Mage took a deep breath and staggered inside before she could withdraw her invitation. “Charlie’s in trouble … no, in danger. He—”
“Charlie? Your alibi?”
Mage collapsed onto the sofa, and Kelly, with a slight sigh, shut the door. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I tried … ringing him, but he’s … he’s not answering. We have to go and …”
“What sort of danger?”
“I … no time to explain,” he panted. “The woman he’s with isn’t wh-who he thinks she is. Her face …”
Kelly moved cautiously to a chair opposite him, carefully keeping out of his reach. Fresh out of the shower, she felt unpleasantly cool and extremely vulnerable; she was wearing nothing but a short bathrobe, which clung damply to her left breast and lay flat over her right.
“What about her face?”
“It’s a disguise,” he said, still reluctant to tell her about the bakemono, still afraid she wouldn’t believe him.
Kelly nodded. “What do you suggest we do?” she asked, her voice and expression neutral.
Mage shook his head. “Can you drive me there?”
“Back to Charlie’s?”
“It’s just down the freeway. Please?”
That “please” rocked her with its concentrated sincerity—more sincerity than she’d heard in her six years of practicing law and three of practicing marriage. Reluctantly she changed her opinion of her client. He was obviously insane.
“Okay,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Just let me get dressed first?”
He looked at her, noticing her bathrobe for the first time. “Yeah. Sorry.”
She smiled, stood and walked to her bedroom, not taking her eyes off him until she closed the door between them. She decided against using the phone — he might pick up the extension in the hall—but there was the alarm, and her shotgun under the bed. She dressed quickly, not wanting to give Magistrale time to recover his breath from his run.
Mage, slumped on the sofa, looked blearily around the room and noticed the trophies on the ledge above the kitchen door: basketball (inevitably, he supposed), fencing, archery, target shooting. Oedipus suddenly looked up and launched himself from Mage’s lap by planting his back feet firmly in the photographer’s crotch and using it as a springboard.
A moment later Mage heard the hiss and yowl of an angry cat, and a slow flapping sound that he couldn’t quite identify. He grabbed the camera, prepared to use the flash to startle the invader, and walked quickly toward the back of the house. The laundry was dark and he reached for the light switch. Silhouetted in the doorway, he made an almost perfect target for the rukoro-kubi, who hovered in wait near the ceiling.
The rukoro-kubi’s right hand, brandishing a large switchblade, swooped toward Mage’s chest. An instant later it was enveloped by a spitting, sharp-toothed, claw-raking cat. The knife twisted in the hand; the tip pierced Mage’s T-shirt but missed scratching his flesh. The rukoro-kubi dropped the switchblade, and Mage knocked it aside before the other hand could catch it; then he grabbed Oedipus and the right hand, pulled them through the doorway and shut the door behind him.
“Kelly!”
The doorknob turned, but Mage managed to hold it firm, thanking the gods that he was stronger than the disembodied hand and that there wasn’t a cat-door flap in that door as well. He dropped Oedipus—noticing that the cat had managed to rip the rukoro-kubi’s leather glove—and looked around the kitchen for something that would wedge the door. Where the hell did Kelly keep her big knives?
A quick glance told him that Kelly wasn’t an enthusiastic cook. The most frequently used items in the almost spotless room were the microwave, the percolator, and an enormous coffee mug with the inscription “Legal Grounds.” Still grasping the doorknob tightly, he stretched as far as possible, opening all the drawers and cupboards within reach. The only knife with a point had a blade barely three inches long. The hand flung itself from floor to ceiling, wall to door, trying to dislodge the cat. Once, by blind luck, it hit Mage full in the stomach. Mage felt his hand grow sweaty, his grip begin to loosen; there was no weapon to hand, and still no sign of Kelly.
He tried to imagine some way that he could use the key; failing that, he forced himself to think logically. The rukoro-kubi had only one hand on that side of the door, and it couldn’t be holding the knife. This would give him a momentary advantage—if he could arm himself.
