The Drowning God

by James Kendley

  Mori pretended to work, but he was really watching Takuda.

  Nakamura shook his head. “You’re insane with grief, just as your wife was insane with grief. It was disgusting to watch. Disgusting. A grown man, a policeman, giving way to grief just as his woman did. You left the valley because she wanted to, because she cut herself. Honestly, acting as if that was a serious suicide attempt! If ­people want to die, they die. You coddled her, and you became a woman yourself. You act so big and strong, but you’re weak, weak and womanly, just as your father was.”

  Nakamura wheeled and left the cave. Suzuki came to the end of a verse.

  Takuda first turned his attention to Suzuki. “Thank you for the chanting, both for the dead and the living. It helped keep me calm during that conversation with the chief. But for your prayers, we might have ended up with another heap of old bones on this floor.”

  Suzuki ignored him. He was counting beats between verses, just as the whole congregation had counted silently in Takuda’s youth. One hundred eight beats, one for each form of human sin. It was the most soothing silence he had ever known.

  Takuda approached Mori. “Officer, you’re good with computers, with plotting data and statistics and so forth?”

  Mori opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He bowed in reply.

  “Right,” Takuda said. “I know I said that incorrectly, but you understood. If I want a result from a certain set of data, could you pull that data into a map? A map of the prefecture and this valley?”

  Mori bowed.

  “Plot drowning incidents as far back as possible,” Takuda said. “If I’m right, these ­people are from areas where no one ever drowns.”

  “It’s stranger than that,” Mori said. “The next time we’re both at headquarters, I have something to show you.” He smiled without humor. “I have a lot to show you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Heh-­heh. A policeman of a decadent state and a priest of a defunct sect, both of you in a country jail with an unemployed engineer. It’s a very sad scene.” Ogawa’s eyes glittered in the dim cell. “How sad for the three of us.”

  “You’re like a different man,” Takuda said. He stood in the center of the village police station’s holding cell, and Suzuki squatted behind him, near the door.

  Ogawa beamed. “I’m like a different man? How so?”

  “The last time I saw you, you were acting drugged or brain-­damaged.”

  “Acting? I was stunned. High school boys beat me with fencing sticks while the fat sergeant watched. These bumpkins beat me constantly. I believe I have survived a massive brain contusion. Heh-­heh.”

  Takuda recounted what he had heard from patrolmen Kikuchi and Inoue. “Your new story is that the little girl dropped her bag and you were just trying to give it back.”

  “That is correct,” Ogawa said with gravity.

  “And she suddenly bit you.”

  “I am not liked by children or dogs. I’m used to it.”

  “Yet you confessed,” Takuda said.

  “I would have told them anything to stop those horrible beatings.”

  “Stop it. Your confession could take you straight to prison.”

  “I’m sure we’ve all seen better days.”

  “Your wife will probably go to prison as an accessory,” Takuda said.

  Ogawa laughed. “Never. You’ll see. That fat little slut will wriggle out of this just fine.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Hard times all around. Shouldn’t you take a moment to pray for better fortune?”

  “Interesting that you bring up prayer,” Suzuki said from the doorway. “Where do you pray?”

  Ogawa grinned with pleasure as he turned to Suzuki. His gums were an unhealthy gray. “Me pray? I don’t pray, Priest, and I don’t chant the sutras. Heh-­heh-­heh! What a waste of time!”

  “I wouldn’t imagine you chant sutras, no. But you’ve visited the shrine upriver,” Takuda said. “You left your handiwork.”

  Ogawa hesitated. “Shrine? Handiwork? Did I piss on something again? Maybe I parked my bicycle in the wrong spot. Did I try to help another little girl?” He pulled on his ear and feigned a twitch in his eye, hiding unease behind a parody of unease.

  Takuda pulled the photograph from his folder. “You had this photo in your apartment,” he said. “We know you’ve been to the shrine.”

