That was as much as Kotaro had heard before he lost his struggle with nausea and dashed into the outhouse.
There was no doubt. The spoor was clear and unmistakable. This time, what he saw did burn itself into his retina.
It was the nursery school all over again—black slime filled with wriggling black maggots. But here the slime had arms and legs, a torso and a head. It was an effigy of the killer himself, the dregs of his thoughts left behind in words, like fingerprints or footprints. But the writhing maggots made the effigy undulate sickeningly.
Like Makoto’s giant, the effigy was faceless. Kotaro couldn’t tell which way it was facing, which was a small blessing. If the thing had made eye contact, he wasn’t certain he could’ve kept his sanity.
The killer had left a ferociously malevolent darkness. The effigy made no sound. Kotaro heard no voices. Like the words he saw at the nursery school, the traces here were fragmentary, but the stench of defilement and sexual frenzy was overpowering.
Kotaro recalled the snakelike appendage dangling from the effigy’s crotch and was overcome by another storm of nausea. Trembling violently, he threw up everything he’d eaten since morning. When his stomach was empty, he tried to disgorge that as well.
“Should I phone for an ambulance?” The attendant rubbed Kotaro’s back gingerly.
“No. I’m okay,” he answered in a half gurgle.
“Are you, like, somebody who can see ghosts and stuff? Some people can. There’s this girl that cries every time she comes round here. She says she saw a naked lady with a white face and a rope around her neck outside the restroom.”
Kotaro flushed the toilet and stood up. “I’m not that type.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I knew the victim. I just wanted to stop by and say a prayer.”
“Really? Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. Hey, why don’t you come inside?”
They went into the office and the attendant handed him a moist towel. He had dyed red hair and a pierced ear—the picture of a delinquent, but he came across as a pretty nice guy.
“Thanks,” Kotaro said. “Sorry to put you out. I’m not even a customer.”
“Oh, it’s all right. We practically don’t have any customers anyway. I mean, since the thing happened.”
“So you get mostly people who are curious?”
“I hear things were crazy right afterwards. These days it’s people like yourself, who knew her or who’re from around here. They leave flowers sometimes. There’s the reporters, you know, and the TV people. There was even a big table out there for the flowers and candles. But the boss said it wasn’t a good idea to have something like that around forever. So they got rid of it last week. I’m sure her spirit’s gone to its reward by now.”
Kotaro felt a sudden surge of affection for this openhearted stranger. “Have you worked here long?”
“Me? Oh, no. Started last week. Miyata and the boss, they keep getting called down to the station. They’re too busy to take care of business.” He laughed. “Course, we got no customers, so it doesn’t really matter. But they need somebody to keep an eye on the place. That’s me.”
“The ‘boss’—is that the owner?”
“Yep. Then there’s Miyata. He’s part time, but he says he’s been pumping gas here ten years.”
“The police are still talking to them? It’s been a while since the murder.”
“They’re not suspects. They go down and look at photos. Most people pay cash here, but sometimes they use a card. We got a security camera too, ’cept the pictures aren’t real clear.” He pointed to the ceiling.
“This will sound kind of strange,” Kotaro said, “but does either your boss or Miyata have young children?”
The attendant shook his head. His oversize earring glinted in the late morning sunlight. “Miyata’s single. The boss has a son, but he’s my age. We went to high school together. Well, for a year, anyway. Before I dropped out.”
“I see. So that’s why you’re working here.”
“Yeah. They asked me. Said I oughta work for ’em and keep an eye on the place if I didn’t have anything better to do.”
The owner and his part-time employee have nothing to do with the nursery school, then.
The slime at the school was on the inside of the door. Whoever left it there had some connection with the school—someone who worked there, family to one of the children, or maybe someone who would be in and out, handling deliveries or maintenance. In any case, some kind of insider. The owner and Miyata and this good-natured attendant were clean.
“You got good manners,” the attendant said. His tone was utterly sincere. “You must be from a good family. Or are you with one of those religious groups?”
“Do you get religious people here too?”
“Yeah. They come to pray.”
People were still looking for closure. The crime was horrendous, but there were no prospects of an arrest. Just rumors, with no clues to what was true or false.
“The Serial Amputator. You think they coulda thought up a better name,” the attendant said. “What he does is a lot worse than slicing off a toe or two.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, thanks. Sorry to trouble you.”
“Aw, it’s okay.”
Kotaro went around the back of the building on his way out. From there he could see the entrance to the restroom. He closed his right eye.
The effigy was real, but did not exist. Its head bobbed gently from side to side, but the wind wouldn’t know it was there.
It looks like it’s humming a tune.
Kotaro’s stomach started to rebel again. His left retina was hot with anger.
As he turned the corner of the building, he saw the attendant carrying a broom and dustpan. He started sweeping up around the pumps. Kotaro hurriedly opened his right eye, but not before he’d caught a glimpse of the man with his left.
The attendant’s Shadow was hazy and half-transparent, but it was no giant, and nothing like a body bag or a mass of slime. It was light and diaphanous. Neither his words nor his thoughts had much weight. But he’d been kind. Even if he was a fool, he was still a good guy.
