by Jeremy Bates
Armed and on guard, we huddled morosely around the fire and waited for the police to arrive. Mel chewed her fingernails, something I had only seen her do on a few occasions when she was either stressed or excited. Nina sat quietly, saying nothing. John Scott smoked his cigarettes and said inane things every so often like, “I wonder if Tomo got a look at the asshole’s face?” or, “If see this fucker, I’m going to drive this pole through his heart.”
I kept to myself, trying to recreate what happened to Tomo exactly. Sometime in the early morning, after we’d heard those chilling screams, he must have wandered into the trees to relieve himself. The assailant, who I’ll call John Doe, snuck up behind him and struck him on the back of the head with a blunt object. There was no reason for Tomo to venture the one hundred yards or so to where we found his body, so John Doe must have carried him this distance. Tomo, however, was the height of an average adult Japanese male, which meant John Doe was likely abnormally large and strong because it would be extremely difficult for someone to carry their own body weight that far in the dark. In fact, he’d probably have to be about my size.
This gave me pause. In the four or so years I’ve been in Japan I had only encountered one Japanese taller than me—and the guy was an anomaly, likely suffering from gigantism, standing well in the seven-foot range. I suspect he worked nearby my school because I often saw him during the morning rush out of the train station to the surrounding office buildings. On a few occasions I noticed him walking—though “lurching” would be a more accurate description of his gait—next to a four-foot-nothing guy who had a condition which caused him to drag his left foot along the ground. This pairing of extremes seemed too coincidental to be happenchance, and I always wondered if they were friends by default of being outcasts.
Anyway, the point was that the percentile of Japanese men of the physical stature to haul Tomo away like a sack of flour would be very small. So could John Doe belong to a different nationality then? I doubted it. The prospect of a murderous six-foot-four Dane or Russian hanging out in Aokigahara seemed ludicrous.
My eyes fell on Neil, and I wondered why he had been spared. After all, he would have been the easiest target. He was already incapacitated and isolated from the rest of us. So why hadn’t John Doe gone after him? Because he was no threat?
Was John Doe saving the weakest for last?
“You guys were supposed to be keeping watch,” Mel said abruptly. “You said you were going to take turns keeping watch.”
“We did,” I said, knowing where this was leading.
“So this happened on Tomo’s shift?”
“No,” I said. “It happened on mine.”
“And you saw nothing?”
“I was asleep.”
“You fell asleep?”
“I was never woken up.”
“Who was supposed to wake you up?”
I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t blame John Scott. I wanted to, but it wouldn’t be fair. It was me, not him, who had volunteered his service. He didn’t believe in ghosts, just as I didn’t. How foolish would he have felt, sitting up in the cold while everyone else was asleep, watching the trees for an imaginary enemy. After an uneventful thirty minutes, I likely would have dozed off as well.
Nina and Mel, however, were not so forgiving. They glared at John Scott with ice picks in their eyes.
Nina said, “Why did you not wake Ethan up?”
John Scott shrugged. “I fell asleep.”
“God! You are so—”
“I suppose you’re going to pin this one on me too?”
“This isn’t about you!” Mel jumped in. “Tomo died. He’s dead. Do you get that? How hard is it to stay awake for a couple hours?”
“I didn’t see you offering to keep watch.”
“I wouldn’t have fallen sleep.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t ‘whatever’ me.”
“Whatever.”
“Gosh, John, you’re such a dick sometimes.”
Finally, I thought, something about John Scott that Mel and I could agree upon.
“You said that woman had screwed up killing herself,” Nina said to John Scott. “But what if you were wrong? What if she was murdered just like Ben and Tomo?”
“No way,” he said immediately.
Another half hour had passed. It was now 9:24 a.m. The daylight was a little brighter, the air a little warmer. But the sun still refused to show itself, the sky the same unrelenting gray.
“Why not?” Nina challenged.
“Those screams had been far away. I’d say over a mile, maybe two. How would he have made his way back here in the dark?”
“We had a fire. He could see that.”
“Not from a distance. He would be walking blind.”
“He could do it,” Nina persisted.
John Scott shrugged. “Okay. Fine. Maybe,” he conceded. “But let’s look at the facts. He killed Ben two nights ago. Which meant he had been here, nearby. Which meant at some point between then and early this morning he would have to have gone wandering around the forest, searching for another potential victim, stumbling randomly upon the woman, killing her, then coming all the way back here and killing Tomo in the span of, what, a couple hours? It seems like a hell of a lot of work to do in one night.”
“Why us?” Mel said. “Why stalk us?”
“Because we’re different,” I said.
“Huh?”
“We’re foreigners. Maybe he wanted a change.”
“A change from what?”
“Japanese victims.”
“You think this isn’t the first time he’s done this?”
“People who kill for no reason,” I said, “they’re sick. They have issues. They can’t control their desires. So imagine that was you. Would you go around Tokyo, hunting for victims, where there was a good possibility you could get caught? Or would you go somewhere with a constant supply of victims—and where they were expecting to be found dead? No foul play suspected, no investigation. You get away every time.”
