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understood why the executioner hadn’t bothered to make sure his target was dead. The shot had ripped into Tom’s chest from just a few feet away.
    There were no more surges of blood bubbling up now.
    Matthew realized that he had seen two people violently killed in less than twenty-four hours. And one was his long-time boyhood friend.
    Tom Bollgen.
     

Chapter Three
     

123 Miles South of Seattle, Washington. March 30, 1942
     
    Typical of the Army, the evacuation of the more than 200 Japanese residents from Bainbridge Island was handled with clock-like precision, and the ferry left at 11:20 that morning, as scheduled.
    Of course, Kumiko told whoever would listen that her eldest son was supposed to be on the ferry and that they should wait, but her pleadings for more time were ignored. The only young man to pay her any attention was an enlisted man named Gilley who had reported to his lieutenant that Matthew Kobata was missing. But he was informed that both the Army and local police were already aware of the fact and were looking for him. Private Gilley was also told that there was speculation that Kobata had crossed over to the mainland the night before and was on the run. Authorities in Seattle had been given his description and were also searching for him.
    Less than an hour after the ferry arrived in Seattle, all the Japanese were put on a train. By this time, Kumiko had finally resigned herself to the fact that Matthew was not going to be joining them. Now, as the train gathered speed, heading for a destination that remained unknown to the passengers, she studied Ido who sat across the aisle, by the window. All the window covers had been bolted down, not allowing them to see outside. Kumiko found it a bit nauseating to not be able to see out the windows and anticipate the train’s turns, but she didn’t dare complain, trying to keep her spirits elevated for her children’s sake. Her son, Daniel, sat next to his grandfather, neither of them speaking. Truth be told, they were both quite upset with the hand life had dealt them. Julia, on the other hand, sat next to her, her face glued to the tiny space between the window shutter and the sill, as she tried in vain to see something outside worth reporting.
    Looking over at Ido, Kumiko could tell from his slumped shoulders that he was once again desolate. This was because, though the soldiers had let Ido take Osco down to the dock, the cat was taken from him before he boarded the ferry. Although he did not say a word in rebuttal, she had seen a tear roll down his cheek that he didn’t bother to wipe away. Now she wondered if Osco would be properly returned to the neighbor girl so that they could hopefully retrieve it when they were allowed back home.

Bainbridge Island, Washington. March 30, 1942
     
    Detective Elroy Johnstone, 34 years old and a detective for six years now, had seen his share of corpses, and this one wasn’t all that remarkable. The deceased was middle-aged, portly, and balding, and Johnstone surmised that, when the man had been alive, he probably could’ve passed dozens of people daily and not one, if questioned later, would remember anything distinctive about him. Right now, of course, there were several things that made him quite striking. One, he had a knife lodged in his throat. His eyes and mouth were both wide open, as if he had been screaming when the knife was plunged into his neck. Although he would examine the weapon later, he couldn’t help but notice that the handle had a distinctive black and red swirl pattern. Two, the deceased wore no shirt, pants, or shoes. Just an undershirt, underwear, and calf-high cotton socks. But what was most startling to Johnstone was that the man was missing all of his fingertips on his left hand. He also noticed there wasn’t a wedding band on the deceased man’s ring finger, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married.
    As he knelt by the body, Johnstone held the man’s left wrist, carefully inspecting