by Steve Bein
But it didn’t follow that he had to be patient with her.
Following along with others wasn’t Mariko’s forte, and taking a formal class didn’t suit her nearly as well as the private lessons she’d started with, alone with Yamada-sensei in his backyard. As that was no longer an option, Mariko trained under Hosokawa for four nights a week, and four nights a week Hosokawa-sensei berated her for her sloppy technique, her wavering focus, and above all for her improper grip.
The right forefinger was of utmost importance in swordsmanship. Highest on the hilt, it was the strongest source of control. Closest to the tsuba, it provided the first point of contact, facilitating a fast and fluid draw. Mariko was handicapped on both counts. Of course it was impossible to know whether Hosokawa-sensei was really so obsessed with form or whether he was merely using it as a convenient ruse to mask his overt sexism. Either way, Mariko felt the same kind of pressure at kenjutsu that she felt on the firing range, an incessant drive to outperform her male counterparts just to be recognized for having done anything right at all.
So, sitting on her bed and eating her ramen, Mariko concluded that of all the people who could ever have lost their right forefinger, the one with the most to lose was a Japanese swordswoman in the TMPD.
Because her left hand was clumsy, she spattered tiny flecks of chicken broth on the notebook she was skimming. It was Yamada’s, one of the hundreds she kept in her stacked columns of banker’s boxes. If there was a system there, Mariko didn’t understand it yet. Some boxes were labeled, others not. Sometimes a box would contain exhaustive notes on a single subject, sometimes a chaotic cornucopia with no unifying theme. It had taken her weeks of filtering to set aside all the books that had details on the obvious starting point for her nightly conversations with her departed sensei: Glorious Victory Unsought.
Though she didn’t ordinarily believe in that sort of thing, Yamada had convinced her that Master Inazuma had folded the forces of destiny into his steel, and so Mariko’s first subject of study was her own sword. It was a subject that appeared in only one library on earth: the one in Mariko’s bedroom, piled up in haphazardly labeled boxes. No one but Yamada believed that Inazuma ever existed, and cryptohistory had no place in the history departments of modern academia. That was why all of these notebooks remained notebooks, not published works, and it was also why Mariko accepted that Kamaguchi Hanzo’s mask and her own Inazuma blade might have shared a connection that she could only describe as magical. Yamada-sensei had amassed too much evidence to dismiss the supernatural.
But though she accepted her intuition about a connection, she knew nothing about the connection itself. She had that feeling she got when she got up from whatever she was working on and went into the next room to get something she needed, only to forget what it was she was there for in the first place. Tonight was like that, but many times more frustrating, since rooting through boxes upon boxes of notes was far more difficult than remembering she’d gotten up to fetch a pen or a screwdriver or something.
By the time she finished her noodles, she still hadn’t run across whatever it was that niggled at her memory. She got to her feet, her thighs and back and shoulders protesting all the way, and traded her current notebook for two new ones. Chasing Nanami through traffic this morning had left a couple of bruises she hadn’t noticed at the time. Settling back down on the bed generated a new litany of complaints from her aching muscles. The thought of ibuprofen appealed to her, but inertia proved to be the more powerful motivator.
She flipped through a volume with notes on Okuma Tetsuro and his sons, Ichiro and Daigoro. All were ill fated, but none of them could hold her interest. They might have done so on another night, but at the moment Mariko was feeling tired and she knew she had many more pages to cover.
Two books later she found what she was looking for: a quick note in the margin, scribbled in a wispy hand. First linkage—Glor Vic to mask? On the next page, Mask postdates Glor Vic—how long? 100 years? More? A few pages later, Mask-Glor Vic affinity strongest of all. These were all marginalia, with the majority of the notes being devoted to the puzzle of how best to date Glorious Victory Unsought. He never found the answer in this notebook, but he did answer Mariko’s question, one that had been nagging at her ever since that morning, when she woke to find her sword missing. Kamaguchi’s mask and Glorious Victory Unsought were somehow connected.
