“I promised my father I would exemplify Bushido and perform a heroic deed that would secure our family a place of honor in history,” Sano recited woodenly. “When I began this investigation, I promised myself that I would deliver a killer to justice and save lives. Chamberlain Yanagisawa is corrupt, evil. If he’s also the Bundori Killer—as I believe he is—then destroying him, ridding the regime of his influence, and taking my own life will satisfy all my aims.”
Dr. Ito opened his mouth and closed it again. He raised his arms, then let them fall. For once he seemed at a loss for wisdom. Then he drew a deep breath and said, “Forgive me, Sano-san. Out of respect for you and your class, I would never say this under any other circumstances. But your Bushido is a cruel, destructive code. Can you not see that it carries honor, duty, loyalty, and filial piety to the extreme? Why, indeed, its ultimate expression is the annihilation of the self—of the very life force that harbors those virtues!”
He leaned closer, exerting upon Sano the whole force of his compelling personality. “Listen. When I became a physician, I dedicated myself to healing, to the preservation of life. Because life is precious; it makes all things possible. While you’re alive, you have the potential to accomplish many miracles. All of these may well add up to more than this one final act you are contemplating. But if you kill yourself, then what?
“Your name in history books—an empty reward. Man has a short memory; yesterday’s heroes are soon forgotten. Your body will be ashes in the wind; your soul will never live again—unless through rebirth, the occurrence of which I have seen no scientific proof. Please, Sano-san. Reconsider!”
Sano turned away from the argument that called to the questioning, rebellious part of his nature. “Bushido is absolute,” he said, although he could see the truth in Dr. Ito’s impassioned plea. “I can’t repudiate it and still call myself a samurai. A promise is a promise; duty is duty.”
Dr. Ito hurried around to face him. “Your father should never have demanded such a sacrifice from you! That he did is an example of a dying man’s selfishness.” Ito’s voice was harsh; his eyes blazed with desperation. “And that consummate fool, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi—who imprisoned me, who lets the foul Chamberlain Yanagisawa rule in his place—does not deserve your sacrifice!”
To hear his own secret thoughts voiced aloud shamed and horrified Sano to the point of rage. “How dare you criticize my father and my lord!”
Ito sighed. “Ah. I see that in my effort to save you from yourself, I’ve only angered you. My apologies. But I only have your welfare at heart—as no one else seems to. You won’t listen to criticism of Bushido, or of those who command your loyalty. So I won’t argue anymore. I will simply beg you, as a friend who values and esteems you: Please. Find another way. Don’t do it.”
The clasped hands he extended to Sano trembled; for once he seemed not an imposing symbol of scientific curiosity and personal commitment, but a feeble old man.
“I’ve made my decision,” Sano said wearily. “I have no choice.”
An expression of infinite sadness came over Dr. Ito’s face as he nodded in defeat. “I’m not a samurai; therefore, I can’t comprehend the forces that compel you. But I do know that a man must do what he believes is right. I’ve lived my own life according to that principle.” He paused, then bowed. “I will miss you, Sano-san.”
“And I you, Ito-san.” Sano bowed with equal formality. He didn’t want to leave his friend; he didn’t want to die and forsake all life’s wonderful possibilities. Unshed tears stung his eyes. Dr. Ito couldn’t save him. Only fate could—and so far, fate looked to be favoring his death.
Flaming lanterns sent Sano’s shadow leaping along the path before him as he raced wildly through the Momijiyama.
“Aoi!” he called. “Where are you?”
His voice echoed off the shrine’s magnificent buildings. He was beyond caring that such crude behavior showed disrespect for his lord’s ancestors. Nor could he fear another attack. All he cared about was finding Aoi. He ran up stone steps to pound on doors. From the rooftops, carved demons leered their disapproval.
“Aoi, answer me!” he shouted.
He’d imagined that she would be waiting for him when he returned to the castle. But he’d arrived home to find no one other than his servants, who said they’d neither seen her nor taken any message explaining her absence. Disappointment had overcome the self-control Sano had maintained with Hirata and Dr. Ito; stoicism gave way to desperation.
