by Meg Mezeske
“How can you say that so carelessly?” Mr. Mori spat out the words, as though they were bitter on his tongue. “Do you really think that kind of person has a place in our community? In society?”
“I don’t—”
“They have no place,” Mr. Mori said, his voice rising and filling the car. Jordan shrank against the door as the knife poked harder with each word. For a minute, they drove in silence. Jordan took quick, shallow breaths to avoid touching the weapon’s sharp edge.
She noticed they were traveling farther away from any semblance of town, down a dirt road without streetlamps. Only the occasional dot of a home’s lights floated over the surrounding rice fields like foxfire. In the dark, she could barely make out the road as it swept by in a dusky stream.
Sheer disbelief began to climb above her panic and fear. She felt as though she were watching her predicament from just outside the car, running alongside the vehicle and peering in its windows as it skipped between the watery fields.
“Why didn’t you kill Kenji?” The question fell from her lips before she even realized she was speaking aloud.
“Kenji was gone before I could get to him.” Mr. Mori let out a snort, or maybe a bark of laughter. Then, his voice became almost wistful as he looked to the road. “Yuki was easy. So desperate to please his teachers, after he had been caught, that he let me in without question. And Ryusuke. Too dumb to even—”
“Ryusuke was a better person than you could ever hope to be,” Jordan said, unwilling to let the insult stand, despite how it paled against everything else. Despite how Mr. Mori might retaliate. But he simply continued undeterred.
“Emi was surprisingly cooperative. She drank the tea freely…just like the rest of them. And she was so kind as to leave a picture of Junichi for me to find in her diary. By the end, they all knew what they had done wrong.” He paused. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I understand enough to know that you’re nothing but a hypocrite,” Jordan said in a wave of anger that grew too quickly to be stemmed. “You’re the shameful one. A murderer! Don’t you see that what you’re doing is far worse than any of their mistakes?”
Mr. Mori only smiled to himself in private amusement as she railed on.
“Emi was pregnant. You took her child’s life along with hers.” Jordan’s words rushed out breathlessly. “And you framed Ms. Nakamura. Sent an innocent woman to jail—”
“I did not!” The car swerved as Mr. Mori’s hand jerked the wheel with the force of his exclamation. “Cleansing the students was her idea.”
“What…” Jordan’s mind raced. So Ms. Nakamura had been involved, just as Jordan had always suspected. But why would Mr. Mori go along with her plot? And why would she recruit him, of all people? They hadn’t even met before working at Ogawa High School together…or so Jordan had been led to believe.
They must have some deeper connection, or relationship.
Jordan rifled through all she knew. Ms. Nakamura was considerably older than Mr. Mori, and Toshihiko had said she had an estranged son. Jordan had rarely seen them interact, but when they did, Mr. Mori was eager to please the older woman. Now that she thought of it, they even looked similar, with their height and pinched features.
Every small piece finally resolved to form a complete image, like pixels on a screen. The two of them had hidden the secret well, but Jordan felt certain when she spoke.
“She’s your mother.”
Mr. Mori nodded, not looking at Jordan, and his voice quavered when he collected himself enough to resume his story.
“She taught me what it means to be upstanding, and honorable. Loyal. Like any dutiful son, I obeyed her when she explained why we had to cull the students. Trim away the infected limbs so the body—so we all—could live.”
“But she disowned you! You don’t even share the same name.”
“Oh, we’ve had our…disagreements. That’s why I had to help when she told me about her plan, to please her. But she never, never got her hands dirty, did she?”
He jerked the wheel violently to round a corner, and Jordan had to brace against the momentum to keep from impaling herself.
“She prepared the tea, but it was always up to me to get them to drink it. How she chastised me when I failed to properly poison that first girl in Sagae. After my failure with Sadako, it was too risky to target her again. She got away… But I never made that mistake again.”
Even in the poor light, Jordan could see Mr. Mori reddening in agitation, his birthmark livid against his neck. Every other word became strangled.
