The Drowning God (10 page)

 

CHAPTER 19

D
etective Takuda said, “Have you secured the cave site?”

Chief Nakamura bared his stained and crooked teeth. “I am asking the questions here.”

Takuda, the chief, Reverend Suzuki, and Officer Mori had squeezed into the village police station's dingy conference room. The chief sat almost sideways in his chair to avoid rubbing knees with Suzuki.

“Now, tell me again,” Nakamura hissed. “What were you doing so far upriver?”

“We were following up on information from Ogawa's apartment,” Takuda said. He handed the chief the photo of the stone columns on the river. “He says he's never been there, and there's no reason to think he's lying. Some of those bones are old . . .”

“Ancient,” said the chief. “Probably of Neolithic origin.” He shoved the print down in his armchair as if he suspected Takuda would try to take it back. “So there was no reason to assume that there was any crime to investigate, was there? Ha! You were trespassing on private property with no warrant, no probable cause, and in the company of a civilian of questionable intent.”

Suzuki looked up, blinking, then returned to his notebook. He wrote furiously. Officer Mori sat beside him, playing with the frayed seam of a yellowed doily. Once he had been taken away from his work in the cave, he seemed distracted and out of sorts. He knew something the rest of them didn't, and it absorbed him much more than the chief's monkey-­troop politics. Mori had hinted that important data awaited at headquarters, and Takuda was curious to know what it was.

Beyond his interest in the officer's findings, there was something else nagging him, something the chief had said. Takuda had the strength of a bear, but his wits seemed slower. He was preoccupied, distracted. The chief was still talking about rights, responsibility, and ownership—­

“Ownership,” Takuda said. “You said we were on private property. I thought the mountain west of the Naga River was owned by the prefecture, all the way up to Eagle Peak Temple.”

The chief made a sound like ripping cardboard. “You call yourself a detective, but you know nothing. It's private property. It has been for centuries. The dam is a federal structure, and the prefecture maintains the road, but the rights-­of-­way are granted in perpetuity. So there, you see? You didn't even do your basic detective work! You didn't know where you were!”

“Zenkoku Development owns the land,” Suzuki said. “The land was deeded to the priests of the Eagle Peak Order by a samurai family from the Chikuzen region. The priests assumed for centuries that they had clear title, but in 1937, my grandfather received word that descendants of the original owners had sold it to a trading company in the 1870s. That company had been absorbed by the Zenkoku group, and Zenkoku had clear title. Even the doubtful records of ownership burned with the village office during World War II, so all the priests had, really, was a spotty scroll with the names of three feudal lords.”

“There, you see?” Chief Nakamura beamed with triumph. “Your temple exists because of the magnanimous gesture of the Zenkoku family of companies.”

Suzuki bowed. “The temple grounds are leased to our sect in perpetuity, yes.”

Chief Nakamura knocked knees with Suzuki. “And here you are, causing trouble, and you don't even know who pays the bills. Ha!”

Takuda sighed. “Speaking of paying the bills, Chief, I'd like to know a little more about your Zenkoku General common stock ownership.”

The room stilled. Even Officer Mori paid attention.

The chief leaned forward. “Listen carefully. You are getting into serious business, making allegations about that. Serious business.”

“I've made no allegations,” Takuda said. “I felt it would be a courtesy to ask you rather than request sealed records.”

The chief raised his eyebrows as if amused. “You call yourself a detective? Do the work! I was cleared of all wrongdoing years ago.”

“Last summer, the national board denied a request that you receive official censure. That didn't clear you of wrongdoing.” Takuda took out his cigarettes, but then he decided not to make himself too much at home. “We just need to know who we're dealing with here in the valley. Sergeant Kuma is reasonably clean. No one knows how he can afford that new car or how he got those great seats at the sumo tournament down in Fukuoka, but it's within reason, if a man is frugal enough. The shares you bought, on the other hand, represent a substantial sum. Your pay rate is public information, and it doesn't add up.”

Nakamura pulled himself erect in his chair. “I got an employee discount. I was honored to serve as a security consultant for Zenkoku General's stockholder meeting.”

