by Steve Bein
“I’m all right. I wasn’t hit.”
She wanted to hug him, but he was beat to hell and couldn’t use either arm. She settled for squeezing his good shoulder. She was so happy to see him that she almost cried. Only now did she fully understand how close she’d come to dying. Fear was strange that way, catching up only after the danger had passed. The fight with Joko Daishi had terrified her, but it wasn’t until she saw Han that she understood everything she could have lost.
“What happened?” he said.
“He …” Mariko swallowed. “He hit the train. And then I did something I shouldn’t have done.”
Han studied her closely, trying to make sense of the tears welling in her eyes. Then he saw the thin trickle of blood oozing down the length of Glorious Victory Unsought. “Oh,” he said.
Mariko just nodded. She tried to speak but nothing came out.
Han nodded back. He tucked his left lapel into his right hand, which couldn’t do much other than grab onto whatever he put in it. Now that it had a good hold, his right arm could serve as its own sling. With his left hand he ripped off the tattered remains of his torn pants pocket, then reached up and cleaned the blood from Glorious Victory Unsought. He did it carefully and thoroughly. Then, rather than tossing the bloody rag aside for evidence techs to find, he stuffed it in his remaining pocket. “It’ll be all right,” he said.
“Han, I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask me for anything. You didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have done. And we don’t have to talk about this now. Let’s get you home.”
55
A week passed and life settled into what could only be called the new normal. The most mundane tasks were a part of Mariko’s life again. This included checking her e-mail, which for her ranked on par with shaving her legs: pointless, time-consuming, never the way she’d prefer to be spending her morning, but necessary because it was just what people expected you to do. This week the chore was much larger than usual. Her in-box had all the usual garbage—officer safety bulletins, policy reminders, a retirement announcement, the day’s menu from the commissary—plus seventy-five messages from individuals in the department, most of whom she’d never met, all offering congratulations.
From this she gathered that word had got out about the commendation she was to receive. The Medal of Honor was the highest award the department had to offer. The thought of it made her sick to her stomach.
Getting praise at work had never been easy for her, in either sense of easy: it was tough to come by, since most of her superiors thought of her not as a cop but as a lady cop, and it was tough to accept, because thanks to her weird self-esteem issues, she found compliments to be a form of embarrassment. She had always been her own worst critic. In this case it was especially hard to accept the accolades because she knew what she’d done to achieve them. She got into bed with the enemy. She broke the law. And now she was a rock star.
Just by virtue of taking place in public, the shootout in Kikuchi Park was automatically on YouTube. A couple of videos showed Mariko hauling ass on her commandeered motorcycle. Inevitably, her sister, Saori, found all of them and sent links to everyone she knew. But the clip that went viral was a ten-second snippet that some brainless little prick at Japan Railways pirated from their security feed. His title: COP OUTRUNS SPEEDING TRAIN AND CHOPS IMPOSSIBLY SMALL CHAIN IN HALF WITH GIANT SAMURAI SWORD.
Mariko objected on numerous counts. She didn’t outrun the train, she’d only caught up to it. And it wasn’t speeding either; at best it was speeding up. She had to concede the point about the five-centimeter chain and the odachi, but it would have been nice of the guy to call the TMPD and ask for her permission before royally fucking up any chance she’d ever have at working undercover again. That stupid video collected eighty thousand hits on its first day.
After that, Mariko could hardly blame Saori for pinning it to the top of her Facebook page. She begged Saori to change her status, and Saori complied, though not in the way Mariko had hoped. She deleted “My sister is a superhero!” as requested, only to replace it with “My sister is a Jedi Knight!”
Mariko wasn’t in the mood for high fives, though she had to admit she’d played a big part in a big win. Of 1,290 kidnapped children, 1,284 were returned safely to their homes. Six died in their sleep, the result of an overdose of whatever Joko Daishi concocted to put them under. It was a common risk with anesthesia of any kind, which was why people had to go to school for anesthesiology in the first place. The most callous news analysts said six out of thirteen hundred was statistically quite good; the number could have been much worse.
