He soon passed Kiyomizu Temple on the left and the baseball field approached on his right. The koban police box appeared in the distance, a tiny outpost for law and order. There he could call for reinforcements and haul Ryusaki out of Ueno Park like a rat in a cage. He dashed across the deserted baseball field and past the dugout with neatly stacked bats, glancing to and fro for any oncoming soshi. Still nothing.
Aizawa soon reached the koban and opened the door. A young junsa, sitting behind a tiny desk stared back at him. Aizawa leaned against the door for several moments, drawing in huge breaths to steady himself. The junsa stood and looked him over.
“You’re Inspector Aizawa, right?”
Aizawa nodded and gasped for air. After licking his dry, cold lips, he choked out, “Call Police Headquarters…tell them Masaru Ryusaki…is here…”
The junsa nodded but did nothing.
Aizawa walked toward the desk and asked, “Didn’t you hear me?”
The junsa’s eyes narrowed as he drew his saber. Only too late did Aizawa realize that the Kusanagi Society had gained another member.
“Does your duty mean nothing?” Aizawa asked, edging backward to the door. The junsa stepped around the desk, sword in hand.
“My duty is to rid the Metropolitan Police of corrupt careerists like you, Inspector. My duty is to the New Japan!”
As the junsa drew closer, Aizawa retreated out the door and back into the bitter night. Moonlight illuminated the snowy ground, revealing several elongated shadows rushing toward him. The soshi were closing in quick. He ran westward, cursing himself for being so careless. No wonder, Ryusaki had lured him here. All of Ueno Park was his enemy now.
Aizawa didn’t look back but the junsa’s footsteps crunched behind him. So much for calling in reinforcements. Ueno Zoo soon came into view, offering more places to hide. He climbed the paltry gate and hopped the turnstile. The zoo was mostly asleep but the few animals that were awake followed him in silence with curious, stalking eyes.
Passing the rhinoceros exhibit, he still hadn’t come across a single employee or watchman. Those underpaid zookeepers were probably kept away by bribes, not that he could fault them in this depression. Aizawa moved past a yellow-eyed lion, who watched silently from inside its cage. Indecipherable conversations drew nearer, confirming that the soshi were inside the zoo. Several creatures began to stir from the intrusion, filling the chilly night air with shrieks, growls, and caws.
The background chattering grew louder and Aizawa ducked behind some nearby shrubbery.
“Look around the rhinoceros enclosure! I’ll check the lion cage!” Kuroki ordered.
From behind the leaves and branches, Aizawa saw Kuroki, holding the Colt automatic, step in front of the caged lion and gawked at the beast. As if sensing easy prey, the animal roared, causing Kuroki to stumble and back up. Now would be the only chance Aizawa had to take his weapon back.
Aizawa sprang up and ran straight toward the startled Kuroki. Shifting his entire weight to his shoulder, he slammed the little bastard against the cage bars, sending the pistol flying into the air.
The lion watched them struggle in silence, swishing its tail back and forth like a ticking clock. Kuroki seemed energized with fear and fought like a demon, flailing and striking out at anything he could. Somehow, he managed to land a heavy punch against Aizawa’s face and sent him tumbling backward.
How could such a little man hit so hard? Suddenly, Aizawa remembered the gun. Kuroki dashed past in a blur and snatched it up. There was no other choice but to run for it. Ignoring his stinging cheek, Aizawa turned and ran. He made his way past the rhinoceros exhibit, hopped the gate, and was soon out of Ueno Zoo and back into the park proper.
Pausing for a moment, he sucked in as much air as he could. In the distance, Kuroki’s harsh commands chattered away like a machine gun. The soshi were regrouping. There were eight of them now, not including Ryusaki. That junsa probably wouldn’t be the only surprise he’d encounter. Every park exit might be guarded by an armed soshi.
In that case, he needed a weapon. The baseball bats he saw earlier might work. He started running again, retracing his steps from before. Soon, the baseball field appeared and Aizawa headed straight for the dugout. Several wooden bats were lined up for the next round of players in typical Japanese courtesy. Grabbing one, Aizawa took up a defensive position outside of the dugout. Two soshi were closing in from opposite outfields.
