She could do it for Jilly. She could do anything for Jilly. Including smashing the son of a bitch beside her unconscious while she ran.
He drove too fast, as always, but by now she was getting used to it. She had no intention of giving him directions to the well-hidden family house, but of course he didn’t need any. With calm resignation she watched him turn up their long, overgrown driveway.
No one had been in the house for months. Lianne had forgotten it existed, and Summer was the one who owned it, loved it, cared for it. Even if she hadn’t made it back since the fall.
It would serve Taka O’Brien right if someone had broken in and taken the urn and everything else of value. Serve him right if the Shirosama had somehow managed to find this place first.
Her father had died long ago, and even his meager family was gone. But Summer did have the house, even though it was in the name of the trust Summer’s grandmother had set up for her before he died. Summer never touched the money, any more than she accepted handouts from her stepfather. But she had taken the house.
Taka pulled the car in front of the old place, hidden by the tall grass and overhanging cedars, and she climbed out, not waiting for him this time. Rain was coming down more heavily now, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was coming home, despite the upheavals of the last God knew how many hours or days.
She trailed after him up the wide front porch. Leaves were scattered across it, along with some broken twigs, and the curtains were pulled tight. No one had been there looking for a lost Japanese artifact. No one had been there at all.
“Are you going to smash a window or break the lock?” she asked idly.
“I have a key.”
She didn’t bother asking how—he had an answer for everything. He unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it open, and she froze.
She didn’t want to go inside with him. She wasn’t afraid of him—she was past such idiocy. He’d already done his worst and she’d survived. But this place was her sanctuary, her haven, even if she got here far too infrequently. And if she went inside with Takashi O’Brien, her home would be permanently tainted.
“I’ll just wait here—”
He pushed her into the house, slamming the door behind them, plunging them into darkness. The place smelled like a closed-up house—mothballs and dampness. Someone came in once a month to air the place out, and must be due for a visit, because the air was thick and dusty.
And she was standing alone in the middle of the darkened hallway with the man who’d left her shattered and helpless. Wondering why the hell she wanted him to touch her again.
Jilly didn’t bother to look up when the woman walked into her cell. She had found her best defense was ignoring them—ignoring the droning voice that was coming through the speakers, ignoring the milky water they kept bringing her no matter how thirsty she was, ignoring everything. She’d been stuck here for at least a day, though there were no windows, nothing to tell her how many hours had passed. She had a small, windowless bathroom off the cell, with just a shower and a toilet, and for all she knew there was a video camera hidden behind the light, but she didn’t care. Growing up with Lianne strutting around partially clothed had given her a skewed sense of modesty, and if the Shirosama’s creepy goons wanted to watch her on the toilet then let them.
The door closed behind her new intruder, and Jilly turned her head. It was a woman this time, wearing white, of course, but a designer suit of some sort that even Lianne wouldn’t have sneered at. The stranger was flawlessly beautiful, with a perfect face, dark hair in a neat bun at the base of her neck, carrying a white leather case under one arm. Wearing gloves.
Jilly couldn’t help the sudden anxious jolt in her stomach, but she fought it. She wasn’t going to let these people terrorize her, not even the dragon lady who’d just walked in.
The woman’s smile was cool. “Miss Lovitz, my name is Dr. Wilhelm. I’ve been brought in to help with your reintegration.”
Oh, shit. She had a German accent and was almost a parody of a Nazi torturer from an old black-and-white movie. Jilly sat up, scooting back on the narrow cot.
“I don’t need reintegration, thank you very much.”
The woman snapped open her bag, drawing out a small pouch and setting it on the metal table beside the bed. It clanked ominously. “We are clouded by the mists of our past lives and our earthly desires,” she said. “I can help you to free yourself from all that. If you let me.”
For a moment Jilly wondered if there was something beneath the woman’s chillingly benign words. Freedom was exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t think she was going to get it at the white gloved hands of the Shirosama’s enforcer.
“No, thank you.”
The woman opened the little satchel, and Jilly braced herself, expecting a scalpel. She wasn’t afraid of pain—she had a fairly high tolerance for it, as she’d discovered when she’d broken her leg a few years ago. And she wasn’t afraid of scarring, Ralph could hire the best plastic surgeons in the world if they cut her. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
Except the hypodermic needle the woman pulled out.
“Oh, shit,” Jilly said weakly. And that was the last thing she said for a very long time.
15
Taka hit the light switch, but nothing happened. “The breaker’s turned off,” Summer said. “I can show you where—”
“Never mind. We’re better off in the dark.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something the size of a small pencil, knocked it against the door and was immediately rewarded with a bright beam of light.
“Who the hell are you, James Bond?” she demanded, staring at the little thing in fascination.
“Not quite.”
“Why shouldn’t we turn on the lights?”
He didn’t say anything, and the answer came to her with uncomfortable accuracy. “You think someone might be watching?”
“I think it seldom hurts to be careful,” he said. “Where did you hide the urn?”
