End of Enemies (2 page)

Shiono Misaki,
Japan

An hour before he would witness the murder of a complete stranger, Briggs Tanner was floating thirty feet beneath the surface of the Pacific Ocean, watching the last rays of sunlight fade from above. He floated like that, unmoving, until he felt a slight burning in his lungs. Time to surface. He glanced at his watch: nearly four minutes. Not bad. Not as good as when he was twenty-two, of course, but not bad for forty. He righted himself, then finned upward, blowing a stream of bubbles as he went.

When he broke the surface, he was pleased to see he'd come up a hundred yards from his entry point. A mile up the shore, he could see the lights of the hotel. To the south, just across the Inland Sea, lay Shikoku, the smallest of Japan's four major islands.

He swam to shore, plodded out, and sat down on the still-warm sand, his arms and legs tingling with the exertion. A full night's sleep—a rarity as of late—would come easy that night, and he was glad for it. He'd never much cared for Kazakhstan, and the past two weeks had cemented the feeling. Left to him, the city of Karaganda would never again be on his itinerary.

He lay back on his elbows and watched the sun's lower rim hover above the ocean. How long had it been since he'd done this, sat and watched a sunset? Just sat and did nothing? Too long.

He sensed movement behind him and turned to see a Japanese boy of perhaps seven years old kneeling a few feet away. Tanner assumed he was from the fishing village up the beach, a collection of surprisingly primitive huts made of rough planking and thatch. “Quaint” was the word the
Fodor's
guide had used.

“
Kombanwa,
”
Tanner said, using one of the three dozen Japanese phrases he'd managed to master.
Good Evening.

“How do you do, sir.”

“Your English is very good.”

The boy beamed. “I am learning at school.”

“My name is Briggs.”

“I am Mitsu.” Introductions made, the boy scampered over and plopped down. He eyed Tanner's swim fins. “What are those?”

“Fins.”

What were you doing in the water?”

“Diving.”

“For pearls?”

“For fun.”

Mitsu considered this. “Are you hungry?”

“Well, I—”

Without waiting for an answer, the boy sprinted off, gesturing for Tanner to follow. Tanner shrugged.
Why not
?
He got up, stuffed his gear into his rucksack, and followed.

Dinner consisted of braised fish, vegetables, and rice. Mitsu's mother, younger brother, and sister—both under four years old—spoke no English but did their best to make Tanner feel welcome, as though having a complete stranger join them for dinner was a perfectly routine event.

They sat on the hut's porch, which was back a few yards into the tree line. A pair of sputtering kerosene lanterns hung from the eaves. In the distance Tanner could hear the hiss of the waves.

Once the dishes were cleared away, the mother served tea while the younger boy fanned the hibachi smoke to keep the insects at bay. Tanner asked Mitsu where his father was.

“He went out one night. In our boat. The boat came back the next morning. He did not.”

Tanner glanced at the mother, who merely smiled at him. Up to this point, Mitsu had been translating their conversation, but he had stopped at this last exchange.

“How long ago?'

“Six months. It was after the ship stopped coming.”

“What ship?”

“Every few nights for almost a month, a ship came. Over there.” He pointed off the beach. “It would stay for a few hours, then sail again.”

“Do you know what she—it—was doing?”

“No.”

“What did the police say about your father?”

Mitsu shrugged, and Tanner realized the police hadn't been notified. It was a village matter, he guessed. He wondered why Mitsu had mentioned the ship. Was it simply the boy's way of marking his father's disappearance or something more?

Tanner stood up and bowed. With both hands he returned the teacup to the mother.
“Domo arigato,
Kombanwa.
”

The mother returned his bow.
“Do-ita-shimashi-te.
”

Tanner tousled Mitsu's hair, shouldered his rucksack, walked down the steps, and headed down the beach.

“
He went out one night.
The boat came back the next morning.
He did not.
”
What happened to him
?
Tanner wondered. A man goes out in a boat, then disappears.