He glanced around the kitchen again and noticed a pair of salt and pepper shakers. A handful of pepper in the eyes would blind the rukoro-kubi for long enough to … well, he’d think of something later. He reached for the shakers. They were, as he’d expected, just beyond his grasp. He fumbled inside his T-shirt for the key, gripped it and stared at the shakers, imagining, seeing them glide across the counter like miniature Daleks.
When he stretched out his hand again, he was able to snag both shakers with his fingertips. He slid them a few cautious inches toward himself, grabbed the pepper and extracted the cork with his teeth as though pulling the pin on a grenade.
Kelly had nearly finished dressing when she heard the yell, and she hesitated for a few seconds, wondering which was the more necessary—her shotgun or her jeans. Mage had sounded genuinely panicky, but that was easy to fake. Finally she dropped to her knees and reached under the bed. If it were merely a ruse, the photographer’s idea of a joke, then she could cheerfully blow him away.
Yukitaka Hideo felt the doorknob twist just a little farther and then finally yield. He raised his head to the ceiling, pulled hard at the door and waited.
To his relief, no shots rang out; Yukitaka hated guns almost as much as he hated cats, even though he doubted that a gunshot would kill him before sunrise. He released his grip on the doorknob and brought his left hand up to retrieve the switchblade from behind his ear. His right hand was still being mauled by that confounded cat, and he had only a vague idea of its location in the room. He counted to three and then dropped.
They saw each other at the same moment and acted in unison—Mage throwing the pepper into the rukoro-kubi’s eyes, Yukitaka feinting with the switchblade and spitting a small envenomed dart at his enemy’s face.
Mage, startled, blocked the dart with his left forearm and stepped backward, tripping over Oedipus and falling. The point of the switchblade scraped on his belt buckle, leaving a fine scratch and a faint brown smear. The Abyssinian leaped across the floor, releasing the flailing hand.
“Holy shit …”
Mage tipped his head back and saw Kelly standing over him, shotgun in her hands. The rukoro-kubi blinked and stared her in the face. She brought the shotgun to bear … and hesitated.
“Mage … what the hell is that?”
Yukitaka grinned as his right hand slid up the door frame and switched off the kitchen light. He was half-blinded by the pepper and saw no reason to play fair. Kelly certainly wouldn’t risk shooting him in the dark… .
A moment later he felt the stock of the shotgun hit him in the side of the head. He barely noticed the lights going on again, but like a drowning man, he pushed his head as high as it would go. Kelly dropped the gun, leaped up and grabbed his head as though it were a hideous basketball.
Yukitaka blinked and dimly realized that Kelly’s hand was covering his eyes. His knife hand feinted at her face and Kelly twisted, keeping the head between herself and the point. “What do I do with it?”
Yukitaka didn’t hear Mage’s reply. He circled with the knife, slashing toward the woman’s fingers. Then he was shoved violently into a small white box. He twisted around as best he could—there seemed to be some sort of turntable beneath him—until he was staring out at Mage and Kelly through thick glass and a wire mesh.
A second later he realized where he was and hastily brought his right hand up toward the microwave controls. Mage grabbed it firmly.
“Either we kill him or we let him go now,” he said. “If we hold him until morning, he’ll die anyway. I say we kill him now.”
“We could
try to talk to him.”
“I don’t think he can talk. No larynx. No throat, even. Charlie stuck a knife through his hand last time and he didn’t make a peep—”
“Last time?”
Mage kicked at the knife hand as it made another sweep toward his abdomen. “Yeah, I think this is the same one as before. Watch out for the knife—poison.”
“What about your arm?”
Mage looked down at the dart, noticing it for the first time, and swore. Still grasping the rukoro-kubi’s right hand, he reached into his shirt for the key.
“What’re you doing?”
“Tourniquet. Oh, Jesus, this is ridiculous. I’m going to turn it on.”
“No!”
“If you want to stop me, shoot me.”
Kelly stared at him and then at the rukoro-kubi’s hands—one struggling against Mage’s grip, the other hovering between them. Slowly she dropped to a crouch, out of Yukitaka’s sight. Mage followed suit.