The room was silent. Mori's face contorted with the effort of choking back his laughter, but the chief didn't seem to notice.

Takuda said, “You were working on security for Zenkoku General's annual meetings?”

“Well, yes, just giving my opinions on how to handle things should gangsters try to extort money from the company by disrupting the meeting. The big gangs, like the Yamaguchi-­gumi. They do that, you know.”

Mori snickered. Suzuki smiled in confusion at first, but a glance at the chief sobered him up quickly.

The chief stared at Mori and Suzuki in amazement. “Well, they do. I'm not making it up. Sometimes they bring bullhorns.”

It was too much for Mori. Both Takuda and Suzuki called his name, but he seemed unable to stop laughing. Takuda rose and shouted for him to get control of himself, and he finally stood, shuddering with suppressed giggles. He bowed and apologized as he wiped away tears of mirth.

It was all due to the stress of finding so many human remains, Suzuki said. “I see this at funerals all the time. It's natural, especially among educated young men.”

The chief was thunderstruck. “That explains his inappropriate laughter and his scuffle with the sergeant, but it doesn't explain all of you. You're all a bit mad, aren't you?”

“Madmen in a mad world,” said a voice behind them.

The well-­dressed man from the cavern site let the conference room door click shut behind him. No more houndstooth. He now wore a suit so black it sucked the darkness from the corners of the room. “Chief Nakamura, I advise you not to answer any more questions without a superior officer present.”

“But counselor,” Nakamura said, “I was just ready to start interrogating them.”

“Ah, Chief! Spending your off-­hours comparing notes in an informal discussion with brother officers and local spiritual leaders.” The counselor nodded to Suzuki. “Going the extra mile to stay abreast on the finding of this purported archaeological site is entirely in keeping with your personal commitment to excellence. What industry and dedication!”

“I was just straightening them out on the old stock purchase question,” Nakamura said. “This so-­called detective didn't even know that the whole issue was resolved with the affidavit from your office . . .”

“If this discussion has strayed into personal finances, then the business day is done, and it's time to go bend the elbow and sing a few songs.”

“I thought you already went out with the superintendent supervisor and the regional director general,” Takuda said.

“I could never keep up with high rollers like those two. No, I just pointed them in the right direction, and then I came to see my friend Chief Nakamura. We like sweet potato liquor and singing the old songs, eh? No songs like the old songs.”

Nakamura looked at him with something like love.

The well-­dressed man opened his arms to the entire company. “You will all come along, of course.”

Nakamura's smile crumbled. He shot jealous glances at Takuda, Mori, and Suzuki.

The man introduced himself as Endo. His title was simply “counselor,” and his business card was a very plain Zenkoku General design on average stock. The card reassured Takuda. It was meant to show that Endo was beyond caring what his card looked like, but it was much too plain, too deliberately average. It was a sign of inverted vanity. Whatever else this man was, he was proud. That was a weakness.

“Now, come along, gents,” the counselor said. “I know a place where there's a little something for everyone.”

“But I haven't finished questioning them yet,” Nakamura said.

Endo smiled. “What better time to chat than after a few drinks in the company of true loveliness, hmm? As I said, we have something for everyone, especially tonight. For Detective Takuda, we have old-­fashioned girls, all beauty and grace. A man could drown in those big, brown eyes and be bound up forever in that long, black hair, and he would still want more. It is an appetite that breeds appetite, yes? A pleasant surrender indeed. For young Officer Mori, we have the modern girls, tough-­minded, sassy young things who manage the evening with verve and bravado, but the evening doesn't really begin until you get them alone and they melt with passion for you and you alone. Hmm. Wait just a second.” Endo paused with a forefinger in the air, challenging the ceiling in a theatrical mockery of deep thought. “Is the modern girl your type, Officer Mori, or was I thinking of the detective?” He shrugged expansively. “Who really knows what he wants in his heart of hearts? It can be so confusing!”