Back at the hotel, Tanner stood under a hot shower, then toweled off, slipped on a pair of rough khaki shorts, a navy blue tropical knit shirt, and sandals, then headed downstairs to the hotel bar, the Tiki Lounge. He still had trouble speaking the name without laughing, but it certainly did fit the general motif of the Royal Palms Resort.

What the designers had lacked in originality they recouped in lavishness. Seemingly transplanted from the shores of Tahiti, the hotel was a man-made tropical paradise on an island with plenty of its own. The crescent-shaped hotel was bordered on one side by the beaches of Cape Shiono and a forest of evergreen and bamboo on the other. Nestled between the concave sides of the hotel was the requisite kidney-shaped swimming pool, cabana bar, and artificial waterfall. And palms. Large and small, fake and real, they sprouted from every corner, with or without the aid of soil. Hidden in the foliage came the muted squawks of parrots. Tanner had yet to see a live bird, but to the hotel's credit, neither had he spotted the loudspeakers.

He strolled through the Tiki's doors, took a stool at the bar, and ordered a Kirin beer. It was a quiet night, with only a half-dozen patrons seated at the tables. His beer arrived, and he took a sip.

Then he sensed someone standing behind him.

“Do you ever get the feeling you're in the wrong place?” the voice said.

He turned.

She had lustrous, shoulder-length black hair and a delicately curved neck that could only be called elegant. Her skin was flawless and tanned. She was stunning, Tanner thought.

As do most men, Briggs did his best to convince himself he was in control of his reactions to women, and like most men, he was wrong. Happy he hadn't fallen off his stool, he smiled and said, “Pardon me?”

She gestured to the nearby tables. He looked and suddenly realized the rest of the Tiki's patrons were couples—all newlyweds, he guessed.

“It seems we're surrounded,” he said.

“May I?”

“Please do.”

“My name is Camille.”

He shook her extended hand and felt an ineffable tingle; her accent was Eastern European, perhaps Slavic. She smelled like plumeria. Or was it hibiscus?

“I'm Briggs.”

“Interesting name.”

“A long story. An ancestral name my father took a liking to.”

“I like long stories. Tell me.”

Tanner shrugged. “Okay. Let's go outside. It's too nice a night to waste.”

They ordered two more drinks, then stepped onto the pool deck and wound their way through the umbrella-covered tables and sat down at the edge of the pool. The aerators gurgled softly, and the underwater lamps glowed amber. Camille took off her sandals and dangled her legs in the water.

“So,” she said. “Your story.”

“You're sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want the unabridged version or the
Reader's Digest
condensed?”

“Unabridged.”

“Okay…” Tanner said. “According to my father, it began back in 1774…”

By the time he finished the story, Camille was laughing so hard she was doubled over, tears streaming down her face. He caught her arm and gently pulled her upright. A few wisps of her hair had dipped into the pool, and she brushed them away.

“You made that up,” she said.

“Every word is true.”

“So you're named after a … a … what is the word? A pirate—”

“Back then they were called privateers.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Not much.” He took her glass and stood up. “I'll go freshen our—”

Beyond the fence came the squealing of tires. An engine roared, brakes screeched, followed by a crash and shattering glass.

“That sounds close,” Camille said, jumping up.

Tanner ran toward the fence. He was ten paces from it when he noticed a figure scrambling over it. The man reached the top, teetered, then tumbled headfirst into the shrubbery. Dragging his left leg, he lurched onto the patio.

Tanner caught him as he fell. “I've got you, slow down—”

“American!” the man sputtered. “You're American?”

“Yes. What—?”

The man glanced over his shoulder. “They're coming!” Tanner looked but saw no one. “Help me!
Please
!”

On an impulse that would be his first of two that evening, Tanner nodded and helped the man to his feet. “Okay, come on.”

They were turning toward the Tiki when Briggs saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced back. A pair of arms were reaching over the top of the fence. Then a head appeared. Tanner caught a glint, moonlight on metal. Instinctively he knew what it was.

“Gun!” he yelled and shoved Camille to the ground. “Down!”