That was no consolation to the six grieving families. In fact it added insult to injury, because while they were left with their pain, the rest of the country actually felt relieved. In any other year, a serial killer overdosing six children would be too horrific for words. The bereft families would find an outpouring of sympathy on a national level. But in the wake of Joko Daishi, popular consensus could actually make sense of the grotesque phrase “only six dead children.”
Tokyo’s Purging Fire, the international media were calling it. Mariko despised them for giving Joko Daishi that much credit, using his term instead of coining one of their own. But these were the same unthinking drones who used the phrase “ethnic cleansing” instead of “genocide,” blithely ignorant of the implied premise that some ethnicities were dirty, or else they could not be “cleansed.”
A hundred and twelve dead at Haneda, four in the intentional head-on collisions, twenty-four poisoned at St. Luke’s, a child and a kidnapper dead in a car crash, six more children killed by overdose. SWAT and HRT shot and killed seven cultists in the course of freeing the children held in Terminal 2—perfect justice, some said, for the seven kidnapped kids who never made it back home. Four more cultists died in Kikuchi Park, along with one of the Bulldog’s enforcers, who took a bullet through the liver and died in surgery. A hundred and sixty all told, with three times that many injured. Koji Makoto was consciously left out of the count. Captain Kusama, in his final public address, said the TMPD would not sully the names of the other victims by including Joko Daishi among their number.
Kusama had almost everything he needed to keep his job. He was well connected, graceful under pressure, and demonstrated a unique capacity for turning ugly truths into flattering semitruths. Striking preemptively, he made Mariko’s demotion and suspension public knowledge, but claimed the department had never lost faith in her. He said she had unique knowledge of the Divine Wind, which was true. He said that if she was to accept a special assignment to investigate the cult, she couldn’t afford the distraction of having other officers report to her—also true, though of course he neglected to point out that there was no such assignment. He also failed to mention that he’d formally barred her from the Haneda investigation. On the other hand, he did highlight her central role in the rescue of the three hundred and sixty-five children in the Shinagawa rail yard. This got Han off the hook for his seemingly miraculous “anonymous tips,” and it absolved Mariko of everything she did while under suspension. She would even be restored to her previous rank. The only cost was that Kusama got to take credit by proxy for everything she’d accomplished.
Yes, Kusama was as slippery as an eel. He even managed to pass off the Jemaah Islamiyah fiasco as a deliberate misinformation campaign, intended to offend Joko Daishi and coax him out of hiding. The only thing he couldn’t overcome was Japanese culture itself. When an organization failed, someone at the head of that organization was expected to fall on his sword. Not so long ago, that was the literal truth. Even today, the top-ranked sumo referees carried a tanto in the ring, the knife traditionally used for seppuku. It symbolized their willingness to commit suicide if they should ever make a bad call. No one expected seppuku of them anymore, but they were expected to commit professional suicide: if one of their calls was ever overturned, they had to tender their resignation immediately. Police work was no different. The TMP
D had failed Tokyo. A hundred and sixty people were dead because of it. A prominent leader had to take a fall, and no one had cultivated a more prominent profile than Captain Kusama.
This was the new normal. Captains fell and disgraced detectives got their sergeant’s tags back. Mariko was to be decorated for honor too. Hence the seventy-five e-mails. She ignored them. Sooner or later she’d have to write a blanket reply, but she wasn’t up to it at the moment. Instead, she sent a short message to Lieutenant Sakakibara, asking him to delay the medal ceremony another week. She claimed she wanted her bruises to heal before everyone took photos.
*
Another week passed and she sent another e-mail. Terribly sorry, she said, but I forgot all about my class A’s.
It was sort of true. She hadn’t exactly forgotten her dress uniform; it was the most expensive clothing she’d ever owned, and she’d shredded it beyond repair during the relief effort at Terminal 2. That wasn’t a hit her bank account could simply forget. She also hadn’t forgotten that regulations prescribed class A’s for all ceremonial proceedings. What she did forget—willfully—was to place an order for new class A’s, which was another way of putting off that commendation for one more week.
