It had happened. It was all done with. There was nothing I could do. I was finished. Breathing in and out, pulse racing, I pushed myself to a kind of calm. What’s done was done. Time to get home. I pressed the accelerator and pulled away.
As I drove west, I flexed my throbbing knuckles and listened to the radio. Saxas rattled off the latest in the world-at-large: a new topic every fifteen seconds, a few sentences, then on to another continent. Her voice seemed quicker, higher than normal—perhaps the advertisers were pushing for quicker news broadcasts. But the unflappable cyborg voice had a tinge of foreboding, somehow. Maybe it was a software glitch, I thought.
The came the featured story. I twisted the volume knob gingerly with my aching fingers.
“Breaking News. In Asia, a shocking turn of events. Just as an historic accord between Korea, China, and Japan was about to be reached at the Pyongyang Summit, a lone gunman breached security and shot and killed the U.S. Vice President.
“The American dignitary was having a lobster dinner with the other heads of state, when a waiter reportedly approached him, and asked in perfect English whether he would like a glass of red or white wine.
“The Vice President answered red, and the waiter tapped the order into his Atman, pulled out a handgun, and shot the second most powerful man in the world four times in the head, then put one bullet through his own. Although the rest of the delegation rushed both the leader and his assassin to the hospital, both were dead on arrival.
“Within minutes of the announcement of the Vice President’s death, all parties involved in the region blamed one another for the assassination. The Pyongyang Summit is effectively canceled, all travel between the countries is shut down, and trade between members of the East Asian Federation has ceased,” Saxas said. “The United States has not yet issued a statement on the assassination, but the President has called for a press conference this evening to discuss ‘matters of grave importance.’
“In medical news. A coalition of experts who contradicted the War on Cancer findings have dropped their objections to the Bureau of Wellness’ declaration of victory over the disease. However, none of the coalition’s leaders could be reached for comment.
“And in other Bureau of Wellness news, the federal agency unveiled a new vitamins study looking at a cross-section of the U.S. population. The study’s already been in progress for several years. But officials now say they’re reaching out to the public in an effort to bring more volunteers into the unprecedented research. The agency says they’re focusing on prenatal health, but otherwise declined to elaborate further about the triple-blind study.”
I looked at the radio. The vitamins study had to be the same one Kraken presented. I hadn’t been listening intently, but the words “triple-blind study” sprung out at me with sudden familiarity. I’d heard the term before but had no idea what it meant. Double-blind, sure—but triple-blind? Who was the third party kept in the dark? What did it mean?
The radio recycled itself, Saxas speaking of the world catastrophe in the same tone of voice and inflection. No further information, no elaboration on the world’s movements and happenings—the intrigues and tragedies of the day. Chaos without resolution for another day, and another cliffhanger ending. I flicked the radio off. The highway sped by in silence. My hands took me home, automatically, without a conscious thought.
It was only when the car was parked in the driveway when the panic hit me. I frantically grasped for ways to tell my wife I had lost my job. I phrased the questions and answers carefully in my mind. Conversational dead-ends popped in my head. The air inside the car got hot, I started to sweat. I would have to tell her everything, the unvarnished truth. I knew it. What other choice did I have? She would discover everything anyway, and the best way was to just tell her. Visions of yelling and divorce proceedings spun through my mind. I sweated through my shirt.
But I couldn’t tell her about the money. That would be the breaking point. I had to tell her everything—everything but that.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car, walked up to the door and went inside. Sounds from the kitchen—pots and pans clacking. I tossed my briefcase next to the umbrella stand, unknotted my tie, took another deep breath, and went through the hallway.
She was at the stove. She looked up from a boiling pot and smiled beautifully at me. My heart nearly broke in that moment, and my lips quivered at the sight.
“Hiya, hon,” she said.
“Rough day,” I said, coming up behind her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Dear, there’s something I have to tell you. About the hospital.”
She banged a spoon on the pot, nodding, her smile vanishing.
“I already know,” she said. She placed the spoon down and turned to face me, locking onto my eyes. “I called Dr. Abbud before, and he told me.”
“You called Abbud. He already told you.”
“Yes. You doctors gossip like a knitting circle.”
Mary reached out and hugged me, patting my back. I felt drained, lifeless on my feet. We said nothing for a few minutes. She just held me. Nothing moved other than the systole, diastole of my heart for that time in her embrace.
“I can get my job back,” I said, my voice choking. “In a few weeks. Once everything settles down.”
“Just take it easy,” she said. “Everything will be fine.”
“I have to make sure the health costs are covered when the baby comes. Kids don’t come cheap,” I said.
“It’s all covered, remember? Abbud and I went over it,” she said, gently patting me on the back. I pulled away, so I could get a good look at her.
“Everything is still covered? I thought I had to be in good standing with the hospital.”
“We’re still covered, hon. Abbud reminded me to look at the waiver I signed at the first visit,” she said. “It’s part of the vitamin trial—no matter where you work, no matter what insurance you have, they guarantee to cover you ‘through the birth and for the first two years of the child’s life.’”
