by Meg Mezeske
Jordan leaned into his touch, relieved yet regretful that it had taken this to provoke such emotion. She set that thought aside and focused on the warmth of Toshihiko’s palm against her skin, on the steady, solid presence of his touch. The room suddenly seemed much brighter. If not for the late hour, she would’ve sworn the sun had dawned.
“I’m okay,” she finally said with a long sigh. Toshihiko didn’t argue, but his look was doubtful, and she amended quietly. “I’ll live, at least.”
Toshihiko slid onto the hospital bed beside her, his hand never lifting as it glided from her shoulder, down her arm, and then entwined in hers.
“I’m so sorry,” he said and mumbled something in Japanese that Jordan couldn’t make out, though it sounded reproachful. “If only I had put it all together sooner. Just a few minutes sooner and none of this would have happened.”
“What do you mean?” Jordan sat straighter, some of her weariness giving way to a need to know the answers to the questions that still gnawed at her.
“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said anything. We can go over all this later, Jordan.” Toshihiko shook his head, and with and apologetic look, squeezed her hand. “You should just take some time to recover now.”
“No,” Jordan said with enough force that Toshihiko was visibly taken aback. “I haven’t come this far—all these months—and gone through everything that happened tonight only to wait longer.”
Jordan’s voice quavered, and she barely managed to blink back threatening tears. For a moment, neither of them said anything, allowing Jordan to take a few shaky breaths.
“I deserve to know,” Jordan said, more calmly now. She tried to muster a smile. “Besides, I could use the distraction.”
With a thoughtful, soft look, Toshihiko nodded in agreement. He didn’t insist on any more apologies or protests before proceeding with his explanation, for which Jordan was silently grateful.
“I had been trying to locate Ms. Nakamura’s son for weeks, but finding any record of his whereabouts was…difficult. However, just a few days ago, I discovered a trace. An old car title registered in his name.”
“For a yellow car,” Jordan said, feeling that familiar spark of adrenaline. This time the excitement was chased by whispers of remembered fear, but she tamped them down.
“Precisely,” Toshihiko said, encouraged by Jordan’s usual willingness to jump in. “At first, I had simply wanted to interview the son about Ms. Nakamura. Until Nao’s death, there hadn’t been any evidence to suggest she had accomplices, much less that her estranged son was involved. After discovering the car title, however, I knew that it was imperative to find him. But there were no leases, no employment contracts, no bank loans, nothing under the name Makoto Nakamura in recent years.”
“So that’s Mr. Mori’s real name? Makoto Nakamura?” Jordan tripped over the syllables, afraid that it would somehow summon him.
“Yes,” Toshihiko said, speaking more quickly as he explained, as though he were closing in on the Red Tea Murderer all over again. “It became clear to me that he had deliberately left no paper trail for the last twenty years, and had likely adopted an alias. But determining his new identity proved harder than expected. Frankly, Mr. Nakamura covered his tracks well.”
“Yet you found him somehow,” Jordan said with encouragement. Toshihiko nodded.
“I decided to try a different tack, to find a photograph of Makoto Nakamura and hope he could be positively identified.”
“But Ms. Nakamura didn’t keep any family photographs…”
“Yet another reason why it took so long to solve the case.” Toshihiko frowned, drawn again to regret. “I asked myself: where could I find a photograph from before Mr. Nakamura assumed another identity? When and where do young people have their pictures taken?”
“At school. School photos, yearbooks,” Jordan offered.
“Exactly so. I found record of three Makoto Nakamuras in the region where he grew up and contacted their high schools for photographs.” Toshihiko began to explain but then stopped mid-thought, adopting a faraway look. He deflated, as if he had been siphoned of all energy, and he failed to continue after a long pause.
“Toshihiko?” Jordan squeezed his hand in hers.
Still looking away, he gathered himself back up, his voice now low and deliberate.
