Who Hunts the Hunter (23 page)

She sits back and closes her eyes. Her watch bleeps. Ten p.m. Time for Corporate Diary on News Network 42.

And then she realizes Scottie should be waiting for her.

“Oh,
slot
!”

She keys the Toyo’s ignition, then taps her cellphone, and calls home. Her telecom answers. It would be like Scottie to ignore an incoming call. She can’t actually remember ever seeing him talking on a telecom. Thank god her telecoms at home are set for auto call screening."Scottie, it’s me,” she says, hoping he’ll hear."If you’re there, please wait. I’m coming right now.”

No answer.

She hangs up and puts the Toyo in Drive.

The ride to Scarsdale seems to take forever. She’s barely onto the Bruckner Expressway when she comes onto the scene of a massive accident involving two trucks and at least a dozen cars, and, seemingly, half the emergency vehicles in the city. Between glaring, almost blinding emergency strobes and suddenly flaring brake lights, there are uniformed officers stepping in and out of the lanes waving lighted batons, stopping traffic, waving it on. Five lanes jam down to one in the space of fifty meters. Amy’s fifteen minutes getting past the crash, another fifteen getting to Scarsdale, another five getting to her tower, parking, and riding the elevator up to her condo.

The living room’s dark and empty."Scottie?”

No answer. Not a sound. She walks to the bedroom door. The lights come up softly as she crosses the threshold, but show her nothing. She turns back to the hall with the idea of checking the kitchen, as if there’s any hope remaining, and bangs square into someone’s front.

“YAGH!” she exclaims, staggering back.

“It’s me,” Scottie says.

Yes, obviously. Now that she’s nearly wet herself. Gasping, catching her breath, she says, “I think ... now I understand . . . that name. Bandit. Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Amy reaches for him to hug him."Have you been here long?”

“Not so long.”

“I called, but you didn’t pick up.”

“No.” Almost apologetically, Scottie adds, “I don’t like phones. They can be tapped.”

Amy hesitates."You don’t think my phone ...”

Scottie shrugs.

Amy waits a moment, puzzling, then starts explaining why she’s so late, how it couldn’t be helped, only to realize that she’s just rationalizing. Making excuses. She should have been here sooner. Been here for Scottie. Her career is important, yes, but now, tonight, when her brother’s just come back into her life, Scottie should be her highest priority.

What could she possibly have done to deserve the crisis at Hurley-Cooper now of all times, when she should be concentrating on her brother? Sometimes life is just plain cruel.

They go to the kitchen. Amy makes tea. She turns back from the wave to find Scottie examining a spoon, turning it over, holding it up to the light, like it might hold some mystic property. She nearly laughs, and some of the anxious tension in her stomach subsides. Scottie’s always been doing things like that, like looking at spoons. Scrutinizing totally ordinary things that no ordinary person would more than glance at. Maybe that’s part of being a shaman. Maybe there’s more to an ordinary spoon than a mundane individual like her would normally expect.

She carries two cups of tea to the table and finds Scottie looking over a small plastic figurine. She recognizes it at once. It’s a gift shop figurine, maybe from some museum, of a raccoon. It came from the vanity in her bedroom.

“You took this out of my room,” Scottie says."You left a flute in its place.”

A long time ago. Amy nods, remembering. Feeling a twinge of embarrassment. But facing up to things, even embarrassing things, is important now."Yes,” she says."I remember I had this idea that maybe you’d take up the flute and forget about magic. I saw the results of your aptitude tests. Mom and dad made you take so many. The tests indicated you had a strong aptitude for magic, music. I mean ... You know what I mean.”

“Mom wanted me to be a musician.”

Amy smiles."I did, too.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“What is?”

“Music and magic. It’s all one.”

“How do you mean?”

“Nature.”

Amy remembers. This is part of what he talked about just last night. Part of what brought him back. The need to understand nature, and people, to further his understanding, his development as a person. It’s like, after concentrating on magic for so long, he wants to rejoin the human race. That’s the essence of it, and Amy’s overjoyed by the news."Is that why you’ve got that flute? Is it part of attuning yourself to people?”

Scottie nods, slowly."I guess it is.”

“You must be learning things from your girlfriend, Shell.” Scottie nods, more definitely this time."Things I didn’t expect. That’s valuable. That’s why I try to help her. To keep things fair. A fair exchange.”

It almost sounds like barter economics."Well, you’re lucky if things are fair. Relationships aren’t always like that.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Scottie says."Raccoon is kind of a thief. But with a sense of honor. I like things to seem fair.” Scottie hesitates a moment, then says, “Maybe I can help you, too.”

Amy can’t help smiling. Is this really her brother talking? Some of it’s so mystical and strange and yet
so
human
. Amy feels almost giddy with delight."I don’t need any help."

"You said you’re having a problem.”

“Yes, but that’s just part of having a job and a regular career. Having problems is part of being a suit.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“How could you help?”

“I can do things. Raccoon has many tricks. I’ve been walking the path a long time.”

“Can you tell what people are thinking?”

Scottie seems to consider that, then says, “Sometimes I can tell what they’re feeling.”

“Can you tell when they lie?”

“Sometimes.”

A thought pops into Amy mind, but it’s crazy and she should just dismiss it. This is her brother here, right? her brother who she hasn’t seen in years. She shouldn’t be considering anything that would get him mixed up in her problems at work.

“People are lying to you?” Scottie asks.

“No, not really.” She didn’t say that, did she? “No, I’ve been looking into discrepancies in our records. It’s not certain what’s going on, so I haven’t confronted anyone yet, so no one’s really had the chance to lie. But let’s talk about something else. About you.”

“This is about me. You and me.”

