The Drowning God (12 page)

 

CHAPTER 23

T
akuda walked the corridors of the prefectural police department, probably for the last time.

Beige-­and-­gray or gray-­and-­beige, take your pick. I won't miss this.

He would be fired if he didn't take Mori to the bar district. So would Mori, unfortunately. Then again, if the bizarre forgetfulness that had stolen over his supervisor was any indication, they might keep drawing pay for months after they quit showing up.

As if I wanted anything extra. I just need to be sure Yumi is taken care of.

He found Mori camped out in a darkened conference room. “Hey, Officer, I'm cutting you loose. Thanks for everything you've done.”

Mori stared at his computer. “I have something to tell you.”

“Forget it. You're back on the regular duty roster.”

Mori looked up sharply. “Have you already done it? Am I already back on the roster?”

“No, but it's all over. Not only have they designated the cave an archaeological site, they've washed it clean. Sluiced it out and collapsed it. There was a release at the upper dam.”

Mori's face clouded.

Takuda continued. “They're calling it an accident. It might be worth trying to retrieve remains from the river and the canals. Perhaps there's something to salvage . . .”

The officer barked laughter. “There's nothing to salvage. Those remains are already ashes in the bottom of a kiln, but that's not the end of our work in the Naga River valley. I know whose bones they are.”

Takuda sat across the conference table from Mori.

“I also know how the good ­people of that valley covered up the murders of their neighbors,” Mori said.

Takuda felt suddenly sick to his stomach.
Why nauseated now? This is what I've wanted to know all along, isn't it?
“Tell me, Officer.”

“I can show you.” Mori presented a sheet of paper.

It was a copy of a family registry faxed from Hyogo prefecture. It was an old registry, and there hadn't been births, deaths, or marriages recorded in almost thirty years. Otherwise, there was nothing unusual about it, just the record of the marriage and births of two sons to Kamekichi and Junko Kuma . . .

Kuma.
Takuda looked at the sons' birth dates. There was Tadanori Kuma, with a birth date less than a month after Takuda's own.

Little Bear, with your overbearing mother and your tears and you chopstick-­thin arms. So that's where you ended up.

Mori said, “Tadanori Kuma and his whole family were murdered when you were a boy. Probably dragged out of their farmhouse in the middle of the night. They died in the canals if I'm right, but their bodies went down that hole under the shrine among the bones and the rotting bodies of their neighbors.”

Takuda stared at the fax without really seeing it.
Little Bear didn't deserve such a death.
No one deserves such a death.
“How did you find this?”

“Sergeant Kuma gave me the time frame for Little Bear's disappearance. I searched newspapers on microfilm for disasters around that time. In the same month, I found a massive landslide in Hyogo prefecture, in the middle of nowhere. I called the county office and asked for the Kuma family register, probably in the ‘dead' register file, meaning there was no address registry associated with it. They faxed me this twenty minutes later.” He pushed up his glasses. “I used your name, by the way.”

The fax was shaking in Takuda's hand. When he focused on it, he noticed that the registry was a transferred document, not from Oku Village but from Osaka. “They didn't live in Osaka.”

Mori smiled without mirth. “That's the clever thing here. The copy on file with our prefecture says the Kuma family moved to Osaka. Hyogo prefecture thinks they moved from Osaka, but who knows? If anyone asks Osaka, Osaka has never heard of them.”

Takuda said, “And you asked Osaka.”

“All twenty-­four wards, just to be sure.”

Takuda sat back. “Why fake a broken paper trail from Oku Village? That's stupid. That's a waste of time.”

Mori nodded. “Unless you're trying to protect your fellow villagers.”

Takuda said, “Officer, do you have a name? Can you give me a name?”

Mori was very still as he spoke. “To make this seamless, the village office had to retype the appropriate pages and reapply personal seals. But if they murdered these families, using their personal seals one more time was no big deal—­then they probably tossed them into the fire with their clothing. Ivory seals would go up like wood, and even the hardest stone seals would chip and break up in a kiln . . .”

“Officer, you've been working on this alone for too long.”

Mori looked at Takuda with quiet rage. “You have no idea. Look at the names, all the vital information here. All retyped on an old Zenkoku Q–35 typewriter. It's unmistakable.”

Takuda examined the sheet. “The Q–35 was a three-­thousand-­key nightmare. That's not casual labor. The head clerk at the village was probably the only one who could work that old clutch-­control beast.”

Mori exhaled in a stuttering way. It was something like laughter. “There was a steep learning curve with the old clutch-­control typewriters, yes.”

“Well, we might be able to find that head clerk.”

“It should be easy. You were standing out in front of his house the other day.”

“Gotoh!”

“Gotoh.”

