The Drowning God (5 page)

 

CHAPTER 9

Y
umi scolded him at dinner. “You should text me,” she said. “When you call, I have to leave the office. They don't care that you're a detective.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” Detective Takuda said.
Always true.
She spoke in a husky whisper due to her damaged larynx. The scar on her throat had faded, but it was still so deep that it had its own shadow.

Yumi licked broiled mackerel off her thumb. “You make me stand out on the sidewalk with the smokers.”

“I was in the valley.”

She stopped with rice halfway to her mouth. “Our valley? The Naga River valley?”

“The Naga River valley,” he said.

She dropped the rice back into the bowl and tossed her chopsticks on the table.

“One of us had to go back eventually,” he said. “The Gotoh family has been so kind . . .”

“You should have told me.” The color had drained from her cheeks.

“It was time to go back.”

“Did you go about that little girl? The one who was almost kidnapped?”

“That was the excuse.”

Her eyes flashed at him, but she held her tongue.

“Not much has changed. The Zenkoku plant keeps the valley alive. Everything is older and dirtier, and more storefronts are boarded up on the shopping street. The docks are rotting away, and the satellite dishes have sprouted like mushrooms. That's about it.”

She rubbed the edge of the table. “The Gotohs?”

“I didn't see him. She's turned strange and bitter. She won't tell me what's happening.”

“Is something happening?”

“I don't know. It—­it smells like it.” With that, he had told her as much as he dared tell anyone. “The suspect is not what he seems. At first, I thought it might be a case of identity theft, but it's not. It's as if some insane drifter moved into an engineer's body.”

“What did they think you were doing there?”

“I told them I was sent there to gather information. I told them I would recommend whether the prefecture would prosecute.”

“Recommend? Do you do that?”

“I've never been asked, really.”

“So you lied to them?”

He put down his chopsticks and picked up his beer. “Well, I don't mind lying to the Oku Village police force. Nakamura is the chief.”

She stilled, and her eyes narrowed.

Takuda continued, just to get it out of the way: “He didn't recognize me at first. He asked how you were.”

She snatched up her chopsticks and tore into her fish. “I would have scratched his eyes out. I don't think I could have helped myself.”

“Maybe it's best that I was the first one to go back,” he said.

“Seventeen years ago, only half the village police were fools. If Nakamura is chief, then they all must be fools. Someone should test the water.” Her eyes welled with tears, and her hands shook. “Nakamura. It's unbelievable. It just goes to show that anyone can succeed in Japan. It's true. If you're too stupid to move on, too cowardly to die, and too poor to retire, they'll eventually put you in charge of something.”

They ate in silence while Yumi regained her composure. Takuda flexed his hands under the table. His newfound strength wasn't hard to control, but he wanted to keep it in mind.

When Yumi spoke again, she sounded more sad than angry. She asked if he visited the tomb, and he told her that he had, of course he had. He told her it was beautiful and peaceful, which was true, as far as it went.

Later, they lay under the covers watching the curtains move in the cool spring breeze.

“It was selfish of you to tell me about Nakamura,” she said. “You're the one who decided to go back. You're the one who decided to dig up all that pain. If you made that decision on your own, you should have kept it all to yourself.”

“It's not the past. It's not over.”

“I know it's not over. Every time I look at the bankbook, I see the payments to the Gotohs. It breaks my heart just thinking of my little Kenji's tomb.” She turned toward him. “Let's save the money we send to the Gotohs and move the tomb up here.”

He turned toward her. “I mean that it's not over for the valley. There's something wrong there.”

“There's always been something wrong there.”

“All day today, ­people were trying to tell me something, but they wouldn't come out and say it. They were trying to tell me about the canals.”

“The canals are dangerous. Who knows that better than we do? Who's lost more to the canals than we have?”

He rolled over.
Maybe someone has lost more to the canals, but I don't know who.
He drifted into dreams of dark water.

S
ergeant Kuma woke with a start and struggled to his feet. He had dozed off at Chief Nakamura's desk again, and he hated being caught sleeping on the job.