“So much for small talk,” she muttered. “I already told you. It’s in the closet in my bedroom.”
“And you’re going to take me there.”
She didn’t like the ramifications of that simple statement, but she knew she was being ridiculous. He had no interest in her and bedrooms—he’d already taken care of that. She still wasn’t sure why she’d awoken to find him holding her in the plane, but she wasn’t about to ask. He’d have some coolly deflating response, and besides, she hadn’t wanted him to hold her, to touch her. The moment she’d come to she’d moved away. She didn’t want him anywhere near her.
The old cottage had been built in the early part of the last century, along Mission lines, and once she grew used to the damp odor she could smell the comforting, familiar scents of cedar siding and lemon polish as well, mixed with the lingering tang of the ocean. The wonderful smells of her childhood summers spent there with Hana-san for company. Summer had had friends there, too; other families with children her age lived nearby. The Bainbridge house had always been such a safe, welcoming place, and she hated that Takashi O’Brien had invaded it, hated that even worse threats might be lurking outside.
“This way,” she said, moving down the narrow, wood-paneled hall to her bedroom. She knew her way in the dark, but the bright light behind her illuminated the space. Her bedroom door was ajar and she pushed it open, not wanting to step inside. Not with him.
“Here you go. The urn is in a small trunk on the top shelf of the closet.”
He pushed her inside, blocking her exit. So much for her preferences. He flashed the light around the room, and she tried to look at the place through his eyes.
She was uncomfortably aware of the bed. It was a large one, genuine Stickley, and she’d never shared it with anyone. Then again, she’d never done much bed sharing at all.
But of course he wasn’t interested in the bed. The flashlight passed it, over the walls, and paused at the antique ki
mono hanging there.
The garment was a work of art—hand-painted and embroidered, from the late nineteenth century, and Hana had given it to her for her fourteenth birthday. Lianne had been horrified, of course. Something of such value and beauty belonged in her own closet, not in the possession of her grubby little daughter, but even Lianne was cowed by Hana-san’s indomitable nature. Just to be on the safe side they’d hung it in Summer’s bedroom, the rich colors glowing and alive.
“I don’t just want the urn,” he said, shining the light over it. “I want everything else Hana Hayashi gave you.”
“I told you—the urn, a book and two kimono.”
“I’ll take them all.”
“You can’t—” Foolish protest, and he didn’t bother to answer. He could do anything he wanted.
“Do what you want,” she said finally, wearily. “I’m going to sit in the living room. The sooner we’re out of here the better.”
He said nothing, moving aside to let her leave the room. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling safe there again; with the kimono gone there’d be nothing left of Hana, replaced by the toxic presence of the man who’d started out rescuing her and ended up her kidnapper. Maybe, eventually, she’d wipe his memory out of the place. Open all the windows to let the sea air blow through, burn the sage sticks that New Agey Micah had given her. He’d loved this place, as well.
She walked into the darkened living room, dragging a heavy oak bench up to the bank of windows so that she could sit. The moon was bright and strong, providing some illumination, and she reached up and opened one of the casements, letting the cool night breeze in, rich with the tang of sea salt and cedar. She sat very still, looking out into the night, trying to shut out the noise from the bedroom. Trying to shut out the noise from her mind.
She ought to run. She had finally given Takashi O’Brien what he wanted, and he was too busy in her bedroom to pay any attention to her. Besides, she was of no value anymore. If she ran he’d probably just let her go.
So why wasn’t she running?
He said someone was going to help her sister, who was caught up in the same helpless mess that she was. Could Summer believe him? In fact, he was very good at rescuing—he’d saved her life at least three times, maybe more if you counted the fact that she’d almost electrocuted herself in that über suburban house. A safe house, he’d called it. She’d never been less safe in her life. Maybe he’d also saved her by just keeping her away from the Shirosama’s goons. If whoever had gone after Jilly was as efficient, then her sister would be safe.
But Taka might have lied. Although he hadn’t actually lied that much to her, he had let her assume things that weren’t true. That he was there to help her.
In truth, he’d told her he was no guardian angel, no rescuer. She’d just chosen not to believe him. Idiot.
When this was all over she’d bring Jilly back here, to the place she loved, and the two of them would heal. Far away from L.A. and her mother’s latest enthusiasm and the Shirosama’s goons. Far away from Little Tokyo and the Sansone Museum and the Santa Monica Mountains. Far away from anything that would remind her of Takashi O’Brien.
The trunk itself was a thing of beauty. Taka lifted it down from the top shelf of Summer’s closet very carefully. It was Chinese, which amused him. Hana Hayashi must have chosen it on purpose, knowing how much it would gall her ancestors. He opened it, and the Hayashi Urn lay there in ice blue glory.
He picked up the treasure carefully, turning it in his hands. How had he ever mistaken those copies for the real thing? This glowed with an almost unearthly light, enough to tempt him to believe in the myths surrounding it.
In the bottom of the trunk lay the book of haiku, handwritten in kanji. He wondered why Summer had kept it. Had Hana Hayashi told her to? Or had it been out of sentiment?
