The Emperor of Any Place (28 page)

This above all you must know.
Aishiteru.
I love you. I cannot explain the strange feeling in my heart right now. The fear that will not leave me. But that does not change my feelings for you and for our child, if such a child exists. How I hope to see him. We shall see whether the war can let me go, or whether it will claim me for its own. I will place the diaries, just so, here under the stone in my little altar. I will go to my tree and wait.

¹
I had not been tortured. By September I had already been long discharged and was living in my parents’ house in Plainfield, Vermont, helping with the haying and busily sending out applications to universities, to capitalize on the GI Bill that had just been introduced. My mind was no longer on war or my extraordinary friendship with Isamu, but on college and the future. I’m not sure when I finally got over not having ghosts with me everywhere I went. It took a while, and sometimes I conjured them up out of the air even years later, something seen out of the corner of my eye.

Sadly, it is I, Derwood Kraft, who picks up the story at this point, for Isamu Ōshiro wrote no more. I am writing this entry from the comfortable office of my ranch house in Palo Alto. It is a whole lifetime later. Norah, my wife of many happy years together, passed away almost ten years ago. We were blessed with a son, Leonardo. Just the one child, for Norah came to me when we were both approaching middle age. Our lives had been consumed with study, with the brave new world of the “Age of Information.” Assuming there is any truth to Isamu’s miraculous vision of birth on the beach of the lagoon, there was a son born to him, somewhere, as well. Just the one child, unless . . . I must confess that it has only just occurred to me he might have escaped Kokoro-Jima, after all. Despite his diffidence, his apparent trepidation, the sight of the soldier may have caused him to leave the island. Did he hide and find a means of leaving on his own? If he did, he did not take his precious papers, the story you have just finished reading. That seems hard to fathom.

Then did he leave
with
Griff? It seems unlikely. Why would Griff end up with the papers? All I can say is that we do not know. Sergeant Major Griffin, having sent me the papers, remains obdurate and unresponsive to my pleas for an explanation. He will not return my calls or letters inquiring as to what happened next. He will not say how he came upon the papers. In the absence of further information, one way or the other, I am left with only conjecture, and I have been a scientist too long to jump to conclusions. Nor will I engage in inductive reasoning in such an instance. Based on the information before me, there is much that one might infer. I have asked Griff repeatedly to comment on this mystery. I have met with implacable resistance. Over a year has passed and I am not well. In order to see this publication carried through, I must leave things as they are, hoping that there may be an addendum to follow, that the mystery can be laid to rest.

As I mentioned in the prologue, we have expended a great deal of energy trying to find Hisako Ōshiro or any other living members of Isamu’s family. We have engaged translators and looked in Saipan and Japan and, indeed, anywhere within the reach of our extensive search engines. I can only hope that when and if we are able to discover a link to Isamu Ōshiro’s family, the mystery of his final day or days on Kokoro-Jima will have been resolved.

Let me end this book, then, with one final thank-you to my remarkable friend, the Emperor of the Heart-Shaped Island. That he saved my life has been accounted for herein. That he was a friend in the deepest possible sense of what that word might mean can only be repeated again and again.

Arigatō,
Isamu. Thank you.

Palo Alto, California

May 16, 2008

Evan wakes to the sun streaming through his window. The clouds have passed; the air is already warm. Through bleary eyes, chock-full of sand, he checks his iPhone. Eleven thirty and another message, this one from a number he recognizes:

— Lunch. 1:00. Be there or . . .

“Be square,” mutters Evan. He throws his head back on his pillow. Some time yesterday, he and Rollo cooked this up: lunch at the mall on Rollo’s break from the Pulse. Good. Better than what’s awaiting him downstairs. He’s in no hurry to see Griff. Not after last night’s confrontation. Not after last night’s reading. Not after his covert trip to the Dockyard to find that Griff had erased Leo’s e-mails. His father had known how to send and receive e-mails, but Evan doubted he had known how to erase anything from the trash. Had to be Griff.

Evan closes his eyes again, just long enough to see if there’s any sleep he left behind in there. He could sure use some. Nope. All gone.

The phone dings.

— I was thinking of raclette in particular.

The same mystery number as earlier: the cheese person. What the hell is raclette? Sounds like a sport. But with cheese? He shakes his head.

There’s a lot on his mind, and the worst of it is trying to imagine how he will keep his grandfather from
seeing
what’s on his mind. Evan is not used to lying, not even white lies. There is just so much he’s not used to these days. He gives a few moments’ serious thought to murdering Griff, wonders whether murder would be easier to hack, practically speaking, than having to be evasive. Maybe he could whack him in his sleep. Even marines have to sleep, don’t they? But since he’ll probably already be awake, that would mean another whole day of waiting, not to mention a life behind bars.

