Steel Breeze (12 page)

“No,”
he said. “I don’t think I am.” He pressed END.

He
flipped the laptop open and ran a search for “kanji butterfly.” It was all he
had to go on. Most of the results were for tattoo studio websites where
illustrations of butterflies combined with calligraphy jumped out at him from
freckled swatches of pale skin, inflamed red around the freshly inked lines. He
clicked back and tried a more traditional calligraphy site where he was able to
find the
kanji
character for “butterfly,” but it didn’t match the ink on
the paper in front of him. Another site allowed you to order a custom
calligraphy scroll, but you had to type in the English word or phrase that you
wanted translated. Desmond needed to go the other way—from
kanji
to
English. Typing in random words to find a match would take all day. He needed
human help. And for that, he would have to wait. It wasn’t even 7 AM.

He
poured more coffee, paced the apartment, and looked at the street through the
blinds. He felt helpless. Fear droned through the silent apartment, threatening
to reach a panic pitch at any moment. He tried to focus. Salerno had said that
the guest instructor, the sword teacher, was Japanese. Maybe a phone call to
the man, followed by an email attachment, would be enough to get a translation.
He smoothed out the paper square and placed it in the circle of light from the
desk lamp. Then he snapped a few photos of it with his smartphone until he got
one that wasn’t too blurry. The phone rang in his hand and startled him while
he was looking at the pictures.

It
was Laurie calling him back to tell him that the girl next door didn’t know
anything about origami. It was exactly what he’d been expecting to hear, and
yet his dread deepened at the confirmation. “Desmond, what’s this all about?”
she asked, with a new kind of concern in her voice. “Frankly, you’re scaring
me. You seem stressed and…paranoid.”

“I
can’t talk about it yet. Not until I understand it better myself,” he said.

“Is
someone stalking you? Because of your books, or because of….”

What
happened to Sandy.

“The
police don’t seem to think so,” Desmond said.

“But
you do.”

“I
can’t talk about it.”

Silence
from her but not consent. She didn’t want to let him off the hook. Not if she
thought she might be able to help.

“You’re
a good friend, Laurie. I’ll keep you in the loop.”       

“Let
us know if you need anything. Really, anything.”

“I
will. I might need a character reference to keep custody of Lucas.”

“What?”

“That’s
why I can’t get into my suspicions with you. I’m trying to find my way through
a maze, and if a judge or lawyer ever asked you point blank whether or not
you’ve heard me talking about certain far-fetched ideas…it could hurt my
chances of keeping him.”

“What
happened, Des?”

“I’ll
talk to you soon. I promise.” He hung up.

The
kanji
character shone from the screen in his hand in high contrast black
and white.

Desmond
went to the coat rack by the door, took his wallet from his jacket pocket, and
plucked Salerno’s business card from the fold. The sword instructor’s name and
phone number were scrawled on the back, barely legible. He checked the time: still
too early to call a stranger or a lawyer. What to do to kill time? Writing was
out of the question. He wouldn’t be able to focus. Looking at the laptop he doubted
that he would ever be able to focus again. How could he type on those keys
knowing that Sandy’s killer had touched them? His space had been violated. Everything
had been violated—his home, his work, his relationship with his son. But for
Desmond, writing was thinking. Even when there was no escaping into fiction,
there was the hope that forming questions and potential answers in writing
would calm him and show him a way forward. He used to talk to Sandy to puzzle
out problems, and while he wasn’t going to start talking to himself, he sort of
could, if he wrote. But the laptop sat on the desk in the corner looking like a
bear trap.

He
climbed the stairs, entered his bedroom, and opened the top drawer of his
dresser. He felt around in the back of the drawer under his socks until his
fingers found a polished wooden box. He withdrew it: a mahogany case with
rounded corners and invisible hinges, longer than it was wide. He slid a switch
on the side, and the case opened with a weird slowness that reminded him of
hydraulic levers. Inside, a jet-black fountain pen with sterling silver accents
was nestled tightly into a bed of silk.