  “Me? I’ve never been there. Heh-­Heh! I stole that photo from the village historical center. I stole it. Look at the developer’s stamp on the print.”

  Takuda turned the print over. In faded blue characters: June 1987.

  “That print was made before I came to the valley. I hope stealing it won’t add too many years to this prison sentence you’re talking about. I’ve never been to this shrine.”

  Suzuki’s knees popped as he stood. “You’ve never been to this shrine, but you were so interested that you stole a photo of it. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re a priest. You believe in a whole system that doesn’t make sense.”

  Suzuki bowed enough to signal understanding, not agreement. “My system is about life, not death. Your system seems to be all about death.”

  Ogawa laughed, but he had no reply.

  “We know how much you believe in death,” Takuda said.

  Ogawa cocked his head at him.

  “The stink of death is on you, Ogawa. You brought it from beneath the shrine.”

  “Never been there.”

  Takuda leaned forward. “We know what’s beneath the shrine, and we know what’s in the spillway.”

  Ogawa’s eyes widened.

  Takuda decided to gamble. “We know that you’re trying to revive the cult, and we know you’re not working alone.”

  Ogawa looked relieved. “Cult. The ­people of this valley once had a healthy respect for native Japanese religion. They had a living religion. A living god. They didn’t need fanciful ramblings of dirty Hindus and hairy Chinese.” Ogawa leaned forward, glaring at Suzuki. “Your ancestors ruined it for everyone, threw everything out of balance.”

  “Who works with you?” Takuda asked.

  “I’m never alone, Detective. But I’ll tell you, I’m not the one you’re looking for. I was here in this cell when the foreigner died. I don’t know what you’ve found beneath this shrine you’re talking about, but it has nothing to do with me.” He swung his feet up onto the cot and leaned back with his hands behind his head. “I’ll just wait here for whatever case the yokels can bring against me. Then I’ll call my lawyer, and he’ll be down here like a fox among the rats. You will fear him.”

  Takuda folded his arms. “So, all the heh-­heh-­heh is gone, eh?”

  “Make me laugh. We’ll see.”

  “What if I could make sure you’re never charged?”

  “You’re lying. You can’t do it.”

  Ogawa had slipped between Takuda’s fingers. “All I want is the truth about the cult.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the truth if I told you.”

  From the corner, Suzuki spoke: “Why do you study Ainu?”

  “I’m a student of many different things, Priest.”

  “Why the changes to the Ainu texts?”

  Ogawa ignored Suzuki’s question. “For example, I know about your radical sect. It’s barely Buddhism at all.”

  Suzuki ignored him. “It just looks like you’re taking modern Ainu, changing the verb forms and removing sounds.”

  “Most scholars agree that your heretical sect is a thinly veiled crusade against native Japanese religion. Not even the ­people in the valley believe in it anymore. How do you keep the temple open?”

  Suzuki said, “Whose language are you trying to learn?”

  “Speaking of cults, now that the detective here has joined you, you’re technically a cult.” Oga
wa turned to the detective. “You’ve placed yourself in the hands of a radical heretic. Just keep me out of it. Remember that I am a poor swimmer, and I have no claws to speak of.”

  “I didn’t say anything about claws,” Takuda said.

  “Your face speaks for you.”

  Takuda tucked the folder under his arm. “There’s nothing I can do for you now. You haven’t given me a single piece of information I can use here. So let me give you something.”

  Ogawa sat up with his hands folded in his lap. An attentive student.

  “Today, we found human remains in a cave under the Shrine of the Returning Apprentice. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Some of them are so old they’ve almost turned to clay, but some of them aren’t so very old at all. Less than ten years.”

  “Well, it explains all the empty storefronts.”

  “You don’t seem too concerned,” Takuda said, “considering that you’re the only suspect in sight.”

  “I’m quite comfortable here. I’m just joking about the beatings, you know. I haven’t had one in days.”

  “You’re rejecting my help, Ogawa. I’m the most useful person you’ve talked to yet, and you’ve rejected everything I can do for you.”