The office was empty. The lights were dim, and the kerosene stove was nice and warm. Kuma heaved a sigh of relief. It would be just like the chief to pop in unexpectedly even though Kuma had taken an extra shift to watch the prisoner. The chief had been difficult all day because of the prisoner and because of visitors from the prefectural police. Seeing the detective again had just made the chief worse. When the chief had realized he was sitting knee-­to-­knee with Detective Tohru Takuda in his little conference room, he looked as if he'd swallowed a toothpick. The memory made Kuma grin as he eased his bulk back into the chief's chair.

It was good to Takuda again, but he wasn't so sure of Officer Mori. He had known someone would come to him when questions started building up. It always happened that way because everyone thought he was simple-­minded. Maybe it was true. Sergeant Kuma couldn't make sensible answers unless the questions were right, and Officer Mori was an intellectual. He couldn't feel around the edges and ask the right questions. No one in the Naga River valley could tell the detective anything unless he asked directly, at the right time, and in the right way.

The water safety question
. That was as close as anyone could come to talking about it. The more directly anyone spoke about it, the vaguer the conversation became. Kuma could make hints about it, though. He had told Officer Mori about Little Bear because he knew Takuda would remember, and he knew Takuda would care.

Whatever happened to Little Bear?
Kuma was brooding, and he didn't like it.

Just then, he heard the murmuring. It was a voice, but it was strange and whispery. He wasn't even sure he heard it through his ears. The hair suddenly stood up on his neck. Was he hearing voices in his head? He listened carefully. There was just the constant rushing of the canal down below the station, the clang of the pachinko parlor up the street, and the far-­off sound of a scooter. He did hear a voice, but it was a different voice. Ogawa's voice, coming from the holding cell. The suspect was not alone.

The sergeant vaulted to his feet, and his knees were shaking. The blood rushed to his head, and he had to bend over and hold on to his knees to keep from fainting. By the time he got to the holding-­cell door, the voices had stopped. Kuma listened for a second, and then he quietly opened the door.

Ogawa stood on his cot. He stared at the toilet. The stench of rotting fish was overwhelming.

Kuma almost retched from the smell. “What are you doing?”

Ogawa shifted his gaze from the toilet. His eyes were wide with fright.

Kuma hit the switch outside the door, and the fluorescent overheads stuttered into life, casting stark, greenish shadows over the whole room.

Ogawa stepped backward on his bunk to lean against the wall.

Kuma opened the door all the way, just to be sure there was no room for anyone to hide behind it. He stood in the doorway picturing that space behind the door, a very narrow space between the door and the wall even when it was all the way open, space for something smaller than a child . . .

He thought he should peek into that space behind the door, through the gaps between the secured, sealed hinges. He couldn't bring himself to do it.

Behind the door, under the cot, behind the toilet, too many spaces to hide. . .

“If only it were a Japanese-­style holding cell,” Ogawa moaned. “No steel cot, no plumbing, no hinged door . . . this wasn't a holding cell at all to start with, was it? Who would design a holding cell with a hinged door that swings inward?”

“Shut up, fool!” Kuma edged forward, covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief.

Ogawa slid down the wall as if suddenly boneless. He lay in a heap, staring blankly at the toilet. “Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .”

The open door was at Kuma's back. He was too fat to bend down and look under the cot. He was too afraid to do anything but shuffle toward the reeking toilet.

Ogawa went silent. Kuma looked over his shoulder to see Ogawa huddled on the cot staring at him, eyes glittering in the harsh fluorescent light. It was the first time the suspect had more than glanced at Kuma, and Kuma didn't like it at all.

He reached the toilet. There was no water in the trough, nothing but black, stinking slime. The suspect had turned off the water and flushed the toilet dry before doing his business. Kuma bent, groaning, to turn the water back on, one eye on Ogawa the whole time. As the fish stench began to fade, he suddenly felt much braver, brave enough to chastise the suspect.

