by Bund
Spaced at wide intervals along the road, tiny shacks stood on stilts above the marshes. Sano stopped at one.
"We'll ask for directions," he told Hirata.
The marsh people eked out a meager living by collecting fish, shellfish, eels, frogs, and wild herbs to sell in the city. They would, out of necessity, range farther into the marshes than the lumbermen. In response to Sano's call, a weathered brown woman dressed in faded cotton kimono and headcloth came to the door. When asked about the house, she said, "I've heard about a hunting lodge that a rich samurai built a long time ago and doesn't use anymore. I've never seen it myself, but I think it's that way." She waved a hand in a vague gesture to the northeast.
Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Sano squinted into the distance, but saw only more marshes. "How far?"
"Oh, a few hours' walk."
Encouraged, Sano led Hirata off the main road and onto a narrow northeast-bound branch. This trail meandered, veered, and repeatedly doubled back on itself. The sun climbed higher in the sky. Noon came and went, and still they did not find the abandoned house. They passed no other travelers, and no other shacks where they could ask for directions. Sano grew increasingly worried. Would they reach their destination by the hour of the dog, when Aoi had said the killer would arrive?
"The house is out here somewhere," he said, as much to reassure himself as Hirata. "We should find it soon."
Doubt shadowed the young doshin's eyes, but he neither questioned nor complained. Sano was grateful for his tact. Grim and determined, they pushed on.
All too soon, the day began its inevitable decline. The sun dropped lower in the west. The fleecy white clouds turned first pink, then violet against a flame-orange sky. The grasses darkened to murky gray. Waterfowl ceased flight to clamor beside the ponds. Every tree held a twittering orchestra of birds. The air grew chill; a thin vapor that smelled of fish and rotting vegetation rose from the marshes. Soon it would be too dark to search anymore. Less than three hours remained before the killer's expected arrival at the house.
Then Sano spied a building in the distance to the north. "There!" He pointed. "Look!
With no time to waste on looking for a road to the house, they dismounted and plunged into the marsh, leading their horses. The shoulder-high grasses closed around them. Icy water soaked them to the knees; mud sucked at the horses' hooves. Small creatures fled at their approach. Striking a straight line toward their target soon proved impossible. Deep pools and impenetrable reed thickets constantly forced them to detour. Keeping the house in view grew increasingly difficult as the darkness deepened. Only one thought consoled Sano: following them secretly would be impossible for an assassin. At last, after an hour's tedious trudge, they emerged on solid ground, at the junction where two shallow, weed-choked ditches merged to form a wider one that meandered off into the distance. Perhaps two hundred paces beyond the junction rose the structure they'd seen.
"Come on," Sano said, freshly energetic in his eagerness.
He jumped a ditch and urged his horse across it. Leaving Hirata to follow, he mounted and rode the remaining distance. The ground, though as overgrown with grasses as the surrounding terrain, was higher and firmer here. As he neared the house, its features grew apparent.
The house was a minka, the sort of dwelling found throughout rural Japan. A crumbling earthen wall surrounded it, also enclosing a ruined barn. The house had three stories counting the attic, with a few tiny barred windows set into half-timbered, unplastered mud walls. Sano dismounted outside a gap in the wall where rough wooden pillars marked the place where a gate had once hung. He drew and expelled a long breath of recognition.
"See the roof," he said to Hirata, who'd caught up with him. "Doesn't it look like a samurai's helmet?"
Made of thick, shaggy thatch, the roof jutted out between the first and second levels in wings that resembled the side flaps on a warrior's helmet. From the second story, it ascended to a flat portion over the attic before tapering to a narrow point. Exposed beams on either side of the ridgepole crisscrossed, forming long projections like horns crowning a general's headgear. But the place looked deserted, with an aura of complete abandonment. Sano's inner sense told him that no one had made consistent use of the house in ages. He felt a momentary prick of doubt, which he dismissed.
Hirata cleared his throat and said, "Sumimasen. Forgive my forwardness in speaking, sosakan-sama. If the killer owns the house, the property records might tell us who he is."
Sano regarded his assistant with new respect. He'd guessed that the killer had simply taken over the old house, but Hirata's alternative made sense.
"That's a good idea," he said. "If we don't catch him tonight, we'll check the records when we get back to town." But he fervently hoped that they would, and that a long search wouldn't be necessary. "Now let's look around."
Tethering their horses inside the wall, they circled the property. At the house's rear, an overgrown trail ran west, probably to link up with a road leading toward the city. It bore no visible foot- or hoofprints or any other signs of travel. Around them, as far as Sano could see, stretched the marshes: a vast level spread of land, accented by occasional trees. The only sound was the wind rustling through the grasses.
"Let's go inside," Sano said, swallowing his misgivings.
From their saddlebags, they fetched candles and matches, then crossed a jagged flagstone path through an earthen courtyard that sprouted knee-high grass as the marshes slowly reclaimed it. The front door was unlocked, but the wooden planks had swollen in the damp climate, and opening it took their combined strength. Lighting their candles, they cautiously stepped inside the house.
