7
In the Shadow of the Swallowtail
Nikki had been annoyed and dismayed when George stole the antique katana in Kyoto. He was supposed to be her romantic interest. There he was splashing kerosene onto the back of a temple’s gift shop to create a diversion for his theft.
Of course, her hypergraphia had just scribbled “the sword” into her notebook without any description. George had been too caught up in the fear and excitement of his escalating crime to even notice what he clutched in his hand. After he killed and raped Yuuka, he nearly left it lying beside her dead body as he staggered away. He came back for it only after the sirens of the fire engines brought him to his senses.
Nikki would have been stuck on the scene until she fleshed out all the little details, so she had thrown herself into researching samurai swords. She learned that the hilt of the katana wasn’t one solid piece but nearly a dozen items carefully fitted together. The hand guard, called a tsuba, was a disc of metal about three inches across with a slot in the center. Each tsuba was a hand-crafted piece of art and often had the samurai’s family crest, called a mon, worked into the design. After looking at dozens of web pages, she decided that the stolen katana had a tsuba made from a metal of gold and copper with a dark blue-purple patina called shakudo. It featured a swallowtail butterfly mon done in gold leaf against the purple.
Surely the killer hadn’t stuck that closely to script.
Nikki lifted out the bag, undid the ties, and shifted the fabric aside to look closer at the sword inside. Gold swallowtail wings gleamed on a violet field.
She suddenly had an intense feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced around. Hundreds of people flowed around her, coming and going through the gates to the train platforms. Focused on getting to their destinations, none of them seemed to be paying any attention to her.
“Sumimasen,” a salaryman apologized as he brushed past her. Before she realized what he was doing, he wedged a piece of luggage into the locker she had left open and shut the door. The “in use” light went on.
“Wait!” she cried.
“Sumimasen.” the salaryman apologized again, bowed, and hurried out of the train station.
She whimpered as he disappeared. She hadn’t really meant to take the sword out of the locker. She glanced around for another locker and realized that hers had been the only unoccupied one. Every locker in sight had its “in use” light on. The feeling of being watched was still there, even though no one was looking at her. No one was even standing still, pretending to focus on a magazine or telephone conversation or oddly colored piece of floor. Everyone was coming and going, and she alone stood still like a rock in the ocean surf.
What the hell was she supposed to do? George had burned down a temple and killed a girl to get the katana. What if her monolithic loon of a fan had done the same? If she called the police, they’d probably arrest her for two murders.
But if she didn’t call the police, she would still have a homicidal maniac stalking her.
She felt someone next to her, staring.
Nikki leapt to the side, bringing up the wrapped sword to block an attack.
There was no one there.
“Shit!” She was shaking, though. For one split second, she could have sworn there was a Japanese teenage boy standing beside her, his dark eyes furious.
She started to walk fast, blindly fleeing into the night.
She was trying not to run. Running would make her easier to track. She walked fast, weaving through the heavy crowds moving through Umeda Station. She didn’t care if she was lost; all that mattered was putting distance between her and Osaka Station. She took random turns, going up escalators and down elevators and in and out of the stores.
Just when she thought she was hopelessly lost, she saw a sign for the Tanimachi subway line. She danced in place as she checked the map to figure out the cost of the ticket, fed a ten thousand yen bill into the ticket machine, grabbed her ticket and change ,and bolted through the gate. There was a train sitting at the platform as she ran down the steps. She made the car just as the “door closing” chime sounded. There was no one else running for the train. The door closed and the train pulled out.
She slumped down on the bench seat and stared at the bundled sword still clutched in her hand. Some loon had hacked her computer, read her book, and was using it as inspiration. He had stuck a blender into Gregory Winston’s stomach and set it to puree. There might be a seventeen-year-old girl dead and raped in Kyoto.
What the hell was she going to do? The police already knew she had a crazy fan. Would telling them about these new twists help them catch the man? Probably. But what could she tell them without making it seem like she had something more to do with the murders?
She could give them a copy of her manuscript on a flash drive. She could even tell them most of the truth. She believed her computer had been hacked, and she was scared. They were cops; they could fit the pieces together without her.