“I never failed after that. Yet she wasn’t satisfied. Always finding fault with the littlest thing I did or didn’t do. If it was as simple as she said, why couldn’t she do it herself? I couldn’t stand her criticisms any more. That’s why I made her take care of the Ito boy.”
“Kenji?”
“It was her fault he got away, you see? She was weak. She couldn’t go through with it. For all her words, she was too weak.” Mr. Mori paused for a long moment, and though his expression remained fixed, his dark eyes shuttled with thought. “I did place her hair with Ryusuke’s body. I needed her out of the way, and I knew she wouldn’t reveal me. She never will.”
“You—”
“She knows the work I do is too important. Necessary. She started it, after all.” He spoke slowly, as though he hadn’t heard Jordan. She saw a change sweep over his face, pushing his lips and eyebrows into a pained look. “I do regret leaving her to the police like that, but she failed me first. I’ll be more effective without her.”
“Would a loyal son leave his own mother in prison? You can free her, if only you turn yourself in.” Jordan doubted appealing to his filial affections would work, but a wild flash of hope blinded her for an instant. “You can help her right now, if you just let me go.”
“No.” The cold finality of the word hit Jordan like a blow. “I gave you the chance to walk away from all this. But you ignored my warnings—the tea, and at the bridge—and you kept sticking your nose where it didn’t belong.”
“You’re right. I should’ve listened. If you let me go now, I promise I won’t tell a soul what I know. I’ll go back to America and…”
“Oh, no, it’s too late for that.” He actually chuckled. “You’re a blight in the garden. I see that now.”
“Me?” Jordan’s voice cracked, but she was beyond caring. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t even know the first thing about Japanese honor. If I’ve somehow—”
“But that’s exactly it. You willfully know nothing.” Mr. Mori’s veneer of emotion was supplanted by an eerie calm. “You insinuated yourself into our school, among our children, never once showing the proper behavior befitting a teacher.”
“I didn’t—”
“You and the inspector,” Mr. Mori said and sneered. “He at least should have known to show restraint. Shameful. I will see to him next.”
His emotionless voice chilled Jordan to her spine, and her immediate fear compounded with worry for Toshihiko.
Then, the car began to slow. Mr. Mori leaned closer to the windshield, squinting into the dark. He seemed to be looking for a place to pull over—a fact that churned the blood through Jordan’s veins even faster. The vehicle had only lessened its pace a little, the road slipping by quickly. When the knife pressed against Jordan, as the car lurched over a bump, she knew she had to take a chance.
Mr. Mori was still straining over the wheel, and his grip on the knife loosened with distraction. Jordan took one more look out the window and grasped the door’s handle.
With only a beat of hesitation, Jordan wrenched at the door and pushed all her weight against it, straining against the current of momentum just long enough for her body to slip through the opening.
The shock of the landing was even greater than she had imagined. Her shoulder and arm melded into a wedge of pain that shot tendrils from her toes to the crown of her head. As she lay in the road, hobbled by pain and shock, s
he felt as though she would never move again. She briefly welcomed the thought of sinking into the soft, pungent mud beneath her.
Then, Jordan heard the raspy shudder of the car as it skidded in the road, followed by the groan of its door being thrown open. She screamed at her limbs to move. On her first attempt to stand, her arm and leg folded under her like a sheet of paper set on its edge, but the sound of Mr. Mori’s footsteps approaching pushed her to stagger to her feet.
In the distance, Jordan saw the porch light of a small home. The belly of the moon was just bright enough to reveal a footpath stretching through the rice fields toward the home. With no other options, Jordan surged in that direction, spurred by each footfall close on her heels.
Jordan ran as best she could along the path, though she limped and faltered often, each step sending a relay of pain through her body. She could hear Mr. Mori’s heavy breaths behind her, wheezy with the strain of exertion. The sound was like a physical force that pushed against her and gave her legs the strength to hurtle forward just a bit faster.