“It’s that or stay here all night—or capture both hands. Do you think you can do that?” Mage asked.
“What did you do last time?”
“Nailed one of his hands to a chunk of wood. We let it go before sunrise—but he wasn’t trying to kill us then.”
“What was he trying to do?”
“Frame me for Amanda’s murder.”
The microwave started to rock.
“Do you have any better ideas?” he asked. The knife jabbed at Kelly’s chest, cutting into her prosthesis. She snarled, swatted the hand aside and stood, staring into the rukoro-kubi’s face.
“You don’t want to kill me,” she said clearly. “I’m keeping you alive.”
Yukitaka’s expression didn’t change. Kelly saw a large element of smugness in that stare. It was much the same smugness that she’d seen in the face of the rapist she’d successfully defended that day. They stared at each other for several seconds, and she smiled sweetly as she pressed the buttons. Yukitaka began throwing his head around violently, trying to push the microwave off the shelf, to tug the plug out of the socket—but Kelly reached out and held it still. She was still staring, and smiling, as his skull exploded like an eggshell.
Oedipus stuck his head around the door cautiously, saw that the hands weren’t moving and crept up to lick the blood flowing freely from the left wrist. Mage grabbed the Abyssinian, stroked it, and carried it out of the kitchen. “You don’t really want it,” he crooned. “You don’t know what it’s been.” He slid the door shut behind him, dropped the cat onto the sofa, ran into the bathroom and threw up in the sink.
When he returned, Kelly was scrubbing the floor where the hands had been. “Where’s the rest of him?”
She jerked her head at the sink. “What should we do with them?”
“Dump them somewhere. If Charlie was right, there’s going to be a dead body nearby for his boss to explain.”
“His boss?”
“Yeah. Speaking of Charlie …”
She nodded. “Did you try calling him again?”
“No, but I will.” He glanced at the digital clock on the microwave: nine fifteen. It felt more like three a.m., the hour when nightmares began.
“What’s that on your arm?”
“What?” He looked down at the talisman, twisted tight around his biceps like a tourniquet. “Well, that’s sort of what this is all about. Amanda’s cure for cancer. It’s a long story… .”
20
When Shall We Three …
“His bike isn’t here.”
Mage, who was already halfway up the stairs, turned on his heel and stared. “What?”
“His bike. If he were inside, the bike would be here.”
Mage considered, and nodded. They stared uncomfortably at each other and Kelly asked, “Do you have a key?”
Mage grinned and reached for his tourniquet.
“It opens that door?”
“It opens any door. At least that’s what Charlie said.”
Kelly nodded, her expression doubtful. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s okay. I think I sucked most of the poison out. It hurts from the elbow down, but that could be from the tourniquet—or my imagination.”
“Hurts how? Sting? Ache? Burn?”
“No—twinges. Like a pulled muscle.”
“Badly?”
“No.”
“I still think you should get to a doctor. It could be a digestive poison as well—”
Mage swore, then shrugged. “Later.” He ran upstairs to Takumo’s apartment and unlocked the door. It opened, confirming that Takumo was out—had he been home, it would have been chained and bolted. Nervously, Mage removed the key from the lock and held it tightly, then switched the light on. The apartment was almost exactly as he had last seen it less than three hours before.
Kelly appeared behind him and looked over his shoulder. The first thing she noticed was the unsheathed ninjato on the kitchen counter.
“His?”
“Yeah.” He knelt, removed his sneakers and then stepped into the kitchen. He reached gingerly for the ninjato’s hilt—
“Fingerprints?” suggested Kelly.
He stopped, glanced at the blade and shook his head. “It’s okay. Hasn’t been used.”
“Is it real?”
“You mean sharp? I’d bet on it.” He reached into his pocket, found a bus ticket and ran it along the blade; it was cut in two neatly and effortlessly.
“Can he use it?”
“I’d bet on that, too—but if you mean has he used it, I don’t know. Have you ever used that gun?”
“Not against a living target. My husband used to like hunting, but there isn’t anything left in America that needs shooting.”
