Collector of Secrets by Richard Goodfellow Page B

vantage point, he could see the man’s enormous upper body wrapped in a muscle shirt, a reflected pool of light illuminating the patterned tattoos running from his shoulders to mid-forearm.
    Instant terror charged the air.
    Holy shit! He’s Yakuza !
    Minutes ticked by as Max lay pulsing with fear in the darkness—plenty of time to ponder the awful question: why were the Yakuza in Murayama’s office?

Monday, April 23
    THE POINTED nose of the Ninja ZX-10R sports bike poked out of the alleyway’s deep shadows. From his vantage point three blocks away, Jun could see the echo of flickering red police lights against the dark buildings. There would be no going back to finish dealing with the restaurant owner. With any luck, the injuries the man had already suffered would buy his silence. He was a drunk, but he likely wasn’t stupid enough to point a finger at a gang of organized criminals. If not, accidents could occur when they needed to.
    The scattered rain increased its tempo. Jun flexed and rubbed his hands against the droplets forming on the muscles of his bare arms. Beating a hasty retreat had meant leaving behind his new motorcycle jacket and riding gloves. The Gaijin ―probably an American ―would have to pay both in cash and in pain.
    Closing the visor on his helmet, he revved the engine to a purr. Within seconds, Jun’s screaming bike vanished into the wet night.
     
    T he taxi navigated the empty 2 a.m. streets, its windshield wipers intermittently rising and falling. The driver glanced down every so often at the map on the business card he’d been handed.
    Max periodically caught the driver’s questioning eyes as they drifted to the rearview mirror, and he knew the man must think him a crazy foreigner. He slouched in the backseat, his chin pressed against his chest, positioning his head well below the lace-covered headrests. It felt insane, but completely necessary.
    The motorcycle had moved up and down the laneway repeatedly, and he’d remained on the damp rooftop hiding place until he was sure he couldn’t hear the engine any longer. Pulling his warming hand from his pocket had produced the forgotten business card. The moment seemed strangely fateful; priests were meant to provide sanctuary, and Max had nowhere else to go. Heading home to the TPH was out of the question—the police could easily determine where he lived, and it likely wouldn’t take long for the gangsters to find out the same. And Tomoko wasn’t returning his calls. His nerves felt exposed and raw. He needed somewhere safe to think.
    The daypack lay beside him on the backseat. Unzipping it, he pulled out an old, soft-shelled leather satchel. Dual cinches attached to simple brass buckles held the overhanging front closed. A symmetrical gold emblem was stamped onto the leather—it looked familiar, but he couldn’t recall where he’d seen it. Undoing the tarnished clasps, Max lifted away the front flap and peered inside, noting the spine of a book. As he withdrew the volume, he saw that the yellow cover was embossed with a cresting wave over a distant image of Mount Fuji. An ornate red seal was pressed into the center, but the streetlights flickering periodically through the taxi’s window made it impossible to read the fine script.
    Opening the book’s pages close to his face released a light, musty smell, the familiar scent of libraries and fine paper mixed in the blender of time. Leafing through it, he flipped past pages filled with handwritten Japanese symbols.
    Eventually, the cab entered a side street and slowed to a stop in front of a two-story house. The place was astoundingly large by local standards. It would have garnered little attention in a new American suburb, but in the center of Tokyo, it was most unusual. Although reluctant to leave the warmth of the cab, he paid in cash, grabbed the daypack, and climbed out.
    Standing before the grandiose home, Max wondered if he was making a mistake, but the steadily increasing rain