by Kotaro Isaka
"Not yet."
"Do you think he did it?" Kazu asked.
"1 know he didn't. 1 got a note."
"1 don't follow you."
"There was a note tucked in the visor of an abandoned car I happen to know about, and it spelled it out: '1 am innocent. Masaharu Aoyagi,' it said."
Kazu frowned, thinking she was making a joke.
"Did he really rescue you?" she asked.
"1 was a little groggy, but 1 remember clearly that when the police were beating me he came in and stopped them."
"Are you sure it was the police?"
"1 never saw their badges, but they said they were—and 1 think one of them was a guy who's been on TV today."
"You mean Sasaki?"
"That's the one. I'm pretty sure he was there." Kazu looked up at the ceiling and smiled ruefully. "Actually," he said, "1 was planning to turn Aoyagi in at first. They called just after the assassination and told me 1 should let them know if he contacted me. 1 didn't take it seriously then, but they said he was a 'j)erson of interest' to them."
"T hey called you yesterday? But how did they know? T hat was before he was even identified as a suspect." T he news had said that it wasn't until this morning that he'd been named.
"1 thought it sounded tunny, too. Besides, 1 hadn't seen him in years and 1 told them 1 thought there was no chance he'd get in touch. T hey saitl they wanted to monitor my calls—just in case. T hey were polite enough, but 1 didn't teel like 1 had a choice."
"You didn't, and 'monitor' meant tapping your j)h{)ne, eavesdropping on every word you said. They told me the same thing, and Ami, too. It can't be legal."
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"But I'm afraid it didn't seem to matter much when they first asked me. I never thought Aoyagi would actually call me." The memory seemed to revive his physical pain. "So I didn't think it was such a big deal. But right after that he did call, and left a message on my cell phone—just said it was Aoyagi."
"He's never had much luck, has he?" said Haruko.
"No, that he hasri't. Anyway, I called him back. 1 assumed the police were listening. 1 didn't know what to say to him, what to do. I wasn't sure whether 1 should call the police. 1 wanted to warn him that something was up, but 1 couldn't even do that. And then he showed up at my place—and the police called. 1 was confused, so 1 told him to wait at a restaurant down the street." Kazu's remorse grew visibly as he spoke.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Haruko said. "Aoyagi trusted you. That's why he came to you when he needed help."
"He didn't call you?"
"No, and the police didn't ask me for help, either."
"I guess they didn't think he was likely to get in touch with an old girlfriend."
"I guess not," she agreed, trying to sound lighthearted.
"But Tm afraid I didn't deserve his trust," Kazu murmured.
h
Haruko Higuchi
"1 had a dream while 1 was unconscious," Kazu said. His arm twitched as though he had tried to snap his fingers but was held back by the bandages.
"What sort of dream?" Haruko asked.
"You remember that trip we took to a hot spring in Yamagata when we were in school?"
"1 remember," she said. In their junior year they had gone off with the usual group and a few other close friends. In theory and in practice, the Friends of Fast Food was never meant to be anything more than a bunch of people sitting around in burger joints shooting the bull. So, in keeping with the spirit of the organization, this road trip had been an aimless affair.
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a mere change of venue, with lots of time spent shooting the bull—but in a hot spring pool. ''1 remember we were all hoping for an inn with some atmosphere, so it was disappointing to wind up in a regular hotel."
"'Regular' is generous. The place was a dump, and Morita was the one who picked it." Kazu's expression changed visibly as he mentioned Morita's name, and Haruko realized he must have heard from Ami that something had happened to him. She decided to avoid the subject. "I was dreaming about that trip. We stayed three nights, and spent most of the time in the bath."
"Except that we began to wonder whether it was the real thing or if they'd hidden a boiler somewhere." She had completely forgotten about the trip, but as Kazu spoke the details came back to her.
"The third night in the bath, everyone suddenly started yelling."
"1 don't remember that."
