Collector of Secrets (37 page)

The policeman was silent.

“Are you still there? If not, I’m going back to sleep.”

The officer sighed while he stared from the booth at a half-dozen kids riding by on bikes.“All right. A woman came into the station this morning to report a late-night break-in. She said that several men invaded her country home. It appears that one of the men was involved in a fight—and he lost. She turned in a bloody wallet. The identification gave his name—Jun Hirano.”

“And where is Hirano-
san
now?”

“I don’t know. Officers have gone out to the house, but they haven’t reported back yet.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. But please make sure to tell Oto that this time I could really use more money.”

“Yeah, sure.” The man’s snort was cut off by the buzz of the disconnected line.

THE MASSIVE eight-hundred-year-old Nandaimon Gates welcomed the most recent band of visitors pouring off a seemingly endless stream of air-conditioned coaches. Two immense
Niomon
Guardians, their snarling faces and bulging muscles carved from wood, towered over the flow of people coming and going. A bright procession of orange-robed priests moved single file down the wide stone walkway leading up to the Todai Buddhist Temple. The rare display resulted in a touristic frenzy of jostling, gawking, and picture-taking.

Vincent pulled unnoticed into the slipstream of a group of Germans. Many of them were smoking unfiltered cigarettes, and there was a great deal of finger pointing as they approached the curving dual eaves of the world’s largest wooden structure.

The group moved into the temple through the gaping left entrance, while Vincent broke away and stepped over the threshold of the entrance to the right. A forty-five-foot bronze Buddha rose above the group’s tour guide, who was frenetically trying to pull his flock back together. His Germanic shouts echoed in the cavernous chamber but were ignored by the amateurs circling the 550-ton statue, each photographer searching for the perfect shot.

Vincent strolled among the temple’s shops before stepping past the clearly marked
NO ENTRY
sign. He made his way out of the building’s side door, undetected.

It had been a stroke of early-morning luck when he’d begun a conversation with an elderly man sitting on a bench outside the city’s tourist office. The octogenarian informed him that “Old Ben Takeda wouldn’t be at home on a Saturday morning.” The man spoke between puffs on the stem of a bamboo
Kiseru
pipe. “Takeda-
san
teaches painting classes. Today I think he’s on the lawn behind Todai-ji. Nice view, and not so many annoying foreigners getting in the way.”

Just ahead of Vincent, a set of stairs led down to the temple’s back lawn. Standing at the top, he counted at least twenty-five people scattered on the grass below, parked behind matching easels. Their heads intermittently peered over their work as they gathered glimpses of the imposing structure.

Vincent placed an oversized wad of chewing gum into his mouth and descended the steps. He focused his mind back to the blue-collar accent he’d been practicing earlier that morning. It was important to get this impersonation over with as quickly as possible—less time for questions. Approaching one of the female painters at the front of the group, he made sure to speak in rapid English between smacks on the gum.

“Hey there! I’m looking for a Mr. Ben Takeda. Do you know where I can find him?”

The woman shrugged, her face clearly conveying a lack of understanding.

Vincent knew it was important to appear ignorant of the obvious signals, so he raised his voice while over-enunciating on the second attempt. “Ta-ke-da-san!
Ben Ta-ke-da
!”

“Aaaaah!” The women smiled with recognition and motioned toward a slight man at the back of the group. He was hunched over a canvas, providing instruction to a nodding student.

The small man eyed Vincent warily before straightening up. “I’m Ben Takeda.”

Vincent sidestepped his way past the whispering members of the class. As he approached, he stuck his arm straight out and formed the biggest grin he could make. “I hate to interrupt your class, but I could sure use your help.”

Ben vibrated from the vigorous handshake. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Charles Travers, and I’m looking for my son. I heard he may be visiting you.”

“Max is your son?”

“Yes, he is. I came all the way from California looking for him.” Vincent chewed his gum, noting a slight flexing in the man’s shoulders.

“What a pleasure.” Ben said. “Max mentioned to me once that you’re a fervent soccer fan.”

“Absolutely! Best sport going.”

“Yes, yes. American football is good, but soccer is much better.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Vincent tapped his watch with his index finger, unclear where the small man was going with his strange banter. “I hate to change the subject, but it’s urgent I find Max. I’ve been to his house in Tokyo and talked with his roommates. I’ve also visited his school and spoken with a Mr. Murayama. Nice older man. He told me that I might be able to find my boy here, with you.”

The slight man eyed him blandly. “May I ask why you’re looking for him so urgently?”

“We haven’t heard from him in weeks—his mama and me—and, well, Martina’s taken ill. If he comes home, it would really make his mama very happy. It may be her last wish.”

“Well, I can tell you he was here, but he left yesterday.”

“Dammit! I need to find him, Mr. Takeda. Do you know where he was going?”

“Back to Tokyo.” Ben crossed his arms. “I’m sure if you return, you will find him there.”

