by Sable Jordan
Zio wobbled, shaking his head slightly. He frowned down at his hand like he’d never seen it before; up to Kizzie; down at his hand.
“Jaa-net…? Whaa—”
Kizzie backed down the hall. He stumbled toward her, squeezed his lids shut then opened his glazed eyes wide, studying his palms again. Inched closer and closer as Kizzie moved away.
The surface beneath her feet changed. The runner. Not far enough. A dozen more steps to the door and she needed him in bed; had to keep him upright long enough to get him there. But his movements were too slow, and time was short.
“Jan…”
Another step back—the rug slid a little—and she motioned with her hands to urge Zio along. “Come on, Bozo,” Kizzie mumbled. “Let’s go get in the niiiice warm bed.”
Zio took a step closer and then lunged, hands two vice grips around her neck. The energy surge caught Kizzie off guard, but nothing like a closing windpipe to focus one’s attention. She rammed her forearms up and out at the same time she stabbed her knee into his groin, only partially connecting, but enough to throw off his hold without doubling him over. The heel of her hand shot up, a sharp strike to his chin that clicked his teeth together.
His arms went wide, bearing down on her, and she drove a foot into his shin, locking his knee. Zio slumped forward. The toe of his shoe hooked the edge of the slippery runner and his forehead crashed into her face on his way down.
Kizzie lost her footing, forearms flailing like a T-Rex. Her back slammed to the floor and her head followed the leader. Zio pancaked her, as driven as the hydraulic plate of a car compactor, forcing the air from her lungs in a burning whoosh.
That, ladies and gentlemen, was not part of the plan.
Pain like Kizzie hadn’t known for months exploded in her side. If this bastard re-injured her ribs….
She lay there, grousing and heaving while Zio mumbled stupidly against her breasts. “Pal… Pal…”
They were so not pals. Her skin crawled. She wanted this guy off of her post-haste. Planting her feet, she drove her hips skyward but he had her pinned. Her cheek stung, eye streamed water and she wriggled a hand free to dab at it; winced at every gentle probe. Yep, that might swell a bit.
“‘Thirty minutes,’ they said,” she muttered. “Thirty minutes max and you’d conk out. Not you though. You, sir, are an overachiever. Eleven extra minutes in ya’, you clumsy, drunk…”
A deep exhale and she tipped her head back until everything in her vision was upside down. Three feet to the door—a distance she’d now have to drag Zio’s 230-pound frame. Add to that the distance from the door to the bed and getting him up on the mattress, and this whole op just got better.
The butler’s stupid smile mocked her new predicament, solidifying her hatred of clowns. Always laughing when there wasn’t a damn thing funny. Honestly, did it get worse than clowns?
Ready to give it another go, she bent her knees so his chest rested against the cradle of her pelvis. She worked the sandals off her feet, bare soles on either side of the runner to give her traction on the hardwood. Then she used the red fabric like a mechanic’s creeper, sliding out and pushing up at the same time. Zio’s face raked down every inch of her as she went, a minor price to pay for liberation.
She sat up, legs spread wide and Zio facedown between them. The hard part was over. The rest was cake. But just as she tucked into a moist and fluffy slice of freedom frosted with sweet success, a hammer cocked and cold metal dug into the back of her head.
Oh yeah. Guns trumped clowns any day.
Hiroshima, Japan
Ten thousand miles away, a handful of women were at different locations in the most peaceful park on Earth. All were of Japanese descent—all, save one, had straight black hair. And all were there for the same reasons: A little boy, and the haunted memories of a then four-year-old girl.
“Matushka,” she said in a voice that made everything a question. “Where are the swings and slides? And nobody plays on the grass…”
A copse of trees was to her right, one side of their bark scarred and emptied out, but the crowns were gloriously green. She eyed them curiously as she skipped along, then turned her questioning gaze on an old woman crying nearby.
“This is a different kind of park, baby,” Hiro said, voice husky.
“What kind is it?”