  Ogawa looked at Takuda in disbelief. “You honestly think that I believe you could do anything for me? You must think I’m insane.”

  “I don’t think you’re insane. I think you have a definite reason for staying in custody as long as you can, just as you had a definite reason for staying in this valley. Just as you had a definite reason for giving up Okamoto Hydrological Systems, your wife, and your future. Why do you love this valley so much?”

  “Love this valley? Who could love this dark, wet, filthy little cleft in the earth? It’s disgusting in every way. The ­people are ignorant and narrow-­minded and dull. The scenery is grim at the best of times. Everything is covered with a thin layer of greenish scum, if you look closely enough. The food is . . .”

  “Ogawa, why did you stay here? What kept you?”

  Ogawa looked up at him mournfully. “I met someone,” he said. “I thought it was love. I really did. But it’s not love. It’s nothing like love. It’s something like the exact opposite of love, but there’s not even a word for it. It’s ruined me.” He smiled. “It’ll ruin you, too! I can tell, Detective!”

  A heavy body slammed against the door. All three in the cell jumped in surprise.

  Takuda was the first to the hallway. Just outside the holding cell, Sergeant Kuma loomed over Officer Mori. Mori guided the massive sergeant backward by the chin, by the elbow, by the rib cage, by the shoulder.

  Mori had pushed Kuma’s chin and rib cage upward, overbalancing the larger man. Kuma seemed perplexed. He stepped back from Mori and regained his balance, and then he charged in low, like a bull. Mori couldn’t sidestep Kuma in the narrow hallway, so he retreated as he pushed the sergeant’s head down, just a little. By the third step, Kuma was stumbling forward. With a little more pressure from Mori, he would have landed flat on his face. Mori released Kuma and stepped back, allowing Kuma to regain his balance.

  The sergeant’s panting, sweaty bulk filled the narrow passage. He looked at Takuda, and Takuda saw the same fat, shame-­filled boy he had met in the judo club so many years before. He stepped forward, but the sergeant turned away.

  As Kuma disappeared into the office, Chief Nakamura stepped from the shadows.

  He stared at Takuda, Mori, and Suzuki in turn.

  “Resisting the sergeant was the last straw,” he hissed. “You are all being detained. Sergeant, patrolmen, put them in my office.”

  Suzuki was the first to go. As he maneuvered through the crowded hallway, he raised his hands over his head, held them out to be handcuffed, and then finally let them drop to his side. Inoue, the shorter of the two patrolmen, ushered him out into the squad room. Mori followed with a bemused expression.

  Takuda looked back at the suspect lying on his cot. “I’ll see you later, Ogawa.”

  “In the prefectural hospital mental ward, perhaps.”

  “I won’t be visiting. I’m not a caseworker.”

  “Visiting? Caseworker? Heh-­heh! You’ll be in the padded cell next to mine! Stick with it, and this case will break you, Detective.” The grin faded, and the light went out of his eyes. “I doubt you’ll hold up as well as I have. You still believe the world makes sense.”

  In the hallway, the chief hissed like an angry goose. The patrolmen came running to fetch the detective, as if they could budge him.

  “Listen to me.” Ogawa stood on his cot. “This so-­called case you’re pursuing. It’s going to drive you insane if it doesn’t kill you. I give you even odds between insanity and death. Do me a favor: Just don’t kill anyone. It would spoil all the fun. Stay out of the violent ward, and you know what I’ll do for you?”

  Takuda looked away. Patrolmen Kikuchi and Inoue stood at attention in the hallway, ignoring the chief’s motions for them to take the detective away.

  Ogawa whispered behind him: “Detective what’s-­your-­name, I’ll save you a chair in the dayroom. When you finally can’t take it anymore, I’ll help you braid your own noose! Isn’t that what friends are for?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Detective Takuda said, “Have you secured the cave site?”

