Thus in 1867 the Meiji Restoration occurred. After more than two and a half centuries, the Tokugawa Shogunate fell, and calculating bureaucrats realized that they could benefit financially and politically from this amazing shift in power. Secluding, surrounding, and above all controlling the emperor and his attitudes, they embraced what they saw as the lucrative pronationalistic consequences of Commodore Perry's “black ships.” In the words of Masayoshi Hotta, who'd seen the future in 1857, four years after the “black ships” arrived:

I am therefore convinced that our policy should be to stake everything on the present opportunity, to conclude friendly alliances, to send ships to foreign countries everywhere and conduct trade, to copy the foreigners where they are at their best, and so repair our shortcomings, to foster our national strength and complete our armaments, and so gradually subject the foreigners to our influence until in the end all the countries of the world know the blessings of perfect tranquillity and our hegemony is acknowledged throughout the globe.

Shirai-attempting to change history-had been blind to it. Akira, though, had recognized the truth. As he'd told Savage en route to their destiny at Shirai's mountaintop retreat, “We can try to learn from history, but it's impossible to reverse its trend.” In other words, we move forward, Savage thought. Relentlessly. We can try to build on the past, but the present-a wedge between then and soon-makes all the difference, contributes new factors, guarantees that soon will be different from then.

We can never go back, he sadly concluded, recalling the innocent happiness of his youth and the night his father shot himself. But what does that say about ambition, hope, and especially love? Are they pointless, doomed to fail? Because the present emerges, is programmed by, but at a certain point is divorced from the past… and the future is by definition a change, controlled by unanticipated circumstances?

Jamais vu. Déjà vu.

False memory. Disinformation.

For months, I relived a past that wasn't true, he thought.

I then confronted a present that seemed to replay the past. But with a difference. Yes… Savage swallowed… Akira died. (Dear God, how much I miss him.) But his death was not an exact replication of my nightmare. He was…

Beheaded. Yes.

And his head struck the floor, rolled toward me, and blinked.

(How much I miss him.)

But before his body toppled, his lifeless hands gave me the sword.

It wasn't the same! It wasn't the past!

So maybe we can reverse, change, alter, correct what's behind us.

But in that case, the past was a lie. It never happened. It was all a damned trick played on our memory.

Isn't everything? Remember what you read in the book Dr. Santizo gave you. Memory isn't a year ago, a month ago, a day ago. It's a second ago, as the past becomes the present, about to change to the future. I'm trapped in my mind, in my momentary perceptions. The past can't be proved. The future's a mystery. I exist forever now. Until I'm dead.

So what about hope and love? What about Rachel? What about…?

Tomorrow? Will my dreams collapse, my hopes fall apart, my love dissolve?

I don't think so.

Because Rachel knows the truth. She's told me often enough.

Abraham believed.

By virtue of the absurd.

The alternative is unacceptable. As long as I act with good will-

– and I know there'll be pain, disasters-

– as long as I struggle forward-

– with good will-

– despite the disasters-

– despite the pain-

– with the help of God-

– by virtue of the absurd-

– I won't be fortune's hostage.

A COMPLICITY OF LIES

1

Now Savage's nightmare was twofold, a hideous double exposure, Akira being killed not once but twice, Kamichi dying twice as well. Sprawled paralyzed in a pool of blood, seeing Akira's severed skull, the melancholy, tear-beaded eyes blinking, Savage screamed and struggled upright.

But hands restrained him. A soothing voice reassured him. For a moment Savage wondered if he were back in the hotel in Philadelphia, where Akira had calmed him after Savage wakened screaming from his nightmare. Hope abruptly changed to fear, because Savage groggily realized that if he were still in Philadelphia, then the final disastrous confrontation with Shirai had not occurred. The present was the past, and the horror of the future had yet to be endured.

This terrifying murky thought made Savage want to scream once more. The gentle hands, the soothing voice, continued to reassure him. At once Savage recognized that the voice belonged to Rachel, that he sat weakly on a futon, that bandages encased his skull, that a cast weighed down his right arm, that tape bound his chest. He shuddered, recalling the hospital in Harrisburg, where he'd never been, the casts that had imprisoned his body, though his arms and legs had not been broken, the blond-haired doctor who'd never existed.

“You mustn't excite yourself,” Rachel said. “Don't move. Don't try to stand.” She eased him gently back onto the futon. “You have to rest.” She leaned down and kissed his beard-stubbled cheek. “You're safe. I promise I'll protect you. Try to stay quiet. Sleep.”

As the mist in Savage's mind began to clear, he realized the irony of the change in circumstance, Rachel protecting him. Though confused, he almost grinned. But his head felt as if a spike had been driven through it, and he closed his eyes in pain. “Where am I?”

“At Taro's,” Rachel said.

Surprised, Savage looked at her. He struggled to speak. “But how did…?”

“The two men who stayed with you when you followed Shirai brought you here.”

“I still don't… How…?”

“They say that you and Akira told them to wait at the bottom of the mountain while you went up to investigate.”

Savage nodded despite the pain in his head.

“Two hours later, they heard shots,” Rachel said. “Handguns. Automatic weapons. They claim it sounded like a war. Shortly after, two cars sped down the lane from the mountain and raced away.”

Savage inhaled, fighting to concentrate. “And then…?” His voice cracked.

“Save your strength. I'll do the talking. Are you thirsty? Would you like a-?”

“Yes,” he managed to say through parched, scabbed lips.

She set a glass of water beside his head and placed a bent straw between his lips. Weak, he sucked water over his dry swollen tongue. He had trouble swallowing but kept sucking the water.

She took the glass away. “You'll get sick if you drink too quickly.” She studied him, then continued. “The two men decided to investigate.”

Savage closed his eyes again.

“Are you sleepy? We can talk about this later.”

“No.” Savage breathed. “I want to… have to… know.”

“They assumed that the men in the cars had done the shooting, so because it would have taken them too long to go up the mountain on foot, Taro's students risked driving their motorcycles up the lane.”

With his good hand, Savage gestured weakly for her to keep going.

“Near the top, they hid their bikes and snuck through the forest,” Rachel said. “They found a huge building, or rather all kinds of different buildings weirdly joined together. It reminded me of the way you described the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.” She hesitated. “There were bodies all over the lawn.”

The memory made Savage grimace.

“Then the cars came back, and the two men hid. The men from the cars went into the building. Taro's students waited, then followed cautiously. They found more bodies.”

“Yes,” Savage said. “So many.” His nostrils flared, retaining the coppery stench of the blood. “Everywhere.”