Her matushka squeezed her hand. “A special kind…”
The cenotaph was the heart of the grounds and as such drew most of the attention. A small offering platform fronted the shrine, and it was here that two of these women stood, shoulder to shoulder, dark heads bowed.
The platform itself was a rectangular block practically flush with the railing. Atop it, and bringing its height nearly eight inches taller than the barrier, sat a simple structure that resembled two Greek pis positioned side by side, horizontal bars touching to make them one. Like a torii, a traditional Japanese gate separating the sacred from the profane.
A fitting description.
The low railing continued on either side of the platform, guarding the large cenotaph. Through this concrete, saddle-shaped arch, the tranquil pool, the eternal flame, and the…building could all be seen in perfect alignment. A powerful sight, but far more important than what the cenotaph framed was what it sheltered.
The box.
Just a simple stone chest, opened once a year so the cache could be added to. Not gold or rubies or diamonds, but a far more precious haul.
Names.
Her name: Hiro Ohayashi.
“…given here reach the departed,” Julie finished solemnly. She lifted her head, peering through the open-ended cenotaph to the building at the far end of the park. “Privideniye,” she whispered in Russian, her throat tight with a mix of anger and overwhelming loss.
Beside her, Akari’s gaze settled on the trove beneath the arch, soaking in the epitaph etched into the stone: Let all the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not repeat the evil. She grunted low in her throat. “Yeah, right. If that were the case, they wouldn’t have reset the peace clock.”
“And soon they will do it again. Now hush,” Julie admonished. With great care she pulled the offerings from her pocket.
Akari rolled her eyes, groping inside her purse. She ducked her head and discretely coughed into her hand.
At the same moment, 150-meters away, another woman approached the monument from the southwest. In designer jeans and an expensive shirt, Fay strut along the concrete walk as though it were a runway in Milan: chin up, shoulders back, one expensive stiletto firmly in front of the other. A scarlet leash curled over her forearm, the tether merging with the color-matched collar of the tiny dog preceding her, its little tail wagging. Ever the conversationalist, a phone was in its usual spot at Fay’s ear, this chat with an obliging ticketing agent: “Please, send it to the email provided. And thank you so much for your assistance, especially with this being last minute.”
A few pleasantries and the call ended. Without breaking stride, Fay angled the phone a bit to snap a selfie—a vanity she indulged in more frequently of late, though she didn’t share the pictures with the world. Her life was one captured memory after another, crammed onto the whatever-size Gigabyte storage card of her overpriced cellular.
Her dog stopped abruptly to sniff at the grass, making the leash go taunt as Fay went by. She yanked hard and the dog jerked, stumbled, regained its footing and trotted to catch up. Head down, she typed Blue without you… into the body of the text, attached the newest picture, and sent off the 3rd such portrait of the day. In stride, she dropped the phone into the oversize Birkin at her shoulder.
With the walk, the clothes, and the confident attitude, Fay could have been a model. But Fay was far from a model anything.
Fay was a killer.
She reached the platform just as Julie settled an Erlenmeyer flask onto the crowded surface. Uncorking the glass container exposed the liquid inside to the air.
“I can hold the flowers, Matushka?”
> “Yes, baby,” Hiro said. “Please, just behave a little longer for mommy and we’ll have wagashi and tea.”
Puffs of dark pink filled her vision, and she took the bouquet, inhaling deeply.
“They’re not roses, are they? They don’t smell like roses.”
Hiro ignored her, a rare occurrence, reverently extracted a container from her purse and cradled it in her palm.
She knew what it was, had seen so many of them it wasn’t too curious a sight. But why did Matushka bring it here? And what was that liquid inside? Was it dangerous like in Matushka’s lab?
A length of red yarn circled the corked glass, and she wondered about that too.
Hiro uncorked the flask and nestled it on the railing between the many flowers and other open bottles; fussed with the knot in the yarn, turning it just so.
“You’re gonna leave it there ‘cause you don’t want it no more?”
Her matushka finished murmuring and stepped back with a shaky sigh.