Sandy
had given him the pen as a gift when his first novel sold. He had signed the
contract with it, and it had always been more of a symbolic item to him than an
actual tool, something to display on his desk back when he had a real desk
instead of a table in the corner of the apartment—a token reminder of his
calling. It had also reminded him of who he was writing for: a woman who loved
and understood him.

Actually
writing with the thing had always seemed pretentious to him, and a little
intimidating, as if every word scratched out under its sharp quill tip had to
be worthy of graving in stone, every milligram of its rarefied ink weighted
against the literature of the ages. And Desmond knew in his heart that he was
more of an entertainer than an artist. Sure, there were timeless mythic themes
in his work, and he treated those threads seriously; but he also knew that he
had inherited more from Tolkien than Tolstoy. The yarn he was currently
spinning even featured a knight avenging a slain queen, and you didn’t have to
be Freud…. Therapeutic? Yes, definitely. Maybe even cathartic, but the act of writing
about heroes didn’t have to be heroic. The laptop had always been fine.

He
took the pen from the case and studied it, placed it between his thumb and
forefinger and gave the grip a try, scribbling on air. It was comfortable. He
fetched a blank legal pad from the top shelf of his closet, carried his new
tools downstairs, settled at the kitchen table, and documented everything he
could remember since the day at the Castle Playground. At first the sentences
formed in slow, halting bursts. He drank cold coffee, kept the pen on the page,
and found a rhythm. Ink flowed.

Two
hours later, he tossed the pen down on the pad as if it were hot. His hand
ached.

The
kitchen clock told him that he had burned the inappropriate hours, so he picked
up the business card and typed the number into his phone. The voice that
answered sounded relaxed, but not sleepy.

“Mr.
Masahiro?” Desmond asked.

“This
is he.”

“My
name is Desmond Carmichael. Peter Salerno gave me your number. He said you
might be able to answer some questions about samurai swords and Japanese
culture.”

“Ah,
yes. Peter mentioned that you might call. My condolences for your loss, Mr.
Carmichael.”

“Thank
you.” Desmond cleared his throat.

“Perhaps
we could meet in person some time to discuss your questions.”

“That
would be great, but as a single parent, finding time can be a little tricky. I
wondered if I might ask you a few questions over the phone. Have I reached you
at an okay time?”

“Now
is fine.”

“Okay.
Um…. I actually have a kanji character that I need translated. Do you read
kanji?”

“Yes.”

“Could
I possibly email you an image file?”

“Of
course.”

“Thank
you. I do have another question first, if I may…. I know this is morbid, but
you’ll understand why I would ask…. How difficult is it to decapitate a person
with a sword? Would it require much skill and strength?”

The
silence on the line stretched out long enough for Desmond to wonder if the man
had hung up on him, but the air sounded too alive for that. Eventually,
Masahiro said, “Not much muscle strength, no. The sword does the cutting, not
the swordsman. However, it does require skill for the swordsman to let the
blade do its job without getting in the way.”

“How
do you mean?”

“I’m
speaking in general about cutting. Of course I can’t speak from experience
about cutting people. In the dojo, we use bamboo to simulate bone, and grass
mats soaked in water to emulate the density of flesh.”

“I
see.”

“The
curve of the samurai sword makes it perfect for slicing, but the angle of the
blade in motion must be straight. This requires a proper grip. If the grip is
too tight, too stiff, it is a hindrance. Beginners have trouble relaxing and
guiding the blade along a straight path without forcing it.”

“Would
someone who was relaxed by alcohol have an easier time swinging the right way?”

“No,
even relaxed, it would take exceptional luck for an untrained person to cut
clean through a human neck.”

“Why
is that?”

“Are
you sure you want to discuss this in such…detail, Mr. Carmichael?”

“Please.
Go on.”

“All
right, then. It would be easier to show you these things in person, but I will
try to explain. There is a section of the blade, about nine inches long, where
the curvature and tensile strength are greatest. If the target is struck too
close to the tip of the blade, the sword will become wedged and stuck, or the
tip may shatter against the spinal vertebrae. If the target is struck too low
on the blade, too close to the hilt, there will be insufficient momentum to
slice through, and again, the blade may become wedged in muscle. And if the
hilt is not properly aligned at the moment of impact, if it is extended beyond
the center of the target, the swing will be like that of a baseball bat, overextended,
no good for slicing through."

