“Our demands have been met.”
“Ah.”
She slapped her palm with a rolled up fax, “the next logical step is securing a lab...,”
Reno sent her a probing look fraught with meaning. “Isn’t that getting a step ahead of yourself? You have no scientists, no base which to begin scientific work of that scope.” He reasoned; for once, Hurain shared a confused look with Zac. Zac shrugged mildly; he didn’t know what they were talking about.
“Oh, but, I have no doubt that I will soon. My persuasion can be most adept in achieving my ends.”
Chapter 13: Ushinawa reta Tamashī - Lost Soul
“Mimi-chan, leave the snow rabbit there.” The man’s voice had a note of chiding to it. Tall, thin with a grace from a mother of European descent, he walked to the silver car waiting at the curb. A small girl in winter tights and plaid dress bounded up the sidewalk. Her hair was black and slightly curled like his; done up in twin pigtails tied by red ribbon. Her expressive eyes were narrow, tapering, the color of aging autumn leaves.
“Hai, otousan.” She slid into the seat while he held the door open for her. The car was of modest luxury standards with a black leather interior and finely polished wood dash. The metal plating surrounding the built-in GPS reflected the man’s still youthful features. He was tired in more ways than one. For a moment, his graceful hands idled on the ignition, looking down at the steering column.
His father had been released from prison two days ago, after his corruption sentence was cut short by the brilliant defense of a hotshot lawyer from the states, Morris William. Masamune disliked the feeling of being indebted to the corporation who had placed his father there whether inadvertently by their dealings or for staining his family name. Honor was dearly sought in the modern age and he was no different.
“Otousan?” Mimi questioned, leaning forward between the seats.
Masamune shook his head slightly, forcing a smile. “Iie, it’s nothing.” He softened internally when addressing his daughter. She was still small, unable to comprehend why she didn’t have a mother, why her maternal grandfather could buy her the presents otousan couldn’t. In a slightly louder voice, Masamune spoke past the pain rising in his throat. “We’re going to visit ojiisan.”
Then, as if his words had freed something inside, he started the car with a low rumble of clean exhaust and drove through the compacted streets of Setagaya Ward. Nao’s father lived in the exclusive neighborhood of Den-en-chofu with its old-world European style houses and popularity as a playground for the affluent.
Slight bitterness disturbed the placidness of Masamune’s expression, driving through shady, tree-lined walkways. His father, Shirakawa Teramune, was president of the Japanese Division of an American company, and had raised his family in and out of the same neighborhood that his son drove through twenty years later. There and in the field. Teramune had a love of weaponry and had amassed a collection of different armaments, while his son had favored the biological side of the blade.
Masamune watched the names of the ward streets, making the right turns, burying his feelings deep inside. Losing it all could that to a person. Cold and calculated, he had stayed away from the press after his father’s release, distancing himself from the man he hadn’t seen since he was a child. He had Mimi to think of. Mimi’s future.
He turned onto a quiet street dominated by a traditional Japanese style house with a long wooden wraparound porch and spare aesthetic details of gray boulders and the occasional tinkle of running water. Tall metal gates surrounded the circumference of the property. Men in suits and earpieces appeared when he pulled up at the curb.
“I am here to see Shinichiro-dono.” Masamune rolled down the window, calmly announcing.
The guards looked at one another; the one on the left, a blond Caucasian with a severe crew-cut and scar lacing his upper lip, nodded curtly. Masamune cut the engine, pocketing the keys in his winter coat. A fine snow had begun falling since he’d left the daycare center, the chill in the air palpable with his exhalation of white breath. Mimi had already unbuckled her seatbelt, throwing open her door, she left it open, running past the stationary guards, into the large complex.
The men were hired muscle, they weren’t to question the enthusiasm of Maeda Shinichiro’s only granddaughter. Masamune went after her slower, tossing the keys to the Caucasian guard. “Take care of the car,” he nodded. The car was presentable, classic in styling even though it had been a gift from the company to his father some twenty odd years before. One thing his father’s discharge had given him, was the release of the Shirakawa weapon collection and the fleet of cars and a few other small assets left behind from the Interpol investigation.