The candle flames illuminated a single large room with earth floor and mud walls. Gaps between the ends of the ceiling's exposed beams admitted light and air. Walls, beams, and the rough pillars that supported the upper stories were blackened by smoke from past fires in the clay hearth that stood near one wall. The room was empty, almost as cold and damp as the outdoors, and showed no signs of recent occupation. Sano conjectured that the killer needed more than one hideaway, each near enough to a murder site for him to bring the head back, make the trophy, and take it to its final resting spot. Such a scheme bespoke the killer's intelligence and forethought. If this was the lair he meant to use for a murder in Honjo tonight, wouldn't he have prepared it better? Again Sano experienced doubts.
"Maybe he uses the upstairs." Hirata's voice echoed Sano's hope as he raised his candle to a ladder that ascended to a square opening in the ceiling.
Sano examined the ladder. Finding it sturdy, he climbed to the second story, holding his candle above him. At the top he found himself in a small empty room, probably a bedchamber, with a plank ceiling and floor, and one tiny window. A doorway in a wall of torn paper and broken wooden mullions led to more rooms.
Another ladder rose to the attic. Sano waited for Hirata to emerge through the hole.
"Search these rooms," he said. "I'll check the attic." A perverse reluctance kept him from assigning his subordinate the more hazardous, less promising task. By doing so, did he think he could ensure that they would find the evidence he sought? Shaking his head at his foolish attempt to manipulate fate, Sano mounted the second ladder. With his head and shoulders in the attic, he paused and lifted his candle, looking around the tent-shaped space.
On the attic floor, exposed wooden joists formed a neat pattern of intersecting strips. The ceiling sloped steeply upward to the roofs apex. From the thatch between the beams came sinister squeaks and rustlings: The roof was full of vermin. Gingerly Sano raised the rest of himself into the attic. He began to explore, testing the joists with each step before putting his whole weight on them.
Panning his candle from side to side, he saw a latticed vent window in the peak of the roofs far gable. Below this, a pile of objects lay on the floor. Restraining his eagerness, Sano carefully moved toward the pile.
Suddenly a loud squeal split the silence. A huge rat
dropped from the thatch and landed with a thump at Sano's feet.
He cried out in surprise and instinctively reached for his sword. But even as his mind dismissed the threat as insignificant, he made an involuntary jump backward. His feet left the joist. With a loud, splintering crack, they burst through the unreinforced ceiling of the room beneath. He was falling. In a desperate effort to save himself, Sano threw out his arms, experiencing a shattering jolt as his elbows caught on the joists that framed the hole he'd made.
"Sosakan-sama!" From below him, Sano heard Hirata's shout, and running footsteps. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
Braced on his arms, Sano hung with his upper half still in the attic, legs and feet dangling. He closed his eyes, gasping as panic subsided, feeling ridiculous.
"I'm all right," he called. "Just give me a boost up, will you?"
With Hirata pushing on his feet, Sano raised himself through the hole. He winced as the splintered boards scraped his already abraded legs. Inside the attic once again, he saw his candle, still lit, lying in a small bonfire of thatch. Sano hastily retrieved the candle and stamped out the fire. Then he said to Hirata, "I think I've found something. Go to the ladder and help me bring it down."
He walked carefully over to the pile he'd seen: two large hemp sacks containing hard, heavy objects, which he hauled to the ladder for Hirata to lower to the second level. Then he descended and gave Hirata his candle to hold while he upended the first sack.
Two square boards the length of his forearm clattered onto the floor, along with two sharp, flat-headed iron spikes long enough to penetrate a board and hold a human head severed at the neck.
"These are his. He's been here!" Sano could hardly contain his jubilance as he and Hirata exchanged grins. He wanted to shout for joy and dance around the room. Refraining from such an unseemly display of emotion, he said, "Let's see what else we have."
The second sack held a wooden bucket and toolbox. In the box Sano found a saw, an iron mallet, incense sticks, a sanding block, and a jar of rouge.
"His trophy-making equipment." Sano breathed.
Hirata cleared his throat. "I found something, too, sosakan-sama."
He led the way to the adjacent room. On the floor lay a blue and white cotton bedroll. The cloth looked too new, unfaded, and intact to have lain in the damp house for long. The Bundori Killer must have brought it recently, in anticipation of an upcoming murder.
"Good work," Sano complimented his assistant. Hirata's boyish smile flashed. "We'll take these things back to Edo as evidence. Now let's get ready for him."
They repacked the Bundori Killer's paraphernalia, and carried it downstairs. Then they went outside. Only a faint orange luminescence hazed the western horizon. Stars shone in the cobalt blue sky; the moon's waxing crescent soared amid them. The marsh winds carried a cold, bitter edge. Sano and Hirata brought the horses inside the house, both to shelter the animals and to prevent the killer's discovering them. Then they set up camp near the door and unpacked their provisions: mochi-hard, sticky cakes of compressed rice-pickled vegetables, dried fish, flasks of water. They ate ravenously by candlelight, sitting on the floor with heavy quilts draped over their padded garments to ward off the chill. Then Sano extinguished the candles and they settled down to await the Bundori Killer's arrival.
