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Nick caught a flight to Buffalo from LaGuardia and rented a car at the airport. Branmore's nursing home was twenty minutes away, in a suburb of Buffalo called Williamsville. The car's GPS guided him to the address of Branmore's nursing home, a three-story, yellow brick building that looked like it had seen better days. A sign outside the building identified it as the Peaceful Haven Care Home.
He went in through two sets of double glass doors. Three wheelchairs were parked near the entrance. The floor was scuffed. The air smelled of disinfectant. To the left was an elevator bank, to the right a large room with tables and chairs. A few old people sat in the room watching a soap opera on television. A thin woman wearing blue scrubs and a worn look sat behind the reception counter, writing something. Nick waited for her to notice him. After a moment, she looked up.
"Help you?"
"My name is Nick Carter. I'm here to see one of your residents, Kerry Branmore."
"You're the writer?"
"That's right."
"He's in room 320. Take the elevator and make a left. It's the second room down on the right. We told him you're coming but he might not remember. You probably won't get much out of him."
"Oh? Why not?"
"Mister Branmore has Alzheimer's. But he does talk about the war sometimes, so maybe you'll get lucky."
"Thanks."
"Remember to take a left when you get out of the elevator."
"Got it, thanks."
The elevator had an unpleasant odor of stale vomit. By the time he reached the third floor, Nick was happy to get out. Off to the right he saw a nurse's station at the end of the hall. Two old people in bathrobes were sitting in wheelchairs, looking vaguely at a travel poster for Tuscany taped to the wall. Another woman who looked like she was a hundred years old slept in her wheelchair, her head back, snoring. Her mouth was wide open. She had no teeth. Nearby, a male nurse in scrubs was encouraging an elderly man to use a walker.
Room 320 had two beds. One was empty, the mattress folded back with a pile of bed linen neatly placed on top of it. Branmore lay in the other bed, staring out the window. Nick was shocked at his appearance. His face was lined and gray, the eyes sunken with dark smudges underneath. He needed a shave. His mouth was half open. Nick saw he was missing several teeth. His hands and arms lay outside the covers, the fingers gnarled and twisted with arthritis. Nick pulled up a chair next to the bed.
"Mister Branmore?" Nick said. "My name's Nick Carter. I'm here to talk with you about the war. I'm a writer. I think they told you I was coming."
Branmore slowly turned his head and looked at Nick.
"Mike?"
"It's Nick, Mister Branmore."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Nick, Sergeant. Nick Carter. I wanted to ask you a few questions. About Japan. And the war."
"I was on Okinawa. That was bad."
"What was it like?"
Branmore looked out the window. When he turned back, he looked at Nick as if seeing him for the first time.
"Mike...? What are you doing here?"
Shit. He thinks I'm someone else.
"I came by to talk with you."
Branmore smiled.
"Remember that sake bar? That broad turned out to be a guy? Heh, should have seen your face..."
"Yeah, I remember," Nick said. "Tokyo."
For the next few moments Branmore talked about the "good time" women and bars in Japan after the war. He seemed to think Nick was an Army buddy from back then.
After a while, Nick said, "Tokyo. Remember that sword you brought back? Whatever happened to that?"
"That was a sharp mother, I tell you," Branmore said. He cackled. "Cut through anything. Damn near cut my thumb off, checking the edge."
He held up his hand. Nick saw an old, white scar across the ball of his right thumb.
"So what happened to it?"
"What happened to what?"
"The sword you got in Tokyo. After the war."
"The sword?"
"That's right. The one you got in Tokyo."
"My ex got it. Along with everything else. I hope she cut herself with it and bled to death."
"What was her name again? I forget."
Branmore's eyes narrowed.
"Who the hell are you? I don't know you. Nurse! Nurse!"
He fumbled for a call button, found it, and pressed hard. Somewhere in the hall a loud bell began ringing.
"Mister Branmore..."
"NURSE!"
He looked at Nick, fear and confusion on his face. A nurse hurried in. She took one look at Branmore, turned to Nick, and gave him a hard look.
"You upset him. I think you'd better go. He'll be like this for a while."
"Sorry," Nick said. "We were talking, that's all."
"You'd better go," she said again.
Nick got up and left the room. At least he knew the sword had come back to the states. There should be a record of Branmore's marriage and divorce. The next thing would be to track down the ex-wife.
In the parking lot, a Japanese man who had been twelve rows back on Nick's flight watched him drive away. He took out his phone and entered a number. It was answered in Japanese.
"Carter just left," the man said, in the same language.
"How long was he in there?"
"Almost an hour. Long enough."
"Either he learned something or he didn't. If he did, we'll know. If he didn't, there's nothing to be learned. The man in the home is no longer useful to us."
"What do you want me to do about him?"
"Get rid of him. Others are looking for the sword. We don't want him talking to them. Make it look natural."
"That won't be a problem. He's old. Old people die all the time."
"Come back to Washington when it's done."
The Japanese man disconnected and thought about how to accomplish the task. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. He'd anticipated that Branmore might turn out to be excess baggage after seeing Carter. He'd done a little research on the home, and knew the doors were locked at nine every evening. He knew Branmore was on the third floor. He knew the room number. What he didn't know was how he was going to get into the home without being seen.
How could he get to Branmore? He couldn't very well walk in and claim to be a relative or friend. With Branmore's history, a Japanese visitor would not be welcome.
At the moment, there were fifty-six residents in the home, almost all of them at an advanced age. Many had Alzheimer's. Almost all required assistance to move around. There was a single security guard at night, hired to make sure no one wandered out of their room and hurt themselves.
The solution to the problem of Branmore, when it came, was absurdly simple.