It had been a long time since he’d been able to wear a decent suit inside the Maeda compound, one that hadn’t been patched on the elbows nor worn with secondhand age. Maeda Shinichiro had pitied him and even occasionally offered monetary aid something which Masamune’s pride refused to accept.
He would raise his daughter on the money he made with his own two hands. In theory, sometimes dark clouds of doubt suppressed the optimism he’d inherited from his father. Masamune found Mimi seated on the lap of an older, balding man dressed in formal attire consisting of a dark grey divided hakama skirt and long sweeping sleeves of a lighter grey kimono. The jinbaori surcoat was black with scant embroidery on the edges.
Mimi perched on the old man’s lap, eating pink crystal candy.
“You’re going to ruin your dinner.” Masamune called, leaving his black loafers on the step below.
“It doesn’t matter,” Maeda told the girl, patting her head. “Sofu says it’s alright.”
Masamune walked up the porch, shaking his head mildly. “I wish you wouldn’t undermine my authority. I was planning on taking her out to dinner.”
Maeda jostled the little girl, settling her more comfortably on his knee, then waved his former son-in-law to the neighboring wicker seat across the small table. “Oh? A celebration?” A piercing look. A comely servant appeared from the recesses of the house, bearing a fresh tray of tea and sweets.
“As a matter of fact...,” Masamune chose his words with care. “Yes. I’m shortlisted for a job as Junior Researcher in the Department of Nuclear studies, an underbranch of Tokyo Electric Power Company.”
“After five years of unemployment.”
He swallowed hard, his confidence wavering. Yes, it was true. For almost as long as Mimi had been alive, he’d struggled to find work. Doctorates meant nothing while his father’s old enemies still controlled the upper branches of Government. That was the deciding factor that Morris William had been able to exploit - linking Interpol’s investigation to one of Governmental scrutiny. They’d broken coda by taking the side of the Government in taking down the old Japan branch.
The servant had vanished on silent feet.
“I suppose I should address you in the future as Dr. Shirakawa?” Maeda asked, lifting the deep cup of winter tea after giving Mimi a tiny cake with a perfect iced cherry blossom on top. She bit into it eagerly and Masamune forced his appreciative nod. “I would be honored if you would.” Pronounced from the withered old man’s lips, the appellation had taken on a cruel, mocking feeling.
Doctor.
The tea tasted sweet.
Masamune resisted the urge to glance down at his watch - an Invicta Pro Diver, another memento of his father. His cell rang with discordant techno strains; Maeda scowled. “I have to take this call,” Masamune said quickly, rising. He welcomed almost anything as an excuse to get away from the old man’s stifling aura.
Under the cold-eyed gaze of the Maeda patriarch, he moved away down the western end of the porch, breathing freely once he had disappeared around the corner, out of Maeda’s sight. Doctor, he reminded himself, trying to regain some of his pride in the moniker. Masamune exhaled softly and accepted the call.
“We have some regretful news to inform you of, Shirakawa-san.”
He closed
his eyes, bracing his hand against the cool wall of the mansion. “Nani? What is it?”
***
Across the oceans, separated by three continents, Evelyn Blackwood flipped through a photo album of funeral pictures. The album had been with other family pictures kept in the vault behind the CEO’s desk, secreted beneath a false picture of pomegranates. She paused here and there, studying the old faces of people who attended the funeral of the company’s Vice President.
There were images of the coffin, a plain box with little ornamentation. Her father had wanted it that way, being a simple man. Copious flowers were placed around the central bier, in vibrant hues, expensive bouquets in winter. She saw herself once or twice, flitting in and out of the frame as a little girl in pale white silk.
Someone tapped on the inside of the door.
She looked up, closing the book; Julian peered in. “Hey, I’m ordering Chinese. What would you like?”
