A Cruel Season for Dying (9 page)

This time of evening in lower Manhattan, the streets were mostly empty. The Fulton Street Market not set to stir for hours.
The canyons of Wall Street deserted. The man had little trouble finding a space for his cycle near the rental garage to which
he’d trailed his quarry. Plenty of time to get himself in place.

He held his breath now, bracing his arm for the shot. The infrared image that was Lieutenant James Sakura shimmered like heat
waves in the scope, the mounted lamps on either side of the Nocta triggering with a soft electronic pop that was hidden in
the traffic noise drifting from the Brooklyn Bridge. The flash itself was intense, if invisible to human eyes. The detective,
pausing on the pavement, had no awareness of the camera not twenty yards away.

Still irradiated by the scope’s built-in searchlight, Sakura walked the remaining steps to the entranceway of a nearby building.
With his key in the lock, he turned back to the street, as if for the first time sensing something not quite right in the
dark. The lamps flashed again in a whisper, catching the tired smile that mocked his apprehension. Caught him again as he
disappeared through the door.

The man breathed out slowly, resting for a moment against the cold brick at the mouth of the alley. The effects of the drug
he had taken last night had long since worn away, and the desire of his human shell for food and rest tugged at the edges
of his consciousness. He had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours, had not slept.

He had, of course, been aware that the dead bodies would draw police and press attention. There was no way to avoid that.
And though he might resent the unavoidable human dimensions of the mission he had set for himself, he could not afford to
ignore them. He had waited since before dawn in the streets outside Westlake’s building. Had been drinking coffee in the bistro
across the street when the first police vehicles had arrived. He’d already paid the bill and stepped outside as Sakura had
emerged from his unmarked car.

It was an opportunity to learn what he could of his adversary, and he’d followed the detective as he’d left the crime scene
and gone back to Police Plaza. It had been a matter of parking the Harley in sight of the ramp from which Sakura would have
to exit the underground lot … and waiting. A very long wait as it had turned out. But he had
kept the vigil through the afternoon and evening, till the detective’s car did at last emerge onto the street, then trailed
him here to the apartment building where he apparently lived.

For a moment hunger nearly overcame him, and he considered giving in. But there might be more he could learn tonight. He closed
his eyes, denying the flesh, repeating the syllables of his name till exhaustion vanished. A car went past. A tug sounded
from the river. Then with the Nocta safe in the bag, he went looking for a suitable building.

For a long moment, Sakura stood without moving inside the
genkan.
The small entryway, with Hanae’s marriage kimono suspended over the low
tansu,
was for him both an ending and a beginning—the curtain that fell each night, closing off the outer world and opening the
private world that was his and Hanae’s alone. But tonight the outside world would not be stilled. Even before he’d removed
his coat, the cell phone was ringing inside his pocket.

“Lieutenant Sakura.” Simon Whelan’s voice on the line. “They told me I’d just missed you at your office. I hope you don’t
mind my calling.”

“No, Dr. Whelan, that’s why I left this number with you.” He was surprised to hear from the language professor so soon. “Murder
investigations don’t follow nine-to-five schedules.”

“I’m sure they don’t, Lieutenant.”

“Unfortunately, we do indeed have a third victim.”

“And a new word on the wall?”

He spelled out the letters written in Westlake’s bedroom. “So what have you found out, Dr. Whelan?”

“Not me, Lieutenant Sakura. My good friend, Dr. Haim Isaacs at Yeshiva. Remember when I said this morning that your killer
was making angels? Well, he’s also naming them. Kasyade and Jeqon are names of angels found in an Apocryphal text called
The Book of Enoch.
”

“The wings seemed obvious. But this confirms it. You said Apocryphal text?”

“Material excluded from authorized translations of the Bible.”

“So whatever the killer is doing,” Sakura asked, “might have something to do with religion?”

“Possibly.”

“What about the markings on the chests?”

“I haven’t found anything yet, and Haim said he didn’t see any connection with
Enoch.
”

“I’d like to see this book.”

“I’m sure Dr. Isaacs would loan you his copy.”

“Thank you, Dr. Whelan.” He got out his notebook and was jotting down the Yeshiva professor’s number.

“Lieutenant Sakura!”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“But how could I be so forgetful,” the man was saying. “Haim said these are not just the names of any angels. He wanted me
to make it clear that the names on the walls are the names of
fallen
angels.”