“That’s
a lot more complicated than I realized.”

“That
is why it is an art. My students spend years refining the details of their form
while cutting nothing more substantial than air.”

Desmond’s
voice had grown thin. He cleared his throat and asked, “Could an untrained,
lucky person sever a neck most of the way, but fail to cut the head entirely
off?” He felt bile rising in the back of his throat and perspiration beading up
along his hairline.

“Such
a cut would be the mark of true samurai skill.”

“Why?”

“It
is the traditional method of finishing someone who is performing
seppuku
.
You are familiar with the ritual suicide of a samurai?”

“Yes.”

“When
the suicide assistant sees the practitioner tug the dagger in his gut upward
toward the sternum, it signals that the act is complete, and the assistant steps
forward to decapitate, but not fully. A thin strip of flesh is left to prevent
the disgrace of the head bouncing on the ground or rolling away.”

Desmond
thought he might vomit. He pressed his knuckle to his lips and squeezed the
cell phone; his breath flared through the speaker in a cloud of white noise.

“Are
you okay, Desmond?”

“Yeah.”
The word came out faint and toneless, the husk of a word.

“I’m
sorry. These details must be deeply distressing for you to contemplate. I can
get carried away talking shop, forgetting that you are not a student.”

Desmond
sighed. “Okay…thank you. I’ll send you that character?”

 “Of
course. Do you have a pen handy? I’ll give you my email address.”

Desmond
picked up the fountain pen, jotted the address down. Then he pressed END,
dropped the phone, ran to the bathroom, and heaved up his breakfast.

After
splashing water on his face and rinsing his mouth from the tap, he returned to
the kitchen and, with clumsy, trembling fingers, emailed the photo from his
phone. As soon as he heard the “sent” sound, he put the phone down on the table
and went out onto the front steps to breathe in the salty air. He wished like
hell he hadn’t quit smoking when Sandy was pregnant with Lucas, wished he still
had one last stale cigarette in the apartment that he could smoke the fuck out
of right now. Just one.

When
he went back inside, there was a reply from Masahiro on the little phone
screen. Holding his breath, he tapped it. The reply was two words long.

Translation:
Fly

The
word
fly
written inside a folded paper butterfly? What was that? A
command? A warning? He knew in the bottom of his sour stomach that it was. It
was a message for Lucas, a message that a four-year-old child could never
decode on his own.
Fly away, little butterfly. The dragon is coming.

Chapter 11

Phil Parsons
stared at the computer monitor and watched his sleeping grandson. Lucas was
tangled in the sheets, having rotated sideways in the night, like a clock hand
anxious for dawn. Maybe it had been a restless sleep, but the boy looked
peaceful now, and Phil wasn’t looking forward to shattering that peace by
waking him or telling him things he didn’t want to hear.

Karen’s
footsteps creaked softly on the carpeted stairs. She entered the study and set
a steaming cup of coffee on the desk and a gentle hand on Phil’s shoulder. He
touched the hand with his own and squeezed her fingers.

“You
could watch him from the chair in his room, you know,” Karen said.

Lucas
was sleeping in Sandy’s old bedroom, where they now kept a treadmill and a
guitar Phil could play a few chords on. Today they would ask Lucas what he
wanted the room to look like because it would be his own room for a while. Then
they would make a list of things they needed for him.

“I
don’t want to disturb him,” Phil said.

“I
don’t know how you get any comfort from watching that thing.”

“Can’t
say I do.”

“Isn’t
it a little creepy, him looking like he’s on one of those tapes you used to
have to watch after a robbery?”

Phil
took a sip of the coffee. “It’s not like that. We haven’t seen him much since
Sandy died. It’s just good to see him at all. He’s gotten so big.”

“He
has. But this…him being here, it isn’t about seeing him more.”

“I
know.”

