Death Before Dishonor Read online

  ***

  “Hi, Mommy!” Yuri bubbled into the phone in the center hall.

  The sound of Yuri’s voice warmed Francesca’s heart. “Hi, angel,” she said lovingly. She hated being away from him and Terry. They needed her; no one could care for them and love them the way she could, and it made her feel guilty anytime she wasn’t present for them. But she was more than just a mother—she was also a wife. And sometimes her duties as a wife had to take priority, like accompanying her husband to a diplomatic congress to negotiate a peaceful resolution on the world stage.

  Francesca mashed the power button on the TV’s remote until the video and audio winked out of existence—she didn’t want any distractions while she talked to the boys—and then called upstairs to Pat that his children were on the phone.

  “How are you?” she asked, returning her full attention to Yuri.

  “Mommy, this place is so cool. It’s really old, and I learned how to milk goats! Maybe we can get some, and I can milk them for you.” Yuri sat Indian-style on a mat, beaming an angelic smile from ear to ear. Terry sat on a mat to Yuri’s right, wiping the mud from his tennis shoes.

  “Oh, is that what we should do?” she asked with a faint smile.

  “Yeah! And I met some other kids, Mommy! But they’re all younger than me, well, except for Saki and Akiko, but they were with Terry the whole time.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey.”

  “And our beds are the on the floor, and we have to take our shoes off when we come inside…”

  Pat hustled into the living room and leaned over the couch, coming to rest with his ear pressed to the backside of the phone. Francesca yanked her head and the phone away, shooting Pat a wretched look. He responded with a brash expression and mouthed, “I want to listen.”

  Yuri didn’t miss a beat. He talked and talked, recounting his entire day in no specific order. He described the mountains, the village, the strangely dressed people, and the new friends that he and Terry had met. He was especially excited about all he had learned about farming and romping through the mud chasing a goat’s kid. Francesca only managed to chime in with the occasional acknowledgment, but she doubted Yuri even took notice; he never responded when she asked him to repeat himself.

  Pat practically begged Francesca to pass him the phone. She told him that Yuri was still explaining his first day at camp. Pat affirmed to her that Yuri wasn’t going to stop anytime soon; he’d talk until the battery died. Agreeing, Francesca handed her husband the phone. Yuri’s voice squeaked in between them until it reached Pat’s ear.

  He listened for a moment but then interrupted. “Damn, fireplug, can I get a word in edgewise?” Pat asked half a monologue later.

  “Hi, Daddy!” Yuri said excitedly, barely pausing.

  “Wait, whoa, son.”

  Yuri stopped fully this time. “Yes, Daddy?”

  “Hey!” Pat said gleefully. “How are you, spud?”

  “I’m fine!”

  Pat put on his stern military voice. “Are you behaving?

  “Yes, sir!”

  “What have you learned since you’ve been there?”

  Yuri erupted with enthusiasm, recounting the story he had told Francesca but even less organized this time around. In fact, Pat had difficulty understanding Yuri through his excitement and even had to peel his head away from the receiver as Yuri’s volume peaked.

  “Son,” Pat asserted, interrupting again, “I can’t understand you when you yell. Why don’t you bring it down a couple of notches?”

  “Sorry, Daddy. Is this better?”

  “Much.” Pat nodded even though Yuri couldn’t see him. “Tell me one thing you learned today. Just one thing.”

  Yuri hummed as he thought about which one thing he should respond with. When he decided, he replied eagerly, “I learned how to milk goats and get eggs from chickens!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Pat flashed an impressed smile at his wife, and she reciprocated with an inquiring look. “They’re turning you into a regular Old McDonald. Maybe I’ll drop you on a farm, and you can make me some money. What do you say?”

  “Okay, Daddy!”