“The first two were dead ends. The last school’s archived records had been misplaced in the prefectural office. Only a few hours ago did I locate them, and his photograph.” Toshihiko took a deep breath, and Jordan felt her own catch in suspense, despite knowing the outcome. “As soon as I saw the birthmark, I knew. It was Norio Mori.”
Jordan could only imagine how Toshihiko must have felt at that moment, especially since he showed no desire to speak of it now. He slipped into a silent stupor, but Jordan could see echoes of emotion flit across his features: shock, anger, even fleeting triumph.
She had felt it all too. She felt it again, amazed that the thin membrane keeping her emotions from spilling over could stretch to accommodate more. The last piece had finally slid into place, yet it somehow felt more like a wedge driven between her and Toshihiko.
Just as Jordan opened her mouth to fill the ever-deepening quiet, Toshihiko breached it first.
“Jordan, please know that this…” He turned to face her fully, taking her in with a penetrating look. “This is not how the investigation should have ended. You getting hurt, targeted by the murderer—”
“Is this the part where you scold me for getting myself into trouble again?” Jordan said with as much humor as she could wring out, mostly to stop Toshihiko from painting the grim tableau she had faced and forcing her to recall it.
“No, I would never…I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t saved yourself tonight.” Toshihiko’s hand tightened around hers and he reached again for her face. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, his eyes not leaving hers. “If only I had discovered him in time, none of this would have happened to you.”
“It’s not your fault,” Jordan said, feeling a tear spill onto her cheek. “It’s over now. That’s all that matters. It’s finally over.”
Toshihiko seemed to want to say more, but he nodded in silent acceptance. A minute passed with only the steady hum of the air conditioner and Jordan’s heartbeat in her own ears to disrupt the quiet.
Tentatively, she leaned into Toshihiko, wrapping one arm across his back and then the other. He returned the embrace, holding her as one might cradle a baby bird, as if she were liable to break.
For an instant, the weight and heat of Toshihiko conjured up memories of Mr. Mori. His tackling her to the hard ground. His breath against her ear. His heavy body trapping her. Jordan shook her head, as though she could shake the images loose from their hold in her mind, and she buried her face in the crook of Toshihiko’s neck.
She hugged him to her, hard. Toshihiko instantly acted in kind, intensifying his hold, pressing his hands against her back as desperately as a climber grasping a ledge. He let out a shuddering sigh, grateful to no longer hold back.
Their embrace hurt, but Jordan didn’t care. If anything, she welcomed the pain radiating from her jostled bones and bruised skin. It anchored her there, with Toshihiko, and his every minute move alighted her nerves.
Jordan tried to cleave even closer, to leave no room for even thought to insinuate itself between them. She felt the steady, blunt throb of Toshihiko’s heartbeat resonate in her chest, harmonizing with her own pulse. Slowly, her breathing calmed as the quiet stillness of the room enfolded them.
Thirty-Seven
Even the smallest sip of coffee made Jordan’s stomach turn. She set down the mug on her table and took slow breaths, willing herself to be calm despite the day’s events to come. She was tired and nervous, and she looked it.
In the mirror across from where she sat on her couch, a weary, darkened face stared back at her. A line of faint purplish bruises swiped across her nose and under one eye. Her nose was healed, but
the bruising had yet to disappear, looking as though she had brushed a sooty hand over her face.
Not for the first time that morning, Jordan felt self-conscious and looked away, only to be greeted once again by her own face, on the television this time. All the news agencies had latched onto the same photograph: a smiling picture of her taken two years before at her sister’s wedding, her blonde hair long and curled. In stark contrast to her own cheerful, static expression in the corner of the screen, the news reporter’s stoic voice droned on.
“Jordan Howard, a visiting English instructor from America, is due to provide testimony in court today in the trial of Umiko Nakamura. Ms. Nakamura is accused of assisting in the homicides of at least two of her former high school students. Only last week, Ms. Howard was absolved of any charges in the death of Makoto Nakamura, also known as Norio Mori, the Red Tea Murderer. Prefectural police ruled Ms. Howard’s act as self-defense. After this harrowing encounter with the Red Tea Murderer, some are calling Ms. Howard a hero—”
Jordan jabbed the power button on the remote. Hero. She had also seen such words as brave and inspiring pinned near images of her in the newspapers. She shook her head and stood to make her way from her apartment to Yamagata City’s courthouse.