She’d lied about the kimono on the wall, but then, he’d expected that. It was a beautiful thing, embroidered and painted with chrysanthemums, and he stared at it a long time.
The chrysanthemums were another conundrum, one he couldn’t quite fathom. They were the flower of royalty…. Were the ruins of the temple somewhere on land once belonging to the imperial family? So many pieces of the puzzle, so little time to find an answer. He glanced back into Summer’s closet, and saw a light silk kimono hanging from a hook. The second kimono. Clearly something she used, something of no antique value. It was a pretty thing, and on a whim he wrapped the urn in it before placing it back in the box. He carried it out to the car, then went back for the antique kimono.
She was sitting in the living room, her back to him. Why the hell didn’t she run? He’d made up his mind that if she did, he’d let her go. He’d be taking a risk; if the Shirosama caught her before he knew the urn was gone she would be in for a very bad time. But if Taka kept her with him, then sooner or later he’d have to do what he’d been ordered to do. And he was still fighting it. As long as the Shirosama couldn’t get his hands on the urn it didn’t matter where the shrine was located. There was nothing Shiro Hayashi, the man who called himself the Shirosama, could do about his planned Armageddon as long as Taka held the urn, and he wasn’t going to let go.
“Tell me again what Hana-san has to do with all this?” Summer’s voice was quiet, contemplative.
He grimaced. “Your so-called nanny came from one of the oldest, most powerful families in Japan, dating back to feudal times. In the chaos following World War II she was sent to relatives in California in the hope that she would blend in with the people returning from the detention camps, and eventually she would be brought home again when things had settled down. But most of her family was killed, and she was stranded here, safeguarding her secret.”
“What secret?”
He hesitated. “You want the long version or the short version?” he asked. “In the early seventeenth century a monk and visionary was born in the mountains of Japan. He was an albino, and he took the name Shiro-sama, or White Lord, and he created his own religion, one that combined Buddhism, Shinto and the worship of Kali the Destroyer. He believed Japan must be destroyed to attain its full power in some kind of post-apocalyptic existence, and he had thousands of followers in a time where very few people questioned the way things were.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“I wouldn’t expect you had. What do you know of Japanese history?”
“I read Shogun,” she said, with light sarcasm. “Not to mention I have a doctorate in Asian art.”
He ignored that. “The original Shiro-sama failed, of course, and was ordered by the emperor to commit ritual suicide in his temple in the mountains. He did, and his followers cremated his body and put his bones in a sacred urn to be guarded until the time he was reborn.”
“And that’s the Hayashi Urn?” she said. “A funeral jar? And I kept my cookies in it?”
“The bones are presumably in the possession of the current Shirosama. I don’t think your cookies were contaminated.”
She still didn’t look too happy about it. “Why did Hana have it? And why does the Shirosama want it?”
“Hana was a descendant of one of the most powerful followers of the original Shiro-sama, and the original temple was on lands once belonging to her family. No one knows for sure where the ruins are—only she kept the secret—but the True Realization Fellowship have every intention of retrieving the urn and returning it to where it belongs.”
“What’s wrong with that? You yourself said it was a Japanese treasure that belongs in Japan.”
“It belongs to the people of Japan, and a government that can watch over it. Not a group of fanatics who are far more dangerous than anyone realizes.”
“What harm can an ancient piece of ceramic do?”
He leaned against the wall. “Don’t be naive. The urn is nothing more than a catalyst, a symbol. The current Shirosama and his followers plan to take it back to Japan, find the ruins of the temple and the remains of the original Shiro-sama and reunite the bones and the urn.??
?
“So?”
“And then, according to legend, the new Shirosama will ascend in full power to the universe, Armageddon will follow, and the world will be cleansed by fire and blood.”
“So they put the bones in the urn and nothing happens,” she said, turning to look at Taka in the shadowy room. “And then everyone goes home disappointed and no harm done. Unless you actually believe in doomsday prophets?”
“The problem with doomsday prophets, particularly the ones we have nowadays, is they don’t believe in their destiny enough not to give it a little help. Reuniting the urn and the bones will signal a wave of mass destruction that will be very hard to stop. You know what religious fanatics are capable of—the whole world has been watching what’s going on in the Middle East, and trust me, the Japanese have always been more than ready to die in the service of their master.”
“So you smash the urn and everyone lives happily ever after. Problem solved.”
Easier said than done. Ostensibly, he could kill an innocent young woman if he had to, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy such a singularly beautiful piece of Japanese history. It was a simple fact.
“Could you destroy it?” he countered.
Her eyes met his in the darkness, and then she turned away again, facing the window. “I don’t suppose I could. And you think I hold the key to where the ancient shrine is located? I’ve never been to Japan, even though I’ve wanted to go. It was something I was going to do with Hana, and when she died I just couldn’t face the idea of it. Maybe if we’d gone she would have told me, but as it was she never said a thing about her family history. She didn’t like to talk about it. The war was too painful.”