  Pat laughed. Yuri was so agreeable…now. That was sure to change in a couple of years as his mother’s tenacity and intensity grew inside him. Pat knew that Yuri was going to grow into an obstinate epicenter of defiance just like her. Francesca’s mother and father—Marcela and Nico—had never been more relieved than when Francesca had married Pat and moved away. They had effectively pawned off their only daughter’s impossibility on him. Fortunately, she had mellowed a little bit over the past decade. Yuri was going to be picking up the torch soon. In the meantime, Pat was going to take full advantage of Yuri’s childlike affability. “I’m glad you see it my way, pal. Where’s your brother?”

  “Right here, Daddy. You want to talk to him?”

  “May I, please?”

  “Yes, sir. Here he is, Daddy.”

  There was childlike grumbling followed by the snap of an attitude. Then Terry’s voice came on the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, stud.”

  “Hi, Dad,” Terry replied in a monotone.

  Pat huffed, “Don’t sound so happy to hear from me. Did I interrupt marshmallow roasting or something?”

  “No, sir.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence until Pat spoke up; Terry apparently was not in the mood to be forthright. “So…what do you think?” Pat asked.

  “It’s really pretty here. The village is in a valley, and woods surround it. Yuri’s also getting a lot of practice talking in Japanese.”

  “That’s excellent.”

  “It’s also really humid, and there’s no electricity either—except for here in the Shinobi-no-mono’s hut.”

  “The shuh-who?” Pat laughed.

  “The Shinobi-no-mono. He’s basically the grandmaster of the village.”

  “Wow—okay. Why not?” Pat’s brow arched, and he nodded in resignation.

  Francesca inquired.

  Pat told her that the boys had a grandmaster with a weird name. Then Pat returned his attention to Terry. “I guess they’re making a man outta you, huh? I know how much you dislike humidity, and I’m sure you’re going crazy without the internet.”

  “They said we have to get up two hours before sunrise tomorrow too.”

  “Really?” Memories of the many training exercises Pat had had to embark on with several different units over the duration of his career flooded into his surface thoughts.

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know why.”

  “Okay, well, I know how that is. That’s what we had to do every time I had to go out in the field for training. And we had to eat stale, boxed food—”

  Francesca tapped her husband on the shoulder, brandishing an open hand towards the phone.

  “Hang on for me for a second, chief. Mom wants to talk to you,” Pat said before pushing the phone into Francesca’s hand. As her fingers began to close around the device, Pat snatched it away with eyes wide from a sudden revelation. “Hey, before I give Mom the phone, I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen closely. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know that when I’m not around, you’re the man of the house, right?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that responsibility extends beyond the house. That means you’re responsible for taking care of your brother even when you’re not at home. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pat stabbed at the air with his finger. “You and Yuri are Ciccones—and Ciccones stick together. We take care of each other. Are you tracking?”

  “Yes, sir,” Terry affirmed, unamused.

  “Let me hear you say it,” Pat demanded.

  “I’m tracking, Dad.”

  “Super.” Pat turned his attention to an incredulous-looking Francesca, who repeatedly opened and closed the hand from which the phone was hastily withdrawn. “Okay, here’s Mom. I love you, son.
Tell Yuri I love him too and that you two are my world.”

  “Yuri, Dad says he loves you and that you’re his world,” Terry said aloud. Pat could hear her Yuri squeak in the background. Then Terry spoke into the phone again, “Love you too, Dad.”

  Pat handed the phone over, and Francesca rushed it to her ear. “Hi, my love,” she said immediately.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  “I guess...”

  “Have you made any friends?” she said, watching Pat leave the living room through the garage door.

  “Well, I met another boy named Saki. He’s pretty cool. We had to get firewood, and we sat together at dinner. And I met a girl named Akiko. She’s Sensei’s daughter, and she also sat with us at dinner.”

  “A girl, huh?” Francesca said mischievously. “Pat, Terry met a girl!”

  “That’s my boy!” Pat yelled.

  “Mom!” Terry replied disapprovingly, clearly embarrassed.

  “I bet she’s cute, huh, honey?”