As she picked up her purse, she spared a glance at the framed photograph beside it and touched her fingers to Aiden’s indelibly smiling face. She imagined she could feel warmth radiating from the picture, and an echo of her brother’s smile ghosted across her lips. When at last she walked out the door, it felt like moving toward something, not running away.
“You claim in your statement to the police that Mr. Makoto Nakamura said, ‘It was her idea.’ Can you please elaborate?” the prosecutor said to Jordan in an unaffected manner that bordered on blasé.
Jordan spared a quick look at Ms. Nakamura. The woman might as well have been presiding over Ogawa High School for all the emotion she showed. Seemingly unfazed by being on trial for multiple homicides, her expression was one of rigid stone. Her hands lay still in her lap like the pale, folded wings of a bird.
She looked so innocuous sitting there, just an old woman letting the world flow around her. Jordan was staggered by a wave of disgust and disbelief, still baffled that Ms. Nakamura had concealed her darkness so well, and for so long.
Though Ms. Nakamura didn’t look her way, Jordan felt her stomach twist with fear and had to take a sip of water before she could speak. She managed to keep her hand still as she returned the glass to the desk.
“Yes. I accused Mr. Mo…Mr. Nakamura of framing Ms. Nakamura, which made him furious, and he insisted that targeting the students had been her idea.”
At first, Jordan directed her answer to the prosecutor, but then she let her eyes come to rest coldly on the defendant. Jordan willed Ms. Nakamura to face her, to lay bare the evil that had trickled through her to her son, but she didn’t even bat an eye.
“What happened next?” the prosecutor asked, glancing at the judge as though to make sure he was paying attention.
“Mr. Nakamura revealed that Ms. Nakamura was his mother and that her intention had been to murder Kenji Ito.”
The defense lawyer shot to his feet with an exclamation. Jordan didn’t catch every word of the attorney’s quick statements, peppered with Japanese legalese, but it was obvious he was protesting her testimony.
The lawyers held a brief exchange before the judge’s resounding voice interjected and the defense counsel returned to his seat. The prosecutor calmly continued. Instead of directing another query to Jordan, he presented evidence of birth records and household census data that established the murderers’ familial connection, plus Mr. Nakamura’s theft of the deceased Norio Mori’s identity.
This eventually segued to evidence of Mr. Nakamura’s vehicle ownership. Namely, of the yellow car he had kept under yet another false name at a rented parking unit in Sagae City.
As Jordan waited to either be addressed or dismissed, she wrestled with the urge to scan the rows of spectators. Toshihiko had been a witness for the prosecution himself and was somewhere among those seated.
When Toshihiko had coached Jordan for her court appearance earlier that day, she had detected a current of nervous energy just below the surface of his professionalism. He had even spilled tea over his hands as he had poured a cup—anxious about the case, right as it was reaching its crescendo and the baton was in someone else’s hands.
She wondered whether his nervousness had been due to worry over her and what she would say, how she would handle herself. At one moment, when he had thought she wasn’t looking, Jordan had seen him slide his gaze over the dusky bruises still mottling the bridge of her nose. His expression of solemn regret had been unmistakable. But in the next instance, he had recovered himself and had even smiled mildly.
Jordan felt lighter just thinking of Toshihiko and tried to replay their entire conversation over the prosecutor describing the events of the night she was attacked: the laundry list of injuries, Mr. Mori’s fatal wound.
Jordan concentrated on the sound of the court reporter’s fingers striking the stenograph until it was all she could hear.
A bailiff escorted Jordan to an adjoining waiting room at the conclusion of her testimony. The judge had advised her that it was unlikely she would be called back, but she would have to wait close at hand just in case.
