Kage (38 page)

me. I had gone there to kill El Carnicero. Perhaps it was too

fine a distinction, but I was holding on to it, it made me feel

a little less cold-blooded. I could still feel the sting of Sarah’s

accusations. Was I just a good man who ended up in these situ-

ations by accident, or was I some kind of adrenalin junkie who

sought them out? What I was thinking now was too close to the

things she had accused me of.

“Burke!” Yamashita’s voice was low and intent. In the close

confines of the car, his energy was startling, a shaped charge

detonating in a tight place. “You must do what you must do!”

I drove the car in silence—My mind, not so silent. As the

miles reeled off, Yamashita’s quiet voice prodded me through

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other terrain. He had done this before, a patient teacher herd-

ing an ox of a student into painful awareness. He has never

promised me a life free of pain, only one free of delusions.

At the point where we passed the exit for the Seaford-

Oysterbay Expressway, he stirred and broke into my thoughts.

“Beat the grass and surprise the snake,” he told me.

I grunted. It’s an old Zen saying that means something

along the lines that it was better to hurt one thing a little than

have to hurt something else more.

“You recognize it?” my teacher prompted.

I let out a stream of air. “Yagyu Munenori,” I said. A master

swordsman of the famous Yagyu family, he would have been

good to have along on this trip, but he’s been dead for almost

four centuries.

“Indeed. A complex man. He used the adage in a way that

can be interpreted in various ways.”

“How so?”

“Think Professor,” he smiled tightly. “The motto of the

Yagyu…”

“
Katsuninken, satsuninto
,” I replied, ever the dutiful stu-

dent. The life giving sword can also be a death dealing sword.

“So…” Yamashita breathed. “Martín wishes us to think we

are engaged in a ransom attempt.”

“We are,” I protested.

Yamashita waived a hand. “Stop hiding. You know it is

other than this. This man wishes to kill you. His plan is to lure

you into a trap and finish what he started—to avenge himself

on you and Sarah.”

“I know,” I admitted. “I’ve been wracking my brains for

ways to get Sarah away, safe, and sound.”

“Of course,” Yamashita said, “but you are thinking about

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the wrong thing. A focus on rescue clouds your mind. It pre-

vents you from grasping what you must really do.”

“Which is?”

My teacher sighed and settled back in his seat. “The only

way to save Sarah Klein is to not try to save her. You must let

Martín think you are on the defensive for a while and lull him

into a sense of control. Then do the unexpected.”

“How so?”

“He wishes you to come alone. He will expect you to try

to bargain with him—to talk your way to a solution. Part of

him will want this. He will, I think, enjoy the spectacle and the

secret knowledge that, when all is done, he will kill you both.

“There is a rhythm to a fight, Burke. You know this. Move

and countermove. An expectation of how events will transpire.”

He nodded to himself. “We can use this.”

“OK,” I said. But I wasn’t quite clear yet as to what he was

proposing.

Yamashita could sense it; he peered at me for a moment,

reading my agitation and my uncertainty.

“I will be there, Burke. My presence will be unexpected and

it will distract him.”

“And then?”

“And then,” he said brightly, “we will avail ourselves of an

old
ninja
trick; very ancient, very reliable.”

“Which is?”

“While I distract Martín, you will sneak up behind him and

kill him.” He sounded pleased with the tidiness of the solution.

At that moment, I resented him. It’s not the first time I’ve

felt this way. In the past, the psychic tug of war of training had

often left me sullen and angry. But Yamashita has a way of bat-

tering through your defenses, of shredding your delusions until

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Kage

you stand, trembling yet clear-eyed, in the place to which he

has led you.

I realized that I had always clung to Munenori’s idea of a

life-giving sword, and believed in the training as a way to some-

how make me a better person. The science of how to cut and

where, of the vulnerabilities of the human body, had always

seemed arcane and exotic knowledge. They were things of a

bygone era; knowledge that was dated and rendered impracti-

cal. I thought the sword a symbol and suppressed the knowl-

edge of how fearsome the blade could be. Now I would be

asked to fully engage in the killer’s art. I could not hide behind

the justification of self-defense as I had in the past. Yes, Sarah’s

life was the bait but the truth was that I wanted Martín dead. It

made me doubt myself. My motives. My ability to stay whole.

He has always been amazingly perceptive, but lately

Yamashita’s ability in this regard had increased tremendously.

It’s as if the wounds and injuries that are slowing him down

physically, have simultaneously channeled his energy in new

ways.

He touched my arm, a rare instance of intimate contact.

His hands are still thick and strong looking, although the joints

swell with arthritis, and residual damage from torture makes

his left hand weaker than it has been, but the flow of something

powerful yet intangible was in that touch. It was as comforting

as it was terrifying.

“Burke,” he said, “the sword’s blade has two faces,
ura
and

omote.
They have been forged together for a purpose. Some-

times the sword is a thing of beauty, at other times it is put to

other uses.”

“How can you be sure that the uses—that you’re doing the

right thing?” I croaked.

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He smiled contentedly. “Burke, you know the purpose

behind this.”

“To save Sarah. To stop Martín.”

“Yes. And you know that the police will not be able to do

this in time. And Martín must be killed.”

“I know,” I admitted.

We drove in silence for a short time, and then I pulled off

onto Rte. 110 South.

“A detour?” Yamashita sounded more interested than

alarmed, a scientist watching his newest experiment bubble.

“Big snake,” I told him. “I need a bigger stick.”

The squat building had firearms lining three wal s, with

counters separating the merchandise from the buying public.