“Maybe that’s why they shoot each other.”
“What do you mean they, Paleface?”
Mage grinned, taking the ninjato and advancing into the apartment. “I don’t know. People who like guns, I guess.”
“I don’t like guns, I—”
“Just know how to use one? How long did it take you to learn?”
Kelly was silent.
“Better come in, shut the door.” He glanced around the sitting room and then cautiously opened the bathroom door. “Nothing in here. Me, I like cameras.”
“My gun just saved your life.”
“Yeah? If the safety catch hadn’t worked, I could’ve been up for another murder; no one would’ve believed my story. What happened to your husband?”
“I dismembered him; he’s in the deep-freeze. What the fuck do you think happened to him?”
Mage shut the bathroom door and walked into the bedroom without answering. “We’re divorced,” said Kelly flatly. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Something to say where he’s gone.”
Kelly relaxed slightly. “Write him a note. I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“Just a second.” He reached for the phone, pressed the redial and waited.
“Hello,” came a cheerful voice. “Park Plaza Hotel.”
“Sorry, wrong number,” he said and hung up. Kelly looked at him blankly. “I just wanted to see if he’d called anyone.” Dante had been staying at the Park Plaza—apparently Takumo hadn’t used the phone since Mage had called his uncle the day before. “And if anyone had called him.” He stared at the message recorder and switched it to “Playback.” There was a faint churning sound.
“Try ‘Rewind,’” suggested Kelly.
“I never did like these things. Where the hell could he have gone?”
“If he thought that creature was his girlfriend …” Kelly shrugged. “What made you think she wasn’t?”
“Her body language was all wrong. Seriously wrong.”
“Why didn’t he notice it?”
“I don’t know. I guess he saw what he wanted to see.”
The recorder clunked and he switched it to “Playback.” “Charlie, this is Mage. I’m at Kelly’s. Ring me on—oh, hell—nine three six doub
le two three oh. Please. It’s important. Ciao.”
A blip, then a tired female voice: “This is the Emergency Ward at Good Samaritan. We have a Mr. Charles Takumo here, suffering from cryptogenic paralysis. If you can help us with any information, please call Dr. Barre on —”
Mage realized that he was brandishing the ninjato as though the recorder were about to attack him; he forced himself to relax.
“Where’s Good Samaritan?”
“Off Wilshire. Do you want to call first?”
There were no more messages on the tape; Mage rewound it and shrugged. “I guess it’d save time …”
“I’ll do it, if you like.”
He nodded dumbly and she squeezed past him to grab the phone. He stepped back, looked at the ninjato and dropped it on the floor. That was trust, he dimly realized—letting a murder suspect stand behind you clutching a sharp twenty-inch sword. He had been outrageously lucky: first Charlie, then Kelly… .
“No, just a friend. Just a second, please. Mage?”
He looked up, startled. Kelly was watching him, her hand over the mouthpiece. “Takumo’s next of kin?”
“His mother’s dead, his father’s … uh, unknown. No other family.”
“He doesn’t have a next of kin. Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
“He’s alive?”
“Yes. Come on … and Mage?”
“Yeah?”
“Leave the sword here, okay?”
Goldin looked up from the computer when he heard the door open, then quickly looked away. “I’m a busy man. One coma case, looks like neurotoxic poisoning, and seven of the usual. What do you want?”
Kelly sighed. David Goldin was a sour, frustrated man who looked much older than his thirty-eight years. He was short, balding, diabetic, and terribly prone to ulcers and migraine. Kelly knew him as well as anyone did, and knew that “the usual” for him was an IV drug user whose heroin or crack had been laced with something even nastier. She also knew him to be a firm believer in the death penalty for offenses ranging from murder to tobacco growing, who suspected that most juries consisted exclusively of creationists, economists, flat-earthers, and other scientific illiterates. But he was an expert at his job in toxicology and, in his own quiet way, an enthusiast as well. She placed the switchblade and the dart on the bench beside him and waited.
The Art of Arrow Cutting Page 15