“Scottie, this is just some corporate intrigue. At worst, it’s a case of fraud.” Why is she arguing with him? She should be explaining. She reaches across the table for one of his hands, and says, smiling, “I’m so glad you made the offer. Thank you. You don’t know how much it means to me. It’s just that .. . well, this is my problem. It’s got nothing to do with you or your magic.”

“You don’t understand,” Scottie says."I guess I didn’t explain real well. It’s all one. Magic. People. Corporate stuff. It’s all got to do with magic because it’s about people, nature, the universe. You and me. Everything.”

Amy shakes her head."All I’m talking about is someone stealing from a corp.”

Scottie nods."Tell me more.”

40

“Enoshi
-sama
...”

The voice which quietly speaks his name comes as his only warning. A yellowish light is suddenly glaring in his eyes.

Enoshi Ken brings a hand up in front of his face to ward off the glaring light, but not quite quickly enough. The headache that menaced him all evening, rising discreetly into his forehead, then fading, is suddenly back with a vengeance, throbbing with knife-edged brutality. He grunts, pressing a hand against his forehead, then squinting into the light.

An indistinct blur hovers over him. For a moment, he imagines it is Setsuko, his wife. What could be wrong? A tumult of vague possibilities races through his mind, only to be thrust aside by the realization that Setsuko is not here in New York, but at their home in Philadelphia, near the North American headquarters of Kono-Furata-Ko International.

“Forgive me,” a honied voice whispers in elegant Japanese. Gentle hands slip his glasses on over his nose and ears. Lips as soft as butterfly wings graze his cheek, and by then his eyes adjust to the light and he sees the woman leaning toward him. A lustrous mane of golden blonde frames Frederique’s face. She smiles tenderly, sitting on the edge of the bed, attired in a diaphanous rose-colored peignoir that makes her seem every bit the exotic dream-woman she is.

Enoshi clears his throat, and says, softly, “What is wrong?”

“Your aide called,” Frederique whispers.

“I did not hear the phone.”

“You were sleeping, my darling.”

“I do not really approve of my aide speaking to you.”

Frederique smiles."He could not know who would answer.”

No, obviously not, and this situation is really Enoshi’s own fault. It comes about as a result of the natural difficulties of being away from home. Telecom calls cannot compensate for being deprived of one’s usual surroundings, or daily contact with one’s wife and children. Unfortunately, it is not possible to bring his wife along on his business trips, so he arranged for Frederique to join him here in New York. This was not the wisest course he might have followed. His staff might have previously assumed, for various reasons, that he has a mistress; now they know. His personal aide certainly knows, if no one else. Enoshi is not comfortable with that. He prefers that such things remain confidential.

“Usami Gek has asked to see you.”

“Now?”

Frederique smiles, calmly accepting, serene. She is perhaps the most imperturbable person Enoshi has ever known. She is like the still waters of a lake. A dropped pebble may stir gentle ripples across her surface, but she remains forever calm, as if in touch with the infinite. It adds immeasurably to her mystique.

Enoshi exhales heavily. It is after three a.m. Usami Gek would not ask to see him at such an hour unless an important matter had arisen. His duty is clear. He arises and steps into his
uwabaki
. Frederique helps him into his robe.

In the lav, he takes a Nodol for his headache, then washes his face and hands and combs his hair. The corporate executive must maintain a meticulous appearance. All the more so for KFK International’s Vice-President for Corporate Liaison. Were the matter awaiting him not of an urgent nature, as apparently it must be, he would take the time to put on a suit.

As he steps from the lav, Frederique meets him with a kiss, and then spends a moment retying the belt of his robe.

“You are becoming like a second wife.”

Frederique smiles."A wife must tend to home and family, my darling. A mistress is free to tend other matters.”

“You are more to me than a mistress.”

Smiling, Frederique bows, to the exact degree necessary to demonstrate humility, yet without detracting from her obvious pleasure. Remarkable, that a woman so obviously of European ancestry should have such command of Japanese ways. She becomes more of a mystery, and more delightful, with each new piece of the puzzle that Enoshi discovers.

Outside the bedroom door waits one of the security agents who accompany Enoshi everywhere. There are four such agents on his staff. At least one is near him at all times. In Enoshi’s view, this is simply a reminder of the importance attached by others to his position. He is not himself a particularly important man. The work he performs, however, is of consequence to KFK’s North American operations. For that reason, he is paid very well, and provided with a staff, guards, and chauffeured cars. For that reason, and that reason alone, he is able to fly his mistress in from Philadelphia merely because, in private moments, he had begun feeling rather lonely.

Now, though, he steps briskly along the hallway leading to the main sitting room of his suite.

The room is decorated like the other rooms of the suite, in the very flamboyant style for which the Waldorf Park East hotel is famous: oil paintings, lavish draperies, intricately carved wood furniture. The gold-framed windows at the end of the room, now streaked with rain, overlook Central Park. All in all, Enoshi considers it excessive for an executive of his station, more appropriate for a KFK boardmember, such as the board’s Vice-Chairman Torakido Buntaro.

Enoshi takes a seat on a satin-upholstered couch. His aide brings a tray with coffee and a pack of his cigarettes. He lights up and then sips some coffee. His headache is subsiding somewhat.

“Please ask Usami-san to come in.”

“
Hai,
sugu,
Enoshi
-sama
,” the aide hurriedly replies, bowing.

Momentarily, the aide returns with Usami Gek. Usami is ethnic Japanese. He is originally from Yodo, which is between Osaka and Kyoto. He is tall and slim and looks rather dangerous, enough to be a gangster. He wears a severe black suit with a dark blue knit shirt. Generally, it is for Usami to determine what form his own attire should take. Usami is a senior security operative, involved in clandestine activities, and so must sometimes modify his appearance to suit his tasks.