“And you?” Johnny asked. “You opposed it?”
“I did, and I still do. Immortality is a fool’s dream, Mr. Tokisaki. You can’t bring back the dead. No matter what Ninomiya or the others say. Once you insert the movement in your chest, a machine is what you become. Nothing more.”
“Is that why you defy the church? What’s your endgame here?”
Mutsumi Baba set her drink back down on the table and gave Johnny a twisted smirk. “What’s my endgame?” she asked. “What a question, coming from an investigator who is here only to look into a high school murder mystery. For someone who has only been in Sonnerie for three days, you’ve really managed to kick the hornet’s nest.”
“Sometimes finding the truth requires getting stung.”
“Is that why you haven’t run off back to Los Angeles? A relentless desire to right wrongs that borders on the masochistic?”
“I need information,” Johnny said, ignoring the provocation.
“Who are you working for?” she asked.
“I’m not going to tell you that,” Johnny said.
“Then on what basis can I trust you?”
“Why don’t we start with the fact that I chose to save your son’s life over carrying the corpse of Mari Mishima back with me? I could have left him to bleed out slowly on the floor of Tonimura’s office.”
Mutsumi Baba gritted her teeth together. For all he had seen and heard of the woman, he knew above all else that she valued information, reputation, and the singular conviction that everyone looks out for only one person in the end: themselves. She was the woman who heard everything, but trusted nothing.
“Alright, Mr. Tokisaki. You’ve made your point and made it well. But before we discuss anything else, I want you to tell me exactly what happened tonight. From the time Jack picked you up until you got out of the hospital. I want to know who would dare attempt to murder the heir of an Index. Tell me all, and I’ll honor our deal, even without Mari’s body.”
Johnny nodded, and upended the last of his highball. “I’ll get to the hospital, but first, there’s something that you need to know.”
“About what?”
“Mari Mishima, and her activities following her death.”
*
By the time he had finished telling his tale, nearly twenty minutes had passed. Mutsumi Baba interjected only a handful of times, mostly just to clarify certain points, but otherwise she listened intently. Whenever possible, Johnny left out details about the people who weren’t involved. He mentioned Principal Itsuka only in relation to meeting him at the school, and left out Nakahara entirely.
When the story had come to a close, Mutsumi Baba summoned her bartender and requested a bottle of Louis XIII and a pair of glasses, which she dutifully poured and set in front of them.
“Let me get this straight,” she said after taking a long sip. “You shot Ayano Hanekawa. You shot the daughter of the most powerful man in the entire city without even blinking an eye, all because she dangled a knife over Mari Mishima’s corpse? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I should’ve shot her twice,” Johnny said immediately.
“Ha!” Her stern features cracked and exploded into voracious laughter. “I had you figured wrong, Tokisaki. You might be the only honest man in Sonnerie.”
Johnny took his own sip of the cognac, but found it overwhelmingly floral and set it back down on the table.
“So where does that leave us?” he asked.
“Hmm,” she hummed. “I need time to think on what you’ve told me. But until then, a deal is a deal.”
She leaned forward and pushed the diary and the huge ledger forward. “You won’t find much in the diary except questions, but I believe I can give you the answer to the most pertinent one, seeing as you can’t ask the girl yourself anymore.”
Johnny pushed the diary aside, and took the ledger in hand. It was a dreadfully heavy thing that looked more like an ancient tome of sorceries than a proper business log. He opened it to the first page, and found it filled to the brim with the names of girls and a line to a number.
“Mari Mishima was one of my girls. A budding beauty. You would think that she would have been the pick of the litter here at The Buckle, but alas . . . ”
Johnny moved his finger down across the names until he came to the m’s. Maegawa, Matsuda, and at last, Mishima.
“I make it a point to know each and every man my girls service. It’s only proper. If one of them gets pregnant, or perhaps if the client is a bit too rough on them and causes damage. It pays to have accountability,” she continued as he scanned the book.
He turned the giant pages until about halfway through the ledger, where he found Mari Mishima’s entry. But to Johnny’s disgust, there was only one name penned no less than three dozen times next to hers. Johnny’s stomach turned as he read the name over and over and over again.
The name of her teacher, Zachary Finch.
Twenty-Eighth Movement
Deviant
“Drop me off here,” Johnny said. The car’s clock read exactly 2 a.m., and the city was still.
He had taken no more time than he had required to phone Mrs. Saito before departing.
“I didn’t hire you to dole out vigilante justice, Mr. Tokisaki,” she had said. “And business conducted within the walls of Mutsumi Baba’s domain is just that, business.”
“He has to be involved in this somehow. Principal Itsuka told me he originally came to Sonnerie as Ayano’s personal tutor, right? This man is what links the girls together, nothing else.”
“Even so, Zachary Finch is a protected man. He is the only non-Japanese ever to be granted residency. A man with the backing and protection of the Hanekawa family.”
“So?” Johnny fumed, “Does that exempt him from morals? Does that give him a free pass to teach his students by day and fuck them by night? I’m not asking for your permission here, Saito. I will deal with Finch myself.”
