilled, "ain't you that mysterious CIA agent that was on TV last night?"
Bobby pulled away. "I'm not with the CIA," he muttered, "come on, Marilyn." The crowd surged after them as they went through the door.
"Are they staying here?" someone asked.
"Check with the desk clerk."
"Call the TV stations."
"Hey, Mr. Britton, can I have your autograph?"
Bobby fled up the stairs, dragging Marilyn after him.
Chapter Ninety Seven
Hours later, Bobby and Alexa relaxed in Alexa's office at OMCOM.
"Frank promised me a vacation and instead I'm locked in a room in a basement," Bobby said.
"This is the only place in Washington where reporters can't get to us. We may have to sleep here. Anyway," Alexa smiled and looked around, "this is my office and I like it. It's got a lot more class than that dump at the Police Annex."
"I thought you were sick of this place and everybody in it."
"That was then. Now, this is my office and I'm damn glad to be here. And, the best news of all, which Walsh told me while you were in the john, the best news of all is, that Gotts is going to retire."
"Old 'Blood and Guts' calls it quits," Bobby said. "Can't say I'll miss him. Can't say I liked him much."
"Double and triple for me," Alexa said, "the bad news is no court-martial for Grinnell. They're going to let him resign, damn his condescending soul. Walsh said the powers that be decided that nailing his ass wouldn't be worth the bad publicity."
"So Grinnell gets lucky again," Bobby said, "Chr...uh...damn if he doesn't end up with some cushy civilian security job. So, who's your new boss?"
"I am," Alexa answered with a big smile, "I take over OMCOM security in three weeks. I get three weeks off, according to Gotts' secretary. That's thanks to Frank Jervis. You probably have the same."
"So, uh," Bobby said, "you want to take a vacation, get out of the country? We could go to Portugal, or Spain, or Nova Scotia."
"You want to spend more time with me? We've been around each other a lot the last few weeks."
"Yeah, but, what the hell, I like you Alexa. We work good together, maybe we can play good together. You know," Bobby said, "you're not as tough as you used to be. You actually fussed over me when Holtzman pinked me in the ear."
"I did not fuss over you, I was concerned, that's all. And you weren't acting like a wimp, which is what you usually do when you get hurt."
"Me? Me act like a wimp?"
"Actually," Alexa said, "not so much lately. I think you're tougher, braver maybe, I'm not sure. I think you've grown up some this summer. You still want to take a vacation?"
"Sure," Bobby answered, "where should we go?"
"We could drive up the coast to New England," Alexa answered, "I don't like Boston much, but Maine and Vermont are wonderful."
"Drive? Spend hours in that rocket ship you call a truck, traveling at the speed of sound?" Bobby shook his head. "Not a chance."
"I'm a good driver, and 'that truck' is very comfortable," Alexa said, "you just worry and fret when you're in a vehicle."
"With good reason."
'Ok," Alexa sighed, "how about we fly to the Southwest, see some of New Mexico."
"Well," Bobby said doubtfully, "flying...."
"I take it you don't like to fly," Alexa said.
"It's cramped," Bobby answered, "and the bathrooms are too small."
"Bobby, you have to fly sometimes, you aren't going to swim to Portugal, or wherever that was."
"Well, sure, if I have to fly, but we could train to New Mexico."
"Trains bore me."
"Well what about...."
Epilogue
In a house on the outskirts of Tokyo, five men stand uncertainly around the edge of a large room. The men are young, and dressed in Western business suits. In the center of the room, a sixth man sits on his knees. Much older than the others, he wears a kimono and holds a dagger. The men are all Japanese.
"Will you not change your mind?" one of the young men says.
"No," the older man answers, "I have failed, and my failure has brought disgrace upon our country. Only death can ease my shame."
Sirens warble in the distance. Another of the men looks at his watch. "The police," he says, "they will be here in a few minutes, just as
the Minister said."
"Ah, yes," smiles the man seated on the floor, "with sirens screaming, and closely followed by the press. A spectacular arrest and a show trial. Thus will the Prime Minister show the world that he was blameless. I will save him the trouble." He addresses a man standing in the corner. "Mitsuo, my papers are in the file drawer of my desk. In them I take full responsibility. See that they are delivered safely to the Prefect."
"Yes, Mr. Okumiya," the young man answers diffidently, "but...."
"No 'buts', no hesitation," Okumaya says sharply. He turns to the man who had predicted arrival of the police. "All I ask, Daizo, is that you administer the coup after I have made the ritual sacrifice."
"I cannot, sir," the young man protests.
"Why, tell me why, you will not fulfill the tradition," Okumaya says, "I have that right. You all know we did what was best for Nippon, did what we could to bring back the path of Bushido. Now, in memory of the old ways, let me die as our ancestors died."
"That would be murder," Daizo says.
"Murder, murder," the old man mocks, "so, you are ready enough to speak boastfully of your dedication to the Nippon of our fathers, but in your hearts you are cowards. Woe to Japan. Woe to the memory of our ancestors." Okumaya plunges the knife into his abdomen and slices from one side to the other. He cries out in pain and falls forward. Blood pours from his wound.
"Stop him! Too late!" they rush to his side.
The door from the entry hall crashes open. Uniformed men crowd into the room. "Police," one of them yells, "please stand against the wall."
"This man is dying," Daizo says, "call an ambulance."
"Is that Fujiro Okumaya?" the police officer asks.
"Yes, that is he."
The officer swears and orders one of his men to put in the call.
"Please," Okumaya says weakly, "please, finish me. It is the proper way."
"What are you asking?" the police officer says.
"He has committed seppuku," one of the young men answers, "and he asks for the ritual coup."
The officer laughs. "Those days are gone forever," he says, "the ambulance will be here soon. Would anyone like to speak to the reporters?"
Published 2011 by B&B Enterprises
ISBN: 978-0-9836113-0-1