Takuda, Mori, and Suzuki stood in unison. They faced the stranger in the tiny conference room. Takuda's heart hammered high in his chest. Suzuki was agitated, almost twitchy. Mori wasn't laughing anymore.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, you
are
raring to go, aren't you? We'll show them a good time, eh, Chief?” Endo slapped the chief on his skinny shoulder, but the chief managed only the palest smile as he stared back at the three unlikely warriors before him.

“Pardon us,” Takuda said. “We must get back to the city tonight, and we must detour to drop the priest back at the temple. Our apologies for such an abrupt departure.”

Endo bowed in return, apparently delighted with Takuda's strained and perfunctory manners. “Ah, yes, the long, slow drive up to Eagle Peak, up the straightaway and across the narrow, dimly lit dam to the temple. Drive safely,” he said. “Oh, and Reverend Suzuki, I'm sorry I seemed to leave you out, but I didn't know what sort of companions to choose for you this evening. Perhaps you yourself are unsure. We will find out sometime, yes? Play the field a little.
Experiment
, as it were.”

Suzuki stood very still, a slow flush coming to his cheeks.

Endo laughed and winked broadly before turning his attention to Takuda. “Detective, I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Meeting?”

“Perhaps I'm thinking of someone else. No matter. I'll see you again. All of you.” Endo bowed before easing out of the conference room with Nakamura in tow.

The men began to breathe again.

“Who the hell is that?” Mori's hand trembled as he took one of Suzuki's cigarettes. Takuda didn't know Mori smoked. “I mean, who the hell is that? Who is he really?”

“That's our enemy,” Suzuki said. “I didn't know we had one, but that's him.”

 

CHAPTER 20

O
n the way back to the city, Takuda felt Mori's eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

“Officer, what's on your mind?”

Mori returned his eyes to the road. “What did the suspect say about the changes to the Ainu dictionaries?”

“The priest asked about that as well,” Takuda said. “I didn't know you two had gotten together on interrogation topics. It's an interesting tactic, Mori.”

“Detective, the priest is well educated in such things. I take full responsibility . . .”

“Forget it,” Takuda said. “It worked as well as it could have. We completely bungled it, to tell the truth. Perhaps I should have had you in there with me. Or perhaps instead of me. Anyway, it was a waste. We didn't have any leverage on him.”

“Perhaps you never will have any leverage on him,” Mori said. “He seems as if he's living in a different world.”

“He seemed more lucid today. What do you mean by ‘a different world,' Officer?”

“You remember drawings of the Kappa in his apartment? It's not just pictures cut from magazines and juice cartons anymore.”

Mori handed him a thin folder. “I found these outside the cell before the chief and the sergeant came.”

Inside were sheets of writing paper covered with sketches. Starting with the top sheet, Takuda didn't know what he was looking at. He briefly thought it was some sort of insane architecture, an overgrown jungle temple with tubular bridges and vaulted domes hung with vines or ropes. Then he recognized an eye in the middle, and the whole thing jumped into focus. It was a Kappa, but nothing like the cute little turtle-­shelled versions that warned children away from the water. Thin wisps of hair hung from the cratered skull. Its dead, staring eyes revealed nothing but hunger. Takuda leafed through the folder. In each drawing, the beak was half-­open as if never fully satisfied. There was no fat, no softness to this Kappa. Each bone in the webbed hands and feet stretched the scaled and wattled skin. This was a thin and evil beast, scale and sinew tightly binding angular bones. Ogawa had made detailed anatomical drawings of a creature that lived solely in his imagination, and he had made it as nasty-­looking as possible.

“What madness,” Takuda said. “This human form on its knees before it—­has he drawn himself worshipping the creature?”

“Yes, it's him, right down to the Zenkoku uniform. In better light, it's unmistakable.”

Takuda felt a wave of revulsion. “How disgusting. What a disgusting little man.”

Mori said nothing.

“How could he draw himself worshipping such a creature? Even though it's mythical, it's as if he drew himself worshipping a sewer rat or a cockroach.”

“Detective, if this upsets you, you should stop now.”