Karen’s
hand tightened on his shoulder, and she asked a question that Phil knew she probably
wouldn’t have asked if they’d been looking at each other instead of at the boy
on the monitor: “Do you think Desmond did it? Do you think he killed her?”

“He
asked me that himself last night.”

“
Not
in front of Lucas.”

“No,
of course not.”

“No
you don’t think he did it?”

“No,
he didn’t ask me in front of Lucas. I don’t know if he did it. I can’t rule it
out, but I think…no.”

“But
you don’t think he’s stable.”

“Do
you?”

She
sighed, but didn’t answer the question.

“He’s
been through a lot,” Phil said.

“And
he has a very active imagination,” Karen said, “I think that’s what Sandy fell
in love with.”

“It’s
getting the better of him. His judgment’s no good.”

“You
sound like you’re trying to convince yourself of that.”

“No,
I’m convinced. Even if Harwood is the wrong guy, which is a
really
big
‘if,’ but just supposing Desmond is right and the killer is still out
there…then this is the safest place for Lucas, not some slum-lord special on
the beach.”

“I
did worry about Lucas getting into the water with the riptide while his father
had his nose in a book or a laptop.”

“See?
No matter how you look at it, he’s safer here.”

“But
judges don’t take kids away from their parents just because the house doesn’t
have cameras and alarms, or because it’s too close to the beach, Phil.”

Phil
took another sip of coffee.

Karen
took her hand off his shoulder.

He
cocked his head in her direction, but kept his eyes on the screen.

Karen
asked, “What do you think Sandy would say about what we’re doing?”

“Don’t
forget about the sword, Karen. He got it out of storage and brought it into the
house. Tell me Lucas wasn’t in a dangerous environment.”

“And
we only know about that because of all this spying.”

“Thank
heaven we know.”

She
left the room as quietly as she had entered.

Phil
opened the home security program and changed a few settings. After Sandy’s
death he’d dumped a lot of money into upgrades. He’d been too tired to change
the settings last night after finally getting Lucas to sleep, but tonight, and
every night after, he wanted the lights to come on in the master bedroom if
Lucas woke up and left his room to go to the bathroom or for a drink of water. The
boy was going to be feeling vulnerable, now more than ever with neither parent
around to tend to his needs. Phil would rise at any hour to make sure that Lucas
didn’t feel alone.

The
smell of breakfast drifted up from the kitchen, and Phil’s stomach groaned in
reply. Within a couple of seconds, Lucas also groaned—Phil could hear the sound
from down the hall while he watched Lucas on the monitor: kicking, rolling onto
his stomach, and then propping himself up on his elbows, blinking at the
unfamiliar bedroom. Good timing. Phil closed the security program, rolled his
chair away from the desk, and ambled down the hall with his coffee mug in hand.
Lucas stood in the doorway of the spare bedroom, looking groggy.

“Papa,”
he said.

“Good
morning, champ. You sleep okay?”

Lucas
nodded slightly, staring at a spot on the carpet. Then he shivered and said, “I
hafta pee.”

“Okay,
let’s go to the potty. You know the way.”

Toddling
down the hall with his grandfather’s hand on the back of his head, Lucas said,
“I want Daddy.”

“We’ll
see about that, we’ll see. You like French toast and bacon? Nana made some.”

* * *

They
ate in silence until the doorbell chimed. Phil and Karen exchanged a look of
alarm.

“Daddy!”
Lucas said as he hopped down from his seat and ran to the window. Phil made it
to the door almost as fast.

“It’s
not
Daddy. Why isn’t it Daddy, Papa?”

Phil
could see Chuck Fournier’s black Corvette through the leaded glass panes. He
opened the door on Fournier—freshly shaven and dressed in a pistachio green
short-sleeved shirt and a yellow tie. On his way to work or church, or maybe
church followed by work.

“Morning,
Phil. I was in the neighborhood. Heard it went down pretty easy last night, but
I wanted to check in anyway. Mind if I come in?”

Phil
hesitated, then opened the door wider and stepped aside. “I thought you might
be him,” Phil said, and tilted his head in Lucas’s direction to indicate the
need for cautious words. “If he does drop by, it might not go so smoothly today
if he sees your car in the driveway before he even gets to the door.”