That was the last thing he had said to her before hanging up. Mutsumi Baba lent him a car along with Sunflower to drive it, and now, here they were. Deep in The Bezel, at the western edge of Sonnerie. In contrast to the narrow yet tall homes of the eastern Bezel, the houses here were all of the more sprawling sort. Single-story homes with proper lawns and driveways gave the neighborhood a distinctly more American feel.
“His house is still another block down,” Sunflower said.
“This is close enough. You should get back to Jack, he’s had a rough night.”
Sunflower pulled over and turned off the engine. “Be careful, aniki. He might not know you’re coming, but that doesn’t mean he’s helpless.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Johnny said, removing his .38 from his holster. He did a quick check of the revolver and made note of the single round he had fired. Five bullets left. When he was satisfied, he pressed the pistol back into his holster and opened the passenger door.
“Good luck, Tokisaki,” Sunflower said, giving him a nod of farewell. Johnny stepped out of the car and gave his tired legs a couple of shakes before starting off. It was cold. Colder than any night since he had come to Sonnerie. And even though the rain had cleared, patchwork clouds formed like bandages over the stars above, silencing the heavens save for the occasional specter of distant moonshine.
Johnny watched Sunflower circle the car around and speed back the way they had come, then turned back eastward and began walking. He had only passed a handful of homes before his hands and face began to numb. The occasional gust of wind stung through his coat, but he pressed on, his hot blood fighting against the freeze.
After a few short minutes, he crossed a one-lane wide intersection named Pallet, beyond which was a corner property with a well-mowed lawn and a sign on the front gate that read “Finch”. The lights inside were off, and the outside driveway was occupied by a single silver Le
xus LS series. Brand new by the sheen of it.
Johnny passed through the gate unhindered and made his way to the front door. The curtains were drawn tight, and not a sound could be heard from the inside. He let his hand fall on the doorknob, and tested it with a twist of his wrist. To his surprise, it gave instantly. Johnny took another deep breath, and steeled himself before pushing it open as gently as he could. With one step, he was in. No creeks nor groans of wood or steel announced his entry, only a short gust of wind and the sound of his own pounding heart.
From the outside, the house had seemed immaculate, like a life-sized dollhouse built only to attract young families to a growing suburban nightmare. But on the inside, it was chaos. What little light penetrated the living room illuminated islands of unwashed clothes. A few paintings sat sideways against the walls, and the wallpaper was faded and peeling. The entire home stank of cigarettes and decomposing food that he could taste through his short, controlled breaths.
In the corner was a small television with a built-in VCR, and two stacks of VHS tapes that stretched from floor to ceiling on either side. The walls were bereft of decor, and aside from the mess, there was little Johnny could use to determine anything about the man whose house he had entered. No obvious hobbies, no pictures of family, no plants nor sports paraphernalia. Nothing besides dirty laundry and empty bottles of Kentucky Gentleman.
Johnny tip-toed through the mess until he reached the end of the carpet and the start of a linoleum kitchen floor. Here, too, the plain evidence of an unkempt man was on display. Stacks of dishes that spilled over the edge of the sink. Trash that hadn’t been taken out in at least a week. The floor was sticky, and the very air he breathed seemed to be a toxic mist of decadence and rot.
In the center of the room was a wheeled kitchen island that had been left slightly askew. A glint of plastic caught his eye, and he approached it cautiously. His steps were no longer afforded the stealth of a soft carpet, and each lift of his leg was met with syrupy crackles.
The island was perhaps the only somewhat-organized space in the house thus far. In the center was a silver tray, upon which sat a clear plastic bag filled with an off-white powder. Johnny opened it and inhaled a scent akin to vinegar. A lighter and spoon on the left as well as a box of unused medical syringes told him all he needed to know. Heroin, and an incredible amount of it.
There was one item he wished to find more than any other. Johnny sealed the plastic bag and set it back down, then proceeded to a spot of counter between the sink and a four-burner stovetop. Against the wall in a nice, wooden knife block was a series of five knives. Three on top and two below, with an empty space where a sixth should be.
He had known it before he came here. There was no need to sift through the mountains of dishes in the sink or check the dishwasher. The missing knife wasn’t here; it was at The Buckle with Mamasama and the twins.
But seeing the empty slot in the block sent rage’s fiery embers into his smoldering heart. Zachary Finch had been the one to arm Mari. He was certain of it. Even if Johnny could not see to what end he had manipulated the girls, his guilt was beyond question.
Johnny rested his palm upon the handle of his .38 and closed his eyes. The instinct to kill bubbled up through the cracks of the deepest reaches of his soul. There could be no justice for this man, who had preyed on those who had given him trust.
He took one step forward and approached the hall, but no sooner had he done so did he hear the sound of draining pipes and running water. Johnny jumped into the corner, then held his breath and listened as a distant door from down the hall opened. There was another moment of silence, then the soft sound of feet sliding along the carpet. Closer, closer, then closer still, until at last the figure of Zachary Finch appeared no more than four feet in front of him.