Jordan’s curiosity needled her. The course of Ms. Nakamura’s fate was being charted just beyond the wall, yet she was relegated outside. She thought about pressing her ear to the door but decided it would be worse to hear snippets than nothing at all.
After almost two hours passed, though, she strongly reconsidered. She wondered whose testimony they were hearing now. Occasionally, a muffled voice would intersect the quiet of the waiting room, ebbing before she could glean anything. More minutes dragged by before Jordan heard murmurs and shuffling movement inside the courtroom. She jumped when the bailiff swung open the door.
“Ms. Howard, the court is taking a short recess, and you are dismissed for today,” the burly man said, his gruff voice at odds with his formal words. “Thank you for your testimony.”
The bailiff exited as quickly as he had appeared, and Jordan was left to show herself out. Just as she shouldered her purse and stood to leave, the bailiff reentered, this time with someone in tow.
“Please wait here until the session resumes,” the bailiff rumbled to the young man and once again ducked out before anyone could respond, leaving him and Jordan alone in the room. The boy looked up from his feet, and Jordan gasped with surprise and relief.
“Kenji!”
He looked much improved since she had last seen him at the mountain temple. His hair was in place, his dress clothes tidy and ironed, his tie straight and shoes polished. Even his demeanor seemed restored. Life glittered behind his dark eyes, and he ventured a half-smile so familiar that the sight of it touched Jordan like a warm caress.
“Jordan-sensei.”
Neither spoke, both unsure of what to say, but it was a comfortable silence. There was an opaqueness between them too, though—a knowledge that they were both reaching the end of something once shared.
Jordan didn’t intend to break the silence so suddenly, but she was capsized by a wave of guilt when she realized that Kenji wouldn’t be here if not for what she had done. She had betrayed Kenji, and his trust.
“I’m sorry I told the inspector how to contact you,” she said in a rush. “I know I promised that I wouldn’t, but when I—”
“You did what you had to do,” Kenji interjected quickly. Then, more subdued: “I should have come forward sooner, on my own.”
The guilt in his voice was obvious. He made to run a hand through his hair but stopped upon second thought, dropping his arm to his side and shaking his head. Jordan piped up again before the silence could resurge.
“But you’re here now. That’s what matters,” she said with conviction. “You’re ensuring that Ryusuke’s murderer sees justice, just like
you said you would.”
Kenji winced upon mention of Ryusuke but then nodded, seeming more sure with each bob of his head.
“You’re right, sensei. I just hope that Ryusuke…” he choked on the name. “I hope Ryusuke can finally rest now.”
Saying as much obviously pained Kenji, but his discomfort was slowly overtaken by a fond look. His expression lightened as some feeling suffused him, illuminating his features inch by inch, like sunlight sweeping across the face of the earth. Kenji’s shining eyes focused on the empty space beside him, and Jordan wondered what he saw there, as a lopsided smile creased his lips.
The quietude only lasted a breath longer, interrupted by the bailiff’s reappearance.
“The court is preparing to reconvene, Mr. Ito.” The bailiff opened the door just enough to relay the message before closing it again.
“Well…” Kenji let the word hang, uncertain of what to say and reluctant to do so.
“Do your best in there,” Jordan offered with a wavering smile.
“Sure.” Her smile had fed his, and Kenji grinned openly, teeth glinting. He took a step toward the courtroom and raised his hand in a sort of salute. “Bye, sensei.”
“Bye, Kenji.” Jordan watched him walk through the door and disappear, though it seemed more like sinking, her vision gone wavy with welling tears. But her smile stayed in place as she wiped at her eyes and heard the courtroom come back to life. A gavel resounded like the crack of a bat sending a ball sailing into an open, green field.
____
Toshihiko was already waiting in the hallway when Jordan exited. He stopped mid-stride upon seeing her, and if she didn’t know him better, she would’ve guessed he had been pacing.
“There you are,” Toshihiko said with relief. As he stepped toward her, his look became concerned, no doubt noticing her wet, reddened eyes. “Are you all right?”