His mind drifts back to the book. What is he supposed to make of it? Despite Professor Kraft’s reluctance to jump to conclusions, Evan can’t help jumping with both feet. Griff must have murdered Ōshiro. What other explanation can there be? It was as if Ōshiro had written, “There is this hungry tiger prowling around me as I write this. I wonder if he’s going to eat me?”

But in the clarity of the morning, Evan feels an uncertainty he can’t explain. It irritates him. He
wants
Griff to be guilty of this crime. And yet . . .

He has to admit to himself that it’s all circumstantial evidence. There’s no smoking gun. It’s the kind of evidence a smart TV lawyer could get a criminal off on while you watch with gritted teeth and reconsider the merits of mob justice. It’s hard to think of any other way the puzzle pieces fit together.
Which means, Sherlock
. . .

That we’re living with a murderer, Watson.

Suddenly it seems to Evan as if those conversations with his father on the last day of his life had been a warning. Whatever you do, my son, do
not
let the infamous Griff into this house. He wishes his father had been a bit more forthcoming with his recommendation. Come to think of it, Dad had been evasive, not wanting to talk about it, as if despite his ancient hatred for the man, the facts didn’t add up. Evan summons up his father’s face and sees only unknowing in his eyes.

He rests his head on his woven fingers. Whatever happened on that island in the Pacific happened a long time ago. He has his own problems right here on this even tinier island. There’s just the two of them — no ghosts, thank God.

Or are there?

He doesn’t feel the ghost of his father. And that’s good, isn’t it? A ghost hangs around because there was something left undone in his life, some important wrong that needed righting and he can’t quite make it to heaven — can’t quite get into the idea of anything like tranquillity until . . . well, until the thing is laid to rest. So in a way there is this ghost, theoretically, anyway: the boy who ran away from home and spent the rest of his life hating his father, never getting the chance to make peace with him.

Yeah. Good luck with that one, ghost.

And then Evan realizes something — something halfway profound. Griff has never — not once — said anything like “Sorry for your loss, soldier.” He hasn’t even acknowledged that he — Griff — lost a son, for Christ’s sake. What kind of a man is he?

Whatever Griff wants to think, Clifford did achieve at least one of his life goals. He might not have brought peace to the world, but he made it happen here in this house. Evan is not going to let this embittered old hawk ruin what his father did. What he and his father shared.

Okay, good one, Ev. Very noble. Now, what the hell are you
actually
going to do?

The mystery of the island churns inside him. Monsters and zombies and ghosts, oh my. It is scarcely believable, and yet he knows it is true. Feels it. He has had that experience reading, from time to time: that the story was actually in his blood. But this time it is heightened. If there is anything to what Ōshiro said — and which the
jikininki
corroborated — then he, Evan,
was
there on the island, the moment Griff landed. Didn’t Derwood see the familiar ghosts spring to life around Griff? He squeezes his eyes shut, wanting to be there.

He wants to know what really happened.

No, he wants a confession, that’s what. So does he ask outright? He tries to imagine that scenario. Sees himself on the floor with his grandfather’s foot on his neck.

You might
think
you know what happened, but you don’t know it all . . .

Evan sighs, gets up, takes the book, and hides it in his Pokémon collection. Slowking looks a little anxious as Evan places him in the center of the box. Must be Shellder leaking a little venom into his brain.

Evan dresses in red jeans and a black tee featuring all the dates of the Bluebonic Plague World Tour. “The plague — coming to a town near you!” He hopes his grandfather will appreciate it.

He’s going to play it cool. He will show this man that he does have
cojones.
He’s not going to run away — not until it’s time to meet up with Rollo, at least. This is his place. “I am the Emperor of Any Place,” he says to the mirror on the back of his door. He flexes his biceps. The mirror silently chuckles.

But anyway . . .

The soldier downstairs may be battle-hardened, but Evan is younger and faster. He won’t make the mistake of getting too close to him again. He is armed with knowledge now. And fueled by mystery.

Evan listens at his open bedroom door to locate the other being in the house, the alpha male who has descended upon him like a plague. He hears the faint clink of china and heads down the hall, down the stairs, advances, sees the mighty warrior at the sink, washing dishes. He’s as dapper as he was the day before: different chinos, beige this time, and a different golf shirt, maroon.
It’s a uniform,
Evan thinks,
just one with more color combinations.
At least he doesn’t look quite so alpha at the kitchen counter.

“You look sick in that apron,” says Evan from the doorway. His grandfather turns and raises an eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just an expression.”

Griff stares at him. The Gorgon death stare meant to turn him to salt or some other condiment. Evan doesn’t blink. Finally, Griff turns his attention back to the dishes. “Thought it was about time someone got this place shipshape and battle ready,” he says.

Evan looks around. The room is sparkling. “Pretty good.”