“You're disgusting. What have you been eating? Can't you even use a toilet?”

“I am not the one.”

Kuma felt a chill pass up his spine, like cold water being poured into his body. “What do you mean?”

Ogawa stared. “The trouble has just started.”

“What trouble? What are you talking about?”

Finally, the suspect lowered his feet to the floor. “I am not the one you are looking for, but I know who is. If you want to find him, I can help. I need to talk to that detective again.”

Kuma found himself nodding in agreement. He didn't have the authority to call the detective back into this case, but he wanted to get out of the cell quickly. Something was terribly wrong in there.

“Also, you have to keep me in jail. My life is in danger.”

Kuma nodded as he backed out of the cell. When the door was locked and bolted, he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He knew as much as he wanted to know, and he was determined not to know any more. If the detective or the officer wanted to ask questions, he would steer them toward the suspect. Ogawa seemed ready to talk, but Sergeant Kuma was more committed than ever to keeping his own mouth shut.

 

CHAPTER 10

I
t was Thursday afternoon, two days since the attempted abduction of Hanako Kawaguchi. For his interview with the suspect's estranged wife, Detective Takuda had chosen a Japanese-­style pub, a dark place with an interior of red paper lanterns, painted screens, and polished cedar. Customers sat cross-­legged at the low, lacquered tables. It was perfect for informal interviews. The pub always emptied quickly after the lunchtime rush, so they would have the back room to themselves. Takuda drank cold barley tea and waited.

Ogawa's wife walked in with a wary expression, but her face went smooth and bland when she saw him. She nodded to the bowing waiter and wound her way among the tables. She was beautiful in a high-­strung, overbred way. She wore a designer suit with the perfect accents of jewelry, probably also from the correct designers. The silk handkerchief held lightly in her left hand was colorful enough but not garish. Everything was just right, the perfect picture of a young woman overcompensating for marrying a psychotic would-­be kidnapper.

Takuda stood and bowed as she reached the table. As he presented his card, he felt a strange mixture of sympathy and satisfaction. She hadn't slept properly in a long, long time, and she had been crying, drinking steadily, or both. It was too bad she had to suffer so, but he was glad to finally meet someone whose eyes matched the situation.

She said, “The divorce isn't final yet, but you should call me Okamoto, my maiden name.”

He nodded. “I appreciate your coming to see me. This has been very difficult, I'm sure.”

She looked at him steadily. “The most difficult part is that this is all a mistake. Hiroyasu Ogawa is not a criminal. I wouldn't have married such a man.”

“Of course not,” Takuda said. “Whoever he was, he is no longer the man you married. Frankly, I don't know what he is.”

The waiter glided to her side. Okamoto fidgeted for a second before sending him away. Takuda could see her deciding whether to defend her estranged husband or to distance herself from him.

When the waiter left, she turned to Takuda. “You have experience in such things. What do you think happened to my husband, Detective?”

“I don't know. Tell me everything, and I may find out.” He looked at the tabletop. “There's no reason to defend him, by the way. There's no point in pretending to love him anymore, either. You may think society expects the pretense, but it's absurd. You know he's gone, and you know he's never coming back, and you want to cut yourself loose.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson, and the grayish, puffy flesh around her eyes stood out like a mask. “You mistake me. Cutting myself loose is not my goal, Detective.”

“You left him before he snapped, and you've agreed to meet with me,” Takuda said. “Keep doing things correctly, and you'll be on the road to freedom.”

She gathered herself to leave. “I'm sorry, Detective. I thought this was to be a professional conversation. I have your card, so I'll . . .”

He raised a hand to silence her. “Answer every question I ask, tell me everything about your time in the Naga River valley, tell me what you saw and heard and smelled. Everything. I'll help you disappear.”

She sat frozen, staring at him.

“I can misplace every document that ties you to Hiroyasu Ogawa. The only solid link to your husband will be in Osaka, where you were married.”

She blinked several times. Finally, she said, “The family register at the Oku Village office . . .”