“The same as always,” she answered, meaning the usual amount of fried rice, broccoli beef and eggrolls. Julian looked at her a moment longer, his gaze flickering to the album draped across her knee. “Listen, about Hurain, I know- ”
“Stop.” Evelyn didn’t want to hear it anymore. She’d already gone through the argument and was sick of hearing it. “It’s been two weeks, can’t you let it alone?”
“- I wasn’t criticizing.” Julian snapped, scowling at her. “I was only reiterating your neglect of Quinn. He needs training -”
“Can’t you do it? Or are you so incompetent that you can’t take the time to set them aside and teach them?”
“Not when it falls to you to correct their mistakes.”
Evelyn pursed her lips, settling back in her chair. She had been backed into a corner and knew it. “What would you have me do?”
“Maybe leave your office once in a while? Reopen up the armory and take a drive down to the shooting range.”
They were reasonable demands. Sensible as always, Julian was showing her the side her grandmother had known. Evelyn stretched out her hand, toying with a bejeweled pen from the cup holder beside her computer. “They’d benefit more from someone with sharpshooter skills. I learned from a witch no longer in my employ. Would you have me call in the same?”
“I didn’t mean that. Hurain mentioned something to me. He said he wasn’t sleeping well, said he wanted to talk to you about it.”
Evelyn kept her expression forcedly blank. There was slight suspicion in Julian’s tone and in his slightly raised brow. She could sense his skepticism with her denial. “I wouldn’t know anything about it. Maybe a prescription of Ambien? Or some Mugwort burnt on charcoal?” She suggested with a smile, shrugging. “Lavender induces -”
“Do you have feelings for him?” Julian asked bluntly.
“We both know they never would.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
He gazed at her for a moment longer then nodded. “I’m going, then.” Before he closed the door, he added quieter, warning. “I’d suggest you talk with him.”
Evelyn had been scribbling idly, pushing the pen nib across a spare piece of paper on the desk. The moment the door closed, she looked down at her scribble, abruptly pushing it away. The angelic seal gleamed in fresh black ink, spiraling to the floor from her motion.
...of the east.
***
Zac had overheard a majority of their conversation from the stairwell across the way. He’d been returning from a bathroom break downstairs when he’d heard their raised voices. Curious, he’d stayed with the door cracked open, listening intently to their conversation. When Hurain was mentioned, he stilled his breathing, listening harder.
Several mornings he’d come in early to find the other sprawled on a hard bench in the library, stacks of books about heaven and hell surrounding him. Hurain had seemed troubled even in sleep, moaning, twisting, thrusting his hands out in a warding gesture - warding off who or what? When, Zac had asked later what he’d been dreaming, Hurain hadn’t answered coherently. Running his fingers through jet black hair losing its frosted tint, he’d picked at his blue cheese salad disinterestedly.
Zac had envied him more then, for his effortless good looks. His apparent disinterest in learning the company’s coda...the only thing that drew his focus was - Evelyn. That day, he’d cut off midsentence, staring through the open doorway where they could see the outer hallway. Blackwood had crossed through, dressed in black slacks and a teal blue leopard print sweater.
It was like he was drawn to her, or something...,
Lust?
No...too easy.
He had eyes to see, he saw the way Hurain looked at her.
Love?
Too complicated.
Reno left without answers, taking the elevator down. Zac left his hiding place, casting a curious glance up the corridor to the closed door of her office. She wouldn’t answer anything - least of all to him. Shrugging to himself, Zac entered the lobby, noting the absence of the fey. She had most likely ridden the elevator down with Reno. Renovations had all but been completed on the central floors damaged during the incident. The replacements for decades-old steel came from a supplier for the military who outfitted beams made of lightweight titanium as building supports.
Blackwood had been so impressed with the strength of the new materials that she’d begun work on different areas of the Tower, with work slated to finish sometime the following year. Progress, she’d said, proudly, studying the new revolver she’d ordered. The 342PD Centenary S&W model fit comfortably in her small hand with its classic six-chambered design, the new handgun easily replaced the one she’d lost.