As they neared, their features came into focus. On his right was the tramp from earlier, brandishing a shimmering wakizashi short sword. From the left came the junsa, holding his saber. He sized the two soshi up before planning an attack. Those tin swords they issued junsas were anything but sharp, at least compared to a wakizashi. Aizawa gripped the baseball bat and rushed left. Even if the attack failed, beating this traitorous police officer would at least give him some satisfaction.
The junsa raised the sword for a killing blow but Aizawa caught it with the bat. The blade lodged deep inside the wood, and with one circular twist, the junsa was disarmed. Aizawa jerked the bat again, sending the blade spinning out and into the distance. He followed up and swung the baseball bat sideways, landing a shattering blow across the junsa’s face, filling the night air with a loud crunch. Hitting the ground, the junsa gave a few violent twitches before releasing a gurgling death rattle.
There was still the other soshi to contend with. Aizawa turned and gripped the bat tighter but the tramp stood off to the side, deferring to Masaru Ryusaki, still encased in that demonic armor. Aizawa tried to reassure himself that he was only facing a madman in a costume but the centuries blurred until there was only samurai and peasant. Ryusaki pointed his katana straight at Aizawa, like an accusation for an unforgivable crime and charged forward.
Plumes of snow and dirt kicked up from behind Ryusaki and his men. Aizawa spun around and ran toward the shrubbery at the edge of the baseball field. Sprinting into the thicket, Aizawa searched for a suitable hiding spot. But the only foliage were snow-encrusted shrubs that barely came up to his knees. He glanced over his outfit; black overcoat, black fedora, black suit. An easy target in this snowy landscape.
Only the skeletal, bare trees offered cover. Aizawa ducked behind one and cooled his burning lungs with deep inhales of crisp air. Crunching snow cut through the air. He tightened his jaw and held his breath. There were several footsteps echoing around him, in different rhythms and beats. He kept himself pressed against the tree, waiting for the moment to strike.
A glinting sword came into view on his left, followed by the ragged figure of the tramp. Like a searchlight, his head swung to the left, then to the right. Aizawa slammed the baseball bat hard into the soshi’s gut. The tramp dropped his sword and sank to his knees, gasping for air, allowing Aizawa to bend down and grab the wakizashi.
Clanking armor rang out rhythmically, like war drums. Aizawa looked up and zeroed in on Ryusaki heading straight toward him, katana raised for the kill. He managed to bring the wakizashi up in defense and caught the incoming blade halfway.
Aizawa threw what strength remained into holding the katana at bay. Every muscle and tendon strained in agony. Sheer exhaustion should have already overtaken him by now but a deep fighting spirit had been ignited and was kindled with every near miss and escape.
Ryusaki’s face blazed with the same fighting spirit, coupled with a hate and bitterness that had been growing since March. Aizawa wasn’t a man who asked the gods for much, but now he begged for help. The Onishis, Sergeant Murayama, Superintendent Shimura, and now Reiko Watanabe filled his mind. The fire inside him grew with every passing corpse.
Somehow, he summoned enough strength to disengage from the katana. But the jerking movement also sent the wakizashi somersaulting out of his hands and into the darkness. Still clutching his own sword, Ryusaki stumbled backward, offset from the cumbersome armor. He soon steadied himself and resumed his advance, going from a turtle on its back to an oncoming tank within moments. There were also the othe
r soshi, who’d finally spotted him and now rushed in like vultures.
Aizawa turned and ran. Every one of his crunching footsteps was amplified with four or five more behind him. After several yards, he came out of the foliage and saw the statue of Takamori Saigo, glowing a murky green underneath the lampposts.
Bolting around the statue, his peripheral caught a stream of soshi; Ryusaki led his men like an army of devils escaping from a haunted forest. Aizawa dashed down the steps, almost slipping on the wet, powdery snow. The soshi poured down the staircase after him with Ryusaki leading the charge.
Aizawa yanked open the door to the Rolls-Royce and started the engine. The automobile roared to life. He flipped on the headlights and hit the gas, but a heavy figure slammed onto the hood almost jerking Aizawa out of his seat. Ryusaki held onto the speeding car with one hand while the other clutched his katana, angling for another try at impalement.
