Victor OReilly - The Devils Footprint

The Devil'sFootprint

Hugo Fitzduane 03

by

V i c t o r O ' R e i l l y

Prolog

Tokyo Bay, Japan

She had lookedlike a bundle of rags bobbing in the sea.

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

They hadhoisted her into the old fishing boat and taken her down to the small cabinbelow. Her face was cut from forehead tochin and her clothing seemed to have been scorched and burned.

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

The old manhad gone back to the steering wheel and Hiro to the bow to look for moresurvivors.

Yoshi was leftalone with the woman. He stared at thebandaged face, seeing not that but the lithe body and firm breasts and the Vbetween her legs. Her face would bepermanently scarred, he was sure, but she had been a beautiful woman.

More than beautiful. Sexual. Strong. Wellmuscled. Long lean thighs. Unusually prominentnipples. Awoman to dream about.

The quiltslipped from her shoulder and he leaned over to pull it up. She was still unconscious. He was sorely tempted to look again, but thenhis upbringing interrupted him. He had aduty toward this survivor. One day itcould be the other way around. You neverknew with the sea.

The woman'sclothing lay in a heap by the corner of the cabin. Bored, he knelt beside the wet pile andstarted to examine the items. Theyseemed to comprise some sort of uniform. There was a shirt with buttoned pockets like the military wear, and thetrousers had side pockets and large external bellows pockets that extended tojust above the knees. They were used formaps and other equipment, he supposed.

The helicoptermust have been military, he guessed. Hepicked through the pockets. There was alaminated photograph in one of them. Itwas 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 turnedthe photograph. There was a descriptionon 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 policeused. He shrugged and tossed the photographto one side.

He had halfexpected to find identity papers in the shirt, but there was nothing. That was odd if she was military, hethought. But then again, he didn'treally know how the military worked. Theclosest he had come to that world was through television.

There was abulge in one of the bellows pockets. Heremembered that they had seemed heavy when they were being removed, but he hadpaid no attention at the time, thinking it was just the weight of water in theclothing.

He reachedinto the pocket. The object inside washard and round. He removed it and staredin disbelief.

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

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

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

Shaking, heput 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 elasticizedcord and a long pocketknife with a button on the side.

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

What kind ofperson would carry such things ? he thought. What kind of devil have we dragged from thesea?

Yoshi felt ahand on his shoulder. The touch wasgentle, utterly unlike the callused hand of his father grabbing him to do thisor that. Always work. More work.

The hand wasreassuring. It promised onlypleasure. Instantly he thought again ofthe woman's body, of how she would feel under him.

He turnedawkwardly, shuffling on his knees. Hewas afraid, yet compelled to move.

The womanstood there, her face obscured by the bloodstained bandages, her body goldenand perfect in contrast.

She must be insuch pain. How could she stand therewithout showing some sign of her agony? No matter how strong her will, she had to feel weak.

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

Yoshi couldsmell her sex, feel her skin. He pulledher toward him, paying no attention as the stiletto was removed from hisuncaring fingers.

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

He bent hishead still farther toward her. She heldhim with her thighs for the brief time it was necessary to plunge the stilettointo the back of his neck.

* * * * *

Shiro came tospell his father at the wheel. They wereheading back to Tokyo. Others were better equipped to carry out asearch, and the injured woman needed medical attention. It would have been better still to radio forhelp, but the batteries were flat. Theold man really had no time for the newer ways, and quietly frustrated his son'sbest efforts. The boat was powered by afine Yamaha marine diesel, but he still used oil lamps for illumination.

Hori smiled tohimself. What could you do with such afather but respect him?

The old manselected some fish and his kogatanaand took them downstairs to prepare. He'd gut and clean them and then they would eat after they haddocked. It was easier to cook when theboat was tied up. Meanwhile, he whiledaway the time as they chugged in with a little sake. Or maybe quite a lot ofsake.

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

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

Yoshi did notappear, and Shiro felt some frustration. He moored the boat fore and aft and went below.

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

But why wereboth the old man and Yoshi silent? Drunk and out cold. Well, it had happened before. Andthere 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 fora match.

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

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

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

The matchburned down to his fingers and Shiro dropped it.

He was quakingwith fear, unable to make sense of anything he saw when the stiletto punchedunder his chin, through his tongue, and into his brain.

* * * * *

Reiko Oshimalit the oil lamp and surveyed her handiwork.

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

She donned herstill-wet clothing but supplemented it with various loose garments belonging tothe crew. She was nowunrecognizable. Her bandages obscuredher features and the additional clothing made it impossible to determine hersex.