“There is a storm coming,” Okura called. “We need to keep looking while the weather still allows it.”
“Look, if the other tug bumps us off the tow, they’ll kick you off this ship with the rest of us.” Robbie paused. “I’m heading back. You can stay, or you can go.”
Okura steadied himself at the bulkhead and searched in his bag for another length of rope. He had plenty of fresh water in the bag, a supply of energy bars. “Very well,” he said. “I’m staying.”
He gritted his teeth and swung across the bulkhead, listening to the echoes from above as Robbie made his retreat to the surface. He tied his line to a beam above the doorway, and let it fall down the deck between a long row of cars. Reached out, prepared to lower himself into the hold, to continue his search. Then he glanced to his left, inside the bulkhead door, and stopped and stared.
There was a structural pillar beside the door, climbing from the bottom of the ship to the top. The way the ship listed, the pillar made a sort of cradle, just as the wall and the floor of the passageways above did the same.
In this particular cradle, though, was a pile of darkness that Okura assumed were just rags. Then the darkness moved, mumbled something, and Okura looked closer, saw the bruised and battered face, the parched lips, the limbs hanging at awkward angles.
This was a human being, wounded and starved. This was Tomio Ishimaru.
31
Tomio Ishimaru blinked in the bright light, and wondered if he was dead at last. He’d been in this black purgatory for almost as long as he could remember, blind and shivering, his whole world the inhuman groans from the depths around him. The memory of what he’d done devouring his conscience.
Naoko. Saburo. Akio. His colleagues. His friends. They’d believed it was a joke when he’d first pulled the gun, the pistol Hiroki Okura had obtained for him from god knew where. He’d wished he’d been joking. He’d been shaking so hard, so nervous.
He remembered the look on Saburo’s face when he’d first pulled the trigger. Couldn’t escape the memory, no matter how long he languished here. Akio had shouted in anger. Naoko had begged for his life.
Ishimaru hadn’t been able to look at him, not at the end.
He’d stolen the briefcase. Fifty million dollars, just as he’d told Okura. And Okura had delivered him from Yokohama, just as he’d promised. But there was no escaping what he’d done, not here on this ship, and not anywhere else.
This was Tomio Ishimaru’s personal hell, and he knew he deserved to be here.
He’d tried to make his escape when the ship began to capsize. Remembered the briefcase and returned to his hiding place to retrieve it. Tried again to climb the passage to safety but lost his balance, his grip. He slipped and slid and crashed against steel, feeling his leg crack and break underneath him as he landed, dazed and disoriented, in a long transverse passage without any windows.
He had no idea where he was. He knew he’d fallen, but the impact of his collision had knocked the sense out of him, probably left him concussed, and he lay half on the floor and half against the wall, the briefcase beside him, the ship steadily and inexorably tipping over.
He’d heard Okura call to him, somewhere, the second officer’s voice resonating against the steel, echoing from all angles. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from.
Ishimaru had tried to pull himself to his feet. Tried to respond. The pain was agonizing, so bad it had nearly knocked him unconscious. He crawled, instead, in the direction he’d landed. Couldn’t map the ship in his head because he’d never left his little locker until now. How could he know where to go?
He’d dragged the briefcase behind him as he crawled. Reached a doorway just as the generators failed, taking the lights with them. The passage was suddenly very quiet. No throb of the engines, no voices. Even the ocean was barely audible. It was pitch-black, and Ishimaru was in pain. He had no idea where he was.
It was impossible that the ship would survive. Sooner or later, the water would rush in, dragging the ship down and Ishimaru with it, drowning him in the darkness. He reached for the door, fumbled with it and pulled it open, hoping that it led to the outside world.
It didn’t. It led to more darkness, a gaping, yawning maw. Blinded and crippled, he gripped the briefcase and crawled across the threshold, realizing too late that he’d found a staircase skewed crazily by the list of the ship, the walls and the floors not where they should have been.
He fell. Tumbled through darkness, too surprised even to call out, his body battered against unforgiving steel walls and railings, against the stairs themselves. He came to land again, a heap of broken bones and sprains, lay there for a while, vomiting and passing out and waking to vomit again.
He gradually came to realize he’d landed near another door. A hatch. It could lead to daylight. It could lead to a flooded compartment and certain death. It could lead to nothing at all, to more darkness. But there was nothing else that Ishimaru could do.
He struggled to open the hatch. Propped himself up and wrenched at the lever and, finally, pushed the hatch open. It swung down into nothingness. Ishimaru took the briefcase and crawled through, more carefully this time. Searched with his hands for a suitable landing spot.
There was a wall to his left. It met the listing deck so as to form a triangle. Ishimaru crawled into its cradle, intending to follow the wall to wherever it led. He was thirsty and hungry and in constant pain. He must have spent a day on the wreck by now, maybe more, and he realized with a surprising aloofness that he would probably die in the darkness. But he took the briefcase anyway, dragged it behind him through the hatchway until it came to its end, a few feet beyond.
There was nothing after it. There was a hole. It might have been six feet deep, or sixty feet; there was no way to tell. Ishimaru was exhausted, and his whole body was sore. He’d lain against the wall and the deck of the ship and listened to the monstrous, primeval noises around him. He closed his eyes and waited to die. Waited to be released from the memory of what he’d done.
Naoko. Saburo. Akio.
He’d killed them all.
EXCEPT NOW, HERE WAS LIGHT, and a man’s voice calling his name. “The briefcase, Tomio,” the man was saying in Japanese. “Where is your briefcase?”
Ishimaru struggled to straighten himself. Failed to move his head more than a few inches. He blinked in the sudden brightness, surveying the platform in the light of the man’s headlamp. It was narrow, an ugly yellow, hard steel. Beyond it were the ghostly forms of cars hanging in rows to oblivion. And where was the briefcase?
The briefcase was not on the platform. Ishimaru remembered dragging it through the hatchway, remembered setting it down as he lay his head against the wall. He remembered now the sudden shudder of a large wave, jolting him awake from his delirious state. He remembered feeling the briefcase at his feet, kicking at it reflexively, then not feeling the briefcase anymore. He realized what he must have done.
“The briefcase, Tomio. Where is it?”
The man’s light was blinding. Still, Ishimaru recognized the voice. “Hiroki?”