“You think he’s a serial killer?” Mel said, aghast.
“Shit, maybe you’re right,” John Scott said. “The guy wouldn’t care if his targets were going to kill themselves anyway. He just wants the thrill of taking their lives. Maybe—maybe he was even watching the parking lot. He chooses who he wants, then follows them into the forest.”
“This is crazy,” Mel said.
“Or maybe,” John Scott went on, “he was one of the suicide guys himself. He comes out here to hang himself, decides he doesn’t want to do it, but he’s still pissed off at society or whatever so he takes it out on others who come here.”
“Regardless of who he is,” I said, seeing that the discussion was upsetting Mel and Nina, “he’s a coward who only attacks at night, and we’re going to be long gone from here by then.”
The following two hours inched by with painful slowness. I spent much of it preoccupying myself with the Chicago Blackhawks, who hadn’t won the Stanley Cup since 1961, but who I’d watched religiously as a kid growing up. When I was eleven, my father surprised Gary and me with tickets to a game against the Montreal Canadians. This was way back in ’88 when the Blackhawks still played in Chicago Stadium, aka “The Madhouse on Madison.” I’d spent almost as much time gawking at the triple-tiered seating filled with rambunctious fans as I did the players on the ice, and I’ve never forgotten the aged smell of stale beer and sweat that permeated the old arena, or the roar of the crowd which seemed to shake the building when the Blackhawks scored, or the circusy music the pipe organ belted out between whistles.
Eventually I got up to check on Neil, swooning lightheadedly when I stood.
“Hey, Neil,” I said. “You feeling better?”
He tried to wet his lips, but had no saliva to do this with. “Tomo?” he said in a dry whisper.
“Do you need anything?” I asked him, avoiding the question.
“Tomo?” The word was thick a
nd cumbersome, as if his tongue was engorged, and sounded like “Dhomo.”
I shook my head.
“Wha’appen?”
“The police are going to be here soon. Probably an hour or so. We’re getting ready to leave. Do you need to go to the bathroom before?”
He nodded, and I helped him to his feet. He baby-stepped into the forest, hunched over, his head down. He might no longer be puking and moaning, but his condition was serious bordering on critical.
He stopped by a tree and undid his pants with clumsy fingers. We hadn’t ventured far from camp, but I nonetheless felt exposed and vulnerable. I remained vigilant, scanning the shadows, paranoid John Doe was going to burst from the vegetation and attack us at any second. I silently urged Neil to hurry up. Finally I heard a short splash, then he was re-buttoning his pants. He hadn’t defecated yet today, and I wondered if that was because he had nothing left inside him, or because he was constipated, a result of dehydration.
I led him back to his sleeping bag, pulled it up to his chin, and returned to the campfire.
“How is he?” Mel asked me.
“If you checked on him once in a while,” I snapped, “you would know.”
“I have checked,” she said defensively. “Several times. But I just can’t stand seeing him how he is.” She lowered her voice. “He looks like he’s already half dead.”
“Yeah, I—sorry,” I mumbled, scratching my hand through my hair, which was itchy and oily. The headache that had begun the night before was now a steady, thumping pulse, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t helping my mood any. “He’s weak from the food poisoning,” I added more sociably. “But the bug has passed. He’ll get his color back with some water and food.”
“Maybe Kaori has called the police as well?”
“Kaori?” I frowned, unable to place the name.
“His wife.”
“Yeah, right.” But I still had no idea what Mel was talking about. Why would Kaori call the police? Suddenly I was finding it hard to think straight.
“If this trip went according to plan,” Mel explained, “we would have been back down Mt. Fuji yesterday afternoon. Kaori would have been expecting a call from Neil. You know how he is. Like clockwork with things. So if he didn’t call her yesterday, she might have gotten worried. When he didn’t call today, she might have been worried enough to call the police. Then they’d know for sure we were in serious trouble.”
I nodded, but that was all I offered. Because whether Kaori had called the police or not really didn’t matter. They had one more hour to arrive.
After that, we were on our own.
At a quarter to noon I think we had all given up hope of a deus ex machina to save the day, and I said, “We should leave.”
No one agreed vocally, but no one disagreed either.
“Is Neil able to walk?” Mel asked.
“No.”
Nina frowned. “How will we carry three people?”
“We need to make a second litter.”
“Yes, but there are three people—”
“We can’t take Ben, Nina. I’m sorry.”
There was a vacuous silence.
“We cannot leave Ben here!” Nina exploded.
“There are only four of us,” I said. “Two per litter.”
“We will put Ben and Tomo together then,” she declared.
“That’s going to be too heavy to carry.”
“You and John Scott can do it.”
“For a short distance maybe. But we don’t know where we are. We’re going to be walking for hours. We need to move at a fast pace, make the most of our time.”
“Then we will all carry one corner.”
“Nina…”
“We cannot leave Ben’s body here!”
“We’ll leave a trail or something. The police will be able to come back for him. I’ll come with them.”
“I will not leave his body for that—that person out here.”