“Really,” I said, staring off at the boiling pot, thinking. “So that leaves only us to worry about.”
“That’s not a worry, either. The waiver covers all three of us,” she said.
She smiled. I scratched my head, turned and walked a few steps. All the health costs were covered for an entire family—what did that mean? They’d never offered a deal like that at Saint Almachius before. They’d never offered a deal like that anywhere, I was sure. A triple-blind trial in which everything and everyone was covered, without any insurance at all…
“So who fired you? That Kraken bitch?” she said, turning back toward the stove.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re accusing me of stealing hospital property.”
“What kind of property?”
“Papers.”
“Papers?”
“Papers from Wetherspoon’s office.”
“Did you take them?”
“Yes.”
“Were they yours?”
“Not really.”
“What did you do with them?”
“I gave them to a reporter.”
“Goddamnit, Joe. Why would you do a stupid thing like that? Were they important?”
“I think they’re important. I think they’re a clue to the unexplained deaths. They were old and unreadable, but they mean something to somebody.”
“Why didn’t you just give them to the cops? To Zo or somebody over there?”
“They would just gather dust. Some of them are from a hundred and fifty years ago, Mary. Cops only care about what happened last weekend. They forget about most crimes after a few days. Why the hell would they care about ancient history?”
“Alright,” she said, setting the spoon down on the stove-top. “So these papers—what’s so important that it’s worth losing your job over?”
“I couldn’t read most of them, I’m telling you. They were all in the old alphanumerics, no Gliffs at all. I haven’t read ink on paper sinc
e I was a kid, and these pages were smudged, anyway.”
“Why did Wetherspoon have them?”
“If he was around, Mary, I would ask. But he’s been missing since the plague outbreak at his apartment complex.”
“Neal can take care of himself,” she said. She grabbed both my arms. “They can’t just fire you without having good proof that you harmed Saint Almachius, that you were doing really improper things not in the best interest of the hospital.”
“I was doing something that wasn’t in the best interest of—some people—at the hospital.”
“Yeah, but did you do something that would hurt the patients?”
“No. I’m trying to save the patients.”
“See? You’re a healer, honey. A good doctor. You’ll get your job back. Or you’ll get another one. We’ll be fine.”
We hugged, the timer on the boiling pot went off, Mary finished fixing the NutriFast sack for dinner. Mary said something about buying a crib with one of her credit accounts. The unsaid thing—the crippling debt—hung over me in the silence. Later we went to bed. We lay awake for some time, talking about what our child would be like—whether he would be tall, or she would be pretty, whether the kid would do well in school, what sports the child would play in high school. After awhile, Mary’s Dormus hummed peacefully on the other side of the bed. I stared at the ceiling above my head without seeing anything other than shadows, and an old stain I hadn’t noticed before.
THE STARES FROM UNSEEN EYES
Japan, 1946
As dawn broke over Shibayama on the third day, the three Americans again approached the Ishii house. But this time they walked with a fourth man—a tall thin doctor puffing a cigar. A rooster crowed off to their left, from behind the house, and they jumped.
“What a fucking country,” said the doctor, shaking his head, pulling at his collar. The ash tumbled off his cigar. “It’s like a dollhouse that just spreads on for miles.”
“A dollhouse filled with people who hate us,” Fell said. “Keep moving—I want to make sure we get to him as early as possible for the check up, Phil. Especially before the Russians get there.”
“Word is they’ll arrive before lunch,” Stanger said, nodding at the doctor.
Slawson lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
“No time to lose,” Slawson said, tilting his head down the street.
The other three men nodded, and they went shoulder to shoulder down the tiny thoroughfare. Fell strained to hear anything in the houses or the side streets of the village, but there was only silence. That’s the way it had been since the beginning of the Occupation, when the tall Americans in helmets and khakis began streaming down every street, poking into every doorway on every island. The Japanese hid in their homes, just waiting for it all to pass, like an illness. And wherever the Americans went, they could feel the glares, the stares from unseen eyes in the windows up above, from doorways and alleyways in smoldering cities from Hokkaido to Kyushu. Fell knew any of these small alert people could ambush him on a darkened street on the way back from the bars each night, like samurai materializing from the shadows.
At the door the four men lined up. Fell reached forward and knocked. A minute passed, and the door creaked inward slowly. Nothing more—no one appeared at the threshold. Fell went in first, followed by the other three. Broken shards littered the ground underfoot—pieces of ceramic and glass, the fragments of a telephone, with cord still attached. The fern lay shredded in a wide puddle of water. Slawson whistled, long and low.
“Must have been a hell of a party—” he said.
But as he turned around, his voice choked in his throat. Fell turned too, and his jaw dropped. Ishii’s wife stood behind the door. She looked away, only her profile visible. But Fell took a step forward, and gingerly tilted her chin upward. She did not resist him. Her right eye was encircled with a deep purple bruise, surrounded by a sunset of bloody contusions.
“Jesus, chief,” said Stanger.