She would have to do something with the sword—like throw it in the canal since it now had her DNA and fingerprints on it. Hopefully it was a replica and not some real and irreplaceable antique. Surely her fan wasn’t so insane that he had stolen something so valuable and then left it in a coin locker.
One thing was for certain—her life was about to get a whole lot crazier.
“Oh, this sucks,” she whispered. “Bad enough that I write this shit, now I have to live it?”
She couldn’t stop writing. Even if she could magically cure her hypergraphia, she still would have to finish the novel. If she didn’t, she would have to give back the money that her publisher had already paid her. All of it—even the part she’d already spent.
She didn’t know how her stalker was hacking her laptop; she thought she had made it secure. She had online “friends” that were computer experts, but none of them were close and trusted. Anyone she asked for help might be the very person who had hacked her computer. She’d never met any of them face-to-face and had to hope what they told her was true. One of them could be lying and lived in Osaka.
There was the little policeman, Yoshida. She could ask him for help.
Now that she thought of it, though, it was weird that of the hundreds of restaurants in Osaka, the one he chose after processing Gregory’s murder was the same one she met Miriam in to talk about her novel. She had emailed with Miriam about where to eat. Could he have intercepted those messages?
He was an anime fan. He might visit the same forums that she did. He could be one of her many online “friends” and she wouldn’t know.
But he was so tiny. The police said—no—Yoshida said that the attacker was much taller.
She slipped her cell phone out to call Miriam and then remembered that was against the rules. She eyed the commuters around her, currently ignoring her. She considered texting her. No. That would make Miriam an accomplice to—to—to something. Tampering with evidence? On that thought, she made sure to delete her call to Miriam from her phone’s log.
“You don’t seriously think that a policeman hacked your computer?” She whispered to her phone the conversation she so desperately wanted to have with Miriam. “Why would Yoshida have me arrested? So we could meet while he’s in a position of authority? He honestly seemed terrified of me, but that could have been an act. But why would he put a katana into the coin locker? How could he know I’d be crazy enough to go looking for it?”
It was only three stops to Tanimachi 4-chome in Otemae. Far too short a distance to come up with any reasonable answer. She darted off the train and hurried out of the station. If she was being followed, she only had a couple of minutes lead time to get to the safety of her apartment. She could grab her laptop, a change of clothes, and then go someplace else, someplace safe.
But where the hell was that at this time of night?
Her apartment was on the sixth floor, around the corner and down the hall from the elevator. She had never minded before that the bare concrete hallway reminded her of something out of Ringu.
She unlocked her door. Opened it. Then realized that the killer could be inside—waiting for her. She stood in the doorway a moment, panting, carefully scanning the small room. She had left the sliding closet door open and the accordion-like door to the bathroom was folded. The studio apartment had no other place to hide. She stepped in, shut the door and locked it behind her.
“Calm down, stay calm.” She kicked off her sandals out of habit. “Psycho fan wants to play. Killing me would stop the game, so I’m probably safe from him. Everyone else is dead meat, but I’m—I’m—I’m scared shitless but probably safe.”
She realized she was still clutching the sword in her left hand. She put it on the table and picked up one of her omnipresent pens. She paced her small studio apartment, clicking nervously.
“Does he know where I live?” She considered. “Well, if he hacked my computer, he knows everything on it. I e-mailed my new address to my editor and my agent, so, yes, he knows where I live.”
The only thing that might save her was an oddity of Japanese urban planning. She was in 4-choma, or the fourth district, and anyone could find that. Her block number would have been assigned by both proximity to the city but also in the order it was settled. Finding the right block was more difficult. The houses on the block were then numbered as they were built. The first house on the block was “one.” There might be a dozen houses between “one” and “two” as newer houses crowded into the space between the original buildings.
Because of this, even housewives had business cards with maps to their houses printed on the back.
Her crazed fan, though, had obviously been stalking her for a long time if he found a katana to match the one in her story. He had time to roam her neighborhood and find her apartment building.