Whoever had strangled Saeko Komiya, cut off her right leg at the knee, brought her body here, and dumped it in the restroom, was the antithesis of this attendant. The killer would present as a normal, well-socialized adult. No one at Blossom School would think him out of place.
But he was inhuman.
Galla? Can you trace him?
Silence.
Galla? Please answer.
A silver thread crossed his eye. That is no ordinary spoor. It is excrement.
What does that mean?
The doll is the killer’s discharge, she explained.
Silence. The end of the silver thread fluttered.
To say it in a way you will understand—he gained release.
After strangling, mutilating, and dumping the corpse of Saeko Komiya, the killer had gone outside and shut the door. In that instant, he gained release. Whatever emotion it was he’d felt toward his victim—hate, anger, lust—had left him. Yes, the doll was his discharge.
That is why the spoor is clear at that place. But the link between doll and killer is severed. The doll is no longer part of his word body.
Are you saying you can’t trace him? he asked.
I cannot. But if the one you seek is close, you shall know him.
Like comparing fingerprints. Or DNA.
Kotaro walked a few minutes down the road to a restaurant built over a parking lot. It was the middle of a weekday and the lot was nearly empty. He leaned against a pillar and tried to calm his breathing as he called Shigenori. The ex-detective picked up instantly.
“Where are you right now?” Kotaro asked.
> “Haneda Airport.”
Right. He’s off to Tomakomai. “Do you remember the restroom where the Totsuka victim was found?”
“Unisex, one room. The manager has the key.”
“Yeah. Would it be simple to copy a key like that? I saw something on TV where they had this key, made an impression in soap or clay, and took it to a locksmith.”
“You could do that. But you’d have to have a solid cover story. Otherwise no legitimate locksmith would help you.”
“I think the person who killed Saeko Komiya was someone who could come up with a story that would convince any locksmith.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because whoever did it has some connection with the school her son went to.”
Shigenori was silent. Kotaro could hear announcements coming over the PA system.
“What did you see?” he asked finally.
“I can’t talk about it now. I’d probably barf again.”
“Barf?” Shigenori’s voice was high-pitched with surprise. “Then you’d better step away. I’ll handle it.”
“Is it hard to do a stakeout?”
“It’s impossible for an amateur. What did you see? What’s Galla’s take?”
“Listen to the announcements, detective. You wouldn’t want to miss your flight. Travel safely.” Kotaro hung up. Shigenori didn’t call back.
He squatted at the base of the pillar. His visit to the gas station had left him worn out.
If the killer was connected to the nursery school, he was probably familiar with the victim. If he was a parent of one of the children, he might’ve been good friends with Komiya. It would’ve been natural to approach her as she was heading home. Something like, I’m on the way there myself. Can I give you a lift?
The door opens. The victim gets in the car without the slightest sense of danger.
Kotaro remembered what Shigenori told him: that it had to have happened that way. It would be nigh impossible to forcibly abduct a young woman on a crowded street without drawing attention.
Had whoever picked her up committed the other murders?
Could someone unthreatening enough to pick up Saeko Komiya, abduct her, and murder her be traveling around Japan committing serial murder?
Kotaro shook his head and set that doubt aside. Right now the most important thing was to get close to the killer. Staking out the school seemed the best way to go; there was no telling when he might show up—
Wait a minute. What about the website? Kotaro pulled out his laptop and ran a search. Blossom School’s site was colorful, framed by adorable illustrations. There was a photo of the director, a middle-aged woman, over a paragraph of text titled “Blossom School: History and Spirit.”
Kotaro paged through the site. This Week’s Activities. Parents Circle. Event Calendar. Gallery. Security was tight as a drum. Users needed two PIN codes and their child’s ID number to log in.
If he could get behind the firewall, he could use the Eye to read the messages posted by parents and staff. It would be far more efficient than hanging around for hours or days outside the school, not knowing if the killer would even show up.
I’m an idiot, he thought, and hit himself lightly with his fist. I’m supposed to be this web professional, but it’s such a pose. This is way beyond me.
He didn’t have the chops to hack into anyone’s website. Even if he made a crash effort to pick up the skills, he’d need someone to guide him. That could get sticky.
He got to his feet and set off for the station, walking faster as he went. It was like Shigenori’s comment about locksmiths: he’d have to have a believable cover story, otherwise no one in Kumar would help him hack a site like that.
He bought a ticket from the machine at Totsuka Station and was walking through the concourse toward the Yokosuka Line platform when his phone buzzed. It was a voice call from Kaname.
“Hello?”
“Ko-chan? Oh, you’re someplace noisy. Are you in a station?” Her voice sounded strange. Dark. “Can you find someplace quiet? This won’t take long.”
“Do we have to talk right now?”
“Yes. I have to get this off my mind.” She sounded upset. Kotaro could picture her pouting. “I didn’t send you a mail because I don’t want to leave a record. It took courage for me to call you, Ko-chan. Just listen. I’ll only tell you once. I’m mad at you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“Sending me a mail like that. Asking me about Makoto. Saying you were worried about him,” Kaname said. “Did someone say something? Did you hear something? I know you. You’re not the type to ask about stuff like that unless someone gave you the idea.”