Johnny made no movement. He kept his right hand firm against the handle of his pistol, and his eyes planted on Finch’s every move. He squeezed the revolver’s wooden grip tight, but stifled his boiling desire to use it through one long exhale. Whatever this man’s crimes, he needed him alive. There were too many missing pieces to this puzzle. Too many doors without keys.
He released his weapon and let his hand fall back to his side. Finch was blind to his presence. One clean blow to the back of his head would be enough to disable him. He took another breath.
Finch snaked his way across the sticky linoleum until he arrived at the island. His movements were slow, and he was clearly in some sleep-deprived stupor. He began fidgeting with something on his metal tray, then after a moment opened one of the island drawers and began rummaging through it. Johnny wouldn’t have a better opportunity than this. He clenched his fists, and made a leap toward Finch.
In his haste, however, he had forgotten about the floor. His first step rippled and cracked like a firework, and before he was even halfway to his target, Finch had turned around and lunged at him with something in his hand.
He was going too fast to react. In less than a second, his rush was stymied by a syringe to the chest. But momentum was still on his side. He rammed into Finch, sending them both crashing over the island and onto the floor.
Their scuffle was short. Landing on top, Johnny barraged him with blows to the face and head. Finch was thin, but he kept his arms up, protecting his head from the brunt of the attack. After a flurry of punches, Finch jabbed a hand at the syringe in Johnny’s chest, stunning his offense. Sensing his advantage, Finch grabbed the syringe and ripped it out, then smashed it into the side of Johnny’s neck, sending him to the ground at his side.
Johnny recoiled in intense pain. He grabbed the bloodied needle and tore it out of his body, then threw it aside. He was bleeding, but more than that, his whole body had gone almost instantly numb. The drug was taking its effect, and after only a few seconds, he felt a euphoric paralysis.
“You should’ve stayed home,” Finch said, coming to his feet. His lips and nose were stained red, but that was the extent of it. He towered over Johnny and began showering him with kicks to his abdomen and head. But Johnny couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.
After one last blow, Finch backed away and caught his breath.
“You’re nothing, Tokisaki. Just some hired hand. Damn pathetic.”
“Real nice coming from the teacher who fucks his own students,” Johnny managed to say. His mouth had gone dry, but he could still talk.
“Ha!” Finch laughed. “Found out, did you? Sweet little girl, Mari. She tasted like candy. Every part of her body was so . . . delicious,” he said, licking his lips. “It doesn’t matter now, though. Ayano cut her up into little pieces. Just like she said she would.”
“What?” Johnny asked. There was a tingling feeling in his body now. An ounce of control, but not enough to manipulate his .38. Not yet. He needed to keep Finch talking.
“She found out about my little midnight runs to Mamasama’s whorehouse. I couldn’t help myself. But Ayano . . . ” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “She wouldn’t forgive me.”
Johnny watched in horror as Zachary Finch took off his shirt and dropped it to his feet, revealing a terrible brand upon his chest. The hands of time pointing at the one o’clock position. The mark of the First Index.
“My mistress doesn’t forgive her pets easily. But with Mari, I just couldn’t help myself,” he said, retrieving a knife that had fallen to the floor.
“You’re sick,” Johnny wheezed.
“Sick?” Finch tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “I’m just another sinner, like the rest of us. And Mari? She was just doing her job. Did it well. Real well.”
Johnny tried to force his body to heed him, but only managed to roll over to his left side. He needed some sort of stimulant. Something to shock his system back into obedience.
“I bet you’re feeling real good about now. Makes it a shame that you won’t experience that much pain when I drive this through y
our heart. But maybe I can play with you, just a little bit. Give you just a little taste of what my life has been like since I came to this so-called paradise by the sea.”
Finch kneeled down and pressed the edge of his knife against Johnny’s forehead. This time, he felt it. The keen blade penetrated his skin, and Finch wasted no time drawing it down the side of his face.
“Not so scary now, huh, big guy?” He laughed maniacally and grabbed Johnny by the hair. “I’m going to dice you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. When they send you downstairs, they’ll have to send you in pieces.”
Finch couldn’t control himself now. A sadistic joy had overtaken him, and he threw Johnny’s head back down against the floor and began dancing around.
“Come on,” Johnny whispered under his breath. The slice to his face had jolted his system. The instinct to survive began to overwhelm the drug that ran through his veins, giving him partial yet fleeting feeling in his arms and hands. He curled up and turned his back to Finch, then grabbed his .38 and slid it halfway out of its holster.
“I wonder what they’ll give me for killing you. Maybe I’ll ask them to make me principal. They can kick that ingrate Itsuka out on the street where he belongs. Can you imagine?” he sang more than he talked. “Principal Finch. I’d have my pick of the litter then.”
“I’ve got some bad news for you about that,” Johnny said. He rolled onto his back and drew his pistol just as Finch began to swoop in to deliver the killing blow. His hands were sweaty, making it difficult to aim. Even the trigger felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. But he squeezed it all the same.
A blood-crazed Finch didn’t even notice it. Not when it was drawn, not when the shot rang out, not even when the bullet flew through his heart. Even as the knife dropped from his hands and he fell upon Johnny with all of his weight, he was still smiling. Still laughing. Still in absolute bliss.
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