Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

Tokyo Bay, Japan

She had looked like a bundle of rags bobbing in the sea.

They would have passed her by without further thought. But they saw for a brief moment an arm had come out of the water that had seemed to wave. It must have been an illusion, because her eyes were closed and she was quite limp when they approached her.

They had hoisted her into the old fishing boat and taken her down to the small cabin below. Her face was cut from forehead to chin and her clothing seemed to have been scorched and burned.

They bandaged her face as best they could. Then they stripped her and wrapped her in a quilt and laid her on a futon. The space was cramped and smelled of rotting fish, but it was the best they could do.

The old man had gone back to the steering wheel and Hiro to the bow to look for more survivors.

Yoshi was left alone with the woman. He stared at the bandaged face, seeing not that but the lithe body and firm breasts and the V between her legs. Her face would be permanently scarred, he was sure, but she had been a beautiful woman.

More than beautiful. Sexual. Strong. Well muscled. Long lean thighs. Unusually prominent nipples. A woman to dream about.

The quilt slipped from her shoulder and he leaned over to pull it up. She was still unconscious. He was sorely tempted to look again, but then his upbringing interrupted him. He had a duty toward this survivor. One day it could be the other way around. You never knew with the sea.

The woman's clothing lay in a heap by the corner of the cabin. Bored, he knelt beside the wet pile and started to examine the items. They seemed to comprise some sort of uniform. There was a shirt with buttoned pockets like the military wear, and the trousers had side pockets and large external bellows pockets that extended to just above the knees. They were used for maps and other equipment, he supposed.

The helicopter must have been military, he guessed. He picked through the pockets. There was a laminated photograph in one of them. It was slightly blurred, as if it had been taken with a telephoto lens. The subject was a gaijin, a man in his midforties, he guessed. There was a military look about him.

Yoshi turned the photograph. There was a description on the back in kanji and a name in English: Hugo Fitzduane.

A friend, an exotic foreign lover, a suspect? This was the kind of conjecture the police used. He shrugged and tossed the photograph to one side.

He had half expected to find identity papers in the shirt, but there was nothing. That was odd if she was military, he thought. But then again, he didn't really know how the military worked. The closest he had come to that world was through television.

There was a bulge in one of the bellows pockets. He remembered that they had seemed heavy when they were being removed, but he had paid no attention at the time, thinking it was just the weight of water in the clothing.

He reached into the pocket. The object inside was hard and round. He removed it and stared in disbelief.

The object fell from his frightened fingers and thudded onto the floor. The fishing boat heaved in the swell and the hand grenade rolled across the cabin floor and thudded into the bulkhead.

Yoshi's eyes bulged. He knew he should move, but he stayed there petrified, waiting for the terrible explosion. His heart thumped and sweat beaded on his forehead.

The boat plunged down into a trough and the hand grenade rolled back toward him. He grabbed it and held it with both hands. The pin was still in place.

Shaking, he put the grenade back into the pocket so it would not roll around. Then he checked the other pockets. There was a length of some thick elasticized cord and a long pocketknife with a button on the side.

He pressed the button and a stiletto blade sprang from the handle and locked into place.

What kind of person would carry such things? he thought. What kind of devil have we dragged from the sea?

Yoshi felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, utterly unlike the callused hand of his father grabbing him to do this or that. Always work. More work.

The hand was reassuring. It promised only pleasure. Instantly he thought again of the woman's body, of how she would feel under him.

He turned awkwardly, shuffling on his knees. He was afraid, yet compelled to move.

The woman stood there, her face obscured by the bloodstained bandages, her body golden and perfect in contrast.

She must be in such pain. How could she stand there without showing some sign of her agony? No matter how strong her will, she had to feel weak.

The dressings covered not just her entire face but also her mouth. She could not speak. She put her hand behind his head as he knelt before her, and drew him toward her.

Yoshi could smell her sex, feel her skin. He pulled her toward him, paying no attention as the stiletto was removed from his uncaring fingers.

He felt her hand behind his head and he pressed his face into her loins. He sighed with pleasure.

He bent his head still farther toward her. She held him with her thighs for the brief time it was necessary to plunge the stiletto into the back of his neck.

Shiro came to spell his father at the wheel. They were heading back to Tokyo. Others were better equipped to carry out a search, and the injured woman needed medical attention. It would have been better still to radio for help, but the batteries were flat. The old man really had no time for the newer ways, and quietly frustrated his son's best efforts. The boat was powered by a fine Yamaha marine diesel, but he still used oil lamps for illumination.

Hori smiled to himself. What could you do with such a father but respect him?

The old man selected some fish and his kogatana and took them downstairs to prepare. He'd gut and clean them and then they would eat after they had docked. It was easier to cook when the boat was tied up. Meanwhile, he whiled away the time as they chugged in with a little sake. Or maybe quite a lot of sake.

Shiro expected Yoshi to appear shortly after the old man went below, but then reflected that the pair of them might be discussing their unusual catch and probably sharing the sake flask. Well, tempted though he was to shout down for his share, docking the boat demanded that he wait for now.

"Yoshi! Get up here, you lazy sod," Shiro called as he brought the boat alongside the dock. You did not have to be too sober to tie a boat up.

Yoshi did not appear, and Shiro felt some frustration. He moored the boat fore and aft and went below.

The cabin was dark and there was a thick smell stronger even than that of rotting fish. The oil lamp must have gone out.

But why were both the old man and Yoshi silent? Drunk and out cold. Well, it had happened before. And there was the woman to attend to. Someone would have to get help. The catch had to be unloaded. There was work to be done.

He fumbled for a match.

In the flare of the flame he saw his father hanging from a hook, his entrails hanging out of his body. He had been gutted.

Then Shiro saw that the hook was not a hook but his father's favorite kogatana, rammed through the old man's throat into the bulkhead.

Yoshi lay at his feet, his clothing and the floor around them crimson with blood.

The match burned down to his fingers and Shiro dropped it.

He was quaking with fear, unable to make sense of anything he saw when the stiletto punched under his chin, through his tongue, and into his brain.

Reiko Oshima lit the oil lamp and surveyed her handiwork.

She was believed to be dead and she would stay that way for the time being. Certainly these fishermen were in no position to argue.