She needed to bounce. Usually she just fled with what she was wearing. But she never had so much “her” to leave behind. Never before could she decorate the walls, buy clothes, pick out dishes and pots. Everything in the apartment was seeped with her happiness in setting up her place. The joy in her power to finally make decisions for herself.
She could be packed in thirty minutes.
She had washed her clothes on Saturday and hung them on bamboo poles across her balcony. Luckily everything was dry. She took them down, folded and then rolled them to save space. She only had one suitcase, an ultra cute Hello Kitty trolley that she had bought for her “visa renewal” trips. Maybe she should head to South Korea early.
As she packed, she backed up her novel twice onto flash drives. She could give one to the police so they would have some hope of catching her stalker.
What about the katana? She eyed it sitting innocently on her table, still wrapped in fabric. “I can’t explain the sword.”
She would figure that out later. Right now, she needed to pack as quickly as possible. Stopping to think things through would only let stress seep in, and then she be stuck writing until her hypergraphia subsided. Of course, as her suitcase filled up, she couldn’t help but notice what wasn’t going to fit. All her expensive spices. Her new rice cooker. Her body-sized pillow. Her Hello Kitty duvet cover.
“No, no, don’t think about it,” she sang to herself. Maybe she could have Miriam pack them up and ship them. “No, that might make her a target. Better to just abandon anything I can’t carry.”
She caught herself chewing on her fingernails. She jerked her hand out of her mouth. Food. Wine. That’s what she needed to calm down. Self-medicate away some of her stress before she ended up in a writing marathon.
She heated up the okonomiyaki that she had bought earlier and ate it while checking her secret forum. Miriam had posted the code word of “Prepare for bounce!” to spread the word that Nikki might need to bolt and needed someplace to crash. The replies to her post were “Team Banzai: Go!” and “Team Banzai: No Go!” as people stated their ability to offer up refuge. She scanned the replies, her stomach flip-flopping. She had built up Team Banzai over the years, working at a level of secrecy that the CIA probably would be impressed with. Surely it hadn’t been compromised. Even if her computer had been hacked, her stalker wouldn’t have found the key to her code words or any information on Team Banzai. She kept that information locked in her head, where her mother couldn’t access it.
The part of the team that was on her side of the world had responded to the post. She scanned the “go” for people she knew were in Japan. Pixii, Jaynaynay, Cloud, and Beehgly were offering her crash space. Pixii was closest but lived out in the middle of nowhere with some old master potter. Nikki wasn’t sure she would be comfortable living with a strange man. There was also the matter of simply finding the place in the middle of the night. The other three lived in studio apartments in Tokyo and worked as English teachers. She would have to cycle between their places while looking for a new place to rent.
She focused on packing instead of thinking about how all her plans were falling apart. How she was going to lose Miriam. How wonderful it been sharing life with her best friend instead of just chatting online.
Sniffing from unshed tears, she emptied her backpack so there would be room for her laptop. She still would be able to talk constantly with Miriam online, she told herself. They’d done it for years.
“Keep this up, you’ll end up writing for hours.” She shut down her laptop and shoved it into her backpack. She shoved her current working notebook into it too so it wouldn’t tempt her. “Just focus on packing.”
She distracted herself with choosing a purse. Her favorite, hands down, was the beautiful messenger bag made out of an antique silk obi. Just looking at it always made her happy. She and Miriam had found it in Kyoto while researching Shinto shrines. Generally it was too big to haul around on a daily basis, but it was perfect for a bounce. It could hold all the essentials. A handful of pens. A blank notebook. Her change purse and wallet. Her passport. Two more black pens. Her cell phone. Another blank notebook. Her iPod. Hand towel. Toilet paper. Phrase book. Two red pens.
She stood clicking a pen, frowning at her purse. What else?
Her doorbell rang.
She jerked up and stared across the room at her door. She could see the shadow of someone standing beyond the door through the crack at the bottom. Was it her psycho fan? She scanned the room quickly for a weapon and saw the katana on the table.
Her stalker would know she’d picked up the sword at the train station. Or would he? If he hadn’t seen her pick it up at the train station, how would he know that the contents of the locker had been switched?