She went through handguns the way she did shoes.
He had never seen her wearing the same pair of shoes. Just another perk of being rich, he mused, letting himself into Reno’s office. He’d been in there several times over the course of the last few weeks. Whether for random quizzes, or to hear Reno expound the company philosophy or simply to ask questions on some obscure point he didn’t understand.
Through it all, the box had stayed there.
302.
Box 302.
Zac knew he had minutes maybe to lift it from its place in the jumble of other crates. The box was light in his arms, almost weightless. He hurried with his cargo clutched to his chest, through the door into the lobby and from there the opposite corridor.
It would disappear among the other cartons below, the ones left out for Hurain. Down, the flights of stairs, Zac hurried on, distantly hearing the ping of the elevator arriving on the upper floor he’d left. Letting himself out onto the lounge level, he went straight to the sofa he’d vacated twenty minutes before. Hurain flipped through a medical science magazine in a chair by the window, hardly looking up at his reentrance.
Zac was glad for that, settling down in the crook of the long beige sofa, he removed the lid from the box and reached in. Please let this be what I’ve waited for...,
“Hey, Quinn, Hurain, dinner’s here!” Reno’s voice sounded over the intercom.
He had the first papers to hand and dropped them reluctantly back inside. Unwilling to tear himself away from the archives might cause suspicion especially in the Mexican. He had to keep pretending - just thirty minutes, maybe less. He’d have to eat dinner, sit around a table with the others - and when it was over - then I’ll have my answers.
“Hey, I’m starved! How ‘bout you?”
The other had awkwardly risen to his feet, stretching his lithe body like a sleepy cat. Hurain caught his eye and grinned slightly. “Famished, actually.”
“Hey, well that’s good.” Zac slapped his palms together. “We’re still growing boys.”
“Boys...ha...yes, I suppose you’re right.”
He never noticed the slight wistful tone.
Chapter 14: Paradigm
Heaven and...Hell must exist.
Daniel felt he’d known a little of both before his twenty-fourth birthday passed without a men
tion. Julian ‘chief’ Reno had ordered Chinese food, greasy goodness. They ate around an impromptu setup in one of the large conference rooms on the office level. A sideboard held drinks in paper cartons, napkin holders were sprinkled around with trays of condiments.
Heaven.
Itadakimasu. Seven different sets of parents had sat around the dinner table through the years. The last were Christian converts. From them, he gained the name Daniel, God is my judge. He learned to put his hands together and look upward to the sky.
Quinn crossed himself; catholic.
Eve and the ‘chief,’ remained heretical without thanks. For the last fourteen days, they’d all eaten together. Like friends, like family? It had been a long time since he’d felt belonging. It felt...good. Daniel ate with them, occasionally answered something the ‘chief’ asked, committing even the smallest detail to memory.
He’d take a life, that hadn’t changed.
Eve had called back from Asia, her top lawyer to prepare a defense in the upcoming trial. The papers had been served the other day by a lackey from the company where the father worked. Morris had spoken to him on the phone, suggesting a wrongful death claim - or death by misadventure. The father had admitted in his statement to police that his son had unbuckled the seatbelt that might’ve saved his life.
“The child wasn’t restrained in the car seat. Therein lies our loophole. At best, substance abuse counseling and a large cash settlement.” Morris argued confidently. “They can’t pin second-degree murder on you, Mr. Hurain.”
That doesn’t change the fact that I am a murderer.
He’d go along with it, pretend he’d learned their words and then in court admit his guilt. He’d taken a life and deserved punishment for it, not as Eve seemed to think, deserved to be saved. She’d talk him out of it if he told her - she’d use weak, womanly tears to manipulate him into doing what she wanted. Saving me from prison, he smiled to himself. Her sympathy was misplaced yet her efforts couldn’t help but strike a chord somewhere inside.
Dancing in Darkness: The Damned Page 5