As the echoing rattle of dislodged stones faded away, Hel leaned back against the boulder and drew a slow deep breath, the second shotgun pistol dangling from his hand. He directed his concentration toward Diamond, still crouching motionless out there in the mist, ahead of him and slightly to the left.
After the Arab’s sudden scream, silence rang in Diamond’s ears. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, so as to make no sound, his eyes darting back and forth over the curtain of blinding cloud, his skin tingling with anticipation of pain.
A ten-second eternity passed, then he heard Hel’s prison-hushed voice. “Well? Isn’t this what you had in mind, Diamond? You’re living out the machismo fantasies of the corporation man. The cowboy face to face with the yojimbo. Is it fun?”
Diamond turned his head from side to side, trying desperately to identify the direction from which the voice came. No good! All directions seemed right.
“Let me help you, Diamond. You are now approximately eight meters from me.”
Which direction? Which direction?
“You might as well get a shot off, Diamond. You might be lucky.”
Mustn’t speak! He’ll fire at my voice!
Diamond held his heavy Magnum in both fists and fired into the fog. Again to the left, then to the right, then farther to the left. “You son of a bitch!” he cried, still firing. “You son of a bitch!”
Twice the hammer clicked on spent brass.
“Son of a bitch.” With effort, Diamond lowered his pistol while his whole upper body shook with emotion and desperation.
Hel touched his earlobe with the tip of his finger. It was sticky and it stung. A chip of rock from a near stray had nicked it. He raised his second shotgun pistol and leveled it at the place in the whiteout from which the rapid pulses of panicked aura emanated.
Then he paused and lowered the gun. Why bother?
This unexpected whiteout had converted the catharsis of revenge he had planned into a mechanical slaughter of stymied beasts. There was no satisfaction in this, no measurement in terms of skill and courage. Knowing they would be three, and well armed, Hel had brought only the two pistols with him, limiting himself to only two shots. He had hoped this might make a contest of it.
But this? And that emotionally shattered merchant out there in the fog? He was too loathsome for even punishment.
Hel started to move away from his boulder noiselessly, leaving Diamond to shudder, alone and frightened in the whiteout, expecting death to roar through him at any instant.
Then Hel stopped. He remembered that Diamond was a servant of the Mother Company, a corporate lackey. Hel thought of offshore oil rigs contaminating the sea, of strip-mining over virgin land, of oil pipelines through tundra, of atomic-energy plants built over the protests of those who would ultimately suffer contamination. He recalled the adage: Who must do the hard things? He who can. With a deep sigh, and with disgust souring the back of his throat, he turned and raised his arm.
Diamond’s maniac scream was sandwiched between the gun’s roar and its echo. Through a billowing hole in the fog, Hel glimpsed the spattered body twisting in the air as it was blown back into the wall of vapor.
Château d’Etchebar
Hana’s posture was maximally submissive; her only weapons in the game were voluptuous sounds and the rippling vaginal contractions at which she was so expert. Hel had the advantage of distraction, his endurance aided by the task of controlling movement very strictly, as their position was complicated and arcane, and a slight error could do them physical hurt. Despite the advantage, it was he who was driven to muttering.
“You devil!” between clenched teeth.
Instantly she was sure he had broken, she pressed outward and joined him in climax, her joy expressed aloud and enthusiastically.
After some minutes of grateful nestling, he smiled and shook his head. “It would appear I lose again.”
“So it would appear.” She laughed impishly.
Hana sat at the doorway of the tatami ’d room, facing the charred ruin of the garden, her kimono puddled about her hips, bare above the waist to receive the kneading and stroking that had been set as the prize in this game. Hel knelt behind her, dragging his fingertips up her spine and scurrying waves of tingle up the nape of her neck, into the roots of her hair.
His eyes defocused, all muscles of his face relaxed, he permitted his mind to wander in melancholy joy and autumnal peace. He had made a final decision the night before, and he had been rewarded for it.
He had passed hours kneeling alone in the gun room, reviewing the lay of the stones on the board. It was inevitable that, sooner or later, the Mother Company would rupture his gossamer armor. Either their relentless investigations would reveal de Lhandes to be dead, or the facts concerning Kennedy’s death would eventually come out. And then they would come after him.
He could struggle, cut off many arms of the faceless corporate hydra, but ultimately they would get him. And probably with something as impersonal as a bomb, or as ironic as a stray slug. Where was the dignity in that? The shibumi?
At last, the cranes were confined to their nest. He would live in peace and affection with Hana until they came after him. Then he would withdraw from the game. Voluntarily. By his own hand.
Almost immediately after coming to this understanding of the state of the game and the sole path to dignity, Hel felt years of accumulated disgust and hate melt from him. Once severed from the future, the past becomes an insignificant parade of trivial events, no longer organic, no longer potent or painful.
He had an impulse to account for his life, to examine the fragments he had carried along with him. Late into the night, with the warm Southwind moaning in the eaves, he knelt before the lacquered table on which were two things: the Gô bowls Kishikawa-san had given him, and the yellowed letter of official regret, its creases furry with opening and folding, that he had carried away from Shimbashi Station because it was all that was left of the dignified old man who had died in the night.
Through all the years he had wandered adrift in the West, he had carried with him three spiritual sea anchors: the Gô bowls that symbolized his affection for his foster father, the faded letter that symbolized the Japanese spirit, and his garden—not the garden they had destroyed, but the idea of garden in Hel’s mind of which that plot had been an imperfect statement. With these three things, he felt fortunate and very rich.
His newly liberated mind drifted from wisp of idea to wisp of memory, and soon—quite naturally—he found himself in the triangular meadow, one with the yellow sunlight and the grass.
Home… after so many years of wandering.
“Nikko?”
“Hm-m-m?”
She snuggled her back against his bare chest. He pressed her to him and kissed her hair. “Nikko, are you sure you didn’t let me win?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a very strange person. And rather nice.”
“I did not let you win. And to prove it to you, next time we’ll wager the maximum penalty.”
She laughed softly. “I thought of a pun—a pun in English.”
“Oh?”
“I should have said: You’re on.”
“Oh, that is terrible.” He hugged her from behind, cupping her breasts in his hands.
“The one good thing about all of this is your garden, Nikko. I am glad they spared it. After the years of love and work you invested, it would have broken my heart if they had harmed your garden.”
“I know.”
There was no point in telling her the garden was gone.
It was time now to take the tea he had prepared for them.