The silence was oppressive; the damp cold bone-numbing. To pass the time, and to satisfy his curiosity, Sano decided to get better acquainted with the young subordinate whose able, steadfast service had favorably impressed him.
"How long have you served on the police force?" he asked.
"Three years, sosakan-sama. Since my father, who held the position before me, retired."
So Hirata wasn't as inexperienced as Sano had assumed. Now he remembered an incident that had occurred during his own brief stint with the police department, although not in the district he'd commanded.
"Aren't you the doshin who broke up the gang that was extorting money from merchants in the Nihonbashi vegetable market?" he asked. The gang had beaten to death a man who had refused to pay, and eluded the police for months.
"Yes, sosakan-sama."
In the darkness, Sano couldn't see Hirata's expression. Nor could he detect in the young doshin's voice any hint of boasting. Even more curious, he said, "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Yes, of course." Now Hirata sounded resigned. "It's my duty. I was born to it." A pause. Then he blurted, "But if I had my choice, I'd rather serve you, sosakan-sama!"
This uncharacteristically bold declaration surprised Sano. Then he remembered their first meeting, when Hirata had told him he wouldn't be sorry for letting him assist with the investigation. "Because this assignment offers more chance for advancement, you mean?"
Hirata's quilt rustled. "Well, yes. But that's not the only reason." After another pause, he spoke hesitantly. "You may not know this, sosakan-sama, but the police force is not as it should be. Many of the other doshin take bribes in exchange for letting criminals go free. They let the rich escape punishment and send the poor to the executioner. They arrest innocent men just to close cases and improve their records. The law is corrupt, dishonorable. But you-you're different."
The hero worship in Hirata's voice disturbed Sano. Although he knew that in his new position he might eventually acquire personal retainers, he must, for Hirata's sake, discourage the young man's attachment to him.
"We've only worked together three days, Hirata," he said. "You don't know me at all."
"Forgive my presumptuousness, sosakan-sama!" There were more rustlings as Hirata bowed, even though they couldn't see each other. "But I know your reputation. You have the honor and integrity that others lack." Hirata's voice grew agitated. "Please. If I prove I'm worthy, let me devote my life to your service!"
Sano was not unmoved by Hirata's earnest plea. Such an expression of loyalty to one's superior evoked all the stern beauty of Bushido. Unfortunately, if they failed to catch the Bundori Killer, then Hirata, as Sano's retainer, would be punished along with him. Sano couldn't let this happen.
"Your offer is much appreciated, Hirata-san," Sano said as coldly and formally as he could. "But the shogun may have plans for me that can't include you." For fear that the ardent Hirata might decide to share his fate, good or bad, Sano didn't elaborate. "You shall consider our association temporary."
Hirata made no reply, but his disappointment and humiliation sharpened the silence. That Sano had prevented a future, greater injury to Hirata did not ease his guilt.
The new awkwardness between them precluded further conversation. Huddled under their quilts, they sat in silence, periodically rising to stretch their stiff muscles and peer outside. Time slowed. Sano's elation over the discovery of the house and its incriminating evidence faded as anticipation grew. When would the Bundori Killer come, and what would happen when he did? Would there be a quick capture, or a fight? Would he have to kill again? And was a second assassin lurking in the marshes, waiting to attack? Uncertainty made waiting an ordeal.
When nothing happened, uncertainty turned to doubt. Even allowing a generous margin of error in estimating the time, Sano was soon forced to conclude that the hour of the dog had passed. What if Aoi was wrong? What if the Bundori Killer didn't show up? He would have wasted one of the precious five days left to complete his assignment and achieve the everlasting honor that his father had desired. And what if he then failed to find General Fujiwara's descendants, or tie them to the murders?
The hours stretched to an eternity. Making perhaps his hundredth trip outside, Sano guessed from the position of the moon that it must be nearing midnight. For the killer to come here from Edo-as Aoi's vision of him crossing the Ryogoku Bridge had implied he would-he would have had to leave the city before the gates closed two hours ago. And with better knowledge of the marshes, he would have traveled more quickly than Sano and Hirata, and arrived by now.
A terrible sense of futility washed over Sano. The Bundori Killer wasn't coming. Sano stood outside the doo
r, arms folded against the cold, staring down the trail, as the bitter marsh wind tore away his last shred of hope. After a long while, he turned to go back inside, where at least now he and Hirata could build a fire so that warmth and sleep might speed the hours until dawn and their return to Edo.
Then he lifted his head in sudden confused alarm as a bell's deep, sonorous peals, coming from the city, boomed across the marshes.
Hirata came hurrying out of the house to stand beside him. "It's the Zojo Temple bell," he said. "But why would the priests ring it now?"
"I don't know," Sano said. The bells were sounded to mark Buddhist rituals that occurred at set times during the day or year. Only rarely did the priests depart from this schedule-to celebrate an unusual event, or to signal a fire, typhoon, earthquake, or other disaster.
