“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 roof’s 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 roof’s 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.
“Sōsakan-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, sōsakan-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, sōsakan-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, sōsakan-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, sōsakan-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, sōsakan-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, sōsakan-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 Ryōgoku 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 door, 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 Zōjō 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.
A disaster such as murder?
Sano’s gaze met Hirata’s in sudden, unspoken understanding as they both guessed why the Bundori Killer hadn’t arrived as expected. Together they dashed into the house to collect their possessions and load their horses for a midnight journey to Zōjō Temple.
16
Long after the Zōjō Temple bell ceased to toll, the Bundori Killer heard its relentless voice echoing in his mind as he sped down the dark country road toward the sanctuary of his lodgings.
No escape, the imaginary peals called. No escape!
Panting, he burst through the door of the secluded hut in an isolated village near the temple, then closed and latched the door. In the darkness, he threw his sword to the floor and tore off his bloodstained garments. Then he dived into bed. Terror gripped him like a great, nauseating sickness. Moaning, he thrashed under the quilts. This night, which should have been one of great triumph, had brought disaster.
Tonight he’d committed his fourth murder. With the confidence born of practice and a growing sense of invincibility, he’d expected it to be easier than the others, the satisfaction keener. He’d even dared the grave risk of leaving the trophy in the prominent place of honor that it deserved. But fate had conspired against him, and he’d made a mistake that could cost him his freedom, his life, and his chance to finish the mission he’d only begun. Tonight he’d left precious, dangerous evidence at the death scene.
The Bundori Killer drew his knees to his chest and balled his hands into fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. His clenched teeth clamped the tender flesh inside his mouth, drawing blood. He endured the pain as a punishment for his stupidity and cowardice—traits alien to Lord Oda, who had planned and executed his battles brilliantly, and feared nothing.
Far more serious than leaving evidence at Zōjō Temple was the fact that tonight someone had seen him, someone who could possibly identify him. If only he hadn’t returned to the temple again! He should have taken his earlier, unexpected difficulties as a warning against stubbornly adhering to his original plan. Now he must risk a different sort of murder, one he had no time to plan as meticulously as his others. Because he couldn’t allow the witness to live.
Yet tonight’s disaster wasn’t his only worry. The shogun’s sōsakan had strengthened security within Edo, making free movement through the city difficult. He’d discovered the eta’s murder, the supposedly “safe” one. Heedless of all threats, including the assassin the Bundori Killer had hired to free himself for carrying out the other, more important murders, Sano was uncovering dangerous secrets. The Bundori Killer could feel the net tightening around him.
Rest now, he exhorted himself; replenish your courage and energy for tomorrow’s battles. He shut his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. At last, the blessed heat of war lust burned away panic and dread; the beloved past came alive …
Summer, one hundred fifteen years ago. Nagashino Castle was under siege by the Takeda clan. Lord Oda’s gunners knelt in ranks before a nearby palisade. Ahead of them stood wings of foot soldiers and mounted fighters: bait for the Takeda. Behind the palisade, the Bundori Killer waited with the main army. One of Lord Oda’s top generals now, he commanded a regiment of crack troops. Although no one spoke or moved, he could sense the desire for victory consuming each and every man. The hoofbeats of the approaching Takeda army grew louder every moment. He felt no fear, only a passionate anticipation.
Then the Takeda burst upon them, engaging the decoy troops in fierce man-to-man battles. Impatiently the Bundori Killer listened to the shouts, the sword clashes, the horses’ stomps and whinnies. He braced himself for what must come next.
The battle raged nearer as the decoy troops retreated. The enemy troops stampeded the palisade. Suddenly the boom of gunfire rent the heavens. Now the enemy’s hoofbeats faltered; their cries changed to screams. The Takeda had fallen into the trap.
Another round of gunfire immediately echoed the first. More screams; thuds as men and their mounts fell dead. The Bundori Killer laughed in exultation. Lord Oda had ordered the gunners to fire in volleys when the enemy drew near, thus overcoming the arquebus’s inherent disadvantages—short range and long loading time—and ushering in a new era of warfare.
Now, from behind the ranks, the war trumpet blared. The Bundori Killer galloped out from behind the palisade amid the main fighting force. Yelling orders to his troops, he steered his mount and wielded his sword. Scores of enemy soldiers fell before him, adding to the carnage that littered the field. The gunners continued blasting the Takeda to eternity. By the time the Nagashino Castle garrison sallied out to attack the fleeing Takeda from the rear, he was hoarse from shouting and delirious with joy.
With his help, Lord Oda had vanquished the Takeda, his chief rivals. Now nothing stood between him and his goal of dominating the entire nation.
17
Zōjō Temple, founded as the Tokugawa family temple nearly a hundred years earlier, occupied a vast area of land in Shiba, south of the city proper. The domain of three thousand priests and their attendants, its halls, pagodas, tombs, dormitories, and gardens nestled among hills shrouded in dense pine forest.
As he and Hirata neared Zōjō Temple, Sano felt a sense of homecoming that the late hour and unusual circumstances of their visit didn’t diminish. Like other Edo citizens, he’d worshipped at the temple and attended ceremonies there. He’d also spent nine years of his life at the temple’s school for boys. He knew every stretch of this country road, and found himself checking off familiar landmarks. There was the Iigura Shinmei Shrine; here was the bend in the road. In a moment they would reach the bridge leading across the Sakuragawa Canal, and then Zōjō Temple’s main gate. As he rode, Sano dreaded what the temple might hold for him now—not the welcome of his boyhood friends and teachers, but another murder scene. Created by the killer he’d expected to catch tonight.
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They rounded the bend. Hirata, riding beside him, exclaimed, “Look!”
Flaming stone lanterns lit the towering, two-story main gate. Beyond this, more lanterns climbed the hill alongside steep steps leading to the temple’s main precinct. High above the road, the roofs of the temple’s monuments, illuminated by lights in the courtyards below, floated atop the forest like rafts on dark waves. The priests had lit the temple as if for some weird nocturnal festival.
But the reception Sano and Hirata received when they arrived at the gate was anything but festive. Three grim priests, dressed in flowing saffron robes and armed with spears, greeted them.
“The Bundori Killer has struck here, hasn’t he?” Sano asked the leader.
The priest only bowed and said, “His Holiness the abbot is expecting you, sōsakan-sama.” His words confirmed Sano’s fears, but he obviously had orders to let his superior do the talking. “If you’ll please wait here?”
One of the other priests took charge of the horses. The leader ushered Sano and Hirata into the dim gatehouse, where, under the watchful eyes of an enshrined Buddha, statues of Manjusri and Samantabhadra mounted on white elephants, and the sixteen apostles, they waited for the third priest to fetch the abbot.
Apprehension’s steel fist tightened within Sano’s stomach as he wondered how best to approach an inquiry centered on sacred ground to which he had strong emotional ties. In what seemed like no time at all, the door on the temple side of the gatehouse opened.
“His Holiness,” the messenger priest announced.
Down the torchlit path walked the abbot of Zōjō Temple, followed by a retinue of four priests. The abbot’s shaven head rose above those of his subordinates; the silk brocade stole of his exalted office glittered. Seeing him again evoked in Sano his childhood fear and awe of the man who had once represented the highest authority. Bowing deeply in respect, he fought the resurgence of those emotions. To display the awkward uncertainty of youth would jeopardize the investigation.
Bundori Page 16
