“Damn,” Professor Hearthstone said. “Double damn.”
He stared at Taoka’s face. The surgeon’s corpse didn’t grin. Rather it frowned, its thin lips blemished by a gout of blood that was already drying. And though the room was flooded with light, as were all the rooms within the professor’s compound, Hearthstone searched desperately for a single shadow.
None near Taoka’s bloody mouth. None in the corners of the room. None behind the satin draperies, nor beneath the lacquered desk, nor behind the rice-paper doors of the closet.
His bride had often asked him, “Why do we need all this light? You’ve already killed him, haven’t you?”
Always he corrected her without drawing attention to the correction, and always he pretended that yes, indeed, he was certain that he had killed the thing. ”It was a demon, and I am too much the cynic to believe that this world is cursed with the presence of only one demon. There may be others far more powerful than The Shroud.”
No, he would not remember. The path of memory was dangerous. Possibly fatal.
Hearthstone clapped his hands. Pulled himself into the present moment.
He stared at the dead surgeon. At the caked blood on his lips. At the corners of the room.
At the complete absence of shadows.
In the lore of San Francisco’s Chinatown, the incident was know as The Night Of The Axes. It was Professor Hearthstone’s finest moment. He had maintained a low profile for several months, partially due to worry over the strange nocturnal visit that had occurred at his headquarters, partially because his next move required careful planning.
Hearthstone had long coveted the secrecy that a Chinatown operation would afford his particular concerns. The police steered clear of the foreign population, and the professor felt that his business would go undetected if he could conduct it from a section of the city that was little known or understood.
The only problem with Hearthstone’s scheme was that there were others who already controlled the area. Namely the Wong Ching Benevolent Society, an organization known as much for its wealth as its ruthless behavior.
But within that equation lay the answer to the professor’s dilemma. If Chinatown understood wealth, then its occupants would understand him. And if the Wong Chings understood ruthless behavior, then ruthless behavior would be the order of the day.
Hearthstone recruited a pack of hale and hearty Irishman from one of the city’s more notorious waterfront bars and appointed a recently busted policeman named Thomas Clancy as their leader. Equipped with firefighting garb and axes, the Irishmen descended upon a restaurant called Sun Lim’s, which happened to serve as headquarters to the Wong Chings. When their axe blades grew dull and the tiled floors were well-oiled with Chinese blood, the merry Irish mob torched the building. They watched the flames dance, drinking strange Oriental liquor and singing a merry tune of their native land.
Then get ye a dozen stout fellows,
And let them all stagger and go,
And dig a great hole in the meadow,
And in it put rosin the bow.
The incident was reported in the local press as an accidental fire. Even in those days, the mayor feared civil unrest if the truth was widely reported. But the mayor needn’t have worried, for the true story was know by all in Chinatown. The tale terrified even the bravest members of the teaming populace. The word riot was not spoken, was not even thought.
This pleased Professor Hearthstone. He immediately launched the second phase of his operation, flooding the community with money and gifts to demonstrate the largess of the new regime.
In the shabby apartments and cellars of Chinatown, people began to speak happily of the collapse of the Wong Ching Benevolent Society.
In a lavish suite overlooking Grant Avenue, Professor Hearthstone set about learning the Chinese language.
And in the gutted ruins of Sun Lim’s Restaurant, a dark thing laughed.
“You should not have let him pass, Mr. Machii.”
The yakuza lieutenant, his shaved head lowered, stared at the kitchen floor. Hearthstone knew that the man would not comment until instructed to do so.
Another bumbler, Hearthstone thought. Not like in the old days, when the yakuza were the world’s best. No, those days were long gone. Today, too many yakuza were simple punks drawn from the bosozoku gangs. And they didn’t leave their bosozoku past behind, still caring more about motorcycles and hotrods and dirty magazines than matters of economics or honor.
“Dr. Taoka made the mistake of allowing his loyalties to fall into question,” Hearthstone continued. “I’m afraid that such questions must be dealt with in a harsh manner. We must act swiftly, even if our suspicions are tenuous at best. As we say in America, we must shoot first and ask questions later.” Hearthstone suppressed a smile. “
An almost imperceptible nod from the yakuza; even a bosozoku could understand such a simple message. Hearthstone watched the man’s bristly eyebrows shift as he studied the floor — Hearthstone’s shoes, his own shoes, the elegant dish that lay on the floor between them, the raw, teriyaki-drenched filet mignon that filled the dish.
Was he afraid? Or was he thinking, measuring the distance, weighing the time that it would take to strike?
No. That was imagination.
“You will not make this mistake again, will you, Mr. Machii?”
The yakuza lieutenant bowed.
Hearthstone brightened, his mind focusing. Of course. A test. That was the sane man’s measure of loyalty. “And you will do something to restore my faith in your abilities, will you not?”
Machii did not hesitate. Still avoiding Hearthstone’s eyes, he turned to the kitchen counter and positioned a marble cutting stone. He placed his left hand on the stone, fingers splayed, and slipped a neatly folded handkerchief under the smallest finger.
The yakuza’s fingernails were stained with engine oil. The professor allowed himself a slight frown. No demon, this one. Only bosozoku trash.
A slim knife appeared in Machii’s right hand. A swift slash — no sound of blade meeting marble — and the yakuza’s left pinky was severed at the juncture of the proximal and middle phalanges.
Beads of sweat erupted on Machii’s forehead. Carefully, he folded the handkerchief over the severed finger. Once. Twice.
Hearthstone nearly laughed at the scene. A clean white shroud for a dirty little finger.
A shroud…
Machii peered into Hearthstone’s eyes. The professor backed away, fighting the memories that came flooding back.
Hearthstone held out a hand.
The yakuza snorted against the pain. His lower lip quivered. (Hearthstone watching.) Tightened into an agonized grin. (Hearthstone reaching inside his coat.) Parted as he took a very small breath.
His last breath.
His last grin.