He must spend what was probably the last night of his life with Aoi, to cram into it all the years they wouldn’t have together. He wanted to tell her that all the evidence he’d found today pointed to Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s guilt, that in all likelihood Yanagisawa would die tomorrow, and she would be free. He wanted to carry the memory of her joy with him as a reward when he met his fate tomorrow. And, like a warrior before a battle, he felt the ancient yearning to lie with a woman, to celebrate life while he still had it, and to experience his body’s last pleasure.
The shrine was deserted. Sano plunged into the pine forest. Rocks tripped him; boughs lashed his arms and legs. Remembering Aoi’s mention of the cottage where she lived, he somehow managed to find it.
The hut’s window was dark. No one answered his knock. He entered the single room to find it empty. Then he heard a rustle outside. Alarm prickled his skin; he sensed danger. Ignoring his instincts, he rushed heedlessly out the door, his heart lurching with gladness.
He heard and saw no one.
“Aoi,” he whispered brokenly. “Aoi.”
With the residual pain in his muscles underscoring his misery, Sano trudged home. There he knelt before his father’s memorial altar. He lit the candles and incense, bowed to his father’s portrait, and prayed:
“Father. Please give me courage to do what I must. Let me have the strength to bring the Bundori Killer to justice, even if it means my own death.”
His tortured voice only echoed in the empty room. The portrait gazed back at him unseeingly. In his greatest hour of need, his father’s spirit remained mute, unreachable.
Lonely to the core of his soul, Sano wept.
34
The fateful day had arrived. Only moments remained before the appointed time that would bring life and worldly glory, or death and eternal honor to Sano. Aboard Madam Shimizu’s boat, he and Hirata concealed themselves in the cabin. The preparations had been made. Now all they could do was wait for the killer to appear.
From his place on the bench overlooking the starboard deck, Sano looked through the slatted window shutters, then out the open door. He saw two of Hirata’s assistants occupying their designated positions. One, posing as a trash collector, loitered on the path. An easily removable bamboo tube had transformed his spear into a stick for skewering debris and placing it in his basket. The second assistant, equipped with a pole and bucket, fished from the bridge. His tackle box concealed a club and dagger. Sano had stationed these men in the open so that the area wouldn’t seem unnaturally deserted and arouse the killer’s suspicion, but he’d hidden a third assistant beneath the dock, as a surprise reserve. They all had their orders. As Sano watched, the man on the bridge chased away a genuine fisherman. He could almost hear the prearranged command:
“This area is closed by order of the police.”
So far the weather gods had seen fit to cooperate with Sano’s plan. The sky was a dark, curdled mass of gray-green rain clouds. A gusty southwest sea wind rocked the boat, creaked the mast, whistled through the shutters, and slapped waves against the hull. The warm air was damp, saturated with the odors of fish and brine. All morning there had been little traffic on land or water; the balconies and other boats remained empty. With luck, no innocent bystanders would inadvertently interfere with the killer’s capture—or slaying.
Keeping his gaze riveted to the footpath, Sano stirred restlessly. He’d spent a sleepless night alone, waiting in vain for Aoi. Now his eyes burned with fatigue; his bruised body ached. Insid
e him, an invisible chain twisted around his stomach, lungs, and heart, its grip growing tighter by the moment. Panic kept rising in his throat as he imagined Chamberlain Yanagisawa walking up the gangplank. At the same time, he began to see in the ordinary, familiar world things he’d never noticed before. To ease the tense atmosphere, he spoke of his discoveries.
“Hirata, look how every cloud is made up of a thousand shades of gray. And how the wind blows them into everchanging skyscapes.” Emotion lent his tongue eloquence, and his voice ardor. “Have you ever noticed how the rain smells so sweet you can taste it? Or how the birds sing a special song when they know it’s coming? Or how even sadness and pain can be good, because when you feel them, you know you’re alive?”
Sano’s heart swelled with sorrowful love for the world. “I never noticed how beautiful life is.”
He stopped, stricken with the realization that it had taken the threat of death to make him appreciate that beauty. Shame destroyed his brief exhilaration. He’d communicated his undignified reluctance to die to Hirata, who would only suffer on his account.
