Secrets of the Apple (30 page)

Ryoki swallowed his water wrong and started to choke, his eyes watering as he wondered how much he’d spent for a giant painting he hated.

After lunch he collared Cecelia and asked her when Kate would return.

“I’m not sure, sir. I believe she said something early yesterday, but I was busy dealing with the maids—quarrelling over some boy. Beside myself, that’s what I was. Those girls, I’ve a good mind to—”

“Yesterday? You haven’t seen her since yesterday?” The muscles in his neck tightened as he tried to take a deep, steadying breath to restrain himself from shouting. “Think carefully. Do you remember anything she said?”

Cecelia wrinkled her nose and furrowed her brow to make sure he knew she was trying. “I think… something about leaving or going out that morning. You know how she is. Always schedules herself in two places at once.”

“What about her driver, what did he say before he left?”

“She didn’t take her driver. I’m sure of that. I believe she called a taxi.”

Ryoki stared, speechless. Surely she didn’t, wouldn’t. They’d
agreed.
He tried her cell, but got no answer. One by one he questioned the rest of the staff, but obtained no more information. He called Sakura Arima in case Kate had mentioned anything on Friday night. Nothing.

At six o’clock he was back in the dining room, throwing forks at the Fates. He’d called her phone every hour, two rings and straight to voice mail, Kate’s chirpy voice in three languages urging him to leave a message. He ate nothing.

Around seven, he suddenly remembered the GPS code that would allow him to pinpoint her phone. Snatching a bit of hope, he gleefully punched in the numbers, tracking it to her cottage where he found it ringing in her desk drawer. In desperation he listened to her messages, eager for some clue. Three from him. First, strong direct. Second, irritated. Third stumbling, worry threading his voice. Two more from strangers: One from an Oliveira, introducing himself as an accountant at the investment firm on the third floor of their building. Said they’d met at the bank on the ground floor—some obscure little man anxious to make a good impression, probably smoothing his comb-over as he spoke. Fishy. Kate was reluctant to give her cell number to friends, let alone strangers. Definitely a security breach. The final message was from an American, a Matt Montgomery, booming voice like a movie hero, hale and hearty. “Hey baby, remember me?” he said. “Saw your picture in the paper. Thought I’d look you up. What are you doing in São Paulo? Why haven’t you called me?”

How did he get her number?

Who else had gotten it?

He sat in Kate’s cottage, fingering Morias’s business card which he’d retrieved from his briefcase before dinner. At 6:00 a.m. he would call that number and pull every contact he had. So unlike her, running off without leaving word. What if that gangster, that José, had lured her out somehow? Certainly he would have made contact by now, anxious to get his money.

Maybe.

Maybe the grab had gone badly and he had no goods to trade. Ryoki rubbed his eyes. Couldn’t think like that, had to stay positive.

She had no business running around South America by herself.

By midnight he’d begun thinking of the dead-eyed men in the Centro, holding up their homemade picket signs bearing the photographs of the missing.

Another hour passed and he sat with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, praying with his whole heart. If Kate can just come home safe, I won’t send her away. I’ll keep her right here where nobody can touch her. What if José lured her out? Did José lure her out? No, couldn’t be. Could she please just get home safe?

At 3:21 a.m. Ryoki jumped at the scrape of a key inserted into the door. How had he missed the footsteps? Two days, three hours sleep, almost drunk with exhaustion and worry, stupidly slow.

A pale, tired Kate entered carrying her purse and dragging a bulky suitcase, too large for an overnight stay. Women always overpacked.

“Ryoki,” she said, startled.

A trip. She’d been on a
trip.
Anger and elation fought for release, but anger was first out the gate. “Kate,” he snarled, nearly biting her head off with joy. “Where have you been? Do you know it’s nearly dawn? We have to work tomorrow. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. You didn’t take security, your phone—”

Kate held up her hand. “Don’t. I feel like crap and I might punch you.”

Ryoki took a breath, tried again, speaking more slowly. “What happened?”

“The plane started leaking something and we had to make an emergency landing on a little podunk airstrip in the middle of nowhere. We all slid down the emergency chute and then waited hours for a replacement.”

“Where did you go?”

Kate yawned. “Buenos Aires, sort of last minute. It’s a nice place with a different set of gangsters. You ought to go yourself.”

“You didn’t take Sano or even your phone?” he said. “We agreed—”

“
You
didn’t take anyone.”

