Linnear 01 - The Ninja (5 page)

‘Why did you leave?’ she asked. ‘What made you come here?’

He took a deep breath. ‘That’s difficult to sum up in words. I suppose it was an aggregate of many things, a slow accretion. My father, you know, he wanted to come to America. He loved Japan. Fought for it, always. He might have come here himself but - it wasn’t his karma, I suppose. It was something he regretted.’ The spume was like silver lace far away - out there on the bosom of the sea. ‘If there is a part of him within me, then he’s here now and that makes me feel all right.’

‘Do you really believe that? Life after -‘

He smiled. ‘Oh yes. Oh no. I cannot tell you truthfully. East meets West inside me like swirling currents and there is a kind of tug of war. But about my father, my mother. They are with me, yes.’

‘It seems so odd -‘

‘Only because we are here, standing on a porch in West Bay Bridge. If we were in Asia…’ He shrugged as if this explanation were sufficient. ‘And, too, I came here to prove to myself that I could be a Westerner as well as an Easterner. I majored in mass communications at college, launched into the atom age. Advertising seemed a logical choice once I came here and I was lucky enough to find someone who was willing to take a chance on me as a raw trainee.’ He laughed. ‘It turned out I was a natural.’

She turned her body sideways to the surf, facing him fully. She came and stood next to him. Her long hair swirled, a link; they had not touched. ‘Do you want me?’ she whispered like the tide. ‘Do you want to make love to me?’

‘Yes,’ he said, watching her eyes, their expanded pupils darkening the green to black. He felt a tightening in his stomach, no longer quite certain of his own ghosts, feeling a filament of fear, a feather brushing the base of his spine. ‘Do you want to make love to me?”

She said nothing; he felt the nearness of her hand rather than saw it, mesmerized by her eyes, the glowing motes-e people nets. He felt its heat, then the tips of her fingers touching the skin of his biceps, curled around the muscles there, firmly but without squeezing, and it seemed to him that the simple gesture communicated so much that it was as if she had never done it before; that it had never been done to him before in just that way. And that first contact was so electrically tender that he felt the muscles of his thighs trembling, a sighing in his heart begin.

He wrapped her slowly in his arms and he was quite certain she cried out, a tiny burst of erotic emotion, ‘Oh I’ the abandoned ardour of the music, just before his lips covered hers. Immediately her mouth opened under his and he felt the length of her body pressing against his, building heat at the fulcra of breasts, belly and the juncture of her thighs.

How hot she seemed as his lips caressed her long neck, tracing the rounded edge of her collarbone. His hands pulled at her shirt. Her lips were at his ear, her tongue circling, circling like that last hungry gull above the night-dark beach, and she whispered, ‘Not here. Not here. Please -‘

Lifting her arms and the shirt came off; his fingers stroked her spine, the deep long indentation. She shivered and moaned as he licked under her arms, moving slowly to her full breasts, the nipples already hard and puckered.

Her long fingers unfastening the snap of his jeans, her nails clicking together as his open lips covered the upper slopes of her breasts, spiraling inwards. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’ And brought him out of the jeans, already half-erect, stroking him softly to full hardness as he sucked her nipples.

He felt the fear give a last flutter, like a tired sigh, before it evaporated utterly. They sank lower and lower, twisting and trembling with anticipation as the remainder of their clothes came off. Her hands moved to push down the pair of thin silk panties but he stopped her, picking her up from the carpet, one hand under her buttocks, the other at the small of her back, lifted her half onto the sofa, moving between her spread thighs, bending, his opened lips finding their soft inner sides, moving slowly upwards, towards the high silk-covered mount. Her fingers were white as they gripped the front edge of the sofa’s pillow; his tongue touched the moist silk and she moaned again, her back arching,

He began to lick at her through the thin barrier of the silk and her hands flew to his head, stroking his ears, her wide opened mouth making small involuntary cries as the tension built inside her rapidly. Then he moved aside the sopping silk and buried his face against her. Her nails grazed his back as her long legs jerked convulsively upwards. Her ankles locked against his spine. He moved slightly upwards to her core, sucked it into his mouth. Her loins rolled upwards in powerful thrusts as she cried out, his tongue and lips constantly moving until he felt her shuddering against him, heard her scream, the tenseness dissolving out of her, and wetly, heatedly, she drew him up towards her, her fingers seeking him, her lips wildly on his, wanting him in her now, at this precise moment, more than she wanted anything else, to continue the exquisite heat she felt, to give him pleasure as he had given her.

