AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Too antsy to sit in the hot tub for long, I go back to my room to shower and change. There’s a pair of comfortable lounge pants that I pair with a loose low-back tunic. The back is so low, it’s meant to be worn without a bra.
I decide to case the place again, trying to memorize where the cameras are and how many security guards patrol the grounds. At one point, I wander into a library. It’s a beautiful room with a large lounging area on the first floor and a winding staircase to the second floor, where all the bookshelves are.
I pass by a desk and notice several periodicals. The front cover of one features the upcoming exhibit at the San Francisco Asian Pacific Art Museum. Beneath it is a business magazine featuring a profile of a businessman: Haruto Matsudo. I’ve heard that name. Rafe mentioned it. He’s the guy who’s loaning pieces of art for the exhibit.
I pick up the business magazine and read about the man, whose father started a candy company that now makes some of the most popular snack items in Japan with exports throughout Asia. The profile also mentions how the Matsudo family members are big art fans and one of the largest donors of the National Art Center Tokyo.
Beneath the business magazine is a world history periodical open to an article that cites R.J. Rummel, a professor of political science, who estimates that “3.9 million Chinese were killed, mostly civilians, as a direct result of the Japanese operations, and 10.2 million in the course of the war.”
Also on the desk is a book,The Rape of Nanking: The Forgotten Holocaust of World War II, by Iris Chang. It’s aNew York Timesbestseller. Since I have time to kill, I take the book, settle in a bay window and open the book.
I’m not a bookworm, but it’s hard to imagine reading anything more difficult because of the subject matter: how the Japanese army used Chinese men for bayonet practice and decapitation contests, how the soldiers raped some twenty to eighty thousand Chinese women and how they horrified even the Nazis in Nanjing by mutilating the women’s bodies, nailing them alive to the walls or having them torn apart by German shepherds.
––––––––
ISHOULD NOT BE READINGabout massacres, given my precarious situation, though I don’t think my state of mind will allow me to lose myself in lighter reading.
I close the book and look out the window. I can’t imagine having to live through the horror. If my life’s about to end, I hope it’s a quick one. I wonder if a gunshot to the head is a good way to go? Rafe wouldn’t torture me first, would he?
I’ve got to stop thinking thoughts like that or I’ll go crazy. Already I can feel myself hyperventilating. I manage to calm myself down.
When it nears five o’clock, I go in search of Rafe for permission to use the phone. One of the security guards tells me he’s probably in his office, which is guarded by Chung and the bald guy. The latter goes inside to get permission for me to enter.
“I’d like to try my brother again,” I tell Rafe when I’m allowed in.
He’s dressed more casually in a white sport shirt with a subtle design on the collar but looks no less sophisticated and imposing. He hands me a phone.
Please pick up,I pray while I dial his number.
I try three times without success.
“Maybe the connection is bad where he is,” I say.
“Where exactly is he?” Rafe asks.
“I don’t remember the name of the resort. Diria Beach, maybe?”
Rafe looks at me as if assessing whether or not I’m telling the truth.
“I honestly don’t remember,” I insist.
He seems to believe me. “You can try again later after dinner, which will be served at six. Just find Vladimir to use his phone.”
Bald Guy escorts me out of the office. I decide to go back into the East Gallery and look at soothing landscape paintings, reflecting unity with the natural world.
When it’s time for dinner, I head to the dining hall, but the server James informs me that Rafe is out and won’t be able to join me for dinner. I’m disappointed. Dinner feels lonely without Rafe, though it’s every bit as fancy as the one we had last night, with foie gras and other things I’ve never tried before.
After dinner, I take a stroll outside. The grounds are well lit, so I’d probably be spotted by one of the security guards or caught on camera if I tried to make a run for it. There are no bars on my gilded cage, but I feel claustrophobic anyway.
Back inside the house, I find my way to what might be considered the basement level, but because the grounds drop off on this side, it’s not completely underground.
Passing by a set of double doors, I hear what sounds like a woman’s cry. My heart leaps into my throat when I hear it again, only it’s more like a wail this time. I hear a sharp snap, followed by another cry.
Is this person okay?
One of the doors is slightly ajar. I could possibly peek in, but would that be wise? The woman speaks in a language foreign to me, but it sounds like she’s pleading.
I should probably just walk on, pretend like I didn’t hear anything. But I remember, after reading a story about how passengers on a Philadelphia commuter train did nothing but watch while a woman was assaulted, thinking that I wouldn’t be one of those non-Samaritans. I pry the door open just enough for me to look in.