*
Six days later she was standing in front of Sakakibara’s desk. “Sir,” she said, “I lost a fistful of hair in that fight. I mean literally a fistful. Look.” She took off the baseball cap she was wearing and bowed her head down so he could see the huge scab in her hairline. “He practically scalped me. Give me a month to grow it out. Otherwise it’ll look like the TMPD hires chimps to do its haircuts.”
Sakakibara frowned. “Seriously, Frodo? Bad hair day? That’s a pretty girly move. Not really your style.”
Mariko managed not to blush. She was afraid he’d say something like that.
His frown took a slightly different shape—puzzled, not annoyed. “You got a problem with getting a commendation, Frodo?”
“No sir. Why would I?”
“Damned if I know. You get that uniform yet?”
“It’s supposed to arrive tomorrow, sir.”
The grumpy frown came back. “You didn’t pull any bullshit with the order, did you? Just the pants, not the jacket? Nothing like that?”
“No, sir.” She wished she’d thought of that.
“Then it comes with a cap. So put your damn cap on, cover up your damn hairdo, and show up tomorrow to receive your damn commendation. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
*
She invited her mom and her sister to come to the award ceremony, but Han was the only one she asked to come to her apartment first. She wouldn’t admit it to him, but she didn’t want to be alone when the uniform arrived.
It was only polite to come bearing a gift, and Han brought what he always brought: cold beer in a six-pack. Bottles this time, for a change of pace. He would have been a gentleman and picked up the big cardboard box waiting on her doorstep, but he couldn’t manage the beer and the box with one hand. His right arm was still in a sling.
His “little train ride,” as he called it, had sprained, strained, or dislocated pretty much everything in his right arm. On the positive side, his physical therapist was hot, and he got to see her three days a week. “But only so she can hurt me,” he said. “Does it make me a sicko if I kind of like it?”
“Yes.” She took the drinks first, opening one for him because he couldn’t manage it one-handed. She took a swig of her own before returning to the hallway for the box. It ended up on her kitchen table, which wasn’t much bigger than the box itself. That was as close as she’d get to opening it for now.
They drank the first two beers talking about nothing. The big news in Han’s life was that a former Chicago Cub named Matt Murton broke Ichiro Suzuki’s single season hit record, which Han thought was relevant to Mariko because she used to live in Illinois and in his geographically challenged mind Illinois and Chicago were more or less synonymous. Mariko didn’t really care about baseball, but she found his enthusiasm entertaining nonetheless. For the first time in two weeks, she laughed.
“It’s about time,” he said. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Can I ask you something? When you shot Joko Daishi’s tire out, do you ever think about what would have happened if you hit him instead? I mean, that was a hell of a long shot.”
“I was aiming for him.”
“Huh?”
Han shrugged, an asymmetrical gesture given the state of his right shoulder. “You think that was an amazing shot? It wasn’t. I missed. I was trying to hit him.”
“Doesn’t that mess with your head? I mean, you could have killed somebody. What if you hit a civilian?”
“I didn’t.” When he saw that answer didn’t do anything for her, he said, “I don’t know what to tell you. I spend as much time on the range as anyone. Well, okay, maybe not as much as you, but as much as any sane person. If I thought I was going to hit a civilian, I wouldn’t have taken the shot.”
“But you just said you missed.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t think about it a lot. I guess I’m lucky I don’t have to. What’s this all about? What’s eating at you?”
She closed her eyes, steeled herself, and took the plunge. “You saw the medical examiner’s report on Joko Daishi?”
“I sure did. ‘Cause of death: massive blunt force trauma.’ Score one for the good guys.”
“Han, you and I both know what happened down there.”
“Yeah. We do. Is that what’s got you bent out of shape?”