"They had mixed up the bottles of washing stuff." Haruko looked at him, wondering whether his injury and the long time he had been unconscious had somehow prompted this pointless story. "There were three bottles at each sink—shampoo, conditioner, and soap—and by the third day everyone had learned what order they left them in. So that evening, they switched the bottles."
"Who did?"
"Morita and Aoyagi," Kazu laughed.
"But why would they do that?"
"It was their idea of a practical joke. Dumb, 1 know, but they realized everyone was using them without checking which was which, and they wanted to see what would happen when they got them wrong. But 1 think .Morita must have forgotten and ended uj) pouring conditioner all over himself."
"Typical," said Haruko, looking up at the ceiling and sighing.
"Completely dumb," he agreed. "1 wonder what made me remember it?"
Tatsumi came over to the bed and reached up to brush his hand over Kazu's cheek, which was wet witli tears. Kazu smiled at him and began to sing quietly in laiglish.
"The Beatles?" Haruko asked. T he tune was lamiliar.
"'(j(Bden Slumbers,"' he said, j)ausing lor a moment. Then he repeated the |)hrase: Once there wns n wny to yet hink honiewnnl. "I tan see that now. We
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can't get back there anymore. There might have been a way once, but somehow we've all , . . grown older."
So we have, thought Haruko. At some stage we graduated from those lazy days at school, we put on suits or uniforms, stopped phoning each other, got on with our own separate lives. Not that we've grown up exactly, but gradually something changed. 'T guess that happens," she said. "But it doesn't explain what's happening to Aoyagi. It's too strange."
The door opened at this point and, as expected, a detective stood facing them. "Mr. Ono," he said, "I have a few questions Td like to ask you, if that's okay."
"I'm not sure you're going to like the answers," Kazu told him, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was the police who had beaten him before, so he was bound to see this as a further attempt to choke him off.
"Can't this wait?" said Ami, getting to her feet. "He's barely regained consciousness."
"No, it's fine," Kazu interrupted. "If he has questions, let him ask."
Kondo and another detective crossed the room to the bed. "Could I ask you to wait outside?" Kondo said to Haruko.
"Kazu, be nice to these people," she suggested. "I know the police didn't treat you very well the last time around, but you've got to watch your step. If you cross these two, they could turn nasty on you, too."
There was no sarcasm intended. She simply spoke the truth. The police had shown that they were willing to ignore the law in their pursuit of Aoyagi. She wanted to defend Kazu, to take on these bastards, but she was worried it might put him in more danger if she was too direct. There was no way of telling—the whole situation was so weird—but they may even have intended to silence him permanently earlier and, when he recovered unexpectedly, had sent these two to finish the job.
So this was no time for righteous indignation. Kazu needed to think about his future, about Ami and the boy. He needed to survive—something hopefully he realized, lying there flat on his back. "Don't worry," he assured her. "I'll be nice."
Kondo gave her a chilly look as she left the room.
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Masaharii Aoyagi
It was unclear whether the police knew that he had a car. They probably assumed he had no way of getting one. So there was some satisfaction in the fact that he did. It was a mino
r victory, a token of resistance, but it was something at least.
The game unit lay on the seat next to him, tuned to the news, and it was all still about him. He had been seen walking along a highway, or holding hands with some kindergartners, or coming out of a restaurant, or driving a truck. But they were all wrong. There were even reports that he was seen driving a car, but the make and model and even the color the witness reported seeing had nothing to do with his little dirty yellow machine.
So where to go? With Miura gone and his double's whereabouts unknown, his options were wide open again—or nonexistent. He drove along trying to avoid making any decisions, and when he came to an intersection, he turned at random and drove on in the new direction. He knew he would run into a checkpoint sooner or later, and he wasn't sure he cared anymore—but each time he caught himself losing hope, he would hear that voice, those voices, urging him to keep running, and he would force himself to concentrate, to go on. He had no plan and every expectation of getting caught, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to give up.