“Ignore what I just said,” he ordered hastily.
Too late; the damage was done. Hirata, who’d by now realized how irrevocably tied his fate was to Sano’s, looked green and terrified. He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Excuse me,” he mumbled.
He dashed out the door. His footsteps pounded the deck as he stumbled around to the port side. Through the shutters, Sano could see him hunched over the railing, and hear him vomiting into the river. Sano wished he could vomit up his own fear, but his stomach was empty; he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
After a while, Hirata returned, paler but composed, his hair plastered against his sweaty forehead. “The rocking boat made me seasick,” he lied valiantly.
They resumed their watch. The cabin’s atmosphere grew closer, tenser, and ripe with the smell of the river. Distant thunder rumbled. While the wind sighed and moaned around the boat, the first raindrops pattered onto the cabin roof and stippled the water. Sano began to wonder whether the killer would show up at all.
Then, rolling across the city, came the peals of myriad temple bells, signaling noon. Suddenly the watcher on the path paused while collecting a bit of trash. He straightened, peering down the slope toward the firebreak. The fisherman laid aside his pole.
Sano’s body went still and cold; his blood congealed. His last breath caught in his lungs. Hirata joined him on the bench, head close to his as they stared out the window together in paralyzed silence.
With exaggerated casualness, the watcher on the path lifted his hand to his head and scratched.
The signal for Chūgo.
Hirata moaned softly. The chains inside Sano released their grip. His heart pumped giddy relief through his veins. He expelled his breath as all of life’s boundless possibilities clamored around him: once again, the future existed. Feeling reborn and invincible, Sano wanted to shout and dance and laugh, but even as he and Hirata exchanged gleeful smiles, they were taking their positions. Sano, his sword drawn, stood to the port side of the door. Opposite Hirata waited, jitte in one hand, a coiled rope in the other, ready to help capture their prisoner.
A small eternity passed. Then Chūgo’s gaunt figure appeared on the path, moving with grim purpose, head down, through the rain that now pelted the city in fitful squalls. He reached the dock, turning to look in all directions before stepping onto it. Briefly he disappeared from view, hidden by the boat’s hull. Then came the creak of his footsteps on the gangplank. The boat dipped slightly under his weight. His head loomed over the railing. Sano’s heart lurched as he glimpsed Chūgo’s face through the shutters. Stony and ruthless, it was the face of the Bundori Killer.
Sano gripped his sword tighter. Then a movement behind Chūgo distracted him.
Instead of moving onto the dock as planned, the signaler was still on the path, looking toward the firebreak. The “fisherman,” who had left the bridge to join his companion, club and dagger in his hands, had stopped halfway there in obvious confusion. The man under the dock raised his head above it, but emerged no farther.
Chūgo’s shoulders came into view as he slowly ascended the gangplank. He paused, trying to peer through the cabin’s shutters. Sano and Hirata exchanged disturbed glances.
What? Hirata mouthed. Sano could only shake his head before looking back outside. Then, to his sheer amazement, he saw, coming down the path, a familiar trio.
Matsui Minoru carried a brightly colored umbrella. His two bodyguards, hunched beneath hooded cloaks, trooped along behind him.
Hirata turned disbelieving eyes to Sano. “Chūgo and Matsui?” he whispered. “What’s going on? What do we do now?”
“I don’t know! Let me think!”
One look at Chūgo had convinced Sano that the guard captain was the Bundori Killer. But why had Matsui come? Whatever the reason, the situation had altered drastically. Must they take four men instead of just the formidable Chūgo? If so, how would he communicate the change of plan to the outside team?
They had to act, fast. Chūgo was continuing up the gangplank. On the path, Matsui had passed the signaler and stopped just short of the dock.
Either the guard captain heard Matsui’s voice or sensed his presence, because he turned, his shock evident in the sudden rigidity of his posture.
“Chūgo-san! Cousin!” As Matsui hurried onto the dock, his voice carried across the water. “Wait!”
Sano and Hirata abandoned their posts to hurl themselves onto the bench, faces pressed to the shutters. Matsui huffed his way up the gangplank, his guards trailing him.