On the next sheet, the hurriedly sketched human figure held down a smaller figure, like a child. The Kappa, lovingly detailed and starkly sketched, pulled dark flesh from a gaping wound just under the small figure's ribs. That was how Ogawa's Kappa would eat a child's liver. On another sheet, a child floated with hair and garments waving as if underwater. Surrounding the child's abdomen a dark cloud billowed. Blood in the water. The Kappa emerged from the murk with twisted, ropy intestines in its beak.

On the next sheet, a rounded, pudgy foot descended from the top of the paper as if dangling in water. From the bottom of the sheet rose the Kappa's webbed claw, inches away from the unwitting child—­

Takuda slapped the folder shut and tossed it to the front seat. “Nasty enough. He's just sitting in jail drawing pictures to incriminate himself in the attempted abduction. He's mocking us in the wake of Lee Hunt's death. Meanwhile, the real killers are going about their business.”

Mori pulled to the side of the road and carefully handed the folder back to him. “Look at them, please. Try to spot inconsistencies”

There were no inconsistencies. In each drawing, the Kappa's face was identical. Everything was identical. Even the lank fringe around the cratered and misshapen skull appeared exactly the same in each drawing.

Mori said, “Such consistency is incompatible with most artistic processes like character development or even drawing for fun. The Kappa figure is not evolving in a creative process. Perhaps Ogawa was working from a live model.”

Takuda looked at the officer as if amused at the joke. Mori didn't budge.

“Officer, don't repeat that. If they think you aren't taking this seriously, you're done for.”

Mori eased the car back out onto the road without a word.

“Officer, you must try to understand.”

“I can keep my mouth shut, Detective. Don't worry about me.”

Takuda leaned forward. “What does that mean?”

“They're letting you commit suicide, that's clear enough. There will be questions tomorrow, and you'll need answers that will allow them to leave you in charge. Then you and the priest and I can get on with it.”

Takuda leaned back in his seat. He never should have doubted the officer. “Tell me what to do.”

H
ours later, Takuda and Yumi lay on the futon. Headlights of passing cars sundialed through the blinds, sending bright bars scaling their bedroom wall and then shooting backward across the ceiling.

Sometimes it seemed it had always been that way, just the two of them talking late into the night, stifling laughter so as not to annoy the neighbors. It had been so when they were first married, still living with his parents. They had stifled their laughter. They had stifled their lovemaking. Later, she had stifled her grief. In the little six-­mat room at his parents' house, she had bitten the blanket to keep from screaming for days and days after their Kenji had drowned. Perhaps it was good she had stifled it. Modern ideas seemed to favor letting feelings out, but some feelings must be contained. If they had let Kenji's death dominate their lives, it would have destroyed them. As it was, grief had never really left them, but it hadn't torn them apart.

Yumi lay gazing at the window, lost in thought. She had no idea of the storm in her husband's heart. He had to tell her what was coming, but he didn't know where to start. On impulse, he reached out to touch the scar on her throat. It was fainter, but it had been deep, so deep, and it would never go away. He could still hear the echo of the knife in her damaged vocal cords.

“Thank you for staying,” he said.

She took his hand away from her throat and pulled it between her breasts. “I did leave you.”

“You stayed. You could have died. It would have been easier to die.”

She didn't reply immediately. “It would have been easier to die,” she said.

They waited for a car to pass. He cupped her breast and they turned on their sides. Still another car passed, but he didn't know how to tell her he was planning to smash the cult and punish those who had killed his brother and his son. It would cost his career, his standing in the city, and his family's reputation. If he found the person responsible, found him face-­to-­face, it would cost Takuda his freedom.

Only the insane saw no choice other than murder. He was probably insane, but he felt strangely calm about the whole thing. After all, he had trained for this all his life. He had spent years building his strength and perfecting his technique. He had taken the defensive art of aikido to a potentially deadly level. Who commits his life that way without some deeper need? Perhaps he had always been insane.