Ryoki said nothing, suddenly too drained even to argue.

She yawned as she wandered into the bedroom, not even pausing to ask what he was doing in her cottage.

Ryoki saw his cue to leave and moved toward the door. “Don’t worry about coming early to work,” he called, feeling magnanimous.

Receiving no response he cautiously approached her open door, knocking softly. Kate was curled up on top of her bed, eyes already closed.

“Kate, Kate,” he whispered, lightly touching her shoulder. “You forgot to brush your teeth.”

No response, not even the flicker of an eyelash.

“At least take off your shoes.”

He waved a hand in front of her face, nothing, dead out. He brushed a lock of hair out of her face, running his fingertips across her cheek, soft and sticky from the humidity. Kate hated to be sticky. Despised it.

What had she been doing all weekend?

He removed her shoes and pulled the blanket up from the end of the bed. “Welcome home,” he whispered, kissing her cheek, catching the moist corner of her mouth and feeling the soft, dry plumpness of her lips.

Ryoki fell asleep thinking about Kate’s lips and hours later emerged to consciousness, conjuring their imprint on his mouth. The morning promised a sweet and beautiful calm, though he felt a strange heaviness in his body, probably just fatigue from his trip and yesterday’s little drama. But he was eager to go back to the office, to get back to the routine and put the weekend behind him. He turned to his side but surprisingly it took some effort. He felt a definite sluggishness, an unwillingness to open his eyes. Again, not particularly surprising after last night. He relaxed into his pillow and tried to think of words to describe how he’d felt as he’d waited in Kate’s cottage. Upset? No, bigger. Overwrought?

He humphed softly to himself. Be honest. Last night fear had cut him up and burned the pieces. But here was the morning light revealing all to be peaceful and ordinary, like discovering the devourer’s shadow to be cast by a mouse.

Again he made the effort to open his eyes, right, then left. He lifted his chin three inches to see the clock, 10:29 a.m. Ryoki’s eyes flew wide. Where was Kate, and why had no one awakened him? He leaped out of bed and abruptly sat back down, his forward motion arrested by the cramping in his stomach. He lay back on his side, letting the cramps gradually subside. Stomach ache, maybe an ulcer? Mind over matter, mind over matter. He rose again, more slowly this time, walking cautiously into the bathroom for a quick shower. Unfortunately, the feel of the water sliding down his body brought on a fresh wave of cramping, progressing into nausea. He jumped out of the shower and ran for the toilet where he stood dripping and retching, mostly dry heaving toward the end, all the misery of vomiting with none of the relief. He almost wished he’d eaten the night before, just to feel like he was getting somewhere.

He dressed himself, resting on his bed for a few minutes before he dialed Kate’s number. No answer. He dialed Arima’s direct line.

“I’m not going to be in today,” Ryoki said at once, no energy for opening pleasantries. “Will you attend my meeting with Browning? Kate can see to everything else when she arrives.”

“Porter-san called earlier. She cancelled your morning appointments. She said you’d be delayed and that she wouldn’t be in at all, the stomach flu apparently. Are you all right? You don’t sound like yourself,” Arima said.

“I haven’t seen Kate yet today,” Ryoki said, unwilling to admit he had the flu as well. Arima remained silent, perhaps drawing his own conclusions.

The day wore on, divided between the toilet and his bed. The housekeeper came to check on him now and then and Kate sent him an empty stainless steel bowl he thankfully never had to use, and a can of Coke with a glass. By evening he laid on his bed, sipping his Coke and reviewing his trip. Had any of those women looked sick? It was hard enough to tell in the dark, let alone remember. Why would anyone go dancing if they were sick? Nobody would, unless they hadn’t yet felt the effects. Kate must have brought it home in that huge suitcase.

Didn’t really matter who picked it up first; it was the kiss that passed it. Ryoki had once heard a group of men brag about their wild weekends, forcing themselves on women and suffering no consequences. He had listened with disgust and avoided their company afterwards. But now he wondered, how did they get away with it, when one measly, innocent peck had him worshiping the toilet like a holy alter?

About nine-thirty that night he fell into a heavy sleep and didn’t wake until morning. At 9:11 a.m. he opened his eyes. No cramping, no nausea. He swung his legs over the bed and stood. So far so good. He showered, dressed for the office, and sat on the bed for a moment, slowly leaning over until he lay on his side, a brief power nap, that’s all. At 11:45 he awoke and called the office, but Kate had beaten him to it, prepared them for his probable absence.