He'd been back on the road for some time when it occurred to him that he could use Inai's empty aj)artment again. It wasn't a l)rilliant idea, but something told him that the police might have a blind sjK)t for places they'd already searched. Why, their reasoning would go, should he go back where he'd nearly been caught? hven he wasn't that dumb. Or was he?
A short while later, he turned into the |)arking lot in front ot the building and |)ulled into a s|)ace next to the main entrance—one he had often used when he was making deliveries here. 1 le switched olt the engine and got out. hooking up at the building, he could see light see|)ing Irom behind closed curtains in several windows and tell a surge ol regret and envy at the normal lile going on in those rooms, hooking down and covering his lace as best he
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could, he went in. He bent double to slip past the building manager's office and got in the elevator. The note telling deliverymen to leave their packages downstairs was still on Inai's door.
He tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked. No shoes had been left inside, so he closed and locked the door behind him. "I'm back," he whispered. Sliding his backpack off his shoulders onto his arm, he removed his shoes and headed down the corridor.
As he was nearing the room at the far end, he realized that the door was ajar and a man was looking out at him. White hair, a round face, with an expression that said he'd thought he heard something and had come to check just in case. He blinked in astonishment as he came face to face with Aoyagi.
Aoyagi was just as startled—probably more so since he had been more tense to begin with—but without an instant's hesitation he covered the short distance between them while the man was still taking in the situation. Tossing down his pack, he planted his left leg next to the man's right, grabbed him by the collar of his police uniform, and pulled in while his leg swept out. The move worked again. The man fell on the boxes that still littered Inai's living room. He lay gasping, with Aoyagi's hand pressed to the base of his throat.
Then things got a little hectic. He began flapping his arms and pawing at his waist, apparently trying to reach his revolver. But Aoyagi held him down. He put his foot on the man's arm and fumbled for the gun with his free hand. The first thing he felt was a pair of handcuffs, which he pulled free. He managed to get them on one of the man's wrists, but he struggled even harder. They were both frantic, bodies twisting, spittle flying. He didn't like fighting someone so much older, but if he was pinned now, it was all over. At last he snapped the cuffs shut on the other wrist, bound his ankles with some duct tape he found, and put another strip over his mouth.
"Can you breathe okay?" he asked after propping him against a wall. The man's eyes were bloodshot and his breath was ragged, and presumably he was feeling enraged and humiliated. But if he hadn't been so worked up, Aoyagi thought the slack cheeks and wrinkled skin around his eyes suggested a placid, middle-aged mail; and when they had fought a moment earlier, he had felt mostly flab instead of muscle. No doubt he had worked hard at his
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job and was about to begin a peaceful retirement on his government pension. At the moment, however, he was staring at him with open hatred. "Tin sorry,” Aoyagi said. "I'm not going to hurt you. 1 just can't let myself get caught.”
He slid the officer's wallet out of the pocket of his uniform and checked the name on his ID: Yasuo Kojima. When he said the name, the man gave him a sullen look. "You know who 1 am, don't you?” Aoyagi said. He mumbled something .Aoyagi took to be "assassin,” but the tape made it unintelligible. "I'm not,” he told him, looking him in the eye. "I'm being framed.” He thought he might have a chance of getting through to him if he was completely direct. Kojima writhed and struggled, as though goaded by a sense of duty, by the need to get out of the handcuffs, tear off the tape, and arrest .Aoyagi on the spot. "It's the truth,” he said. "I didn't do it. But for some reason they're trying to make it look like 1 did, and that's why I'm on the run.” Kojima sneered from behind the tape. "Let me know if you're hungry,” Aoyagi said, pulling an energy bar from his pack. "I've got more of these. . . . .Actually, I stole them from here. CDr if you need to go to the toilet, just say so. I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep you here, at least till I'm ready to move on.”
He wasn't sure how long he wanted to stay in Inai's apartment, but the real question was probably how long he could safely hang around.