Kotaro moved anxiously to the edge of the concourse, away from the crowds.
“Listen, Kaname. I was worried about him, okay? I’ve never seen him look like that.”
“Is that the only reason?”
No, that’s not all. I got this magic eye from a demon named Galla, and I saw Makoto walking around with a giant full of black insects.
Kotaro didn’t answer. Kaname was silent too. Finally she sighed.
“Okay. I guess I have to tell you, otherwise I’d be hiding something. I don’t like that either.”
There are lots of things you don’t like, eh Kaname?
“You know Makoto is a really nice kid,” she said.
He’s a year younger than you. Does that make him a kid?
“But he wasn’t always like that,” she added.
“When are you talking about? When wasn’t he like what?”
“He told me he’s been a code jockey since middle school, maybe eighth or ninth grade. Like, almost a genius. And for a while he used his skills for stuff he’s not proud of now. Defacing people’s sites, hacking, things like that. He broke into a government website and uploaded nasty pictures. Another time he stole a client list from a health food company and published it.” Kaname’s voice tightened with fury. “He used to go into celebrity blogs, blogs by artists, famous people, and change their entries! Then he’d comment on the entry he changed and try to get people to fight about it! He thought it was hilarious. He couldn’t stop.”
Kotaro blinked as perspiration dripped into his eyes. The concourse was steaming in the rainy-season heat. He glanced nervously at people passing by as he held the phone to his ear.
“Makoto was on Kumar’s blacklist until about six months before he got hired. But he was good enough to get on the list, right? So Seigo got in touch with him and convinced him to join us. He told him he ought to use his talents for something better.”
Kotaro remembered the way Seigo had sold him on working at Kumar. He had a way of using your self-respect to convince you to reach for bigger things.
“Makoto decided Seigo was right. I don’t think he’s a bad guy. He’s not faking it, he’s showing us who he really is. The thing is …”
Kotaro could almost see Kaname pursing her lips.
“Some people in Kumar know what he used to do, and they don’t trust him.”
“BB people?” If anyone other than Seigo knew about Makoto’s past, it would likely be someone on BB Island. Monitoring hackers like Makoto was part of what they did.
“I don’t think his boss Inose knows. Otherwise I don’t think he would’ve brought him over from our island.”
“Probably not. He must have better skills than a lot of the people on BB,” Kotaro said.
“That’s another problem. Some of them might be envious that Inose recruited him. That would be reason enough to gossip.”
“Maybe there’s no point in worrying, but Makoto’s down because of things on BB Island. It’s not a friendly place for him to be.”
“I wish he hadn’t transferred.” Kotaro sighed.
“Anyway, that’s what’s going on. I like Makoto. I’m not going to change my
opinion.”
“Hey, that goes for me too!”
“Thanks, Kotaro.” The tension in Kaname’s voice seemed to drop, finally. “You’re a good guy too. See you.”
Kotaro leaned against the wall in a daze, remembering the black giant stuck like glue to Makoto. It was his past, the embodiment of all the words he’d used during his hacker days.
On the Internet, words are actions. The net is a world where only words exist. Words are everything. They accumulate and become their speaker’s past.
Ayuko’s words echoed in his mind: Whatever they say, the words people use stay inside them. They don’t disappear. There’s no way people can separate their words from themselves.
Kotaro wondered how long Makoto would have to carry that giant around with him. If he spent enough time helping others, he’d probably work the burden off someday. The giant would wither away and finally disappear.
Or would it?
Galla had said that Ayuko understood the power embodied in words. Though he had no special insight, Kotaro had been given the capacity to see that power.
His vision blurred. The station was hot as hell. He couldn’t stop sweating—
No. I’m not crying.
I need to see Ayuko. She’d understand. I need to tell her everything that’s happened, everything I’ve experienced, all the stuff I’ve learned. She’d listen. She’d know what to do.
For the first time, Kotaro yearned for another person with every cell in his body.
8
Ten years prior, Shigenori had flown north to Tomakomai to investigate an armed robbery that ended in fatalities. Shoe prints at the scene had turned out to be from snow boots sold only in Hokkaido. The factory had been on the outskirts of Tomakomai. The boots in question were already long out of production, and Shigenori had had to wade through box after box of sales records in a corner of an office dominated by the glow from a well-fired potbelly stove.
Tomakomai had been a city of paper mills, and paper was the foundation of the local economy. Since then, Japan’s economy had risen, fallen, and risen again. Paper producers moved their operations outside the country, and the industry was shaken up by mergers and acquisitions. Things had changed, and the changes ought to be visible, but Shigenori’s memory of that long-ago visit was hazy. There did seem to be more and bigger buildings and more prosperous-looking residences. That vague impression was all he could summon up. But he did remember the sky, how it seemed somehow farther above his head than in Tokyo. That hadn’t changed.
The Gate of Sorrows Page 41
