David Morrell - The Fifth Profession

“Doesn't exist. I know that. I'm telling you I remember him being there.” Savage's head throbbed. His mind reeled, assaulted again by jamais vu.

Though he tried to hide it, the distress in his voice made members of the tour group turn and frown at him. A fiftyish woman with blue-tinted hair told him, “Shush.” The Japanese guide hesitated, peering back toward the distraction.

Savage murmured apologies, guiding Rachel around the group, walking anxiously toward the looming shrine. “False memory, yes,” he told Rachel. “But that doesn't change the fact that it's in my head. It feels real to me. Akira and I both remember Kamichi having a conference with three men. One looked Italian, the other Spanish, or maybe Mexican or… The third, though, was American! And I saw him just now behind us on the path!”

“But the conference never happened.”

“I saw him one other time.”

“What?”

“At the hospital. While I convalesced.”

“In Harrisburg ? But you were never in a hospital in Harrisburg. How can you recognize a man you never met?”

“How could Akira and I recognize Kunio Shirai, the man we knew as Kamichi?”

“You never met Kamichi either.”

Savage flooded with terror. He needed all his discipline, the effects of all his years of training and hardship under fire, to keep from panicking. Reality-the shrine before him- seemed to waver. False memory insisted that it alone was true. If what I remember isn't true, Savage thought, how can I be sure that this is?

They entered the shrine. In a glimmering corridor that stretched to the right and left, Savage saw burnished doors emblazened with golden suns. Equipped with hinges in the middle, the doors had been folded open, revealing the precinct of what looked like a temple. Railings prevented him from going farther.

“This way,” Savage said, urging Rachel to the left, disrupting the concentration of Japanese who gazed toward the shrine's interior in reverence of solemn artifacts that symbolized their noble heritage prior to the U.S. occupation, prior to the Second World War.

Judging the corridor ahead, Savage jerked his eyes furtively to the left, through a doorway that led outside. The five Americans, led by the distinguished-looking, expensively dressed man he remembered from the Mountain Retreat and the Harrisburg hospital, hurried with strained long strides across the crowded courtyard, nearing the shrine. The only reason they didn't break into a run, Savage guessed, was that they knew their skin had attracted too much attention to them already. A commotion here would provoke a rapid police response.

The jasmine-scented corridor veered to the right. Struggling to avoid further groups of meditating Japanese, Savage and Rachel zigzagged, turned sideways, twisted, and veered, desperate to reach an exit on the left.

They burst from the shrine into blinding sunlight, faced another wide courtyard, heard indignant Japanese voices behind them, American voices apologizing, and started to run.

“I'm certain,” Savage said. Past the courtyard, another path-lined with trees-beckoned. “The well-dressed man, the one with the mustache, who seems to be their leader? Midfifties? Sandy hair? Eyes like a politician?”

“Yes, from a door in the shrine I got a look at him,” Rachel said, racing.

“In my memory of the Harrisburg hospital, he came to visit me. He said his name was…”

Words that were never spoken made Savage shiver.

Philip Hailey. “As useful a name as any other. Anonymous. Waspishly American.”

“Kamichi and Akira. What happened to their bodies?”

“They were hurried away.”

“The police?”

“Weren't informed.”

”…So much blood.

“That corridor of the hotel has now been remodeled.”

“Who killed them, damn it, and why?”

“The motive for the murders relates to the conference, but the purpose of the conference is not your business. We expect to identify whoever was responsible. Consider the topic closed. My purpose in coming here was to express our sympathy for your suffering and to assure you that everything possible is being done to avenge the atrocity.”

“In other words, stay out of it.”

“Do you have any choice? Think of this money as compensation. We've also paid for your hospital bills. Incentives. Demonstrations of our good faith. In return, we count on your good faith. Don't disappoint us.”

And good old Phil hadn't needed to add, “If you don't cooperate, if you don't keep away from our affairs, we'll mix your ashes with Kamichi's and Akira's.”

Spurred by fear, Savage raced harder. Japanese pilgrims darted to the side, glaring in outrage at this violation of the shrine's peaceful atmosphere. Rachel's low-heeled shoes rapped on the concrete courtyard.

The tree-lined path seemed to widen as Savage charged toward it. Ten yards. Five. Sweating, he surged into its funnel, hearing Rachel exhale beside him.

He also heard shouts. With a frantic glance backward, he saw the five men led by Philip Hailey lunging out of the temple and across the courtyard.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Stop!”

Forsyth? Savage tensed with shocked recognition. Forsyth was the alias I used in the hospital! Roger Forsyth! But I was never in that hospital! I never met Philip Hailey! So how could he know-?

“Damn it, Forsyth, stop!”

Again the objects before him seemed to shimmer, as if the path, the trees and bushes along it, weren't real. But the urgent footfalls of the men in the courtyard sounded very real.

Savage strained to run faster. “Rachel, are you okay? Can you keep up?”

“These shoes”-she breathed-”weren't built for a marathon.” She kicked off the shoes and sprinted next to him, her long strides billowing her loose cotton skirt.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Doyle! For God's sake, stop!”

Doyle? In Virginia Beach, that's what Mac said my name was! Savage thought. Robert Doyle! And that's who the bartender told the police killed Mac!

Ahead, the path curved toward the right, but just before the curve, another path intersected with it.

Savage slowed. He couldn't know what lay beyond the curve. Perhaps a barrier. Staring desperately to the right, he saw that the intersecting path formed a straight line for quite a distance. It was almost deserted. We'll be in the open- easy targets. He spun toward the left and saw that this side of the intersecting path had several tangents along the way.

Tugging Rachel's hand, he sprinted toward the left as Hailey and his men rushed closer.

“Doyle!”

Savage almost drew the Beretta from beneath his jacket. But so far Hailey and his men hadn't shown any weapons. Despite their evident determination to stop Savage from continuing to search for answers-had they been responsible for the attack on Akira's home last night?-they weren't foolish enough to start shooting and cause the Japanese pilgrims to panic and the shrine's attendants to alert the authorities. Hailey and his men have to kill us in private, quietly, or they'll never get out of the park before the police block off the exits, Savage thought. If there's shooting, every Caucasian in the area, even blocks away, will be questioned.

Racing past bushes, Savage saw another path to his right and twenty yards farther, one on his left. But the path to his left would lead back toward the shrine. For a startling instant, Savage was reminded of the maze in Mykonos through which he and Rachel had fled her husband's men.