The Americans closed in tight around her, but she cringed, and backed toward the wall. She was completely turned way from them, her slight shoulders shaking. She waved her hand in the direction of the bedroom. The Americans stared at each other. Then Fell led them in that direction, and the only sound was the clap of their heels on the wood floor.
Ishii still sat in the middle of his leafy bed like a croaking frog on a lily pad, smoking two cigarettes. He was still in his smooth kimono. But the green sheets were in wild disarray, and he sat at the edge, his knobby knees bare. He faced the translator, who sat against the wall, his clothes rumpled. When the two of them saw the Americans, they started speaking in machine-gun syllables, hurriedly cramming in a discussion.
“Are we interrupting?” said Fell.
Ishii shook his head. He stubbed out one of the cigarettes, reached over to the pack, and lit another.
“We are…” Ishii said in English, “on alert.”
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” said Slawson, slapping Stanger’s arm. “The son of a gun speaks English.”
Ishii nodded, sucking on a smoke.
“I traveled in your country during my studies,” he said. “But we can’t discuss. We have no time.”
He stood, and paced the left side of the bed, in front of a print of a pleasing forest scene. The smoke trailed behind him, then he was lost in the cloud, back and forth, back and forth. Fell coughed, but it sounded like a laugh. Ishii stopped on his heel, turned and pointed at him.
“What is so funny?” he said.
“Dr. Ishii, you just appear spooked, is all,” Fell said.
Ishii’s eyebrows twisted as he mouthed the word spooked. He turned to the translator. The translator nodded, started speaking in Japanese. They said the word ‘spooked’ a few times. Ishii stared, stopped in thought, then turned to Fell.
“Yes, spooked,” he said. “We are spooked. By Russians.”
The look of amusement drained from Fell’s eyes.
“The Russians were here?” he said, frowning.
Ishii shook his head and toppled back on the bed. He held his head in his hands.
“The Russians did not come in house,” he said. “But the phone rang all night. Heavy breath, no one spoke. Scratching at roof. Lights in windows. All night.”
The translator nodded.
“All night long.”
Fell looked at the other Americans. He nodded at the doctor, who stepped forward and swung his bag up on the bed next to Ishii. He opened its clasp, and pulled out a stethoscope, the thick cuff of a sphygmomanometer. Ishii glanced at him wearily, then loosened the kimono and held out his arm. His knee bounced as the doctor leaned to him, and Fell noticed there was a trembling to his fingers, too.
“We need you healthy, General Ishii,” Fell said. “We know you’ve been feeling unwell, and we figured maybe you caught something when you were with your Unit out in Manchuria.”
Ishii, whose arm was cuffed in the stiff fabric, frowned at him. He spoke Japanese softly, and the translator answered him, and they had some kind of earnest conversation as the doctor pumped the air into the cuff, then released the pressure and listened to the systole, diastole beating of the man’s heart. The doctor removed the cuff and placed the stethoscope on the chest of the patient, who took the deep breaths without any instruction, clearly no stranger to the steps of the routine exam. Then he stood and opened the front of his kimono all the way. The American doctor glanced down, then looked up into the face of his Japanese counterpart. They stared into one another’s eyes. Fell stifled a laugh. Shrugging, the American reached for his gloves, slid them on and performed a hernia check at the sides of the general’s testicles. Ishii waved with a hand back at the translator, who snapped to attention.
“Dr. Fell,” said the little lackey. “General Ishii understands you want the secrets. Everything with his Unit. Seven-thirty-one. But he needs protection.”
Ishii nodded as he turned his head and coughed, his hand impatiently urging the translator o
n as he the doctor felt his crotch.
“The General…had some unwanted calls overnight,” said the translator, his eyes searching the faces of the Americans. “The Russians have located him. We believe they have agents in the neighborhood, who are conducting surveillance on this house. They might be listening right now.”
Fell shook his head, grunted. Now was the time to set the hook and reel them in.
“We know for a fact the Russians are interested in you, General,” Fell said.
He paused for effect.
“But what secrets are we talking about?” Fell continued. “We are now allies. Allies cooperate with one another. They tell them things. We need to know what you know.”
He stared at Ishii, who had his tongue extended far down his chin, saying “ah” as the doctor peered down his throat for imperfections. Ishii rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. Fell couldn’t help but laugh out loud, this time. They all looked at him, but he did not care.
“What the general wants you to know, Dr. Fell,” said the translator, standing, “is that there is much you don’t know. But a deal will have to be struck before he tells you what he knows.”
The doctor wrapped his stethoscope and put it in the bag, nodded once, relit the cigar, and left the room. The door shut behind him. Fell looked from the translator to Ishii, who was re-wrapping the kimono tightly around his torso. The American stepped forward, around the other men, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Finally we’re getting somewhere,” Fell said. “Sit down, General. Let’s make a deal.”
Ishii eyebrows arched. Fell patted the rumpled sheets next to him.
“We need to know about the patients,” Fell said. “The lumber mill, General Ishii. The logs you cut up. We know almost everything already.”
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