Less than twenty minutes had passed when Kojima slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, either from resignation or exhaustion. Perhaps he had decided that he wouldn't survive the encounter. Peeling guilty, Aoyagi leaned closer. "1 really won't hurt you,” he said. But there was no response, so he sat down near him and buried his face in his knees. As he did so, he thought that Kojima lo(jked over at him for a moment, but he didn't look up.
He w(jke up, sensing Kcqima squirming near him.
"'I he toilet?” he asked. Kojima nodded. "()kay,'' Aoyagi said, getting uj) and |)eeling the tape oh his legs. "I'm alraid I'll have to leave the culls,” he said. "But I'm sure you can manage.” He helped him to his leet and led him to the bathroom, ( losing the door behintl him, Aoyagi waited outside. The whole situation lelt awkward, but he had no choice.
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After a few minutes, he heard the toilet flush and he knocked on the door. He was ready for Kojima to try to jump him the minute the door opened, but the man simply walked meekly back to the living room. Aoyagi wrapped the same piece of tape around his ankles. It was less sticky now but should still do the trick.
"Tm really sorry about all this," he said. "But Til be moving on in the morning." Was that true? Did he really mean to leave here with nothing else up his sleeve? Kojima looked at him quizzically, as if to ask where he would be going. "1 know 1 can't just leave you like this," he added. Then he picked up the remote next to him on the floor and punched the power button. The TV, mounted on the wall across from them, made a low noise and the picture came on. He looked at the clock on the desk: 7:30. He had been asleep a long time.
"Still me, all the time," he said, flipping from channel to channel, news special to news special. One lone channel had apparently decided it would buck the trend and show a sitcom starring a number of young actors. Aoyagi watched this for a while but was soon bored. Glancing over at Kojima, it was clear he felt the same way, so he hit the button and moved on. This time, a close-up of his own face appeared on the screen, followed by a map of Sendai on which all the Aoyagi sightings had been marked.
In the studio, another panel of experts had been assembled to comment. "If Aoyagi is still hiding somewhere in the city, that would seem to indicate that he has accomplices," said a man who had been a detective. "They should be doing door-to-door searches in the older apartment blocks and the neighborhood where he lived as a student." A psychologist was more worried about the suspect's mental state. "He's probably sleep-deprived and exhausted. If he isn't located soon, there's no tellin
g what might happen."
No telling what might happen. Aoyagi thought about this for a moment. He wasn't sure whether the psychologist was worried that he would hurt himself or that he would take hostages or do someone else harm. At any rate, they all felt free to speculate wildly about him without any reference to the facts. He looked over at Kojima. "You may not believe me," he said, pointing at the TV, "but they're all a bunch of puffed-up liars."
He expected Kojima to glare back at him, but there was no particular anger in his eyes. Maybe he was tired, or had just given up. Or maybe he wanted
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to keep Aoyagi calm, to reassure him until he got his own chance. "Tm sorry you got dragged into this," Aoyagi said. There was no response.
He felt a vibration in his backpack—a call coming in to the phone he had taken from Miura's pocket. He took it out and checked the display. The number was familiar. "Sorry," he said to Kojima, "I've got to answer this."
".Aoyagi?" said the voice of the plastic surgeon. "1 have some new information."
".About the double?" he asked. Miura's small, lifeless form came briefly to mind.
"It seems he was being hidden at a private clinic run by one of my colleagues."
"The last time it was the Hospital Center, but we both know that was a lie." How could he be calling with the same story, with nothing more than a change of venue?
"The police took him away about two hours ago. The doctor at the clinic called to tell me."
"Why would he do that?" Aoyagi asked. The whole situation seemed highly improbable.
"He resented the way it was done—by force, without a word of e.xplana-tion. T hey didn't say why they were taking him or where; they weren't even civil. They broke the frame of a picture on the wall by the back door and didn't even apologize."
"He was worried about his frame?"
"He was angry. He knew 1 was looking for your double, and news travels fast in our little circle. 1 guess you could say he called me out of spite."