Mariko didn’t expect to see legitimate surprise in his face. “Of course it is. That and everything that led up to it. All that shit with Furukawa, with the Wind …” She’d given him most of the general outlines by now. “Did I tell you about the Bulldog’s girlfriend?”
“No.”
“They killed her. Get this: I go to the Bulldog, looking for information about the kidnapped kids. He tells me to go fuck myself. Not his kids, not his problem, that’s what he says.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Neh?” Mariko cracked open another drink. “Except half an hour later, he calls me back. He’s the one who gave me the tip on the kids in Terminal 2. If not for him … I mean, we don’t know what would have happened, but it could have been pretty bad.”
“So why the change of heart?”
“He said his girlfriend was the latest case of ricin poisoning. Said she was pregnant and didn’t want to keep it, so she went to St. Luke’s.”
“Hm.” Han wrinkled up his face at that. “Pretty convenient timing.”
“Right. Ricin takes, what, four or five days to kill? She’s sick for days and he never hears about it until the minute I need him to?”
“You went and checked St. Luke’s, didn’t you?”
Mariko nodded. “I went to Organized Crimes first, and asked them for all the Bulldog’s known associates. They gave me the complete list: girlfriends, exes, all of them. I ran every name through St. Luke’s. No hits.”
“So what are you saying?”
Mariko’s hands were shaking now. “Furukawa killed her. He killed her and made the Bulldog think it was ricin. He didn’t even bother forging a medical record, Han. He could have hacked St. Luke’s computers but he didn’t bother, because he only needed Kamaguchi to believe the story long enough to help us.”
“Holy shit.” He thought about it a minute, scratching unconsciously at his cheek. “So what are we going to do about it?”
“What can we do? The guy is a ghost in the machine. Not just him; his whole damn organization.”
“There’s got to be something—”
“What? Call the cops? He is the cops, Han. He’s whoever he wants to be. I’ve seen how these people work. They can make and break people with a phone call. I have half an idea that they’re the ones who toppled Kusama.”
“Seriously?”
“Look at how it went down. Kusama’s as slick as the
y come. He dodged everything the media threw at him. No, he did more than just dodge it. They pelted him with shit and he turned it into snowflakes. He came away as clean as can be. And then the top brass push him out?”
“Mariko, I don’t know—”
“Okay, fine, I don’t know either. Call it a theory.” She took a drink. Focusing on how cold it was helped cool her flaring temper too. “But if that’s how it happened, it might be Furukawa’s way of thanking me. He knows I think Kusama was a sexist prick.”
“He was a sexist prick. Good riddance.” Han raised his beer in a toast.
Mariko obliged him; they clinked their bottles together. “You see what I’m saying, though, neh? I don’t think we have what it takes to burn down Furukawa.”
“We know he exists. That’s a start.”
“Okay, good point.” Mariko allowed herself a wry laugh. “It might be more than a start.”
“Uh-oh. What did you do?”
“I might have visited the Bulldog in prison.” Kamaguchi would be behind bars for a long time. That was what you got when you fired an AK-47 in a public park. It didn’t matter where the bullets went or how many soldiers you had to stand tall and plead guilty for you. “I might have let Furukawa’s name slip. Along with his description. And everything else I know about him.”
Han grinned. “You’re a bad girl.”
“See?” She smacked him. “This is what I’m worried about. We shouldn’t laugh about this. I shouldn’t feel good about it. I should feel guilty as hell.”
“Why? Because one bad guy is going to fuck over another bad guy? Let them. It’s what they do.”
“I helped, Han. Don’t you get that? I helped.”
She scowled at the brown cardboard box that contained her new class A’s. “This is why I don’t want that damn medal, Han. You were there when I broke into that strip club. That was criminal trespassing at best. Felony burglary as soon as I walked out the door with that printout. And that was before I fell in with the Wind. Since then …” She pinched her eyes shut and took a long drink. “Han, I lie awake at night listing all the crimes I committed for these people. It’s dozens. Maybe fifty, maybe a hundred. I’m too scared to write them all down.”