Silversword Page 4

  “Write that down.”

  “It’ll be on your orders when you leave. I’ll call your doctor and discuss it with him.”

  “Or her?”

  He laughed. “Or her,” he said, walking from the room, a happy man, satisfied with himself, his hands busy with his charts and his pens.

  5

  They were coming through the wire.

  After a vicious and thorough mortar and rocket pounding, deadly steel rain joining the monsoon already pouring on our unprotected positions, the barrage abruptly stops. Over the resonance of the rain, the shrill screeching of whistles, the clinking of equipment, the sound of a mass of armed men on the move.

  Moving toward us.

  “They’re in the wire!”

  A rash of gunshots, the rippling long stream of an M-16, the heavier, throatier bark of AK-47s.

  Two ghostly figures approach the tangled razor wire, sappers come to blow a hole in our defenses. I shoot them both, my carbine on semi-automatic, carefully placing rounds only where the rounds have to go, conserving my ammunition, knowing there are more of them out there. Many more.

  Too damn many.

  Five or six more sappers follow, slithering up the muddy slope like lithe naked serpents. Covering fire from unseen infantry and a heavy automatic weapon keep my head down, bullets cleaving the air, a swarm of deadly bees. Streams of green tracers focus on my place of refuge, a lethal light show slicing through the darkness.

  I lob a grenade over the edge of the trench. The sappers never see the baseball-size bomb as it tumbles toward them, lighting up the night, shredding their bodies.

  The machine gun coughs a steady stream of fire, the gunner focusing on my muzzle flash. A flare rockets up from somewhere and hangs like a tiny white sun below the clouds, casting shadows in its weird pendulum light. I duck and move half a dozen meters away and catch five more men at the wire, freeze-framing them in the last moments of their lives. The machine gun finds me again, pulverizing the earth around my body at the edge of the trench, forcing me back down into the pit, making me crawl like a worm through a cold black ooze.

  They keep coming. I can’t kill them fast enough to make a difference. When one goes down, two more take his place.

  I kill them and they fall away.

  I kill them.

  Still they come.

  I turn to meet the man charging up the slope, now a huge target only a few feet away. He’s carrying a long rifle with a fixed bayonet. I focus on the blade. It is aimed directly at my heart.

  The blade keeps coming. It is a foot long, both sides sharp.

  I see a hate-twisted face, deformed by emotion, exertion, fear, and determination, a man who wishes me dead, as frightened as I am, and as young. His bayonet reaches out for me. I shrink away and pull the trigger.

  My gun clicks empty.

  “Mr. Caine!”

  “Wha?”

  Felix took my hands in his and held them tightly, squeezing them gently to bring me awake. “You were crying out in your sleep. You were having a bad dream.”

  I nodded, the image still vivid, the fear leaving a bitter metallic taste in my mouth. I had had that dream before. An old acquaintance, but no friend, it visited me every few months, more or less, a souvenir of a living nightmare from many years ago. It was the first time I had come close to death. Really close. Inches. Less. I suppose it’s like sex. The first time is always memorable.

  “Where are we now?”

  “Almost home. Look out the window.”

  Honolulu sparkled from the air, a thin stretch of white high-rises wedged between lush green mountains and a topaz sea. I leaned forward in my seat to watch my island passing below.

  “I was going to wake you, but you had that bad dream and started crying out before I could get there.”

  I must have looked strangely at him, because he went on explaining. “Not loud, but kind of a soft wailing. I know a nightmare when I see one.”

  “Have some of your own?”

  He smiled. “Once or twice. You okay?”

  “I’m okay. It’s something that comes up from time to time. It’s from a long, long time ago. Probably before you were born. You’d think it would be over by now. But it doesn’t seem to want to let go of me.”

  “The moment of your death.”

  “You know, huh?”

  “It causes the wailing. I have had it, too. Have you had it long?”

  I nodded.

  “You must have very nearly died once before. You must have been on the very threshold and defeated it. Part of you accepted your mortality when it happened. That part was willing to give up this body and fly to the next incarnation. The other part likes living here and now and rejected it. Those two parts battle each other in your dreams. You end up with nightmares, reliving the event.”

  I settled back and thought about the dream. Sometimes it wakes me with the sweats and the shakes. If it hits me in the wee hours of the morning I have to get up and walk around to get my heart rate back to normal, waiting for the adrenaline surge to wash from my system. Sometimes I don’t get back to sleep at all, spending the rest of the night reading, waiting for the dawn, trying not to notice my hands shaking as I turn the pages.

  “That sounds like it might be the case,” I said, unwilling to acknowledge my fear to this stranger who had somehow become involved in my life. The dreams used to come only once every two years or so. Now it seemed that they came more often. I didn’t know why.

  “You’ve just had another trauma,” said Felix, looking earnestly at me. “Your mind and your spirit are questioning why you keep putting yourself at odds with your own mortality. You go into harm’s way. You’re getting older. Maybe you should not do that any longer.”

  I looked at him through nearly closed eyes, ignoring his comment about my age. “Is that why you came along? I thought you were staying in San Francisco.”