Her sex felt like a furnace as she guided him into her. She rammed her belly against him as he buried himself to the hilt; they both groaned with the sensation. She surrounded him with her arms, languorously twitching her upper torso so that her lush breasts rubbed back and forth across his chest. She moaned with the intense stimulation to her hard nipples. She licked at his neck as he used his hands on her,, all over, increasing her pleasure, riding high within her, and at the end, when she found the tension almost unbearable, when the sweat and the saliva ran down her arms and between her breasts, pooling in her navel, when his frictioning against her was so intense that it took on a kind of third dimension, she used her inner muscles once, twice, heard him gasp, felt herself balancing on the brink, the thudding of their hearts heavy in her inner ear, whispering to him, ‘Come, darling, come - ohhh!’ gasped out as she felt his probing finger, slick with their mingled juices, at the opening of her anus and lost all control, filled with fire all the way up to her throat.

Dr Vincent Ito stirred the hot chrysanthemum tea steaming in the handleless ceramic cup. Disturbed, several dark bits of crushed leaf swirled upwards from the bottom, circling the surface. They reminded him of floaters. They were coming, he knew, had been for a month or so. Those bodies, once people who had leapt or, unconscious, had, perhaps, been pushed into the East River or the Hudson during the long whiter months. Consigned to the’deep, they had been preserved by the chill at the bottom, undisturbed by the sluggish currents until the beginning of the summer when the water heated up. At thirty to thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit, bacteria would begin to breed, causing putrefaction and gases that would, eventually, bring the body to the surface, and the floater, months after it had gone in, would be brought to him at the Medical Examiner’s building-That certainly did not bother him. Since he was an associate medical examiner, it was merely part of Vincent’s life. An important part, he had admitted to himself long ago. The morgue, in the building’s basement, with its steel-jacketed doors stacked one atop the other marked by their neat, typewritten cards, the scrubbed grey tile floor, the great scales upon which the corpses were weighed, was where he lived most of his days. There was nothing ghoulish about it, passing the brown and white bodies laid out on the shining trolleys, bloodless, the great T-shaped incisions across the chest from shoulder to shoulder and down across the abdomen, the epidermis thick like leather, the faces as peaceful as if they slept the sleep of the innocent. It had no effect on him. The interest and, yes, the excitement of forensic medicine was, for him, the intricate puzzle of death. Not so much what it was but rather what had caused it. He was a detective whose work among the dead had, many times, aided the living.

Vincent stared out of the window as he slowly sipped his tea. Darkness still spread itself before the coming dawn: 4:25. He was always up this early.

He stared out at the city, the lighted empty streets of Manhattan. Far away he heard the grinding of a garbage truck making its latitudinous way along Tenth Street. Then closer by, a police car siren cut abruptly in, shattering the quietude. But it too, after a time, was gone, evaporating into the darkness. Nothing remained in the night but his thoughts, twisting upon themselves.

He felt trapped. My karma must have been very bad in my last life, he told himself. Japan seemed as inaccessible as if it were in another time. It no longer seemed possible for him ever to find it again, at least the Japan he had left twelve years ago. For him ‘there was no more Japan; it was but a withered flower - calling him still like a siren of the sea.

Nicholas awoke just before dawn. For just a moment, he was quite convinced that he was in his old house on the outskirts of Tokyo, the Zen garden, the oblique shadows on the wall by his head made by the stand of tall rustling bamboo. He heard a cuckoo’s brief call, the rush of the morning’s traffic into the city, muffled, funneled and yet magnified by the distance and the peculiar acoustics of the topography.

He turned his head, still half asleep, saw a -female form asleep beside him. Yukio. She had come back after all, he thought. He had known she would. But now to actually have her here beside him -

He sat up abruptly, his heart racing. A runic chanting, as if from far away across the distance of a sea, abruptly metamorphosed into the drifting crash of the surf, coming clear to him through the open window, the cry of the gulls. Still he knew the meaning of that arcane chanting…

He took several deep breaths. Japan clung to him now like a fine gauzy veil, enmeshing him. What had recalled it to him so intensely?

