Enzan: The Far Mountain (17 page)

Inside I pointed her at the restrooms. “Pit stop,” I told her. Her eyes drifted around the store—a heavy middle-aged guy behind the counter, a few other rumpled pilgrims grabbing Slim Jims and sodas. I knew what she was thinking. I put my hand in my coat pocket and touched the pistol, shook my head at her.
No
. She got the message, sighed, and headed off to the bathroom.

I grabbed some painkillers, some granola bars, and a big bottle of water. The beating I had taken was putting a strain on me. The body needed rest, but it wasn’t getting any. I figured hydration was the next best thing. Finally, I picked up a TracFone and got it loaded with minutes.

The guy behind the counter looked at my face, wet from snowmelt.

“What happened to you, man?”

“Fell down,” I told him.

“Must have been some fall.”

“Yeah,” I told him. I scooped up my purchases.
Thanks for bringing up such a painful memory
.

When Chie came out, I jerked my head at the door. She walked out, hunkered down in her coat, walking with the stiff look of a person moving against her will. Nobody gave her a moment’s notice. I brushed the snow off the windows and we rolled out again into the storm.

Interstate 84 was going to be our best bet. I needed to get into New York and head down to a place where we could be safe. Someplace I could think through my next moves.

The road was wide and well graded. Highway Department trucks moved in tandem, giant plow blades angling across the road surface. Sanders came behind, yellow lights whirling. Hard ruts were building up on the edges of the lanes. It tended to lock you into position, since switching lanes forced you across the ruts and the tires planed across the snow and your stomach flipped as you sensed you had lost control and were hurtling down the road in an out-of-control missile. Lots of fun.

I drove for a while, putting some distance between us and the interchange—there were too many cops floating around back there. After a while, I pulled into a rest stop and fumbled with the phone. It took me a few times to get the number right. My head felt like it had been packed with wool. Finally, the phone chirped on the other end. I was tired, so I put it on speaker and set it on the dash.

“Collins,” he said.

“Owen, it’s me.”

“Burke?” The next words sounded fainter. “Holy shit, it’s Burke.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Annie,” he said, sounding faintly guilty. I heard a voice fluting in the background. “She wants to know if you’re OK.”

“I’m OK.” It wasn’t entirely true, but I wasn’t dead and that was rapidly becoming my basic criterion of OKness.

“You kinda dropped off the grid there for a bit,” he told me. “People were starting to worry.”

“People?”

“Well, me and Annie …”

“And?”

“And … well, your brother called me.”

“What did he want?”

“He was trying to get hold of you. He left a message.”

“And?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Tell my brother to stop dicking around and call me.’” I said nothing, and he continued. “Your brother is one cranky dude, Burke.”

“What else?”

“He wanted to know what you were up to … he seemed to know you were working for the Miyazaki. Trying to find the nympho …”

“She’s sitting right next to me here, Owen.”

The line went silent for a few seconds. “Ooohkay … Anyway, Annie and I had been doing some more digging about the family …”

“Go on.”

“Her father’s been involved in some high-level stuff down in D.C. Hard to pin down what it is exactly, but it looks like he got pulled off his usual beat.”

“This helps me how?” I was probably sounding testy, but the snow was pounding down, my body ached all over, and I couldn’t see how any of this all fit together.

“I dunno, Burke,” Owen sounded defensive and hurt. “We’re doing our best at this end.”

I took a slow, deep breath, trying not to involve the ribs too much. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I’m a little fried from driving in the storm.”

“No problem.”

I sat for minute. “OK, here’s a question. Can someone find out where I am when I use this phone?”

“Sure,” he said. “They can usually triangulate the location from multiple cell towers.”

I was worried about that. This is something you’d only normally worry about with law enforcement, but there was no telling how many favors a guy liked Miyazaki could call in. I thought for a minute. “OK,” I finally said. “Here’s what I need you to do. I’ve got a draft in my email that has a phone number in it. It’s for a guy named Ito.”

“OK …”

“Call him. Tell him I have Chie and she’s safe. Tell him everything you know. And tell him I’m not bringing her in until …”

“Until what?”

It was a good question, but I hadn’t thought through that far. I gave Owen my login information. “Tell Ito I’ll check in with him tomorrow. Right now, I need to get Chie somewhere safe.”

“Where ya goin’?”

I ignored the question. It was best he didn’t know. “Thanks, Owen. I’ll call back tomorrow.” I shut the phone down.

I pulled out of the rest stop and headed back out on the road.

“You’re not taking me to my family?” Chie said.