With a shrill cry of “Tenchu!” he drove the sword through the front window. The blade missed Aizawa but lodged itself into the leather upholstered seat right above his shoulder. Shards of glass splattered all over like glistening rain.
Ryusaki slid the katana out and repositioned himself for another strike. He wouldn’t miss this time. Aizawa slammed on the brakes. A thin glaze of ice caused the car to fishtail, flinging Ryusaki off the hood. In the rear view mirror, Aizawa saw him catapult off the car and slam against the road with clanking thuds. Turning the steering wheel hard finally broke the spin and the Rolls-Royce came to a jarring halt.
Aizawa looked back and found Ryusaki laying off to the side, immobile and hopefully dead. What remained of his samurai armor was chipped, twisted, and cracked open, as if someone had stomped on an enormous insect. He was soon surrounded by his loyal soshi, looking like men in mourning. All except for Makoto Kuroki, who took aim and opened fire at the Rolls-Royce.
A gunshot tore through the back window and shattered what remained of the front. The cold night wind hit him with full force, making him even more alert. Aizawa hit the gas and sped forward. Behind him, the Kusanagi Society shrank into specks, like nightmares banished by the dawn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
After a call to Headquarters, Aizawa returned to Ueno Park an hour later with a squad of junsas. They fanned out with flashlights but Aizawa knew the Kusanagi Society were long gone by now.
A senior junsa stayed behind and took notes.
“How many soshi were there, Inspector?”
“Seven…and Masaru Ryusaki. He’s the leader.”
The junsa nodded, writing on his notepad. “We’ll put out a bulletin to arrest on sight.”
“Try Reiko Watanabe’s apartment in Asakusa,” Aizawa said before giving the address. He shuddered, picturing a butchered body laying underneath those posters of Louise Brooks and Anna May Wong. Or maybe she was lying at the bottom of the Sumida River like a yakuza hit.
“His mistress?”
Aizawa nodded. “Your men will find one of our own in there…”
“A police officer?”
“Yes. He worked for Ryusaki. I had no choice…”
The junsa sucked air between his teeth but said nothing. After all, it wasn’t every day an inspector confessed to killing a fellow policeman. Aizawa dreaded the inevitable meeting with an inquiry board almost as much as another confrontation with the Kusanagi Society.
“Do you need anything else?” Aizawa asked.
“No, sir. We’ll notify you if anything is found here or at Watanabe-san’s apartment.” The junsa snapped his notebook shut and gave a salute.
Aizawa nodded and returned to the Rolls-Royce, hoping that it wouldn’t break down on the ride back to his nagaya. Fatigue gnawed at his muscles and left him exhausted. He didn’t know what his next course of action should be but for now, the only thought that dominated his mind was sleep. He started the car and sped off into the night.
*****
It was well past midnight when Aizawa parked the Rolls-Royce and returned to his nagaya row house. A bleak future played out in his mind. Tomorrow, he would be summoned before an inquiry board and dismissed. Baron Onishi was dead, and so was his informant, both of whom he’d sworn to protect. And now he’d even killed a police officer. They’d probably blame him for Superintendent Shimura’s death too. On top of everything, he’d lost his firearm, perhaps for good. Some police officers committed suicide over the shame of losing their firearms. However, all of these failures could have been forgiven if only he had brought Masaru Ryusaki to justice.
After his disgrace, Kenji Aizawa would probably be drafted into the army of Tokyo’s unemployed, drifting from one menial job to the next for the rest of his days. But suicide wasn’t in his future, no matter how bleak. He’d deny Ryusaki that victory.
But for now, his body yearned for sleep. One last rest before the deluge. Aizawa entered the nagaya and removed his shoes, caked with powdery snow. He slid open the shoji door and fumbled for the overhead light. Despite his grogginess, he felt a trace of icy water seeping into his socks. Someone else was here. He grasped the chain and pulled.
The room flooded with light and Aizawa spun around, searching for the intruder. A blurry figure appeared in his peripheral and lashed out like a snake, striking Aizawa hard against the base of his neck. A deafening crack filled the nagaya and Aizawa’s knees buckled. He sank to the floor as darkness smothered him.