The man had scaled the last section of the building up to the roof like an experienced mountain climber. In truth, he didn’t
like heights. Although, it wasn’t heights so much he feared but falling. He forced himself to look down now. A dull darkness
gave way to a denser blackness.

He swallowed a hard knot of saliva and inched backward from the edge. From beneath his foot a stone unsettled itself. He breathed
the cold air and stretched his arms wide. The thick skin of his leather jacket glinted weakly in the moonlight, and he imagined
himself a large bat unplugging itself from its nighttime roost.

Behind and above him the bridge soared. A line of cars winking into Brooklyn. He bent and, unzipping his bag, retrieved his
camera. This rooftop would give him the vantage he needed. He circled around some air venting to the other side of the building.
From here it seemed he could see the entire universe.

He looked out. The aura surrounding the silhouetted figure came as a shock, and he caught himself before he could fall. He
held his breath, hearing the roar of blood inside his head. His fingers trembled as he brought the Nocta up to his face. Even
with the scope he was having
trouble focusing, but he knew what he was seeing. He clicked the lens once before the light exploded.

The warmth of the bedroom seemed an indulgence to Hanae, so long accustomed to a house that was cold in winter. She dropped
to kneel beside Jimmy and began the process of centering herself in
hara,
drawing her mind to the point below her navel that was the exact physical center of her body.

Her husband, fresh from his bath, lay facedown, his head resting on folded arms, his back draped with the traditional cloth
that would veil his skin from her touch.

The cloth was white, a fact she could sense in its steady surface vibration, so different from an object that was a buzzing
red, or cooling blue beneath her fingers. But the visual aspect of color remained an impenetrable mystery. She could not even
begin to imagine what it must be to sense color with the eyes. This was her small regret for having been born blind. The greater
loss was that, despite the intimacy of her fingers with its contours, she would never actually see her husband’s face.

She emptied her mind. Her heart already open, she began with his head and neck tonight, rubbing and pressing where worry and
fatigue had disturbed the natural flow of
ki
through the channels.

“Feels good.” He spoke once as her hands flowed to his shoulders. Then, “Uhhh, that one is sensitive, Hanae,” when she had
moved to his back. “Where are you?” he said in another moment. Jimmy liked to have her name the
tsubos,
the fixed points on the channels where
ki
could be taken in or released.

“You should not speak,” she said. “Empty mind is important for the receiver as well as for the giver of healing.”

“I want to know,” he insisted.

“Mei-mon,”
she answered. “The gate of life.”

“Because …?”

“Because it is so near
jin-yu,
the seat of inborn energy.” Her fingers flowed to the place. “
Mei-mon
and
jin-yu
are each connected with the life force inherited from the parents. In only a few hours, you will return to work. Restoring
the proper flow of
ki
here builds stamina.”

Now, at last, she could feel him smile. “I thought it was
shi-shitsu
that did that.”

“That
tsubo
is also near
jin-yu,
” she answered. “But its name implies another kind of stamina.”

“If I remember correctly,” he said, “
‘shi-shitsu’
translates roughly as …
sperm room.
” He rolled over beneath her fingers.

“I am not finished.”

“I feel much better. I want to hold my wife.”

She lay down beside him, naked again beneath her kimono as no proper Japanese wife. He held her, stomach to back, his chin
resting in her hair. Not speaking at first, which was always the way of his unburdening.

“There was another body today.” He broke the silence.

It explained the blockage of
ki.
She turned toward him, her hand cradling his face. She could sense his eyes searching, blinder than she was in the dark.
“Have you spoken yet to Kenjin?”

“No.”

“You must ask him to return.”

“I don’t know,” he said softly.

She felt his tension increasing again, building in the muscles of his jaw. “He is your friend,” she said. “He wears
on
with no offense.” The concept had no real English equivalent. The closest translation was debt of gratitude.

“And I wear mine with none,” he said.

“Then, my dear husband, perhaps it will be a calm sea you cross.”

She had thought him long asleep when he reached for her. She turned toward him, slipping from her kimono. She was eager as
always for their lovemaking. It was a joy to
see
Jimmy, not just with the tips of her fingers on his face, but with the full feel of him, body to body. In these moments he
was completely hers, wholly apprehended.

He began tonight with gentleness, kissing her deeply. But soon he was like raging water carrying her to that place of peace.
She moved with his thrusts, the light behind her lids a growing pressure. At the moment of her climax, she was the light,
consumed in the grace of their union.