She has to pray twice as hard to make up for her husband.
Finally, Takuda understood his mother's words about Miyoko Gotoh, far too late to help his family or himself. His mother had known. Suzuki had known. Even Mori—­

“Officer, you didn't pull this together overnight.”

“No, I didn't,” he said. “I've been working on this since the disappearance of my sister, Yoshiko.”

Takuda gathered himself and stood. “Well, now I understand your interest in the Naga River valley. I also understand your interest in me and my history.”

Mori frowned. “Detective, there's a lot more to it than you seem to understand.”

“Well, no matter. We can make sure no one ever loses another little sister to that valley. Let's go see the Gotohs.”

Mori looked at him in surprise. “It's not that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

Mori closed his laptop. “There's more. There's much more. The priest has a great deal to tell us. He's meeting us downtown in twenty minutes.”

S
unshine poured into the community center practice hall through mezzanine windows. Suzuki stood in the center of the room waiting for Takuda and Mori. He looked like a traveler from a fairy tale with his priestly robes and embroidered rucksack, but he grinned like a teenager as they approached.

“We're sorry to make you wait, Reverend,” Takuda said as he bowed. “We hope this is a good place to meet.”

“It's perfect, Detective.” Suzuki unslung his rucksack. “There are a few things I need to show you in the light of day, and we might need a little elbow room.”

“Show us later,” Mori said. “You're the only one who'll tell us anything about the cult and the Farmers' Co-­op.”

“Officer, the cult is dead, even though the Co-­op survives. If there were any former cult members among the worshippers at my temple, I couldn't tell you anyway. I'm sorry.”

Mori frowned. “Then give us names of cult members who weren't members of your temple.”

Suzuki smiled. “I wish it were so simple.”

Takuda nodded. “It's a sacred trust, isn't it? I understand your position.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“Now, Priest, you must understand this,” Takuda said. “The cult murdered for decades, and someone is still killing. You saw the bones, and you saw the dead American. If we don't get to the bottom of it, the killings may continue.” He put away his pen and notebook. He had pulled them out of his jacket pocket specifically to put them away when the time came, just to show Suzuki that everything was off the record.

Suzuki grinned about the pen-­and-­notebook trick. He sat on the straw matting and gestured for them to join him.

Takuda sighed and sank to the matting. “Give us names from the Farmers' Co-­op. The core members. The ones responsible. You must know. I'm sure your father knew.”

Officer Mori sat with his hands on his thighs. He seemed resigned to letting Takuda and Suzuki resolve the nonsense so he could get to work.

Suzuki smiled. “Very well. First, I have gifts for you. Then I'll give you the name of one man who quit the Farmers' Co-­op when he became bedridden.”

Suzuki pulled three swords from his rucksack. Their scabbards were wrapped in lengths of silk.

“These are part of my temple's history, but they are private property, my property. I can do with them whatever I please.” He laid them on the mats. “Three minor warriors of the Kuroda clan of Chikuzen were lost on a pilgrimage to Sado Island, and their horses drowned in Naga River valley. They barely escaped with their lives. They donated these swords to the temple to fight the evil in the river. This was long after the days of the warrior-­monks, but it was a fine gift anyway.

“There are three of them, a matched set. It was unusual for blades so different to be made as a matched set for three men, but men of the Kuroda clan practiced various styles. This kind of sword, for example, is sometimes called a ‘laundry-­pole sword.' It's uniquely suited for a modern swordsman of unusual height. Someone my height, for example.”

The sword was lean and streamlined as if for flight. It was almost ridiculously long. The scalloped pattern along the cutting edge was very narrow, showing that the blade was tempered for maximum flexibility, not hardness. He set it aside, unsheathed, before he took up the next scabbard.

Mori glanced at Takuda. The officer was clearly not pleased about the naked blade lying on the straw matting.

Suzuki seemed oblivious. “This one, the smallest one, is better suited to a more modern duelist.” Suzuki drew the sword and rested the spine of the blade on his thumbnail. That allowed him to show the blade without smudging it. He then carefully removed his hand from the hilt. The blade balanced on his thumbnail.

Takuda and Mori leapt to their feet and stepped back. This was a foolish way to handle a true sword, but Suzuki seemed pleased with himself.

“It's the closest thing to a perfect blade that I've ever seen. It was designed for precision, finesse. A younger man, someone of slighter build, might put it to good use. It would be almost dainty in the hands of a man like you, Detective.”

He grasped the sword properly, sheathed it, and passed it to Mori. Mori accepted it with obvious surprise, but Takuda noticed that he handled it with familiarity. This was not his first sword.

Suzuki stood. “This one suits you nicely, Detective.” He bowed and passed the third sword to Takuda.