The salespeople were friendly, informative, and al had smal pis-

tols clipped to their belts. In this world, everyone was courteous

and contained, but clearly the clerks would shoot you if you got

out of line. Different tools, but not so different from Yamashita’s

dojo
.

The purchase process itself didn’t take long; the salesman was

informative and enthusiastic in a creepy sort of way. I settled on

a Remington 870 Express 12-gauge shotgun.

“The eighteen-inch barrel makes it easier to use in home

defense situations,” the salesman informed me. I had confided

that I was worried about crime in my neighborhood. He nodded

in sympathy, but his eyes lit with enthusiasm. He set a few boxes

of shel s on the counter as we processed the sales paperwork.

“You’ll want these,” he informed me.

“Number one buckshot,” I read. “Not double-ought?” My

gun knowledge is not deep; I was relying on jargon I’d heard

in movies.

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Kage

“Nope. The International Wound Ballistics Association

says number one buckshot is the superior choice for home

defense. This shotshell has the capacity to produce 30 percent

more wound trauma than other shotshell loads.” He nodded

to himself with satisfaction. This was obviously a conversation

he’d had before. “Plus,” he added with the flourish of a con-

juror producing yet another amazing item, “it’s less likely to

over-penetrate or exit the target. Reduces the risk of collateral

damage.”

“Deadly and yet safe,” I said. “It’s good to know.” He looked

at me sharply, sensing sarcasm. I kept my face expressionless

and waited to see if his gun hand was going to twitch toward

his holster. But the moment passed.

I bought a duffel bag to carry the gear and he cashed me

out. I tossed it in the trunk of the car, got back in, and told

Yamashita what I’d been up to.

“And they sold you this weapon— just like that?” he said,

incredulous. He’s spent a lifetime developing lethal skills and

I imagined it disgusted him that it’s possible to accelerate the

process with a clean record, a driver’s license, and a credit card.

Where was the sweat, the discipline, the process where the

character was forged into something new and tensile and beau-

tifully lethal? But the day’s events reminded both of us that the

world is as it is, not as we wish it to be.

I slipped the car into gear as we headed back to the Express-

way. I checked my watch. We were good. I’d make Martín’s

deadline.

“Sometimes your country alarms me,” my
sensei
said.

When I hit Exit 64 for Port Jefferson, my cell phone rang.

“Burke,” I said.

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John Donohue

“Where are you?” the thick voice of Martín asked. I could

hear him breathing.

“I’m just getting off the Expressway onto Rte 112,” I told

him.“The ferry to Bridgeport leaves in forty minutes. There

is a reservation for you. Take the car. Go to the terminal in

Connecticut.”

“And?” I demanded. “What then?” But the voice was gone.

“They’re leading us along,” I told Yamashita. “Probably to

make sure that we’re not being followed by anyone. And cross-

ing a state line means that it would make it that much more

difficult for us to involve the cops.”

“He has thought this out,” Yamashita told me. “You will be

watched to ensure you are alone. We must maintain an element

of surprise. Drop me off before the ferry terminal and I will

board as a passenger. Leave the car unlocked and I will hide in

it just before we disembark.”

“What if they spot you?”

He smiled tightly. “Burke, they will be looking for plain-

clothes policemen. A broken down, old man will not attract

their attention.”

The crossing was smooth—the Long Island Sound an

expanse of gray water and the low coast of Connecticut a hazy

smudge on the horizon. I leaned on the rail in the cool wind

and watched the froth that was churned up by the boat’s pas-

sage. I thought of what I would do and how I would do it. After

a time I sat down, slightly queasy. The trip seemed to take a

long time.

When I got to the terminal in Connecticut, my phone rang

and another voice told me to look on the bulletin board by the

restrooms. An envelope had been tacked there with my name

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Kage

on it. Inside was a menu for the Golden Mountain Restaurant

in Bridgeport.
Comidas Chinas,
the banner said. Someone had

circled the address and written “Go here.”

It wasn’t a nice part of town, but then Bridgeport has seen

better days in general. The streets were dirty and old cars sagged

and rusted along listing curbs that were slowly surrendering to

time and neglect. Most of the storefronts had signs in Spanish.

The Golden Mountain was no exception.

I took a deep breath outside the restaurant, marveling that

the world seemed so prosaic and worn and normal looking. But

it was an illusion, or at best a blurry backdrop, glimpsed fleet-

ingly as I hurtled down a tunnel that was getting tighter and

darker with every second.

Less thought, Burke. More action.
Was it Yamashita’s voice I

heard in my head, or my own?

It was a classic storefront Chinese takeout place, with a few

wobbly Formica tables and industrial strength chairs set by the

plate glass windows for diners who were not overly concerned

with ambience. A chest high counter was at the far end, with

stacks of takeout menus, a can of pencils, and a backlit menu

overhead, with bright pictures of Chinese food. A short hall

led to the right, away from the dining area. Signs on the wall

promised a fire exit and a restroom. An old woman, her face

puckered with decades of work, sat behind the counter. In the

kitchen behind her, woks clanged and sizzled, manhandled by

thin Asian boys with scraggly facial hair and grease-spotted

baseball caps.

Two Hispanic men were draped over some chairs. Tattoos

dotted their hands, circled their wrists, and climbed like black

vines up their necks. When I came through the door, one of

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the men looked at the woman. She slid off her stool and disap-

peared from sight. The kitchen noises faded. At the counter, a

phone rang and nobody answered it.

They stood on either side of me, muscle and dark ink and