She concentrated on the house, wishing she could simply be there and breach the distance instantly, like closing a book to join two pages. But as Mr. Mori neared, she knew running would not be enough. She wrenched her head to peer over her shoulder.
Mr. Mori was only a few strides away, and closing fast. His face was flushed from running and he wore a twisted grin, as though he had caught a whiff of victory at hand and was running to meet it. The knife reflected slices of moonlight as it swung with each arc of his arm.
With a deep breath that did little to buoy Jordan’s sinking hope, she instantly dropped to her knees and curled into a tight crouch, her face pressed against her arms and her hands on her head.
Mr. Mori, caught unaware, slammed into her huddled side and vaulted over her back. Though the impact of his foot against Jordan’s ribs sent sparks shooting across her eyes, she let out a gasp of relief that her gamble had worked.
Jordan stumbled to her feet. Mr. Mori laid sprawled partly off the path, his legs and torso disappearing into the water of the shallow rice field. She noticed then that both of his hands were empty—he wasn’t holding the knife. He clawed for purchase in the slick mud as he began to right himself with a groan.
Jordan cast her gaze along the road frantically until she saw a shiny sliver not far off. She hobbled toward the knife and was nearly in arm’s reach when a force slammed into the back of her knees.
She fell. Her head bounced against the hard-packed dirt, and her teeth snapped together with a clack. Mr. Mori had tackled her and his arms were still wrapped around her legs. Jordan twisted in his grip, turning until she faced skyward, and heaved her pinioned legs like a fish’s tail.
One leg broke free and she kicked at him, using the other foot to push against the ground and leverage herself toward the knife. Mr. Mori growled low in his throat and yanked at her jeans to pull her away from the weapon. With a yell, she thrashed with renewed vigor. One kick hit her attacker in the shoulder and another glanced across his face, hard enough to send his glasses flying into the water.
His hold loosened just enough for Jordan to scramble free and swoop upon the knife. Her fingers closed around it and she swiveled to face Mr. Mori, brandishing the knife in front of her.
Mr. Mori had also gotten to his feet. His face was red from running and had already begun to swell where her foot had connected with his cheek. His whole body heaved with deep, shuddering breaths, his muddied shirt clinging to him. A sneering look of anger contorted his features and Jordan had to tamp down a ludicrous urge to laugh. Mr. Mori took a single step forward, prompting Jordan to jump back a pace.
“Don’t come any closer,” Jordan said, trying urgently to look imposing. She flicked the knife to remind him of that small advantage weighing on her side of the scales. His expression changed little and he offered no response. The air between them filled with his labored breaths and the soft chirps and splashes of frogs in the paddies.
Jordan bit at her lip and considered resuming her sprint for the house, but he could tackle her again and wrest away the knife. Instead, she flooded her lungs with the night air and yelled.
“Help! Somebody, help! Please—”
Her words transformed into a sharp cry of surprise as Mr. Mori lunged at her with startling speed. Jordan was only able to take two steps backward before he was upon her, his large hands pawing at her arm that held the knife.
Jordan thrust the weapon toward his belly in what she thought was a quick motion, but he batted her wrist away with enough strength to almost knock the knife from her hand. Before she could recover, his fist struck her squarely on the nose.
Her face blossomed with pain that burrowed between her eyes and straight to the back of her skull, like a hatchet halving a log. As her head rocked, so did her body, and Jordan began to topple backward.
She was overcome by a wave of panic as she tumbled, feeling Mr. Mori’s hands on her. In the flurry of motion, Jordan was unable to make sense of what was happening, much less protect herself. Instinctively, one hand shot out to prevent her fall, but it instead caught in Mr. Mori’s shirt, and he cried out with surprise as she pulled him with her. Her other arm flailed for balance.
What seemed like minutes later, though it had only been a matter of seconds, Jordan’s back met the ground, followed by the crushing weight of Mr. Mori atop her, which pushed her into the soil. The air fled from her lungs and she struggled to breathe, caught under the body that blanketed her from shoulder to torso.