The scabbard was heavier and plainer than the other two. The sword itself was a brutal caricature of a classical Japanese weapon. The blade was two-­thirds the width of Takuda's palm. The scalloped tempering pattern went from the cutting edge almost halfway to the blood groove. It was a hard tempering, almost mirror bright. The maker had carefully sacrificed flexibility for sheer cutting strength. The sword was not a work of beauty. It was a grim and merciless instrument designed for a single purpose: hacking through armor, flesh, and bone.

“It does suit you,” Mori said.

“As if it were made for him,” Suzuki answered.

Takuda grasped the hilt properly, and even though it felt
right
, even though it seemed to close a circuit so that even more power flowed through his hands, a wave of sadness washed over him.

The sword didn't suit what he wanted to be, but it suited what he was becoming.

Has it come to this? Is there no other way?

“These are gifts to you,” Suzuki said. He casually rested the unsheathed laundry-­pole blade on his shoulder. Takuda and Mori stepped back again. Takuda thought Suzuki might cut off his own ear.

“I'll give you the paperwork as well. The hilts, guards, and scabbards are more modern. They're almost worthless. The blades, though, are perfect, as you can see.”

Takuda said, “Reverend, these are gifts worthy of heads of state. These swords are unique masterpieces. We can't accept these.”

Suzuki shrugged, a frightening action from a man with a razor-­sharp blade centimeters from his unprotected throat. “The temple is bankrupt, and I'm the last priest of my sect. These are just a few of the treasures I'll have to liquidate. Besides,” he said, “these swords seem to belong with you. I have the feeling something good will come of this. Don't you?”

 

CHAPTER 24

T
akuda, Mori, and Suzuki had the coffeehouse to themselves. Suzuki's robes and Mori's uniform couldn't dispel the charged air around the three; the room had fallen silent as they entered. The customers had drifted out one by one, and the manager had quietly disappeared after serving their coffee. Gangsters flashing their tattoos seldom emptied rooms so efficiently.

Suzuki toyed with an udder-­shaped creamer. “I'm sure you've seen and heard disturbing things. The gangsters, the prostitutes, the drug users, the murderers—­I can only imagine. I don't know how you do it, you and men like you who face such suffering in your daily routines. Even I have seen and heard things in the course of my work that raise the gooseflesh as I think about them, right here in the sunlight.”

Takuda thought of Ogawa. “I've had gooseflesh once or twice, Priest. Where are you going with this?”

Suzuki's smile didn't fade, but his gaze drifted to the creamer. “As policemen, you deal with suffering caused when ­people break the laws of Japan. In my work, I deal with suffering caused by transgressions against Universal Law. You meet sufferers while their pain and delusion still drives them to destroy the lives of others, and that is very sad. On the other hand, I meet these ­people when their suffering finally drives them to Buddhism. It's a joyous day.”

Mori slurped his coffee.

“Let me read you something.” Suzuki pulled out a sheet of yellowed onionskin paper. “This is my father's adaptation of the second scroll in our sect's legacy. He was taking his own fully annotated version to the publisher when he left the temple that day.” As an aside to Mori: “He was drowned, of course. They found his robes caught on a canal gate, but he was gone, as was his manuscript. He is still officially listed as a missing person.”

“I'm sure you eased his pain with prayer at the cave,” Mori said.

Suzuki bowed briefly before reading from his father's adaptation:

“As swift spring waters sweep away debris choking the rivers and streams, so let truth thunder downward from Eagle Peak Temple to sweep away lies spread by practitioners of unclean ritual.

“It has been said that Kappa are charmed monkeys. This is superstition. It has been said that they are stillborn babies cast into flowing water. This is superstition. It has been said that they are servants of the heavenly Dragon King, the harbinger of all rains and of all waters, whose daughter achieved enlightenment in her earthly form as related in the ‘Meeting in the Air' chapter of the
Lotus Sutra
, but this is a lie designed to confuse the faithful. There is no connection between the Kappa and any part of our venerated Buddhist liturgy.

“Kappa are the damned apprentice priests who traveled to Xi'an to study Buddhism, who fell under the influence of Chinese pagans, who forsook the light of Buddhism and attempted to learn secrets of eternal life, and who, for their blasphemies, must live eternally as Kappa, trapped between the worlds of men, the worlds of beasts, and the worlds of Hell . . .”

Mori cleared his throat. Suzuki looked up from the paper. “Ah . . . I can skip a few pages . . . ah. Here we go:

“There is much disagreement as to the shape-­shifting abilities of Kappa. It was long believed that they could only appear as beautiful women, young boys, or apprentice priests. In human form, they speak a corrupted form of an ancient tongue made comprehensible to men through magic, but they seem unable to read or write. Much has been said of what Kappa do with their victims. The
yamawaro
, or mountain Kappa, is so adept at hiding its victims that they are often never found. The claw marks—­” Suzuki's voice trailed off. He folded the paper. “There's really nothing else here we didn't know.”