“He’s not interested in the bodies, Nina. He hanged them for us to find. He’ll likely be following us.”
“Animals. What if they—”
“Have you seen any animals? I haven’t. None in two days.” I was omitting the deer, of course, but we were talking about carnivores.
“Why Ben? Why not Tomo?”
I saw the accusation in her eyes: Because he is your friend.
I said, “Ben’s been dead for a day longer. He’s…decomposing. He smells.”
“Ben is smaller, lighter.”
“They’re about the same size.”
“This is not fair!”
“Do you want to vote—”
“Oh shut up! Just shut up!”
She turned around and began to cry.
John Scott and I crafted the second litter using Tomo’s and John Scott’s jackets. Surprisingly John Scott had surrendered his without a word, tearing holes in the shoulders with one of his homemade spears.
He saw me watching him and said, “What?”
I shook my head and said, “Nothing.”
When we finished we placed Tomo’s body on one litter, covering it with his sleeping bag, and Neil on the other. Neil didn’t question us or protest.
John Scott and I had discussed digging a temporary grave for Ben, but the topsoil was only a thin membrane over the solidified magma, no more than a foot deep where we hacked away at it with rocks. We also decided to leave the tents behind to lighten our loads. We needed to conserve as much energy as possible.
“Mel, you and Nina will carry Tomo,” I said. “John Scott and I will carry Neil.”
“Which way should we go?” Mel asked.
I glanced at John Scott. “You still want to climb that tree?”
I thought he would tell me to fuck a monkey or something else creatively undesirable, but he nodded and said, “Which one?”
“You’re going to climb a tree?” Mel said.
“It’s too overcast to get a read on the sun,” he said. “But if I climb a tree, I’ll be able to see Fuji, which is, what, east of here?”
“Yup,” I said.
Mel craned her neck and looked up at the towering trees. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said skeptically.
“I’m a good climber,” John Scott assured her. “So which one?”
“The tallest,” I said.
28
After several minutes of searching we decided on a species of fir. It wasn’t the tallest tree around, contrary to what I’d suggested John Scott attempt, but unlike some larger cedar, the crown reached nearly to the ground, which meant we could climb it without ropes and spikes—which of course we didn’t have. Also, the branches stemmed horizontally from the trunk and were arranged in flattened sprays, making them perfect for climbing. I guessed it cleared the canopy at about one hundred feet and topped off at one hundred twenty. The shape wasn’t conical, like the firs back home in Wisconsin, but more irregular, the leading shoots drooping downward as if laden with invisible weights.
“You ready?” I asked John Scott.
He nodded. “Give me a lift.”
I made a stirrup by interlocking the fingers of my hands and heaved him upward. He grabbed the lowest branch and started kicking, trying to swing his legs over the branch. One of his feet struck me in the head. I cursed and watched as he continued squirming in the manner of a recently birthed tadpole. He hooked his left leg on the branch, and for a moment it appeared as though he would be able to pull himself up. But his leg slipped and lost purchase. He hung for a moment, refusing to concede, before letting go and dropping to the ground.
All in all it had been a spectacularly uncoordinated display of athleticism.
“Are we sure about this?” Mel said.
John Scott ignored her. “Give me another lift,” he said to me.
We repeated the process, though this time he hoisted himself up with greater finesse.
“Be careful,” Mel cautioned.
John Scott started to climb. Several of
the lower branches appeared dead, or barely alive, due to the deprivation of sunlight at their lowly level. He avoided these, opting for the ones sprouting the needle-like leaves. The branches grew close together, both aiding and hindering his ascent. It made it easy for him to find hand- and footholds, but it also made for tight quarters.
Nina, Mel, and I stood with our necks craned, watching his progress. I didn’t know about the others, but I was filled with both excitement and dread. If John Scott could reach the top, we could figure out which way was which and get the hell out of this prison. However, if he fell— well, he was already fifty feet up, which was high enough to be fatal.
“He was right,” Mel said from beside me. “He is a good climber.” Her hands were steepled over her mouth.
“Yeah,” I replied absently.
“He’s going to make it.”
“I think so.”
Up and up he went, getting closer to the canopy, though his progress had slowed considerably. He was likely running out of solid branches that could support his weight.
“Can you see anything?” I shouted.
A pause. “Not yet!”
“Make sure the branches aren’t rotten!”
He didn’t answer.
I could barely see him now except for flashes of his white pullover. I think he had stopped moving.
“Are you there?” Mel shouted.
“Not yet!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Branches are thin!”
“Maybe you should come back down?”
“Little farther!”
There was movement again—then a tremendous crack, like a starter gun going off. A huge commotion followed, branches shaking and snapping as if the tree was suddenly full of riotous monkeys.
He’s falling! Oh my fucking Lord, he’s falling!
Mel and Nina screamed in unison, short, high-intensity bursts of alarm.
John Scott didn’t plummet straight to the ground. It was a staggered descent, like a pachinko ball teeter-tottering through the maze of pins. He would drop five or ten feet until he hit a large branch, flip one way or the other, drop farther, hit another branch, on and on.