He looked around, saw the tip of Justine’s nose and her soft sensual lips, partly opened as she breathed, the only parts of her not covered by the sheet, blue and white and grey, rippling like the sea. She slept deeply now within its heavy bosom.

What is it about her, he wondered, that pulls me like a current? Oddly, he felt adrift upon the tides. Watching her, the soft rise and fall of her warm body, he knew that he was being drawn back to Japan, into the past where he dared not tread…

An unutterably delicious sensation woke him. He opened his eyes to find her thighs close to his face. He inhaled her musk, realized her lips were around him. Her tongue licked softly, lasciviously, and he groaned. He reached out to touch her but her thighs moved away. He watched, instead, the movement of her mound, tracing with his eyes the highly arched configuration, deeply bisected at its base, the soft curling hair glistening moistly down the centre, her flesh as tumescent as his, an arrow of delight.

The pleasure ribboned out before him, a highway endlessly extended. Each time he was on the verge of coming, she used her hands on him, lifted her mouth away, encircling the base until the anticipatory spasms subsided. Then she would resume and the crescendo would begin again, over and over until his legs shook and his heart pounded and he felt as if he were burning with a fever, pleasure pooling and radiating at the same time, leaden with the amount of it running through his pelvis and genitals.

He became aware of her breasts swaying against his belly and he reached down, cupping them, rubbing the nipples until, involuntarily, her thighs opened, rushing towards him.

Every touch was now so exquisite that he felt muscles jumping all over his body at each contact. She did something to the head of his penis and he cried out, moving. He clutched at her breasts and she slid up so that his shaft squeezed between them. He buried his face in the crevasse between her thighs, opening his mouth as far as he could as he shot and shot and shot.

Vincent Ito arrived at the Medical Examiner’s office on First Avenue at Thirtieth Street at four minutes to eight in the morning. As he pushed through the plate-glass door at the top of the short flight of stairs, he nodded to the uniformed cop on duty and said hello to snowy-haired Tommy, Nate Graumann’s chauffeur. As he entered Room 134, he knew he had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee before the morning meeting began.

He turned right through the short hall and into the Chief Medical Examiner’s large, crowded office.

Nate Graumann, New York City’s Chief Medical Examiner, was a mountain of a man. His eyes were slitted, black and glossy, half hidden within semicircular folds of loose skin, somewhat paler than the colour of that around them. His broad nose had been broken once, perhaps in some nighttime street fight in the South Bronx, where he had been born and raised.

His hair was salt and pepper but his moustache was jet black. He looked, in short, like a most formidable opponent - which he was, as the mayor and several members of the city’s fiscal control board could easily attest.

‘Morning, Vincent,’ he called.

‘Morning, Nate.’ He hurried across the room to the high metal dome of the coffee machine standing like a doge’s palace amid the clutter. Hold the sugar, hold the half-and-half, he thought gloomily. I need my caffeine straight this morning.

‘Stay a minute, Vincent,’ Graumann said, as the assignment meeting broke up.

Vincent sat in a green chair across from the littered desk and handed over the cases he had picked out when Graumann asked to see them.

They were friends, away from their labours here, but those times had seemed to shrink over the years. Graumann had been deputy M.E. when Vincent had first arrived here and, it seemed, there had been more time then. Or perhaps it was just that there had been more money. Their workloads increased as the fiscal crunch fell like the side of a mountain upon them. The city had much larger problems than worrying about the people who were daily bludgeoned, knifed, strangled, drowned, asphyxiated, shot, mangled and blown apart on the city’s streets or in the bodies of water throughout its environs. Eighty thousand people die each year in New York City and we get thirty thousand of them, he thought.

‘What d’you have on at the moment?’ Graumann said.

‘Uhm. The Morway thing,’ Vincent said, his brow furrowing in thought, ‘and the Holloway knifing - I’m due in court on that any moment. The Principal case is about closed - just a few odds and ends left to tie up for the D.A. - the blood analysis should be in this afternoon. And then, oh yeah, Marshall.’