  Chief Nakamura bared his stained and crooked teeth. “I am asking the questions here.”

  Takuda, the chief, Reverend Suzuki, and Officer Mori had squeezed into the village police station’s dingy conference room. The chief sat almost sideways in his chair to avoid rubbing knees with Suzuki.

  “Now, tell me again,” Nakamura hissed. “What were you doing so far upriver?”

  “We were following up on information from Ogawa’s apartment,” Takuda said. He handed the chief the photo of the stone columns on the river. “He says he’s never been there, and there’s no reason to think he’s lying. Some of those bones are old . . .”

  “Ancient,” said the chief. “Probably of Neolithic origin.” He shoved the print down in his armchair as if he suspected Takuda would try to take it back. “So there was no reason to assume that there was any crime to investigate, was there? Ha! You were trespassing on private property with no warrant, no probable cause, and in the company of a civilian of questionable intent.”

  Suzuki looked up, blinking, then returned to his notebook. He wrote furiously. Officer Mori sat beside him, playing with the frayed seam of a yellowed doily. Once he had been taken away from his work in the cave, he seemed distracted and out of sorts. He knew something the rest of them didn’t, and it absorbed him much more than the chief’s monkey-­troop politics. Mori had hinted that important data awaited at headquarters, and Takuda was curious to know what it was.

  Beyond his interest in the officer’s findings, there was something else nagging him, something the chief had said. Takuda had the strength of a bear, but his wits seemed slower. He was preoccupied, distracted. The chief was still talking about rights, responsibility, and ownership—­

  “Ownership,” Takuda said. “You said we were on private property. I thought the mountain west of the Naga River was owned by the prefecture, all the way up to Eagle Peak Temple.”

  The chief made a sound like ripping cardboard. “You call yourself a detective, but you know nothing. It’s private property. It has been for centuries. The dam is a federal structure, and the prefecture maintains the road, but the rights-­of-­way are granted in perpetuity. So there, you see? You didn’t even do your basic detective work! You didn’t know where you were!”

  “Zenkoku Development owns the land,” Suzuki said. “The land was deeded to the priests of the Eagle Peak Order by a samurai family from the Chikuzen region. The priests assumed for centuries that they had clear title, but in 1937, my grandfather received word that descendants of the original owners had sold it to a trading company in the 1870s. That com
pany had been absorbed by the Zenkoku group, and Zenkoku had clear title. Even the doubtful records of ownership burned with the village office during World War II, so all the priests had, really, was a spotty scroll with the names of three feudal lords.”

  “There, you see?” Chief Nakamura beamed with triumph. “Your temple exists because of the magnanimous gesture of the Zenkoku family of companies.”

  Suzuki bowed. “The temple grounds are leased to our sect in perpetuity, yes.”

  Chief Nakamura knocked knees with Suzuki. “And here you are, causing trouble, and you don’t even know who pays the bills. Ha!”

  Takuda sighed. “Speaking of paying the bills, Chief, I’d like to know a little more about your Zenkoku General common stock ownership.”

  The room stilled. Even Officer Mori paid attention.

  The chief leaned forward. “Listen carefully. You are getting into serious business, making allegations about that. Serious business.”

  “I’ve made no allegations,” Takuda said. “I felt it would be a courtesy to ask you rather than request sealed records.”

  The chief raised his eyebrows as if amused. “You call yourself a detective? Do the work! I was cleared of all wrongdoing years ago.”

  “Last summer, the national board denied a request that you receive official censure. That didn’t clear you of wrongdoing.” Takuda took out his cigarettes, but then he decided not to make himself too much at home. “We just need to know who we’re dealing with here in the valley. Sergeant Kuma is reasonably clean. No one knows how he can afford that new car or how he got those great seats at the sumo tournament down in Fukuoka, but it’s within reason, if a man is frugal enough. The shares you bought, on the other hand, represent a substantial sum. Your pay rate is public information, and it doesn’t add up.”