Collector of Secrets (13 page)

The barren fronts of the surrounding single-story shops closed in like a collapsing vice. Max knew he had mere seconds. Desperately, he spun around, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to hide, but there was little choice. He raced forward, vaulting upward off a bike rack, slamming hard into the front edge of a flat concrete roof. Hanging precariously from his torso, his feet kicked wildly, searching for a spot on which to gain purchase.

Dual headlights tore open the darkness, searching, seeking. Again and again, the piercing engine shrieked as the bike crept forward. The undulating sound reverberated off the surrounding buildings like a baying pack of hounds. Rubber ground against asphalt as the driver twisted the handlebars back and forth, using the light to sweep the vacant edges of the laneway.

Gravel bit into Max’s back. Lying prone on the flat rooftop hiding spot, he lifted his head slightly as the noise moved past. From his vantage point, he could see the man’s enormous upper body wrapped in a muscle shirt, a reflected pool of light illuminating the patterned tattoos running from his shoulders to mid-forearm.

Instant terror charged the air.

Holy shit! He’s
Yakuza
!

Minutes ticked by as Max lay pulsing with fear in the darkness—plenty of time to ponder the awful question: why were the
Yakuza
in Murayama’s office?

THE POINTED nose of the Ninja ZX-10R sports bike poked out of the alleyway’s deep shadows. From his vantage point three blocks away, Jun could see the echo of flickering red police lights against the dark buildings. There would be no going back to finish dealing with the restaurant owner. With any luck, the injuries the man had already suffered would buy his silence. He was a drunk, but he likely wasn’t stupid enough to point a finger at a gang of organized criminals. If not, accidents could occur when they needed to.

The scattered rain increased its tempo. Jun flexed and rubbed his hands against the droplets forming on the muscles of his bare arms. Beating a hasty retreat had meant leaving behind his new motorcycle jacket and riding gloves. The
Gaijin
―probably an American ―would have to pay both in cash and in pain.

Closing the visor on his helmet, he revved the engine to a purr. Within seconds, Jun’s screaming bike vanished into the wet night.

T
he taxi navigated the empty 2 a.m. streets, its windshield wipers intermittently rising and falling. The driver glanced down every so often at the map on the business card he’d been handed.

Max periodically caught the driver’s questioning eyes as they drifted to the rearview mirror, and he knew the man must think him a crazy foreigner. He slouched in the backseat, his chin pressed against his chest, positioning his head well below the lace-covered headrests. It felt insane, but completely necessary.

The motorcycle had moved up and down the laneway repeatedly, and he’d remained on the damp rooftop hiding place until he was sure he couldn’t hear the engine any longer. Pulling his warming hand from his pocket had produced the forgotten business card. The moment seemed strangely fateful; priests were meant to provide sanctuary, and Max had nowhere else to go. Heading home to the TPH was out of the question—the police could easily determine where he lived, and it likely wouldn’t take long for the gangsters to find out the same. And Tomoko wasn’t returning his calls. His nerves felt exposed and raw. He needed somewhere safe to think.

The daypack lay beside him on the backseat. Unzipping it, he pulled out an old, soft-shelled leather satchel. Dual cinches attached to simple brass buckles held the overhanging front closed. A symmetrical gold emblem was stamped onto the leather—it looked familiar, but he couldn’t recall where he’d seen it. Undoing the tarnished clasps, Max lifted away the front flap and peered inside, noting the spine of a book. As he withdrew the volume, he saw that the yellow cover was embossed with a cresting wave over a distant image of Mount Fuji. An ornate red seal was pressed into the center, but the streetlights flickering periodically through the taxi’s window made it impossible to read the fine script.

Opening the book’s pages close to his face released a light, musty smell, the familiar scent of libraries and fine paper mixed in the blender of time. Leafing through it, he flipped past pages filled with handwritten Japanese symbols.

Eventually, the cab entered a side street and slowed to a stop in front of a two-story house. The place was astoundingly large by local standards. It would have garnered little attention in a new American suburb, but in the center of Tokyo, it was most unusual. Although reluctant to leave the warmth of the cab, he paid in cash, grabbed the daypack, and climbed out.

Standing before the grandiose home, Max wondered if he was making a mistake, but the steadily increasing rain pushed him toward the locked metal gate. Behind it, a flight of stairs rose sharply to the entrance. A flash of lightning illuminated intricately carved wooden doors guarded by a pair of security cameras mounted overtop.

The brick column to the left of the gate held a panel with a buzzer, a keypad, and a monitor. Max wiped the gathering rain from his face. He pressed the buzzer and waited, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot as he kept a wary eye on the street. No answer. He pressed the buzzer again, silently wondering if a backup plan would have been a smart idea. Just then, the screen in front of him glowed to life and Toshi’s sleepy face appeared.

A gust of wind blew droplets of water against the glowing monitor, drawing twinkling translucent lines down the screen. Both men stared as seconds ticked by with neither saying anything.

In a hesitant voice, Max finally spoke. “My name is Max Travers. I met you on a train—”

Toshi interrupted, “Yes, I know. You need help. Come in right away.”