  Terry said his mother’s name in a drawn-out, chastising manner.

  Okay, that was enough embarrassment for now. She didn’t want to overdo it; there would be plenty of time to embarrass him as he matured. “So, what do you think about summer camp?” Francesca asked, moving on.

  “It’s okay,” Terry replied, unconvinced.

  Francesca softened like any mother would when her child sounded less than absolutely certain. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think they like us.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Everyone. They look at us weird and hardly talk to us. I don’t think they like us because we’re not Japanese—just like the kids in school.”

  “I doubt that, honey,” Francesca asserted, trying to reassure him. “Why else would Mr. Omiyoshu bring you out there?”

  “Mom…” Terry paused, and Francesca could feel his anxiety through the phone. It made her feel ashamed that she couldn’t be there to console him. “The grandmaster,” Terry started again, “just stared at us like he was mad. I don’t think we’re welcome here. I don’t know why Sensei brought us.”

  Francesca tried to clear the apprehension in her by saying, “Well, Yuri doesn’t seem to notice anything.”

  “Mom, Yuri wouldn’t notice a marching band in the middle of the night…”

  Francesca pursed her lips as she decided on what she should say next. “Where is Mr. Omiyoshu now?” Perhaps, she thought, she should call him and explain to him how Terry was feeling. Terry, after all, had been dealing with mistreatment from Japanese natives for years and tended to feel ostracized.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for hours.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about that.” She was definitely going to call Kintake. “Tell you what, get some sleep and call me in the morning, and we can see if things have improved. Okay?

  “They’re not going to get better, Mom.”

  “You don’t know that, honey. Be positive.”

  Terry didn’t say anything.

  “Okay, get some sleep, and we'll talk in the morning before me and Dad leave.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  Francesca pressed end and sat quietly staring at the phone for a moment before opening her contacts list and scrolling down to Kintake’s name. She opened his profile, hit call, and placed the phone to her ear. The electronic operator asked her to wait while she was connected to her party. Then it began to ring. The sound of a phone ringing outside suddenly started. Her eyes flicked to the open windows near the front door. Then there was a knock.

  She ended the call, stood to her feet, and made her way to the door; the phone outside chirped twice more and then went silent.

  Pat came into the doorway from the garage. “Is there someone at the door?”

  “Yeah,” she replied suspiciously.

  “Were you expecting someone?”

  “Nope, but I’ll get it,” she said as she reached the front door. Pat lost interest and went back into the garage. Francesca looked through the peephole—it was Kintake and Mr. Oharu. What the hell was going on? Why was Kintake here and not at the summer camp with the boys?

  She unlocked the door and pulled it open. Kintake, wearing a plaid shirt and denim pants, smiled at her warmly through the glass of the storm door. Mr. Oharu wore his usual jovial expression.

  “Mr. Omiyoshu, Mr. Oharu, this is rather unexpected.” Francesca unlocked the storm and pushed it open. “I thought you were at the summer camp with my sons,” she said to Kintake

  “Mrs. Ciccone, I have most urgent news for you. May we come in?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Kintake gestured through the door. “May we?”

  “Yes, come in.”

  “Thank you,” Kintake said, stepping out of his shoes and leaving them on the patio. Oharu did the same and passed through the door. Kintake turned and closed the door behind him.

  “Who is it?” Pat called from the garage.

  “It’s Mr. Omiyoshu and Mr. Oharu!” She turned back to the men and folded her arms. Okay—what’s this about? Why are you not with the boys?”

  “You must understand, Mrs. Ciccone, what I am about to say to is sacred and must never be repeated.”

  Francesca shrugged and showed him her hands. “Repeat what? What’re you talking about? You’re scaring me.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “Promise me.”