She delved deeper into the notes, and the more she read, the weirder it got. Everyone associated with the mask seemed to share a sword fetish. Some were samurai, some were common criminals, but all were killers. Somehow the mask awakened a destructive hunger in whoever touched it, and the need was especially strong for Glorious Victory. Yamada even hypothesized that the mask was a sort of metal detector for Inazuma steel, coded specifically for Glorious Victory Unsought. Mariko couldn’t even imagine how that could be—you couldn’t program raw iron the way you’d program a remote control—but she had to take Yamada at his word. For one thing, he was usually right, and for another, she didn’t have anything else to go on.
At least Yamada had some evidence to work from. A few salvaged pages from a centuries-old diary suggested that the affinity between the mask and the sword was dependent on distance. On its own, the mask inspired an unnameable yearning, like a caged animal’s need to pace, always seeking an exit that wasn’t there. But when Glorious Victory was nearby, that yearning magnified into a craving as powerful sexual lust. If the mask could see the sword, it had to have it.
Whatever that means, Mariko thought. She wished the diary’s author had been a detective; similes of caged animals didn’t show up in Mariko’s case log.
Things got even more bizarre when Yamada started waxing poetical himself. On one page, she read, Wind seeks mask? Why? At the top of the next page, Wind wants Glor Vic, therefore needs mask? It made no sense. Figuratively speaking, Mariko could get her head around a winter wind seeking out the gaps in her clothing, but even at her most abstract she couldn’t see how wind could be said to want anything at all.
His marginal notes developed into paragraphs in the following pages, but the more he developed his thoughts, the more cryptic they became. He developed a bizarre metaphor, likening wind to a shinobi, a ninja. No riddles there—wind was invisible—but then his invisible air currents took on human desires. As if wanting and seeking weren’t bad enough, the wind started planning, designing, orchestrating. Weather just didn’t do that.
The only deduction she could draw for certain was that Yamada-sensei knew a lot more about the mask than he bothered to write down. Most of his notes read like someone else’s grocery shopping list. Items like “lotion” or “food for Buster” might be on the list, but what kind of lotion? Sunblock? Moisturizer? A medicinal cream? And what was Buster? He could be a dog or a parakeet. There was no way to tell. Mariko could read between the lines all she liked and she’d never figure out everything her sensei knew about the mask.
A couple of notebooks and a couple of hours later, she hadn’t clarified much about the mask or the wind, but what little she’d managed to gather had seriously creeped her out. Somewhere along the line, the mask was damaged. Someone had scarred it, and somehow that deformed its enchantment too. Its affinity—or curse, or fetish, or whatever you called it—expanded from swords to all weapons. Yamada even hypothesized about how it might mutate over time, creating a lust for muskets and matchlocks as those came of age, and later semiautomatic pistols, maybe even machine guns. In a modern theater of war, it might have been IEDs. The mask did not discriminate.
Mariko had encountered an artifact like this before: Beautiful Singer, lightest and fastest of all the Inazuma blades. It too infected the wielder’s mind, and Mariko knew all too well how deadly that obsession could be. She’d flatlined on Beautiful Singer’s edge, the very last in a series of bloody murders stretching back almost a thousand years. Unlike a sword, a mask was benign, but perhaps that was what made it so dangerous: it seemed harmless.
If so, the
n the Bulldog showed remarkable foresight in separating himself from it. That, or else he shared the sixth sense of the alpha male for any threats to his dominance. Kamaguchi was violent, but only on his terms. If simply holding the mask was enough to awaken a deep-seated need for destruction, then Kamaguchi was right to keep it far away, on a high shelf where no one else would ever have reason to touch it. He didn’t even have to know why he did it; alpha male instinct would be enough.
Mariko found the mere thought of it chilling. She wanted to think that the whole story was mere superstition, that while medieval people might have believed in such things, in her world inanimate objects didn’t have such power. Yet as soon as the thought struck her, she knew she was wrong. What, other than “obsessive-compulsive,” was the right term to describe the average schoolboy’s relationship to his video games? Mariko thought of her sister Saori and the four or five thousand texts she sent every month. She thought of her own habits too: feigning kenjutsu strikes while waiting in elevators, oiling her bicycle chain before a ride though she knew full well she’d tuned up the whole bike the day before. How many times had she practiced drawing, aiming, and firing with her left hand? And she’d done the same with her right for years, long before Fuchida had maimed her finger. Was her obsession with marksmanship any less morbid than the hunger to destroy lurking within Yamada’s mask?