They sat silently. Finally, Takuda said, “Is that it?”

Mori said, “You have one more treasure in your rucksack, don't you?”

Suzuki frowned at Mori and drew a small cedar box from his rucksack. He lifted the top to reveal a stained silken bag. A familiar fishy stench cut through the aroma of the cedar box itself.

“This is the newest treasure at my temple, and probably the last.” He reached into the bag with disposable chopsticks and drew out a desiccated talon.

“A boy visiting the Naga River valley once managed to cut a finger from the Kappa, and he donated it to the temple.” He turned the grisly relic under the light. “He actually slipped it to my father when no one was looking. A biologist from the city said that it was a human finger, despite the length and slenderness of the bones. She said the discoloration of the skin and the extreme thickening and vertical ridges of the nail indicated that it was from an elderly subject with thickening of the cuticle due to bacterial or fungal infection.”

“That's not a human finger,” Mori said. Suzuki nodded in agreement. They looked at Takuda.

“What do you want me to say? You're telling me a mythological creature is doing the killing?”

Mori said, “Yes, that's it.”

“So next we're going to chase shape-­shifting foxes and enchanted raccoon-­dogs?”

Suzuki looked exasperated. “Detective, it explains why it went on for so long and why they kept it all secret. It also explains how the Kappa's caretakers messed it up. They got too old, and a newcomer tried to grab a local girl.”

Takuda looked between them. They were dead serious. “Right then, Priest, gather your things. We're going to point that dried-­up old finger at a man named Gotoh.”

“Gotoh?” Suzuki looked confused. “You already knew, then.”

“That Gotoh was in the cult? Yes, Officer Mori's work made clear Gotoh was helping to cover up the disappearances.”

Suzuki slipped the finger back into the bag. “Detective, I don't know how showing this finger to a retired village clerk would help. I just showed it to you to point out that the creature can be hurt.”

“Let's not get too in love with this idea of a creature,” Takuda said. “If the cultists believe in it, it might be useful. Maybe the Gotohs can tell us what to do about it.”

“We know what to do about it,” Suzuki said.

“No, we don't,” Mori said. “That finger lived for a week after it was cut off. If you put it in water right now, it would be full and fleshy again in an instant, and it would claw your eyes out, if it could find them. We don't know how to kill something like that.”

Suzuki stood. “Now I understand! The boy who cut off the Kappa's finger was not from the valley. He was from the city. His name was . . .”

“Mori,” the officer said. He stood and bowed as if introducing himself for the first time. “I was looking for my sister Yoshiko. I finally found her bicycle abandoned at the spur line station, the old line that led into the valley through a tunnel under Eagle Peak. I think her bones ended up in that cave, probably a ­couple of layers down.”

Takuda and Mori regarded each other silently. Mori was expressionless.

“Officer,” Takuda said. “You knew about me all along. You knew before you met me.”

“Yes, I knew. Now it's time to finish my work in the Naga River valley. Our work.”

“So,” Suzuki said, “we three are chosen, brought together by forces beyond . . .”

“You're not done in the valley, either, but we can't just drive you there,” Mori said to Takuda. “They'll be waiting for you. That's what the superintendent was trying to tell you.”

“So how will I get in?”

Mori looked pained. “It's not simple. I can get in just by giving the priest a ride home. I can explain that, even if they've set up a checkpoint at the top of the straightaway, and then I'll just go down into the valley instead of crossing the dam. You, on the other hand, wouldn't get that far.”

“So how will I get in?”

“We can put you in the trunk,” Suzuki said. “It would be a little crowded—­” His words trailed off into silence under Takuda's stare.

Takuda looked down. He hadn't meant to glare at Suzuki. “Excuse me, Priest. I'm not going anywhere in the trunk of a car. I'd fight my way in before I would let myself be smuggled into the valley of my birth.” He smiled. “I hope you understand.”

“There's another way in,” Mori said.

They turned to him.

“It's an abandoned railroad tunnel.”

Takuda nodded. “The old spur line. I've seen the mouth on the mountain side of the west branch canal. You'll already be in the valley, so I'll just call when I get out of the tunnel. It's perfect.”

“Yes, perfect,” Mori said. He looked thoughtful.

Suzuki leaned forward. “What's wrong with perfect?”

Mori grimaced at him. “Just take the sword with you, anyway,” he told Takuda. “It was dark and cold when I was a boy, and somehow I think it will be even darker and colder now.”