“His family register could disappear. Such things happen.”

She glanced down at his business card on the table. “May I see your identification, please?”

He handed over his ID. She studied it. She compared his face to his photograph. She apologized and bowed as she handed it back. “It's just that I don't know if . . .”

“You have no assurance that I'll keep my part of the bargain,” he said. “Even worse than that, you'll have to trust a policeman who offers to break the rules.”

“Yes. Yes, that is worse.”

When the waiter returned, she ordered a beer. They were silent until the waiter departed.

“I've been thinking about the newspapers,” she said. “I've been dreading reporters at the door.”

He shook his head. “They probably wouldn't find you until the trial, and he may never be tried at all. Zenkoku Fiber has that valley gagged and bound.”

Music from Takuda's youth played in the background. He sat still as she talked herself into telling the whole truth.

“Detective, what would you do if I didn't help you?”

“Either way, your name probably wouldn't become public until your husband's trial, as I've said. Whether you help me or not, I'll help you disappear.”

She stared. “How did you know I would be so reluctant to talk?”

He didn't know whether to smile or frown, so he shrugged. “Our country is still just one big fishing village, no matter how rich we are. A woman in your position, with a husband who's insane, or evil, probably homicidal—­you can't really afford to tell the truth out loud, can you? If you tell anyone what's happening in that valley, they'll think you're crazier than your husband.”

She covered her face with both hands and sobbed freely. After a few moments, she stood and strode to the restroom. Every woman in the restaurant watched her go, and when she was out of sight, they turned reproachful stares on him.

He drained his tea and waited.

She was gone longer than he expected. He gripped the table leg, thinking to test his extraordinary strength. He squeezed to a normal degree. No problem, a grip slightly stronger than normal, but no problem. Then he engaged the
extra
, and the wood began to crack quietly. He was still amazed that it was so easy to control. Somewhat horrifying, but easy to control.

When he released the table leg, small fissures of split lacquer radiated from his cooling handprint. His palm was smooth and pale, not even red despite the wood-­splitting pressure he had exerted.

Weird.

“I hate pubs like this,” Okamoto said when she returned to the table. “They seem so old and dirty.” She turned up her glass and drank half her beer in one go. “The whole valley is old and dirty like this.” Her voice was steady and full of hatred. “And it all stinks. There's a stench of dead fish everywhere you go. Everything from the nasty little beauty parlor to the roach-­hole karaoke clubs. It happens to the ­people, too. Nasty.”

“I was there yesterday,” he said. “Not everything in the valley smells like that.”

She frowned at him. “No, of course not. My husband brought that stink home, and I can't get it out of my nose.”

He paused with the cigarette in his mouth. He sucked in smoke until it burned the insides of his cheeks, but he still couldn't think of anything to cover his interest. He tried to act casual as she continued.

“He brought the stink home to Osaka. He was designing a system to keep plant runoff from the main spillway system. He didn't really do much. He was just representing the family.”

“Representing
your
family, wasn't he?”

“My family, yes. Okamoto Hydrological Systems. You've heard of it? It's not a huge company, but it gets big contracts. The board members are all retired bigwig politicians.”

Takuda shook his head. “He threw it all away, didn't he? If he had only shown up to work for a few more years, he would have had Okamoto Hydrological Systems in his pocket, but he quit to join Zenkoku?”

“As a new employee, at a new employee's salary. A lot of the other new employees were fresh out of high school. And he was proud about it, happy about it.”

“You left Osaka to join him. Didn't you visit the Naga River valley before moving there?”

“He made it sound wonderful. When I got there, it was a nightmare.” She leaned forward. “Zenkoku keeps employees like slaves.”

Takuda frowned. “The corporate culture of a company like Zenkoku is a pretty powerful force. I'm sure some salaried workers feel their lives are limited . . .”

“They disappear from the apartments by the main canal in the middle of the night. Whole families. Just gone.”

Chills traveled up Takuda's spine. “Give me names. Give me names of families that disappeared.”