*****
“Kenji-onisan, are you okay?”
He glanced over to Tokiko Aizawa and smiled. It had been years since he’d been called onisan, big brother. She knelt beside him, wearing a summer kimono and cutting a plump watermelon into slices. Strangely enough, they were in his childhood machiya, somehow standing again. How odd. Aizawa looked himself over. Gone was his black overcoat and suit, replaced by the white summer uniform of a junsa.
“Oh, Kenji is up,” a woman’s chipper voice cried out before sliding open a shoji door. The gray-haired figures of his mother and father entered and bowed. “Have a good day at work, Kenji.”
“But Kenji-onisan promised to split a watermelon with me!” Tokiko whined.
“There will be time for that later,” his father said, helping Aizawa to his feet. “Kenji has duty now! Right, son?”
Aizawa focused his eyes and examined his family. The healthy color in their faces dulled into a sallow, ghostly hue. A surreal atmosphere covered the machiya like a veil.
“You’re all dead,” he said.
They nodded.
“Am I?”
They exchanged uncertain looks.
“Are you, Kenji-onisan?” Tokiko asked.
He considered the possibility. Either he was dead or dreaming. Or maybe both. Growing up, he’d heard a Buddhist story about a man who dreamt that he was a butterfly. Or was he actually a butterfly dreaming that he was a man? Was Kenji Aizawa dreaming he was dead or a dead man who thought he was asleep? Regardless, there was something he’d wanted to tell them for years. He sank to his knees and kowtowed.
“Mother…Father…Tokiko-chan…please forgive me…”
“Kenji,” his mother cooed. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“I failed to protect you. After the earthquake struck…I ran back to our machiya but it was already burning. If I had gotten there a few minutes earlier…” He lowered his head deeper.
“You did your duty. There was nothing else you could have done,” his father said, guiding him to the front door. “Now hurry up or you’ll be late for work!”
Suddenly, Aizawa was standing outside in Ueno Park. Strangely enough, it was springtime and swarms of cherry blossoms fluttered through the air. The sheer beauty of it summoned a flurry of happy memories; playing baseball with friends, viewing the cherry blossom festival with his family, and taking a stroll with a pretty girl right before shipping out to Siberia.
But in one howling gust of wind, Ueno Park vanished in a swirl of cherry blossoms, replaced by the landscape of Tokyo set ablaze. Aizawa turned around, just in time to see his
family’s machiya collapse into rubble for a second time. It was September 1st, 1923, again and he had failed his family once more.
The rest of that day was a blur of tripping over charred corpses and leading panicked survivors to safer ground. There were also scores of Korean immigrants and suspected Communists massacred by angry mobs who claimed they were poisoning wells and setting fires as part of a vast Bolshevik plot to overthrow the government. Aizawa could only stand aside with his little tin sword; helpless, frustrated, impotent, and too frightened to stop any of it.
The inferno was expanding, torching rows of wooden machiyas and swallowing people in a mammoth, convulsing conflagration. He looked up toward the horizon and gasped. There, in the center of Tokyo, was that swirling pillar of fire, even larger than he remembered. Now it climbed past the clouds, soaring deep into outer space. It grew wider and wider until it had consumed the entire city. Then, everything went white.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Aizawa blinked several times and focused in on a figure standing where the tornado of flames had been. With every passing moment the details sharpened, from the rank insignia on the figure’s dark brown uniform to his black boots, gleaming in the electric light. It was those boots that must have traipsed in wet snow into the nagaya. The figure’s face took a definitive shape and formed Lieutenant Nakajima, looming over him. He’d awoken from a dream and into a nightmare.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Aizawa said, pushing himself up with a strained groan. He looked down and found his black overcoat and suit were now a blanket of wrinkles. After running his hand over a face full of stubble, he glanced back up at Nakajima. The Lieutenant stretched out a Nambu pistol, execution style. It was all over now. But if he was going to die, at least he wouldn’t go lying down. Summoning the last bit of his strength, he rose to his feet and braced himself.
Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1) Page 23