“I knew I should have stayed and waited for him. Thank you very much.” Vincent stepped forward, grasping him in a bear hug, triggering snickers from the surrounding students. “Thank you very much.” He kept his hands attached to the Ben’s shoulders as he pulled back. “Tokyo. You’re sure he said he was going back to Tokyo.”

Ben’s reply was flustered. “Yes . . . yes. That’s what he told me.”

“All right, then.” Vincent let go and straightened up. “Sorry for interrupting your class.”

“Not at all.”

V
incent slid into the driver’s seat of his Avis rental car. A flick of his fingers pushed the blanket from the passenger’s seat to the floor. He plugged a gray metal box into the cigarette lighter and connected it to his laptop through the USB port. As he inserted an earbud into his left ear, he powered on the receiver. This latest UHF circuitry wouldn’t be on the market for another five years or so. The advanced technology provided drift-free operation along with excellent range.

You’re a liar, Ben Takeda.

The monitor on the laptop blinked awake, invoking the digital scanning tools, causing the earpiece to crackle. Within moments an outside conversation burst forth. The silver pen resting in Ben’s jacket pocket was doing its job.

Vincent listened.

“You’re doing much better this week. The brush strokes are showing more feeling.”

“Thank you,
Sensei
. It’s easy to paint in such a powerful place.”

“But remember that purpose comes from within. Never be afraid of your own power.”

“Yes,
Sensei
. I won’t forget.”

MAX’S HAND found his face as his bleary mind pulled itself awake from the nightmare; which of Thick Neck’s stories was the truth?

A uniformed station attendant was kicking at his feet, forcing him to lift his cramped neck away from the wall where he’d drifted off. Every muscle in his body ached, and he was exhausted. Following the serpentine flow of the river into Nara had taken most of the night. The flashlight’s battery had given out after a few hours. He’d stumbled into ruts and fallen over logs. The cuts, bruises, and dirt on his forearms and shins gave evidence of the journey. But at least he was alive.

The chubby station attendant was vocalizing his displeasure. He kicked Max’s feet again.

“Yes. Yes,” Max said, groaning. “
Wakarimashita!
No sleeping here. I understand.”

He stood to his full height as smarting ribs joined in to accompany the pain from his throbbing ankle. The station attendant backed away warily and watched as he shouldered the daypack.

The Osaka Station corridor disappeared into the distance in either direction. It didn’t really matter which way he walked. He just needed to get some food and kill time until the travel agencies opened. Calling the airlines directly hadn’t worked. Nobody on the domestic travel desk could speak enough English.

The holiday week was in full bloom, and it seemed the entire country was on the move. The corridor teemed with travelers, families with children in tow, and cooing couples off for some holiday fun. In fact, it was so busy that there were no seats available on any southbound Bullet Trains for the next two days. Using local trains for the journey would take much too long. The ferries to Okinawa were also jammed full. The situation was growing increasingly desperate.

The trailing attendant eventually lost interest and vanished as Max limped away.

Soon, a deserted side room with public telephones appeared. His paranoia had reached new heights, and he glanced suspiciously around for any police before moving into the dead-end space. He dialed the Okinawa number and slid to the floor, listening as the number rang repeatedly. On the fourth ring, he sighed, knowing the call was headed for the answering machine again.

Suddenly there were sharp scuffling sounds as if the receiver on the other end was being dragged across gravel. Muffled cursing could be heard. Jeff’s froglike voice whispered into the line, “Has there been a death I should know about?”

Max gripped the receiver tighter. “Jeff! Man, I can’t believe I finally got you.”

“Maaaax.” A raspy cough followed. “Bro—how’s it going?”

“Not so great.” Just speaking the words to a friendly ear brought relief.

“Really? Was that you calling here this morning?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you answer?”

“We hit this great beach party. So, what’s up, bro?”

“It’s a long story, but I’m in trouble, and I need your help.”

“Sure, man.”

“I need to stay with you for a while.”

“Great, but I have to warn you that my domicile is what one might call cozy. Objectively speaking, man, it’s kinda cramped, but you’re more than welcome.”

In the background, Max could hear sheets rustling, followed by a giggling female voice. “Thanks, buddy. I’m in Osaka right now. Trying to get a ticket to Okinawa is almost impossible.”

“Yeah, the Golden Week curse.” Jeff’s voice pulled away from the phone. “Hang on, babe, I’m talking here.” The distant giggling continued.

Max wanted to unload the ordeal of the past few days, but the timing was wrong, Jeff was clearly distracted. “I’ll keep you posted once I get a ticket—let you know my arrival time.”

“Sounds cool, brother.” Jeff’s voice pulled away again. “Hey . . . hey . . . don’t touch the phone!” A woman’s voice could be heard.

“You sound busy. I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, buddy. Keep in touch.”

The call ended with a raucous surge of high-pitched laughter. Max reached up, replacing the receiver, and suddenly, abruptly, he missed Tomoko very, very much.