It was different. It had to be, or else Yamada would never have made a note of it. He knew obsession all too well. A man did not collect thirty degrees of black belt without admitting obsession into his life. No, this mask was something unusual, something dangerous, and knowing that made Mariko wish she had something more to go on, some way to track the thing down, some means of predicting the bearer’s intentions. But none of the notebooks provided clues.
She looked at the clock. Twelve-oh-eight. She had to work in the morning.
And yet there were two faces she couldn’t get out of her head. One was the Bulldog’s demon mask, stolen so brazenly from the middle of an active crime scene. The other belonged to that lunatic Akahata, his eyes blazing like twin suns in his bruised and battered face, his broken lips incessantly chanting their mantra. Akahata wasn’t the mask thief. He’d been in critical care at the time of the robbery. Mariko remembered the image of the thief, dressed head to toe in SWAT armor, the better to walk through a swarm of cops unnoticed. The feed from the security camera was fairly low fidelity, but now, seeing Yamada-sensei’s notes on the mask, Mariko remembered the thief as clearly as if she’d been standing in the room with him.
“Just one more book,” she said aloud, to Yamada-sensei as much as to herself. Mariko had never been much of a scholar, and so reading a historian’s notes was usually the sort of thing that would put her to sleep, not keep her up. In college she’d majored in journalism, which she defended to this day as the only writing-intensive major that actually left a graduate with legitimate job prospects in her field. She’d always thought of all that “love of learning for its own sake” crap as the lullaby that literature and philosophy majors used to sing themselves to sleep after a tough day of waiting tables. But now she was beginning to understand why Yamada had done what he’d done with his life, pursuing a master’s degree, then a PhD, then tenure, then one book project after another until he could hardly see the pen in his hand. Some of this stuff was honestly interesting in its own right—maybe not worth a college degree, but well worth the lost sleep she was inviting by telling herself “just one more.”
In fact it was three notebooks later that she struck gold. Yamada had ventured to guess that wind and divine wind might be the same thing. Her first thought was that obviously this couldn’t be a reference to the Divine Wind she was investigating, the cult of Akahata and Joko Daishi. Yamada was a historian: in his context, kamikaze—“divine wind”—was either the suicide pilots of World War Two or their namesake, the great typhoons that swamped the fleets of Kublai Khan, drowned his armies, and saved Japan from being just another province of the Mongol Empire. And since he’d already associated the mask with wind, the two typhoons were a sure bet.
But then came the mother lode. It was a tangential comment about the wind creating the mask, and it sent Mariko shuffling through all the notebooks that now lay scattered like playing cards on her bed. She rubbed her eyes, cursed the clock, and at last she found the book with the weird references to wind. If she reread them to say not “wind” but “the Wind,” the most bewildering passages suddenly became clear. The Wind wanted the mask. The Wind sought it out. It all made sense.
And then she reread Yamada’s question: was the Wind the same thing as the Divine Wind? If so, then while this Joko Daishi character was new to the scene, his Divine Wind cult was far older than Mariko could have believed. Whoever Yamada’s Wind were, they dated at least as far back as the 1400s, and prior to that it was a stretch to say that Japan was even Japan. More like a rabble of warlords and petty tyrants trying to snap up as much territory as possible. Only the Three Unifiers had brought all of those daimyo to heel and forged a single empire. Mariko had not forgotten the demon mask’s connection to Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the second of the Three Unifiers, though embarrassingly she could not remember when Hideyoshi was alive. Yamada-sensei would have known. Mariko ballparked it somewhere around the year 1600. If she was right, then in effect the Wind was older than Japan itself.