The
crack
came a second later.

The slug entered the man's upper back and exited the hollow above his collarbone. Off balance, Tanner felt the man slipping from his arms and tried to compensate by stepping backward. His foot plunged into the pool, followed by his leg.

The man was lying on his side, head resting on the concrete. He was alive, Tanner realized, but not for long. Dark blood was pumping from the wound.
Subclavian vein,
he thought. Without help, he'd be dead in less than a minute.

The man reached toward Tanner. “Please …”

“Hold on, don't move!”

“Briggs!” Camille called.

“Stay down!”

Tanner pulled himself out of the pool, crawled over to the man, rolled him onto his back, and ripped open his shirt. Tanner wiped the wound clear and shoved his index finger and thumb into the hole, searching for the vein. The bullet had destroyed everything in its path—veins, bone, muscle, ligaments—all gone.

The man gripped Tanner's hand. “Help me, please …”

“I'm trying, I'm trying, stay with me.”

“God, it hurts. …”

Tanner stopped working and looked into the man's eyes. They were bulging with pain, but there was something else: aloneness. He was dying among strangers, and he knew it.

Tanner would never remember hearing the second shot.

The man's forehead seemed to split open before Tanner's eyes. The eyes and nose disappeared in a gout of blood. Tanner felt it splatter him. What little remained of the man's head lolled backward onto the concrete. The body spasmed twice, once more, then went still.

Lying a few feet away, Camille said, “Briggs, are you—”

He wiped the blood from his face. “I'm okay,” he replied. He looked to the fence line. There was nothing. “You?”

“Uh-huh.”

One of the dead man's fists had unfurled, revealing a small key; he'd been clutching it so hard it left an impression in the flesh. On yet another impulse, Tanner pocketed it.

In the distance came the wail of sirens. Then, from the lobby turnaround, an engine revved, followed by the screeching of tires. Headlamps pierced the fence. Tanner jumped to his feet.

“Briggs!” Camille called. “What're you doing?”

Hunched over, Tanner sprinted to the fence and scrambled over in time to see a pickup truck accelerate around the curve. In seconds the taillights disappeared.

Ignoring the chattering guests loitering in the lobby entrance, Tanner walked across to the man's car—a red four-door Nissan with an Avis sticker in the back window—which lay crumpled against a tree. Both doors were dented, as was the rear bumper. The trunk was riddled with pencil-sized holes, all in skillet-sized patterns.
Shotgun,
Tanner decided.

The sirens grew closer. Tanner reached through the window, opened the glove compartment, and found a sheaf of papers. It was a rental agreement: name: Umako Ohira … address, credit card number … In a blaze of flashing lights, three police cars screeched to a halt beside the wreck. Headlights blinded Tanner.

“
Ya me te
!
Ya me te
!”

Though his Japanese was limited, he guessed he was being ordered away from the car. The
clack-clack
of several pump shotguns convinced him of it. He raised his hands and walked toward the headlights. From out of the glare, three figures charged forward and tackled him to the ground.

It took Camille and the Royal Palms's manager ten minutes to convince the Kagoshima Prefectural Police
(Todo-Fuken Keisatsu
)
he was in fact a guest of the resort and an innocent bystander.

Under the watchful eye of one the officers, he was escorted to the bathroom to wash up. There was a small cut on his right cheek.
Bone fragment,
he thought dully. He plucked it from the wound and watched it swirl down the drain. He splashed water through his hair and did his best to ignore the bits of flesh dropping into the bowl. His hands were still shaking. Adrenaline.

He'd seen death before, but it was something to which he'd never become immune. He preferred it that way. Once it became easy, you had a problem. He'd learned to put his feelings on hold, but at best that only delayed the inevitable. If you didn't deal with them, such feelings began to eat you from the inside out.

The officer escorted him back to the pool, where the body was being loaded onto the coroner's stretcher. The concrete was stained with blood. Some of it had trickled into the pool's aerator, and thin black tendrils of it floated on the surface like seaweed.