As he opened the door and stepped down on to hard dirt, the vehicle swept up the short drive towards his plot. It came to a stop, its lights almost blinding him. Peterson placed a hand across his forehead, shielding the light off his glasses. ‘You kids think you’re coming in here shooting up the place again… I’ll whup your goddamn asses!’ For effect he wagged the length of pipe.
Beyond the first one, another vehicle pulled into his drive. From its size and blocky shape he could tell it was a van. The van pulled up alongside the car, that Peterson now recognised as an Oldsmobile: one of those station wagons with the wooden trim running the length of it. It was difficult to see beyond the glare of headlights but he thought that both vehicles carried a number of passengers. Suddenly Peterson didn’t feel so sure of himself any more. Had Michaela gone and told her family what he’d done and rounded up her brothers and cousins to teach him a lesson? Nah, that wasn’t it; the car and van were too nice to belong to trailer park scum.
‘Hey! This is private property and yous guys are trespassing. You best get away off my land, OK.’ Peterson didn’t like the high pitch of his voice, but there was nothing for it. He was frightened. This wasn’t right.
Doors came open in the station wagon and he saw four figures move behind the headlights. He was still trying to make them out when the doors of the van swung out and another two figures joined them. Another man was still in the driving seat of the van, and as Peterson lifted his club a second time the van began to roll back. As he watched, the driver completed a three-point turn, so that the back of the van faced him. The two that had climbed out went and opened the doors.
Peterson was confused. But he was no fool. He knew the shit had hit the fan and he was up to the neck in it. These weren’t kids out for a little drunken fun, these were grown men. He had caught glimpses of their faces, but they meant nothing to him. What the hell did they want from him?
‘Charles Henry Peterson.’
He heard his name called out and flinched from it. The words had sounded like condemnation.
‘What do you want with him?’ Again his voice was higher than he’d have liked. ‘You cops or something? If that’s the case, you’ve come to the wrong man. I haven’t done a goddamn thing.’
‘Are you Charles Henry Peterson?’
‘That depends what you want him for?’ He tried to make light of the situation. ‘If he owes you money, then, hell no.’
‘It’s him, all right.’
The four men from the car came forward. Peterson watched them. One of them was a big man like himself, the other three smaller. He glanced at the pipe in his hand, figuring his chances if he whacked the big one first. Then he saw the guns in their hands.
‘Drop the pipe,’ the big man said.
‘What the hell’s going on here? Tell me who you are and what you want.’
‘I want you to drop the pipe.’ The big man had an odd accent, a soft burr to it that Peterson didn’t recognise. ‘Otherwise I’ll shoot you in the gut and then take it away myself.’
‘Hey, take it easy, will you?’ Peterson was loath to give up his only weapon, but he didn’t think the man was bluffing. He let it fall and it thudded heavily on the hard-packed dirt.
‘Kick it away.’
Peterson toed the pipe away, taking things easy because his feet were bare.
‘Good,’ the big man went on. ‘Now walk to the back of the van.’
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Do what I said: walk to the van.’ The big man lifted the gun so it was aiming directly at Peterson’s face.
‘OK. OK. I’m going, you don’t have to wave that hawgleg in my face.’
The others had been silent until now, but Peterson heard whispers pass between the group. He daren’t look at the one force-marching him to the van, but he glanced back and forth, searching the others for any sign of pity. He didn’t find any.
He was still approaching the rear of the van when two of them moved close. They grabbed him by an arm apiece, forcing his wrists behind his back. A third one joined in, wrapping a heavy hemp rope around his wrists, pulling it so tightly that the rough fibres scored the flesh from him. Peterson yelled, finally building the courage to fight back, even though it was hopeless.
‘What the hell are you doing to me? Get off!’
‘We’re just going to take a little drive,’ a voice said by his ear — one of the men holding him. ‘Taking you somewhere that you haven’t been in a long, long time.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The big man grabbed him by his chin and twisted his head round. From this angle Peterson could now see into the rear of the station wagon. He could make out two more figures in the back, sitting on their knees in the luggage space. The two women stared back at him, and their gazes condemned him to hell. One of them he didn’t know, but the other..
A sack was forced down over his head.
‘You went along with the men, you and Rose?’
‘We had to. We were the only ones prepared to do so. The other wives did not wish to see what happened, happy only in that the rapist finally paid for what he had done.’
I scrubbed my hands through my hair, glanced once at the closed door and wondered what the hell Rink was doing. Partly I was glad he wasn’t hearing this, but another part wished he were there so I wouldn’t have to go over it again.
Rose Kurihara met Jed Newmark at the same dance hall where Yukiko met Andrew. Jed — another soldier on furlough from Korea — had fallen deeply for the pretty Japanese girl and had pursued her until she had accepted his hand in marriage. They had spent many happy years together, but of late the subject of babies had come up. They had tried to conceive but to no avail. They had watched Andrew and Yukiko have their first child — a girl — who sadly died shortly after birth, then a boy who had thrived, and now Yukiko was pregnant with their third. At first they believed that they were placing too much pressure on themselves to conceive, but then the subject of medical health had arisen. Tests showed that Rose was unable to bear children, the reason being scar tissue build-up from internal damage suffered years earlier. It had been a terrific blow to Jed, not only that he’d never be a father, but also that his beautiful wife had been violated as a child. Rose had been forced to tell the awful truth of what had been done to her by Charles Peterson all those years earlier.