“What are you doing here?” Sano heard Chūgo demand.
Matsui and the guards appeared below Chūgo’s figure. Matsui was struggling to hang on to his umbrella, which the wind had inverted. “I got a letter from a woman who was at Zōjō Temple when the priest was murdered,” he panted. “She said to come here if I wanted General Fujiwara’s famed death’s-head sword.” He pulled Sano’s scroll from his cloak; the wind blew it open. “See?”
Chūgo snatched the scroll. “You got this letter, too?” Though his back was turned, Sano read dawning comprehension in his slow headshake.
“Cousin, I suspected you were the killer all along,” Matsui said. “I know how much you revere our ancestor. And I knew you owned the swords.” Dropping his useless umbrella, the merchant clutched Chūgo’s arm. “But I kept our bargain. I didn’t turn you in before, and I won’t now. I just want the sword. For my collection; for my shrine to General Fujiwara. I promise I’ll never tell anyone how I got it. Please, cousin, let me have it!”
With an angry jerk that rocked the boat, Chūgo freed himself from Matsui’s grasp, at the same time flinging away the scroll. “You fool! This is a trap!” Obviously he’d realized what Matsui, blinded by his desire for the sword, had failed to see. “The shogun’s sōsakan has set us up!”
He started down the gangplank, but Matsui’s guards blocked his way.
“Please,” Matsui persisted, seeming not to have heard Chūgo’s words. He pulled out a bulging coin pouch and waved it at the boat. “Madam! I’ve got five hundred koban here. You can have it all, if you’ll just give me the sword!” Coins spilled from the pouch and clattered onto the gangplank along with the raindrops that now fell in torrents.
“Get out of my way!” Chūgo ordered.
“Please, Madam—” Matsui grunted in surprise as Chūgo shoved him sideways. There was a loud splash when he hit the water. “Help!” he screamed. “I can’t swim!”
Sano made a decision. “We take Chūgo now.”
“But—” Hirata motioned toward the bank, where his assistants stood in a helpless huddle. They’d been told to burst into the cabin after the killer had entered. Now one suspect was in the river and the other hurrying down the gangplank to freedom. “They don’t know what to do!”
Sano was already out the door. The rain hit him like a curtain of water, drenching him to the skin. Over the wind that
howled in his ears, he heard Matsui screaming and the bodyguards shouting. Clutching his sword, he lurched around the corner onto the starboard deck just in time to see one guard dive from the gangplank to save Matsui and the other face off against Chūgo.
In a blur of speed, Chūgo drew his sword. It cut the bodyguard’s throat before he could even unsheath his weapon. With a gush of blood, he fell dead. Chūgo kicked the corpse into the river and hurtled down the gangplank.
“Chūgo!” Sano shouted. “Stop!” Awed and horrified by the swift, efficient murder he’d just witnessed, he pounded after Chūgo. His feet slipped on the wet, slick gangplank.
Hirata followed on his heels. “Catch him!” he shouted to his assistants.
The three men hurried onto the dock, waving spears, clubs, and daggers. Then, as Chūgo rushed them, bloody sword raised, they scattered and fled in panic. Chūgo was on the path now, running for the firebreak. Sano leaped from the gangplank and onto the dock, glad the assistants hadn’t challenged Chūgo, who would have cut them down with one stroke. But how he dreaded chasing their quarry through the streets of Edo, where he might kill bystanders and escape into the crowds. Half blinded by the rain, Sano sprinted across the dock. His heart raced like runaway hoofbeats; determination powered his sore muscles. Chūgo passed the last dock. He reached the slope leading down to the Sumida River firebreak, but Sano was gaining on him, with Hirata panting at his elbow.
“Stop, Chūgo!” Sano shouted, brandishing his sword. A huge lightning bolt momentarily turned the dark world a blazing white; a thunderclap drowned out his words.
The guard captain started skidding sideways down the slope. With a burst of speed that nearly exploded his heart, Sano closed the distance between them to twenty paces. He must forget about taking Chūgo alive. In a moment, he would pit his fighting skills against those of perhaps the best swordsman in Edo—
Bundori:: A Novel of Japan Page 32