“What’s inside of it?”
“Water,” Hiro croaked. “They were thirsty. So very thirsty…”
“Who’s thirsty?”
A bell tolled in the distance and the shared memory dissolved, a faded picture.
The knot in the yarn around the glass was askew. Fay turned it so it was perfectly centered. A glance at Julie, who nodded and then set an origami flower beside the flask.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Fay said evenly, eyes fixed on the cenotaph. She’d expected Julie—Julie had a purpose—but Akari was some 600 miles from home. Best to not be seen together, especially so close to completion.
On the other side of Julie, Akari had her face angled away. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
Fay circled to the other side, gaze narrowed on Akari's busy jaws. Her cheeks were full, mouth shifting subtly as she chewed. Fay brushed at the corners, and then studied the dark pink crumbs on her fingertips; touched them to her tongue.
Sweet.
Akari’s shoulders slumped. Still chewing, she dug in her purse once more and removed a bag of treats.
“Courage, strength and…”
“Discipline,” Akari finished. “These are the marks of a warrior…”
A small nod and Fay took the wagashi from Akari’s clutches, dropped them into her purse. Then she hugged the woman tightly, murmured a firm, “You and I will talk later,” into Akari’s ear.
Fay spun to Julie, folded the woman in a warm embrace and delivered a different message meant for her ears only. Listening intently, Julie nodded, and then Fay pecked her cheek before they pulled away.
A vintage gold locket hung at Julie’s neck, the clasp resting just beside the heart-shaped pendant. Fay twisted the necklace so it was righted, lightly stroking Julie’s collarbones in the process. “You’ll have to go back tomorrow. I’ve had the new booking information forwarded.”
“So early? Then it’s true,” Akari blurted, “the first shin—” Julie whirled on her and the plump woman snapped off her words. Akari touched her chin to her chest but ventured another inquiry. To Fay she asked, “And…still nothing of Sumi?”
“Best not to hope.” Fay rested a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I know you miss her, we all miss her, but what we do is for her as well.”
“Two gone, and now—”
“Nothing has changed, Akari. We stick to the plan.”
Julie fixed Akari with a stern look. “Did you forget your oath after all this time?”
Akari inhaled a breath, recited, “And where she leads I will follow.” A glance at Fay, back to Julie. “Apologies.”
Moments later, Fay watched the pair depart. She definitely needed to have a talk with Akari.
And a cigarette. Life wasn’t right without smoke in her lungs. But this was Hiroshima, where smoking was prohibited. At least in Tokyo she could puff in designated areas…
A test of control. She could handle it.
Fay spun on her heel, gave a light jerk of the leash. Her dog trotted ahead, leading the way to their destination at the other end of the park.
Thirty yards away, a young boy of 8- or 9-years-old barreled into a woman with long black hair. He threw his arms around her waist and squeezed, their co-mingled laughter riding on the air. He launched into an animated conversation and the woman listened patiently, wholly focused on the child, a smile on her face. Fay wondered what warranted such undivided attention, caught snatches of their chat as she drew nearer.
“…with too much vibration from the water. So, do you think my robot can win if we—” He angled around the woman and then cocked his head. “Your hair’s blue. Cool!”
Not expecting the statement, Fay slowed to a stop. Sure enough her tresses were a vibrant royal, the ends tipped white as magnesium set aflame. She pushed the strands off her shoulder, her wayward dog yipping excitedly as it scrabbled up the pant leg of the other woman.
Fay jerked the leash. “Sit!” The toy fox terrier didn’t listen, tugging to get back to the target.
The woman chuckled, taking in the sight of the scarlet lead now wrapped around Fay’s forearm. “Hard to know which of you is the owner and which the pet.”
Fay cocked her brow, snapped, “Perhaps I should show you.”
“What’s your dog’s name?” the boy asked, done with the oddity of Fay’s hair.