“I’ll
only stay for a minute. Hi, Karen. Hey, Lucas! Remember me? You helped us draw
a picture the other day.”

Lucas
stepped behind Karen’s leg and grasped a few inches of her blouse. Phil was
relieved the kid didn’t go whole hog and revert to sucking his thumb. But that
might be next if the world didn’t stop shifting under his feet.

“Something
smells good,” Fournier said.

“Come
in and have a seat, Chuck,” Karen said, “I’ll zap some of that French toast for
you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks,
but no. I'm trying to cut back. Already had one. But the bacon sure smells
good. And do I see eggs?” He lifted the corner of a red-plaid cloth napkin and
peered into a steaming bowl while Karen laid a clean plate down in front of a
vacant chair and said, “Just some left over from the French toast that I
scrambled up. Help yourself.”

Lucas
hovered by his own chair where strips of French toast were getting cold on an
Elmo plate beside a glass of apple juice. He watched Fournier settle in and
frowned. “Nana, can I do my puzzle in the den?”

“Three
more bites of French toast and you can.”

Lucas
picked up a strip and made two small, quick chomps, chewed enough to make room
for the third bite, then fulfilled the contract. “Make sure you chew it,” Karen
said as Lucas ran from the room. Karen followed.

“You
might
not
see Desmond today, after all.” Fournier said around a mouthful
of eggs and bacon. “I just got a call from a friend at Cedar Junction. Apparently
Desmond has an appointment to visit Greg Harwood today. Set it up yesterday,
and he hasn't called to cancel after what happened last night. Not yet, anyway.
Must be pretty important to him.”

“You're
shitting me.”

“No,
sir.”

“Why
would he want to do that?”

“Well….
My
first
thought is that Des wants to see if Harwood’s coherent enough
to contradict anything he might say about that night now that it’s under the
microscope again.“

“Is
it? Are you reopening the case?”

“No.
Not unless he does something really stupid. Which he might.”

Phil
took the last two pieces of bacon before Fournier could. He wasn't really
hungry anymore, just didn't want to watch Fournier eat them.

“Okay,”
Phil said, “So that's your
first
thought…. One thing I learned on the
job is that first thoughts are usually wrong. Do you have a second thought?”

“You
don’t think he killed Sandy,” Fournier said in a low monotone that still
sounded too loud to Phil with Lucas in the next room. He could hear Karen and
Lucas talking about the puzzle, her leaving enough space in the conversation to
maybe listen in, and no TV in the background.

Phil
was getting tired of the question, but he supposed it was the price of taking
guardianship. “You need to understand that Karen and I aren't trying to open
that wound. That is not what this is about. It's about Lucas and keeping him
safe. Desmond...he's acting erratically, and I can't say why, but I had to get
Lucas out of there.”

They
sat in silence. Karen said something about looking for a corner piece with blue
on it. Phil took a bite of bacon. It tasted bitter.

“Did
Desmond tell you that he also visited Salerno's karate studio?”

“Isn't
that an Aikido place?”

“Same
diff. Did you know?”

“No,
I didn't.” This was getting stranger.

“He's
revisiting the case. So am I, unofficially.”

“Are
you ready for the avalanche of shit you're going to bring down on yourself if
word gets out that a detective thinks Harwood may be innocent?“

“Nothing's
getting out, Phil.”

“What
if he's right?”

“I
don't follow.”

“What
if Desmond isn't losing his grip?” Phil asked, “What if someone else did kill
Sandy…someone who's still out there?”

“Think
about Sandy, Phil. I knew her since we were kids, and she didn't have an enemy
in the world. If the crazy man we picked up with the murder weapon didn't do
it, then it had to be the crazy man she was married to, who by the way already
had the weapon in his possession. A third man is one too many. You know it is.”

Phil
nodded.

Chuck
Fournier slid his chair back, stood up, and reached across the table for a
handful of blueberries. He stuffed them into his mouth and brushed the water
droplets off his hand with two swipes across his pants. “I’ll be in touch.”