“Not exactly,” I said and gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Chapter 17

Mori’s Journal

We went through them like fire. There was a guard at the entrance, but he was facing outward, toward the road. We came across the snowy fields to his rear, working through the grounds of the inn, unseen, our footfalls muffled by the thick snow. There was a gardener’s shed, its flimsy door hanging open to the weather. Snow spilled into the dark interior. You paused there, grabbing a long brush knife and an ax. Even in the breathless haste, Takano’s lessons held us: no matter your skill, better armed than unarmed.

The sentry started to turn toward us at the last minute. Perhaps he sensed something; maybe he was simply scanning the area. It made no difference. The ax bit deep into the side of his neck and he collapsed, breath and blood hissing across the snow.

The storm muffled sound, but we could hear the progress of the raiders inside, the thud of footsteps, the crashing of doors. Their passage was punctuated by shouts and the occasional scream. But the snow drew a curtain across it all. The inn looked dark and blurred through the storm.

I grabbed the fallen man’s pistol. We churned through the snow and up the steps. The inn had two parallel wings stretching back from the front entryway. From the sounds coming from inside, the raiders had split up and were working their way through both sections simultaneously. It was a mistake. In situations like this, better to concentrate your forces and overwhelm the opposition.

Unless, of course, they knew there would be no opposition. It was a thought that occurred to me later. In the investigation that followed, the source that led the raiders to that remote inn was never definitively identified. The wall that protected the imperial family reared up, thick and forbidding. Years later, when I worked inside those walls, I searched for clues to what had happened. But there was no conclusive finding. Officially, a minor secretary to the Miyazaki family died shortly after the incident, late in the summer when he appeared to fall into the path of an oncoming train. It was a day without rain, yet he slipped on a crowded platform. I admired the economy of it: the family spared a scandal and the leak plugged with finality. It was the sort of thing I learned to do myself in a long career of both finding and hiding secrets.

But whatever the reason, we were grateful our opponents were divided. You had the advantage of knowing where the Miyazaki were staying. In the main reception area, two ancients were collapsed on the floor, the woman cradling the bloody head of a white-headed man. We didn’t stop.

Down a long corridor, we could hear guttural commands. The higher fluting notes of a woman’s voice came to us as well. It spurred us on. We made our way down the passage. Like many traditional inns, the wing was a series of rooms facing an interior garden. The hallway ran down the outside of the rooms, with the interior wall made of dark wood that rose three feet to meet rice paper shoji screens. Internally, each room opened onto the next, the flimsy paper screens providing minimal barriers. A door stood open, spilling light into the dim hall. You held up a hand and we paused, listening. I could hear Miyazaki’s voice. He sounded angry. He sounded afraid.

You held your head close to mine. “I will go in this room,” you said, nodding your head at the dark chamber just before the room with the voices coming from it. “When I break through, you come in through the door.”

“I don’t like it,” I hissed. I didn’t see how this was a safe plan.

“There is no time. The others will be here soon as well. I will crash through the shoji. While they are focused on me, shoot them.”

That was when I realized you weren’t thinking about your own safety. You would do anything to save the princess. I always admired that about you, Rinsuke. You had the real warrior’s spirit. It made you extremely dangerous. Even to your friends. I shared your concern for Chika-hime, I suppose, but even then, I was thinking not only about getting in, but also about getting out.

You stared at me in that hallway, your eyes bright. I took a breath to protest further, but we could hear voices from the other wing of the inn growing louder as they approached.

You shoved me in the direction of the open door and gave me an indisputable command. “Go!” Then you disappeared into the dark room.

I edged toward the open doorway, fearful the old wooden floorboards in the hall would give me away. Somewhere in the room, a woman squealed.

There was a snapping of wooden laths and the tearing of paper. I knew you were through the door and I made my move as well.

There were two of them in opposite corners of the room. Right inside the door, Miyazaki himself stood, his hands raised in the air in surrender. A gunman stood to my left covering him. Just over Miyazaki’s shoulder I could see Chika-hime in the distant corner. A raider had his fist bunched in her hair and was twisting her head to force her to move.

I shouted as I came in the door—a strong kiai of the type Takano taught us. I know some sensei think of the shout typically used when striking someone as a way to focus the spirit or demonstrate resolve. Takano would snicker at the idea. In his dojo, focus and resolve were expected always. The importance of the kiai, he explained, is simply that, done right, it can assist in overloading the nervous system of an opponent. It is a fleeting phenomenon, but the split-second pause it can create offers a priceless advantage to an attacker. Years later, we would use flash-bang grenades to greater effect, but it is the same principle.

My shout and your sudden crash through the shoji made them pause. Although there were two of them, each was focused on a hostage, and now they had two more people to worry about who were entering the room at two different points. They should have simply shot us all. But they had been ordered to take hostages and it impeded their effectiveness.