  “Chawlie made me an offer I was unwilling to pass up. So I came. If I have to baby-sit you for a couple of months as part of the deal, that’s okay, too. You’re not too much trouble.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Not at all.”

  “The doctors told me to stay quiet for a couple of months. That’s just what I intend to do. No excitement. I think I’ll catch up on my reading.”

  “That policewoman. She didn’t want you to leave.”

  There had been further conversations with Inspector Henderson, and they had become increasingly hostile. Felix had evidently informed Chawlie, because I was suddenly represented by counsel, a businesslike defense attorney named Andrew White who flew to my bedside the moment the detective walked through the door. I’m not sure, but I think I was almost arrested before I left California, Inspector Henderson not wanting to let me out of her jurisdiction. The attorney somehow mollified her, and promised that if my presence were warranted I would be there.

  The woman who had been killed by the murderous young gunman was the focus of Inspector Henderson’s investigation. In Henderson’s tidy mind the world was out of balance. Someone had to pay for that death to restore order to the universe. The gunman was dead. His targets had fled the state. I was the only connection to the killing that she could put her hands on. That I, too, was escaping was not, in her mind, acceptable.

  There are a few times when lawyers do come in handy.

  “But I left. I don’t like California all that much. And this time I’m especially glad to leave.”

  “It will be fine. Don’t worry.”

  I nodded, and tried to get comfortable while we made our final approach to the airport.

  “You read much?” Felix asked.

  I nodded.

  “You don’t look like a reader, Mr. Caine, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I don’t own a television. Found it to be less than profound. Used to only watch the news, but I gave that up. It seems to be aimed at the trailer trash these days. Indecipherable crap. So I read. It passes the time.”

>   “Novels?”

  “Mostly histories and biographies. You?”

  Since I had been released from the hospital and had left the area of immediate threat that San Francisco had become, Felix had suddenly opened up and began to try to get to know me. He probably didn’t feel as if he would have to work very hard to keep me alive. I found that encouraging.

  “I was an English major at San Francisco State,” he said. “Read very many great novels. You ever read The Old Man and the Sea?”

  “Yes. I like Hemingway.”

  “Me, too. That was his greatest novel. Probably one of the best ever. It said so much, and yet was very short.”

  “Clancy should have studied him.”

  He laughed.

  “You ever read Finnegan’s Wake? Or Ulysses?”

  He smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I quit school. The greatest novelist of the twentieth century? Somebody said so. Some poll of professors. I couldn’t get through it. I tried. I really tried. I’m not stupid. But it was unfathomable. The experience made me question my commitment to literature. That, and other things.”

  “So how did you get into guarding bodies?”

  “I was working my way through college as a martial arts instructor and club bouncer. Carrying a lot of units and working a lot of hours. Very tough schedule, but so was I, I thought. Many times people would ask me about bodyguarding and I suggested one of the better students. One day I thought, why not? And took the next offer that came in. It just so happened that the client was not paranoid but really was in danger from some bad people, and the first night I was on the payroll they tried to take him out. I got lucky and stopped them. Legally. The police, the client, the district attorney, everybody was very happy that it worked out the way it did.”

  “And word spread.”

  “Very quickly. The incident got a lot of publicity because of how it happened. Suddenly I had so many offers I could pick and choose, and I could charge outrageous fees. It brought me much more money than club bouncing or instructing, so I quit school. Now I do this full time.”

  “Just like Bill Gates,” I said.

  He nodded, a little proudly. “A little different, but the same idea. He quit Harvard.”

  “And one major difference,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll bet you’re not as tough as Bill Gates.”

  He flashed a grin. “We’re landing,” he said, noting the changing pitch of the Gulfstream’s engines. “You’ll soon be home, Mr. Caine. Back with your boat and your landlubbers and everything.”

  I looked out the window and saw the Waikiki beach party pass below, the venerable pink Royal Hawaiian and its white sand beach shimmering in the sunshine, the surf line dotted with bathers and surfers. “My landlubbers?” His use of the term finally cut through the fog, making me smile.

  “Nautical term, isn’t it? Raise the landlubber? Sheet the jib? Walk the plank, and all that?”

  “I’ll make you walk the plank if you raise any landlubbers around me, pal,” I said. “You’re going to live with me?”

  “Don’t look so alarmed. Chawlie hired me to make sure nothing happens to you while you heal. It should be easy duty here in Hawaii. I’m told you only have friends here.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Nobody here but friends. You’ll be safe.”

  “I’ll just hang around and watch what happens. Don’t worry about me. I can be very unobtrusive. I don’t eat much. And I am being paid very well, so I plan to steal very little.”

  “Good to know,” I said, settling back in my seat to wait for the touchdown, thankful once again to be back in the Islands. Thankful that Chawlie had felt grateful enough to help me while I recuperated from my wounds. Thankful, once more, all things considered, to be alive.

  “By the way, Mr. Caine,” said my watchdog, buckling into his leather seat across from mine. “Chawlie wants to see you as soon as we land.”

