Chameleon

Howe chuckled. ‘Well, son, whatever I thought is known only to me. But it does look like it turned out that way — now, doesn’t it?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Oh,’ Howe said, raising his eyebrows, ‘and how’s that?’

‘I gave your story away.’

Howe looked at him for several seconds, then said, ‘Gave it away?’

‘I gave the story to an old pal of mine, Art Harris of the Washington Post. With enough to substantiate the story.’

The realization slowly sank in. ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about, O’Hara?’

‘I gave the story to the Washington Post, Howe. But it’s okay, I left you out of it completely. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Anonymity. That’s what you got.’

The expression on Howe’s face turned from disbelief to doubt to realization to anger. ‘Goddamn, you can’t —’

‘Did it.’

‘I’ll sue you until—’

‘Not likely. Not without turning over a can of worms you can’t afford to turn over.’

‘You’re a thief. You gave away my goods.’

‘You don’t own something you never had. Remember our deal out on Cape Cod? I could walk away from the story anytime I wanted and let somebody else finish it. Well, that’s what I did, Mr Howe. Except I picked the guy to finish it.’

Howe shook his head. ‘You’re crazy. You went through all that and what do you end up with?’

‘I got even, Mr Howe.’

‘And what do I get?’

‘Anonymity. And a ninety-eight percent share, at least for tonight.’

There were two messages in Eliza’s typewriter when she returned to her office. One was to call Howe. The other was in an envelope. She tore it open. The message was simple.

Dear Lizzie:

Caught your act. Terrific. You get the scoop-of-the-year award. I don’t even get the girl. xx O.

The shaggy mane of pines on Kinuasa-yama swayed before the west wind, which had brought rain with it earlier in the day. But by the time the sun began t fall behind the spire of Tofuku-ji, the rain was gone, and fog, painted with the dying sun, swirled across the verdant park. The park was always a lush green, even in winter.

He was bone-weary and sore when he entered the grounds. But there was still an hour or so before it got dark. Time enough to begin. When he came back to the house in Kyoto, it always seemed as though time had stopped while he was gone. Nothing had changed, no new flowers had blossomed, none had fallen. Everything was the same. What was it the Tokenrui had once said,.. ‘We are just a speck in the infinity of time. Nothing ever changes,’

There were fresh flowers in the vase in his practice room. The dogs sat at his feet, looking up, waiting to be petted and reassured.

He opened the package and took out the gogensei he had just purchased. It was a gray tunic, bunched at the waist, made of rough cotton. He took off his clothes and put on the gogensei. It felt good against his skin. Then he heard the dogs bark and he knew she was coming.

She stopped in the doorway when she saw him, and then she looked at his clothes and back at his eyes.

‘You are going again,’ she said.

He nodded.

‘Now?’

He nodded again.

She came close to him, touched his lip with her fingertips, licked her lips.

‘It is very late,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is not that far away.’

And she moved against him. He stood for a moment and then slowly put his arms around her.

She was right. Tomorrow would be a better day to start the Walk of a Thousand Days

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

William Diehl is a former reporter for- the Atlanta Constitution and one-time managing editor of Atlanta Magazine. He is the author of Sharky’s Machine and is currently at work on his third novel.

He lives in Atlanta, Georgia.