She pushed at Mr. Mori’s stomach with her knee that was trapped between them, but he was unresponsive. Only his breath moved, whispering across her cheek in a disturbing imitation of intimacy.
Finally, slowly, Mr. Mori stirred. He planted his palms against the dirt and raised himself up, his head lolling as though hanging from a thread between his shoulders. As his head righted, Jordan flinched and shrank against the road, willing herself to be swallowed up by the dirt rather than face the sight before her.
A slender red path ran below Mr. Mori’s jaw and across his neck, bisecting his birthmark. When his head moved, the gash opened like parting lips, revealing flesh that shone brackish in the night. Jordan drew in a sharp breath as blood spurted from the wound and dotted her arm and cheek.
A look of confusion suffused Mr. Mori’s face. Jordan knew she was wearing a similar expression, not fully understanding what had happened.
His eyes trailed from the spray of blood across her face, raking down her arm to the knife that shook in her grip, its blade lacquered in red. Still staring at the knife, he wrapped his hand against his throat as if he were choking. The wound issued another surge of blood that soaked into his shirt in a widening circle of crimson.
He pulled away his reddened hand and held it before him. As though the sight itself were injurious, he let out a long, low groan from his slackened mouth, his lungs rolling up to squeeze out every last bit of air. His eyes went glassy.
Without warning, his body crumpled and pitched forward, like every joint was removed. Jordan managed to thrust her arm in front of her protectively, just as Mr. Mori’s weight fell into her. His head landed with a thump above her shoulder, and she felt wet warmth paint her chest. She yelped, shoving against his limp form, until she was able to struggle free.
Jordan leaped to her feet despite the screams of protest that issued from every inch of her body. With unsure, shaking movements, she held the knife pointed at Mr. Mori, one hand wrapped around the other to steady the blade. The tall man didn’t move. His already pale skin looked like white ash, made all the starker by the wet, dark halo spreading into the earth about his head.
A flutter of relief as feeble as moth wings patted in Jordan’s chest, but her fear and panic had yet to abate. More seconds crawled past, and Mr. Mori still did not stir.
After one last look at his body slumped on the ground, Jordan turned toward the light of the house and ran.
Thirty-Six
The cl
ock on the wall read 4:03 a.m. Jordan was exhausted—physically, emotionally—but she couldn’t imagine falling asleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mr. Mori…the Red Tea Murderer. His cold, black stare, the knife in his hands, his body on the ground. Again, he surfaced in her mind, floating over her turbulent thoughts.
She shuddered and forced herself back to the present, though her current position wasn’t very heartening. The white hospital room stared back bleakly, sterile and silent. At least she had a single room. She couldn’t bear the thought of being left alone with a stranger. Having only her thoughts for company wasn’t much better, though.
With an unhappy groan, she wondered when she would be released. The doctors had cleared her of any major injuries, though the throbbing of her broken nose begged to differ, so she guessed they were keeping her for observation. Or waiting for the police to interview her, since she had been whisked away by paramedics before any investigators had arrived.
Just as she prepared to press the call button to summon a nurse and get some answers, the door opened after a perfunctory knock. Jordan startled at the sound, and at the alarming sight of a man rushing toward her. Fear seized her body.
Just as she raised her hands to push him away, she could finally, really see him and instead wrapped her arms around his neck, like a drowning woman grasping at the shore. His embrace squeezed at her bruised ribs painfully, but she didn’t protest.
“Jordan.” Toshihiko’s voice was like a balm on her nerves, smoothing the frayed sensation she felt all over. Reluctantly, she loosened her hold as she felt him pull away. “Are you all right?” he asked urgently.
Toshihiko’s hands moved to cup either side of her head. His eyes searched hers, then roamed her face, darting over every feature as though memorizing her. One hand stroked her cheek; the other slipped through her hair. He paused his survey of her and winced sympathetically at the bruises across her nose and under her eyes.