Yumi started the conversation for him. “So you were in a part of the Naga River valley where you had no business, poking around with old Reverend Suzuki's son on private land, and you just happened to find a cave full of skeletons.” She turned toward him. “No one else could find it, of course. No one but Detective Takuda would fall into the valley's biggest secret almost two decades after it made any difference. Why are you stirring this up? Why now?”

“I think I know who killed our boy,” he said.

She sat up.

“I think there is a cult that worships the Kappa. They believe that there was a Kappa imprisoned beneath the shrine, and they sacrificed to it for years. After the war, when the new dam was built, the river level dropped, and the cave beneath the shrine was just above the water level. They built a wall to contain the cave, and they kept throwing in victims. That's what Suzuki and I found there this morning. Hundreds of them. ­People you and I knew, kids we went to school with. The cult began to splinter. I think it was partly due to my father's work with the temple. My family became a target at about the time the big Kappa festivals ended, about the time my brother drowned. For another two decades, the old cultists kept dancing, and they kept sacrificing, but for some reason they couldn't kidnap villagers anymore. They started going down to the city. That's how all the abandoned bicycles and scooters end up in the valley.”

She looked at him askance. “You're reaching. You're inventing networks of ­people who kidnap bicyclists, bicycles and all. Why carry the bicycles all the way to Naga River valley?”

“Because there you can scratch off the registration and let them rust in the canal for five years before there's even a chance of that section of canal being dredged.”

She stared at him in the half-­light. “And you think a cult explains all this.”

“The parallel marks. You remember the parallel cuts on Kenji's leg?”

“Of course I do.”

“I saw the same marks and the same abdominal wound on a dead American. And I think I know what did it. It's a clawed glove.”

“It's not a glove,” she said.

“No, I've seen the results three times now.”

“I've seen things, too. You didn't go to war based on what I saw.”

He felt his cheeks go red in the darkness. She was still angry that no one believed her story.
Who would believe such a story?

The answer came quietly, in the dark:
I should have believed it.

He pushed the thought away. “I might have to go outside the law if I find the killer.”

She made a sound of disgust deep in her husky throat. “Like some stupid period drama. You take off for revenge, and I stay home and cry? No, no, no.”

“I might not come back.”

“You're already gone. You're insane. I'm going to call your boss.”

“He won't hear you. Nakamura has been calling daily, and he . . .”

“Leave Nakamura out of this,” she said. “You can't unbalance me that easily.”

“Nakamura is part of this. I think he's been part of it for decades.”

“Stay away from him,” she said. “He'll be brittle by now, and I don't want you jailed for breaking a brittle moron.”

“He's not the one. He doesn't have the strength to wear diving gear, much less swim against the current to take down a struggling victim.”

“Diving gear?”

“Yes. That's the only way they could have taken down their victims. Now they don't bother. They just pick ­people off the road, bikes and all.”

“But the American was swimming.”

“Special case. The killers missed Hanako Kawaguchi, and it was time for a sacrifice. They lured the American to the river.”

She frowned in the half-­light. “You said there was a clawed glove to make the parallel cuts.”

“That's right. And stress might have made a diving mask look like that face you saw in the water, like the drawings you made for Nakamura.” Ogawa's horrible drawings came to Takuda's mind.

Yumi shook her head. “No, no, no. I'll tell you again. I looked at hundreds of diving masks in every catalog I could find. There was nothing like that available in Japan.” She sat up with exaggerated care, as if it took all her strength to remain calm. “You remember the Kappa costumes for the old festival dances? Just before we left, they broke off the left forefingers. That was when the farmers lost their forefingers, too.”

“I remember that.”

“Well, those farmers believe in the Kappa even if you don't. Even if you don't believe your wife's eyes and the scars in your own flesh. They believe. They aren't worrying about bicycles and masks and clawed gloves. They cut off their own fingers in an act of devotion. That's how you'll recognize the ones who observe the old ways. Those men will be dangerous even if they're old. Even the oldest dog still has one last bite.” The muscle jumped on the side of her jaw. “And if you have a choice between killing them and coming home, don't kill them. Just walk away. Our family has gotten smaller and smaller. Don't destroy it just for revenge.”