  “Fine,” she said in resignation, dropping her arms to her side. “I promise—”

  Once Francesca’s arms were down, Kintake moved with such speed that she didn’t have time to flinch. He whipped his tanto out of his sleeve and jammed the blade through her breastbone. There was considerable resistance at first, but once he cracked the sternum enough, the blade went in easy and came out even easier. Blood erupted from the hole like a geyser under pressure. She croaked and called for Pat, but it came out as a gurgle. Then Kintake plunged the knife in an arc into the side of her neck, giving it a yank once the knife settled to the hilt; blood spattered the wall in a fan.

  ***

  Pat was through the door and into the kitchen with purpose, calling to Francesca. She had said that Kintake and Oharu were at the door, but that didn’t make any sense since Kintake was in the middle of the island at a summer camp with the boys and Oharu was where Japanese diplomatic fat cats go during the summer months. Then he heard choking sounds. He came into the hall and found Francesca slumped against the wall, surrounded by an amoebic-creeping pool of blood and a fan of crimson on the wall next to her. He barely had a chance to react before he was attacked by swift movement from his flank—a freight train struck the side of his face, and then a wrecking ball sent him sprawling through the dining room.

  Pat turned end over end, both physically and emotionally, as he crashed into the pantry. He looked up and saw Kintake bearing down on him—Oharu was even further back, watching. Pat ducked low and shot to the right, out of the way of Kintake’s foot, but Kintake was already on him. Pat took a kick to the back of his leg, followed by several blows to the side of his head. He staggered, trying to clear his vision, and raised his guard. All he could see was a blurred apparition.

  Pat slung several punches at Kintake, but Kintake was out of the way before the first one reached full extension. He backed up to the table, giving Pat a wide berth, and allowed Pat a moment to gather himself. Kintake wanted to savor this.

  “What’d you do to my wife?” Pat roared.

  “Remember, Mr. Ciccone, when you came to my school the first time? Well, I never expressed to you how you dishonored me in front of my students. I am here to take that honor back.”

  Pat stuttered. He didn’t know what to say. The grief of seeing his wife’s lifeless body, the pain in his face and side, the recounting of an event
three years earlier, none of it made sense. None of it.

  “I will take it back with your life.”

  Kintake smashed Pat’s jaw with a thunderous roundhouse. The force of it crushed the socket and sent Pat to the floor. Then Kintake was on top of him. “Your wife’s death was swift.” He struck Pat with his fist. “But yours, Mr. Ciccone, will not be.” He struck Pat again. “Honor cannot simply be returned; it must be harvested.” He struck again. “I am Shinobi; I cannot live with dishonor.”

  He struck Pat again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Until Pat’s face was mangled and dented and blood flowed from every hole and orifice.

  Chapter Eight: Watery Grave

  A Shinobi bears true faith in the wisdom of the Jonin and strays not. Allow not doubt to break the bonds of the clans. Respect all Shinobi, for each carries with them the wisdom of the ancestors.

  The Fourth Mandate, translated from Ninpo.

  The Tarragona Bay. Five miles from the coast. Tarragona, Spain. Today.

  Maintaining a watchful eye on a few faint, dancing lights on the horizon, Terry set the engine of his ten-foot craft to idle and turned it to port, placing the bow up-current and pointing out into the darkness of the Mediterranean.

  Terry appreciated the silence of the open ocean; it made him feel light years away and gave him time to reflect. There was no hustle out here, no traffic, no email, no media. It was just Terry and Ninpo. Seemed like it had been forever since he’d had a quiet moment like this with his thoughts. When had the last time been? Perhaps while lying in a field well outside of the village border, taking time away from the strictness of the Fujibayashi.

  Had it really been that long? That had been nearly fifteen years ago.

  He also remembered the harsh punishment he’d received for being gone; had the scars on his shoulders from the lashes he took—it had been worth it, though. He’d had time to think then, and he had time to think now. And it was the past that was boiling in his thoughts, sins that plagued him with guilt. He had been brooding for months as he’d dealt with a fit of depression, and it was straining the paper-thin patience of his brother. But the dark, sleepy ocean took all that away from him and set it adrift to somewhere else—at least for the time being.