Northeastern Japan
White.
The color of heaven, right?
If so, Jon Smith could come to only two possible conclusions: either he was still alive or God had made a serious clerical error.
His vision came into focus slowly, but it didn’t take him long to realize that the second hypothesis was correct. No angelic choirs. Just a ceiling.
Smith tried to sit up but the throb in his back became an excruciating dagger, forcing him to ease back onto the mattress. His torso seemed to move more or less the way it was supposed to, and after a quick evaluation he confirmed that his fingers and toes did the same. No paralysis. He carefully rotated his head through the few degrees it would move, taking in his surroundings and trying to get a read on his injuries from the nature and severity of the pain.
His new home wasn’t a hospital room. Too nice. Gracefully curved and scrupulously finished wood beams framed a modern take on Japanese paper screens, the expensive contemporary furniture was tastefully sparse, and the artwork was bright and incomprehensible. There were no windows to tell him if it was day or night and little sound but the humming of the machines to his left.
He squinted at the monitor next to his bed and noted the heart rate and blood pressure numbers. Neither was great, but neither suggested he was flirting with death.
Smith closed his eyes for a moment and then tried to take a deep breath, hardly getting any air in at all before the pain forced him to stop. So he could add a few shattered ribs and possibly a broken scapula to the crossbow-bolt-size puncture wound in his back.
As his mind continued to sharpen, he examined the IV running into his arm and tried unsuccessfully to read the label on the bag. Antibiotics, fluids, and probably an opiate-based painkiller judging from the familiar nausea he was feeling. More concerning was the tube inserted between his ribs and draining into a jar on the floor. Collapsed lung. Outstanding.
He reached weakly for a stethoscope hanging from the IV stand and put it in his ears. Steeling himself for the pain, he forced himself to take a moderate breath with the instrument pressed to his side. It sounded like the lung was inflating. Not exactly news worth celebrating, but better than the alternative.
He’d given up his job as a MASH doctor in favor of microbiology a long time ago, but they weren’t skills that faded easily. Given the facts, his prognosis was solid. With a lot of time, a lot of rest, and proper care, he could potentially make a full recovery. The fact that he wasn’t in a hospital, though, made him doubt he’d ever get those things.
There was a rustling on the other side of the only door to the room and Smith watched it slide open. He considered feigning unconsciousness, but it seemed likely that he was being monitored by video and that his mysterious benefactor wouldn’t be so easily fooled. Besides, what was the point? Daring escapes were pretty much off the table—he’d be lucky to crawl out of there in his condition. Better to figure out where he stood than to lie there and wonder.
The Japanese man who entered was in his midforties with a compact frame, intermittent gray hair, and a waistline barely being held in check. His suit and haircut were both extremely expensive but neither looked natural on him. Even through a morphine fog, Smith could see that this guy hadn’t been a beneficiary of the prep school and private university upbringing he was trying to project. More likely, he’d risen to the top the old-fashioned way: by killing his competitors.
“Who are you?” Smith said. His voice came out little more than a croak and the man picked up a cup, holding it while Smith sucked on the straw.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
His English was better than expected. Maybe he’d actually outsmarted a few of those competitors after all.
Smith eased himself back into the pillows, letting the pain play out on his face to provide an excuse not to volunteer information.
“You’re very interesting to me,” the man said, also declining to contribute an introduction. “My doctor says it would be virtually impossible for someone with a crossbow bolt in his back to swim as far out into the ocean as you did. And yet there you were.”
“High school breaststroke champion,” Smith managed to get out and then let out a weak cough. The pain that action unleashed would have been truly breathtaking if he could actually breathe.
“Indeed.”
Smith pointed to the cup and the man examined him for a moment before holding it up so he could get another drink. Likely less an act of kindness than an effort to get his guest’s voice working again.
“Even more fascinating to me were the men chasing you. They were quite motivated. Not a single one of them gave up the search until he drowned.”
Smith tried to get his hazy mind to focus. Could that be true? And if this man was making these kinds of observations, did it suggest that he wasn’t involved in the attack? The fancy house, the men floating off remote beaches in quiet boats. Some kind of smuggler? A simple drug runner?
“You’ll understand that I like to keep abreast of things that happen in my waters.”
Smith knew that he wasn’t in any condition to play cat and mouse with this man and was getting ready to fake losing consciousness, but it was a piece of theater that turned out to be unnecessary. His vision began to swim and his eyes fluttered uncontrollably. There was no reason to fight it so he just let the darkness come.
When the man spoke again, his voice sounded a thousand miles away. “Of course. You rest. We have all the time in the world to talk.”