Ryoki changed out of his suit and into sweat pants and a T-shirt, as close to pajamas as he could get while still appearing to be dressed. He went to the dining room where he found Kate picking at her food and staring into space, also wearing sweats, her hair pulled into a simple ponytail. She looked sixteen and on the high school track team, except she was pale as a ghost. They could have been twins.

Ryoki coughed quietly, announcing his presence. She turned her head and smiled. “Hey,” she said.

Ryoki sat at the table. She didn’t ask what he wanted, just handed him a cup of fruit salad, mostly bananas, and a piece of toast, jam, no butter. “I’m sure you’re hungry, but don’t eat too heavily today. You’re still recovering. That means no butter.” Bossy mode. Sometimes she reminded him of his grandmother.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Are you going in today?” she asked.

“I think I’ll stay home.”

Kate nodded and went back to picking at her toast. “I’m sorry I gave you the flu. The little kid next to me threw up a couple of times. He was traveling alone and I thought he was just airsick. Then there was the trouble with the plane and everything, so I held him for a long time. It seems to be a pretty fast-acting bug. I started feeling low on the flight home. Miserable in the taxi.”

He gave her a consoling smile. No point getting mad. Nothing anybody could have done differently, except that kiss. You really can’t kiss Sleeping Beauty without getting ink on your lips.

“How was Rio?”

“Nice, beautiful,” he said. “Buenos Aires?”

“Beautiful.” She wiped the corners of her mouth and got up from the table, pushing in her chair. “How did that painting get chipped? It looks—”

“Meet anyone?” he asked.

“The men were really beautiful, everywhere I looked,” she said distractedly, her eyes on the painting. She puckered up and blew out air approximating a wolf call, though she couldn’t whistle a note. “I hope I can get back before I leave in December.” She turned to him, clenching her jaw to suppress a yawn. “I’m going home for a nap,” she said, walking out the door. The “going home” bit puzzled Ryoki until he remembered her cottage was a separate building—although that shouldn’t count, because from where they were his bedroom was probably farther away than hers.

He sat at the table contemplating his toast, scraping off the jam and slathering it with butter. But afterwards he couldn’t bear to look at the grease glistening in the sunlight and put it down, pushing his plate two inches away.

So she was still intending to leave in December.

Of course she was, had never indicated otherwise. Probably hadn’t looked sideways at a bridal magazine since the day of her divorce. He drew his knife through the globs of mango jam, making a pattern on the plate. Blackberry jam would be better; he should really ask Kate to order some.

Running to Rio had been a waste. Pure arrogance. As he drew lines and spirals in his jam, he thought hard and couldn’t come up with a single indication she’d ever even wanted him. Not a single come-hither glance, no sexy double entendres, no stammering blushes. Possibly she felt no attraction for Asian men, just as he felt no attraction for—he tried to think of a race in which every single female repelled him, but came up empty. Well, it may be she felt no attraction. Ryoki despised his own stupidity, almost hearing his father’s voice, “Driven by fear, you’ll never end up anywhere good.” Classic rookie mistake. He scraped all the mango jam into a line, wishing again for blackberry.

After lunch the next day, he was walking to his office when he caught sight of a colossal burst of flowers bobbing toward him on two kaki legs, one of those highly conspicuous, cleverly wired arrangements in which you could hide a young child, that generally grace lofty hotel lobbies. He noticed that every woman in the outer office slyly monitored the bouquet’s progress with ill-suppressed excitement, the hope that their prince charming had at last showed up with a glass slipper in his back pocket. The men all did double-takes, eyes wide, calculating the cost and wondering how bad it made them look. As the flowers jiggled ever closer, Ryoki’s neck began to itch. For him, surely not, what if they were? Embarrassing public displays, could be a couple of past amours, particular hallmark of She who Distributed Pink Boxers. Shouldn’t she be in London, or married, or possibly dead? Ryoki broke out in a sweat, waiting outside his office like a man facing a firing squad. But at the last second the flowers took a sharp left and toothpasted through Kate’s door with a scrapey swoosh, delicate flowers banging their heads on both sides of the doorframe, scattering petals on the floor. “Holy cow!” Kate yelled.