“Baya.” Fay’s hard eyes stayed locked on the other woman who, though considerably shorter, didn’t back down from the glare. Fay gave her a quick examination: conservative flats, dark slacks, simple blouse. So very different from Fay’s stylish clothing. Could have been a rock for all the stand-out appeal she had.
Oblivious to the tension, the boy crouched low and scratched behind the dog’s ears, making little cooing noises as Baya soaked up the attention. “You like me, don’t you, Baya?” Tail wagging so hard it rocked her rump, Baya licked his palm and he laughed.
“Jason!”
Angling away, the boy stood and rubbed his palms on his jeans. Another woman—a bit stockier and in far more colorful clothing—rushed over, a pretty flush to her cheeks and relief in her eyes. “Oh, thank goodness, he’s with you, Vanda. I was afraid he’d just wandered off alone. We couldn’t find him and he wanted to ring the bell..”
“I can play with the bell, Matushka?” Her little hand was in Hiro’s grip as she twisted to and fro, the heart pendant on the too-large necklace swinging against her chest…
Vanda cleared her throat, ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ve got him, Iris. We’ve just been discussing—”
“His robot,” Iris finished. “Can’t keep his mind off of it.”
The two women shared a chuckle, and Fay stood there awkwardly, a peeping Tom to their friendliness.
Then Jason, Iris, and Vanda turned and started up the path, Vanda commenting, “It’s the determined minds like Jason’s that change the world.”
A sharp tug and Fay was moving again, strolling right behind them. The two women nattered about a summer science program and the children in it, topics Fay had no interest in but could clearly overhear.
Iris looked back twice, nervously, stepped a little closer to the boy. The woman named Vanda glanced back too, held Fay’s gaze with a disinterested look of her own, and then dropped a protective arm around Jason’s shoulders from the other side. Still chatting, the trio peeled off the walk, heading the short distance to the children’s memorial.
Fay didn’t alter her course, she and Baya strutting toward the building at this end. If the cenotaph was the heart of the park, the building was the brain and this one was deteriorating. Massive. Hollowed out. Most of the brick facade had crumbled, revealing concrete and mortar in various stages of degeneration. The domed cap was nothing more than exposed steel bones, the once-copper skin burned clean away.
The hefty edifice looked out of place there just on the other side of the river, a sentinel of decay fronted by water and backed by a garden of green. Rows of oleanders grew along a nearby gate, deep pink petals bathin
g in the warm sun, but the cheery-looking terrors weren’t enough to chase the cold from the depressed structure.
The bell tolled behind her.
Fay dug in her purse for her phone, snapped a photo of the collapsing pile and captioned it Privideniye: Destroyer of Worlds.
She studied the carcass again and something she’d never felt before gripped her young heart. Her eyes narrowed. “I hate it.”
“No!” Hiro clasped her small shoulders. “You will not hate. Ever. Am I clear? Not even a little…Promise me!
“You must be shinari. Say it.”
“Shinari,” Fay echoed solemnly.
Then her head snapped up. A familiar sensation danced along her skin. She’d felt it before—as a child back in Moscow…last week at Ink-Scribed…leaving the costume shop—more and more frequently as the day neared. Odd to feel it here, so far from home…
Fay cast a glance over her shoulder. Jason stood on the path not ten yards away, eyes riveted to the A-Bomb Dome’s hollow shell. She saw empathy in the child’s face, understanding, sorrow.
Nothing like the anger in her blood.
Fay agreed with the boy’s teacher, Vanda: Determined minds change the world.
Digging into her purse, she gave a gentle tug to the leach and started the trek to the other side of the park. She passed by Jason, caught Vanda watching her. Their eyes met, held a brief moment, and then Fay looked away. No cigarettes, so she popped a wagashi into her mouth and chewed.
As delicious as the little confections were, Fay had a taste for something much, much sweeter.
Belém do Pará, Brazil
Two in the morning, surrounded by clowns and at the wrong end of a gun. See? Nothing good ever happened to Kizzie in Belém.
“Up.” Feminine and soft, a stark contrast to the muzzle pressed into Kizzie’s skull.