Max’s elation mixed with the rain as the sanctuary gate sprang open. Dressed in a patterned cotton robe, Toshi opened the carved door, beckoning him upward.

Once inside, Max stared wide-eyed at the vaulted foyer rising to the second floor. A wooden staircase on the right ascended and turned ninety degrees before meeting the upper landing. On the wall to the left, a yard-wide scroll hung two stories from the high ceiling to the polished floor. Two white marble urns rested beneath the fabric’s brush-stroked surface.

“You’re hurt. Let me get a cloth.” Toshi disappeared.

Turning to a nearby mirror, Max saw blood feathering from a cut above his left eyebrow into the hair over his ear. It was apparent now why the taxi driver had been staring so intently.

Footsteps echoed as Toshi returned. “You’re much taller than me. Please, I need you to sit.”

Max moved to the flared bottom of the wooden staircase, feeling grateful that the door to a stranger’s home had been opened so quickly at such a late hour. The Shinto priest knelt down and dabbed gently at the cut with a cloth. The warm water felt soothing, almost healing, as if in his hands it was able to wash away the violence of the night, replacing it with calm and tranquility.

Toshi formed gauze into a makeshift bandage, then fixed it in place with medical tape. “That should stop the bleeding.”

“Thank you.” Max had been sitting motionless, facing the two white urns and engaged by their simple beauty. He pointed to them, curious. “What are those?”

“My parents.”

Max cringed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s always better to face reality. My parents were victims of terrorism. They were on the subway during the Sarin gas attacks more than ten years ago.” Toshi stood. “Now, please follow me. You need rest.”

Suddenly, Max could think of nothing other than sleep. He felt completely drained, exhausted from the ordeal. Toshi led him to an upstairs guest room. The spartan space held a single mattress in the center of the tatami floor. Wheat-colored linens were folded down at one corner as if a visitor had been expected. Max wanted to express his gratitude and explain what had happened, but the question was, where to begin? “There was a robbery.” Unzipping the damp daypack, he withdrew the brown leather satchel and pressed it toward Toshi.

The priest accepted the offering and held up his free hand. “Please. There is no need to rush.” His face was relaxed, and his voice serene. “No need to say anything.”

“But there’s a book in this satchel. I need to know what’s in it.”

“It can wait until morning. For now, you must rest.” Then he dipped with a bow and was gone.

Max needed no further encouragement. He removed his wet clothes and dropped them in a heap before kneeling onto the mattress and rolling under the covers. Soft flannel arms wrapped around him. The last thing he recalled was a vision of hundreds of glowing stars. The fog of dreams rolled in. Sleep came swift and sure.

T
oshi stared at the satchel’s gold embossed emblem—a beautiful flower. He ran his fingers over each of the sixteen chrysanthemum petals. Since the nineteenth century, the symbol had represented the power and majesty of the Japanese royal family. It seemed impossible to think that he was actually holding it in his hands. He lifted the overhanging leather flap and carefully removed the book. The stamp of a red
Hanko
seal was pressed onto a coin-sized paper circle in the center of the cover. The signature gave the name Tsuneyoshi Takeda.

Toshi partially opened the cover, then closed it hastily. His wiped his sweaty palms against his robe. Reading a document belonging to another member of the royal family felt wrong. It felt like a sin against the emperor himself. But the cover seemed to burn hot in his hands, almost as if the book desired to be opened and understood. Eventually the urge became too overwhelming. Turning to the first page, he read:

Y
ear 16 of the Shōwa reign—This is the chronicle of my honorable journey to places yet unknown. The tide of righteous war has temporarily shifted, and our glorious nation is being tested. The emperor’s brother Prince Chichibu called to me, and as I knelt before him, he asked for me to serve Amaterasu. The Sun Goddess’s lifeblood must be protected. Temporary places of safekeeping must be found. Prince Chichibu will be the chief architect, while I shall execute the masterful plans. I look forward to the hardships and challenges that lie ahead. My heart is pure with obedience. Duty is asked of me, and I will deliver it.

FOUR POLICE cruisers monopolized the roadside parking in front of the Plum Tree Restaurant. Bookends of bright yellow security tape blocked the sidewalk on either side of the skinny office building. Rain poured from the dark gray sky, driving a pair of surly uniformed officers to hunker under a stunted eave near the building’s front doorway. Seven-thirty Monday morning traffic inched by while drivers peered wide-eyed through foggy windshields.

Scarcely taking in the scene below him, Mr. Murayama stared from the rain-soaked third-floor windows. Upon arriving at the office, he had been dumbstruck at the sight of open drawers and twisted metal cabinets. Contents on one side of the room were stacked neatly on the floor, while on the other side they lay smashed and strewn in jumbled piles. A lifetime of searching, collecting, and cataloging lay in shambles. It seemed as if a two-headed monster had stormed through the room. His insistent pleas for the police to leave had fallen on deaf ears. Charged with a duty to determine the attackers’ identities, the officers had stated emphatically they were not about to go away, even if he insisted through teary eyes that nothing was missing.