  6

  “You look good, John Caine, for a man with a bullet in his back and a price on his head.”

  Chawlie rose to greet me, shuffling across his private reception room, arms raised, welcoming me home. I felt like some prodigal, returned after depleting my stolen inheritance.

  “The bullet’s gone to some evidence locker,” I said, accepting his unexpected embrace, “but thanks all the same. What about the price on my head?” I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Sit. You have had a long trip.”

  I sank down into a comfortable chair, lowering myself slowly and carefully, not wanting to dislodge what was inside of me, not comfortable with the thought of the stent, although I could not feel a thing other than the usual ache. Percodan and Tylenol had helped. But the pain was always there, lurking behind the chemicals like some caged animal, impatient to unsheathe its claws.

  “You look tired, my friend,” I said. Chawlie looked as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He was a serious man with few light moments. But this time he seemed to have more on his mind than usual.

  “Wish you were healthy, old friend,” he said. “Chawlie find himself fighting a battle he does not understand. Very few things make sense anymore.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can get healthy. Then we see what we can do.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Fires, bombings. Somebody wants to put Chawlie out of business.”

  “Do you know who?”

  He shook his head. “When I know who, I stop it. We are looking. We will find out, More worried about you right now, John Caine.”

  “Me?”

  “According to my understanding, the San Francisco authorities are considering charging you with first-degree murder. Mrs. Chang, the woman who died because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time, she is the murder victim.”

  “I didn’t shoot her.”

  “I know that. They know that. But the one who did shoot her is dead, and the authorities wish to punish someone for the crime. California law says that if you commit a felony, and as a result of your actions somebody dies, you are guilty of first-degree murder.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “That’s California. Land of crazy people. They make everything complicated. It has to do with balance, I think. Lotus Eaters’ yin and yang. But do not worry. Charges are to go to the grand jury some time soon. Your lawyer says the facts are such that they might not indict you.”

  I had heard that grand juries would indict a fish for swimming in posted waters if the prosecutor asked them to, but Chawlie was there smiling at me, telling me not to worry, so quite possibly the fix was in. Even in California. The man had some reach from his little island perch here on River Street. But of course the Triads in California had similar power, and they now owed Chawlie a big favor for his presence, and for his support. I wondered if their power went all the way into a grand jury room, and decided that it probably did.

  “Did you know that Mrs. Chang had grandchildren that she cared for? They had no mother or father, I guess.”

  The old man’s eyes crinkled. “Yes. But they have an uncle, Uncle Chawlie. They are now provided for. Not to worry, John Caine. Chawlie does not forget his responsibilities.”

  “And the police will know that?”

  “And who is responsible for the children’s sudden wealth and security, yes.”

  “Money can buy just about anything, eh?”

  “In this country, money can buy everything. But why should here be any different from the rest of the world?”

  Why, indeed? “I am in your debt, Uncle.”

  “No. I am in yours. You saved me and you saved Daniel. There is no way I can repay you.”

  “I heard that the shooter was killed.”

  He nodded. “Young man, full of piss and vinegar, not thinking of consequences. Always consequences, no matter what you do.”

  Unless you had the money and the connections. That thought I left unsaid. We both knew its truth.

&nb
sp; “So there is peace in San Francisco?”

  Chawlie nodded again, smiling. “There would have been a terrible conflict had you not prevented my death, John Caine.”

  Remembering that old saw about the fate of those who perform good deeds, I kept my mouth shut.

  “Your old friend Kimo has been around, asking about you. The good lieutenant was asked to make inquiries about your handgun, the one you lost before you traveled to San Francisco. He has also been aboard your boat to take samples of your .45 ammunition. He had a court order, issued by a judge in Honolulu, the result of a request from that detective in California. The judge is a good friend. I am happy to tell you that Kimo found no such ammunition. He could not find your firearm, either. You no longer have such a weapon.”

  “You’ve been busy.” The way he explained it, Chawlie would have known about the warrant before the Honolulu police.

  “Yes. California police not lucky. Your attorney tells me if they find nothing, they probably can charge you with nothing.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” I said, wondering about attorney-client privilege, knowing that it didn’t exist in this case. The lawyer reported to the one who paid him. That, too, was no surprise.

  “Other problem. Because you were identified in the San Francisco newspaper, young rebels put a price on your head. They hired an assassin to kill you.”

  “And so, my bodyguard.”

  “Young Felix. Just so.”

  “You think he’s necessary.”

  “Chawlie think that bodyguards are always necessary. Worked well for me in San Francisco.”

  I nodded. Carefully.

  “How is Daniel?”

  “He is well.” Chawlie fingered the wattled flesh under his neck, lifting his chin. “He will wear the scar forever, but no matter. He still breathes.”

  “I am glad of it.”

  “It is best that you go now.”

  “You look tired, my brother,” I said.

  “It is difficult keeping everything together. I am an old man. And I am tired.”

  He looked tired. The bags below his eyes had bags. His face, which had always had a narrow, pinched look, was becoming skeletal. I wondered if he suffered from a fatal disease.