But only for a second. The gunman to my left recovered first. His pistol came up, but strangely enough he pointed it toward you. Perhaps it was because I was partially blocked by Miyazaki, who stood there, hands pathetically raised in surrender. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get to the shooter in time.

Miyazaki lurched forward across the line of fire as the gun went off. He collapsed, but his fall cleared the way in front of me. I shot the man to my left. I was new to firearms then, and nervous. I wasn’t sure I had hit him, so I decided to make sure. I shot him again.

The pistol’s report was loud in the snow-hushed world around the inn. I could see Chika-hime struggling with the other gunman—she had more spirit than her husband—but the pistol reports made my ears ring and I couldn’t hear any other noise. I gaped at the two bleeding men at my feet.

By the time I looked up, you had swarmed across the room. Another pistol shot rang out, but it appeared as if you somehow danced around it. I am not sure, even now, what really happened. All I know is the gunman tried to shoot you at point-blank range and failed.

Were you even aware of the danger? I wonder. You were moving so fast and with such focus. You closed the distance. The pistol flew out of his hand and you were on him. I saw your arms clamp around his neck, noted the quick, powerful thrust and twist. You snapped his spinal cord and he was done.

My hearing was coming back to me. I could hear the shouts of other men coming closer. You looked across at me, hefted the ax and knife, and plunged back into the hallway. I started to call out, to tell you take a pistol, but you were gone before I could utter a word.

I knelt by Miyazaki, who lay there without moving, his skin the grey color of putty. There was blood seeping into the straw matting of the tatami floors, pooling around the two men. I felt it soak through the knees of my trousers as I knelt there.

I couldn’t tell if Miyazaki had a pulse. The gunman’s legs jerked in a series of small, diminishing spasms. He was finished.

Chika-hime came to stand beside me. She had picked up the other pistol.

“Is he …?”

I looked up. “I cannot tell.”

Shots exploded from somewhere in the inn. I heard shouts, cursing. A shrill wail of pain. I knew we should move, but didn’t want to leave Miyazaki if he could be saved. I look back now and wonder how things would have been had I left him there to bleed out on the floor.

An old man’s regret, Rinsuke. Too much time has passed and what happened, happened. But I want you to know if I could do it again, I would have left him. Some small admission of regret on my part after all these years.

I stood up shakily. I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to killing. I looked at the princess. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”

Chika-hime looked at her husband on the floor, then gazed toward the dark doorway you had disappeared through. She bit her lip, hesitant.

You loomed up out of the darkness and took her by the arm. I saw the relief flood across her face, followed by concern. Your hands were dark and slippery with blood. Even in the dim light, I could see the fine crimson spray that had dotted part of your face.

I looked at you. You gestured out into the garden. “The back. It is our best chance.”

“The others?”

You grimaced. “One made it to the road. I was too slow. He used a flare gun. I got to him, but it was too late. There is another boat coming.” You looked at Miyazaki on the floor and your face was flat but your voice had a touch of confusion in it. “He took a bullet for me.”

The three of us looked at each other, each registering a type of amazement.

I shrugged. “He may still be alive. I can’t tell …”

You grimaced with impatience. “We have to get her out of here. That’s the most important thing.”

I nodded. “You take her up into the hills. Use the track I came in on.” Outside the snowfall had intensified; perhaps we could put it to good use. “There’s a logger’s hut off a side trail a few miles up into the hills. Take her there. It will shelter you overnight. The snow should hide your tracks if you hurry.”

I watched you consider the plan for a split moment. “You?”

“I’ll head cross country to the village. It’s not that far. Someone there will have a phone. The prefectural police will send help. They may even arrive in time to save Miyazaki. Either way, it has to be done.”

You nodded. “Agreed.” You turned toward Chika-hime, regarded her for a moment, then stripped a coat off the body of the man whose neck you had broken. You held it out to her and she flinched, uneasy at the idea of wearing a dead man’s coat. “Put it on,” you said gruffly. Then your voice softened. “It will be cold in the hills tonight, Himesama. Please put it on.” She reached out reluctantly. You looked at me.

“Be careful, Mori.” You turned to go, but my voice made you pause.

“The other men,” I said. “How many?”

You looked befuddled for a moment, as if you didn’t know what I was asking or had put it so far out of your mind that it took an effort to recall. “The men?” A pause. “Three.”

“And you took them all? All three.”

You nodded. “I had to chase the last one.”

“Three,” I repeated. “All armed.”

“Not anymore,” you said, and disappeared into the storm with your princess.