“Tanaka. And
Yo
-­something. Yoshida, maybe. The Yoshidas had a boy named Junichiro.”

“Are you serious? Is that all you have? Do you even know in which units they lived?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't feel very chummy if you know what I mean.”

Useless. Utterly useless.
He sat back against the polished wooden railing. She couldn't help him solve the mysteries of the Naga River valley, but maybe he could still help her.

Okamoto motioned for the waiter. “I'm hungry for the first time in a week,” she told Takuda. I lose half a kilo every time the phone rings.”

She wanted one order of grilled chicken livers and two orders of asparagus spears grilled in bacon. It was a hearty lunch. Takuda ordered rice in hot tea with pickled plums.

She switched from her sidesaddle pose to stretch her legs out under the table. Her face was flushed from the beer, and she looked happier and more relaxed already.
You can't fake that.
“This place isn't so bad,” she said. “It's actually cozy. Are you buying lunch?”

He smiled and motioned the waiter to bring Okamoto another beer.

“Getting me drunk won't help. I've already decided to tell you everything.”

“Getting ­people drunk doesn't yield useful information. Anyway, one more glass of beer won't hurt you. You've had a hard time.”

She asked for one of his cigarettes. “You've read me pretty well, Detective. Are detectives trained to know whom they can trust? I mean, can that be taught?”

“Can I tell you something sad?”

She blew smoke toward the rafters. “Feel free.”

“There's a science of observation. It can be taught, but smart liars can beat it. There's another way, though, an intuitive sense, a second sight that can't be taught. It's a gift, and it's never wrong. Two days ago, I could look into ­people's eyes and see straight into their hearts. Since I met your husband, I've completely lost that second sight.” He remembered his confusion about young Matsuo's intentions after the aikido lesson the night before. “Now I have no idea what you're thinking. You could stab me in the throat with a chopstick, and no one would be more surprised than I.”

“Maybe the stink clouds ­people's minds. I felt that way. Once my husband came out of the canals with that stink, everything started going dark. That's why I left.”

“He worked deep in the plant. Why was he in the canals?”

Her brow furrowed. “His job didn't involve the canals?”

“He worked in a wastewater management control room.”

She sighed. “Ah, my lying, stinking Ogawa. Everything was a lie after we got to that valley. He was studying Ainu. He told me he was thinking of going back to work for the family and expanding our operations into Hokkaido. He said that speaking the aboriginal language of the north might help. I knew better.” “What about the Kappa pictures?”

“What about them? Another bizarre obsession. I thought he was clipping pictures of women. He was ignoring me, so to see what kind of women he wanted, I looked in his folder. All these stupid cartoon Kappa pictures came spilling out. Ridiculous.”

Takuda shook his head. “Career suicide, obsession with the canals, obsession with his Kappa, studying a language useless in this part of the country—­I didn't bother to ask, but he's a complete loner, right?”

She rolled her eyes.

He continued: “Attacking a little girl—­but you don't think he's insane, and you don't think he's a child molester.”

“I still wonder what he is.” She looked up at Takuda. “I wouldn't have left him for simple insanity. I would have pulled him out of that valley, drugged him and carried his limp body if I had to, and I would have gotten him help. But that wasn't the problem. He wasn't insane.”

His phone rang. It was Officer Mori. Takuda got up and stepped away from the table to take the call. He kept his face impassive as Mori told him what had happened.

As Takuda paid the bill, Okamoto said, “Detective, do you mind if I ask what's happening? Is it related to my husband's case?”

“Indirectly,” he said. “It seems that there was some sort of accident in the valley yesterday afternoon, and someone is missing. An American. Apparently a sports-­related accident.”

“A sports-­related incident that left someone missing? How strange.”

He left her as she started to tear chicken livers from the skewer with her teeth.
It's not so strange,
he thought as he walked away.
Not so strange at all if the sport is swimming. If the canals can't have a little girl, then the river will take someone. Anyone. No matter what else happens, the valley must be fed.