And if the Wind and the Divine Wind were the same organization, then two things became immediately clear. First, Yamada’s shinobi metaphor wasn’t a metaphor: the Wind was a ninja clan. Second, Kamaguchi Hanzo had it wrong from the beginning. Joko Daishi didn’t name his cult after the suicidal dive-bombers of World War Two; he was the latest leader of a cult named for the typhoons that saved Japan. These days, calling your cult the Divine Wind was gokudo, extreme, badass, like the dive-bombers. But if you went back far enough, calling yourself Divine Wind meant you were the saviors of the country.
Was that what all the “liberating souls” business was about? Again Mariko’s thoughts turned to Akahata’s bashed-in face and the mantra on his lips. Hamaya, his lawyer, explaining that his client was praying for Joko Daishi to liberate everyone. There was something sinister there. Mariko was sure of it; “Great Teacher of the Purging Fire” didn’t have a nice ring to it. Did these Divine Wind cultists think of themselves as messiahs? If so, they were dangerous. And brazen too. Theft of police evidence carried a much heavier sentence than a simple burglary, but it took a whole new kind of crazy to take it from the heart of an active crime scene. That was the kind of crazy that thought nothing of swindling a powerful yakuza clan on a drug deal. It was also—and Mariko was afraid even to formulate the thought—the kind of crazy that motivated people to wear suicide vests or fill subway cars with sarin gas.
Thus far, Mariko had no evidence that the Divine Wind was a terrorist organization. She certainly couldn’t prove the cult was a blood relative of a centuries-old criminal syndicate. She had only a gut feeling that Akahata was unstable and violent, and that anyone who sent a lawyer to defend a person like that was probably even more dangerous.
Han would have pushed for the simplest explanation. Some dope rings stole cars to make extra cash; this cult hocked stolen antiques instead. But instinct told Mariko something else. Stealing the mask suggested a fixation with demons. That fixation, coupled with hallucinogens and religious fanaticism, suggested devil worship—or if not devil worship, then at least a cult of personality centered on whoever was wearing the mask. Joko Daishi.
Mariko closed her notebooks. Sooner or later she had to sleep. And she had to face it: she wasn’t going to figure out anything about Joko Daishi tonight. Yamada made no mention of him. If the Wind and the Divine Wind were the same group, and if the Wind was originally a ninja clan, then perhaps the Divine Wind had retained some of the ancient secrets—like how to break into a seventeenth-story apartment with all the doors and windows locked from the inside. That squared nicely with her intuition that it was Joko Daishi who stole Glorious Vict
ory Unsought. But intuition wasn’t evidence, and notes on medieval ninja clans wouldn’t help her solve yesterday’s crimes.
The truth was that she had very little to go on. She didn’t have Joko Daishi’s real name, or a description, or past whereabouts—not a damn thing, really. Her only good leads were Akahata and Hamaya, if only it had been legal to follow up on them. But she’d done the right thing: she hadn’t tailed them when they’d left the hospital. She’d observed their constitutional rights, and now she cursed herself for having done it. She wanted to know who these people were, who they were pushing their drugs on, what sermons they were delivering to the hallucinating masses, what role the demon mask had to play in any of it.
In short, she wanted to know what kind of storm was coming and when it would strike.
29
Lieutenant Sakakibara liked to hold his morning briefings early, a proclivity that made the top brass admire his diligence and made Mariko wish he’d fall over dead. Ever since she’d made Narcotics, she’d been cutting her hair shorter so it would look less rumpled when she dragged her ass in to post. Her attitude toward makeup was indifferent at best—she’d stopped making a fuss over it in high school, specifically to conserve precious minutes of sleep—and under Sakakibara’s command she’d taken to forgoing even a quick dab of mascara.
Orange light streamed in through the briefing room’s tall windows, cut into slices by Venetian blinds. One of those slices slashed right across Mariko’s face, leaving her half-blind and no doubt looking even more tired than she felt. She knew it was the wrong play, knew she was the newest member of Sakakibara’s team, knew she was supposed to make every impression a good one, but at seven o’clock in the damn morning it was hard to care about how she looked. She was well aware of the gossip going around that she was a lesbian, but it was easier to put up with it than to lose ten minutes of sleep every morning to “put her face on.”