She crept to the table, fumbled open the fabric case, and slid the katana out of its sheath out as the doorbell rang again. Cautiously, she went to the door and peeked out through the spyhole.
Detective Tanaka stood outside her door. “Miss Delany? It’s Detective Tanaka of the Osaka Police Department.”
“Shit!” She danced backwards. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Miss Delany, are you alright?” Detective Tanaka called through the door.
“I stubbed my toe!” Nikki yelled. What should she do? She realized she still had the damn katana gripped tight in her hand. “Shit!”
She ran in a tiny circle, looking for somewhere to hide the sword. Refrigerator? Too small. Balcony? Too open.
“Miss Delany?”
“Wait a minute! I was in the middle of changing my clothes.” She slid the katana into the shadows next to the toilet and jerked shut the accordion-style fabric door. Anything else? Her half-packed suitcase sat out in the middle of the floor!
“Miss Delany?”
She winced as she threw her duvet over the bag. This stalker thing was completely throwing her off her game; she was smarter than this! She considered changing both hiding places when Detective Tanaka tried the door and found it locked.
“Hold on!” she shouted. She hiked up her shirt to make it seem like she had been naked and had spent the time getting dressed and not hiding a possibly stolen weapon that might have been used in a murder. “I’ve got to get dressed!”
She snatched up one of her many pens, clicked it twice, took a deep calming breath, and unlocked the door. “Tanaka-san.” She made a show of tugging down her hiked-up shirt. “I was getting ready for bed.” To explain the duvet-covered lump in the middle of the floor, she added. “I was laying out my futon.”
He seemed taller, but then he hadn’t loomed over her in a dim foyer before. Nor could she remember him wearing strong, musky cologne at the police station. One corner of his mouth quirked up into a tiny, dangerous smile. He barely seemed like the same man who had sat across the table from her all afternoon. It was as if he’d taken off a mask and beneath was someone a lot more dangerous than the polite civil servant.
She started to swing shut the door again, and he put out his hand and held it open. “What is it that you want, Detective?”
He sniffed deeply and scanned the room. “I need to ask you more questions about Gregory Winston.”
Was there blood on her shoes? She hadn’t even looked. She didn’t dare glance down.
“May I come in?”
It went against all her instincts to let him into the apartment. There was the small matter, though, that she didn’t think she could get the door shut without a fight. It was her experience that the less cooperative she was with authority figures, the more force they used to get what they wanted. She hated that she needed to go against her instincts to keep the stakes from being raised.
She’d found, though, that distraction worked well in situations like this. “I’m glad you’re here.” She stepped back from the door and out of his reach. “There’s something I want to give you.”
“Eh?” Tanaka stepped into her apartment and closed the door behind him.
She tried not to let that seem ominous. It probably was a Japanese custom. Bow in greeting. Take your shoes off. Close the door. Not that Tanaka had done the first two. Odd. He’d taken off his shoes at the restaurant and had bowed to her shortly before handcuffing her hands behind her back. It had struck her as absurdly polite. And why was he here without a translator? Had he just been pretending to barely follow English at the police station?
She backed away from him. “I’ve made a copy of my documents that I’ve been working on. I think its possible that my stalker has hacked into my computer and read everything I’ve written.”
Where had she put the flash drive? Her apartment was in complete disarray by her frenzied packing. She locked down on a yelp as she realized that she’d left the katana’s sheath on the table.
Someone leaned against Nikki’s back and whispered into her ear, “Do not trust him. He is not who he seems.”
She jerked sideways, trying to keep Tanaka in sight while looking behind her. There was no one else in the room.
“Miss Delany?” Tanaka said.
Nikki blinked at him. “I—I—I had the flash drive a moment ago. I’m not sure where I put it.” She pointed at the piles of clutter strewn in a semicircle around her duvet as she had sorted through the things she wanted to take or leave. She had to keep him from noticing the sheath.
“Give him nothing,” the male voice whispered again. There was definitely someone pressed close to her, their breath warm on her skin. She could see, though, in the reflection of the balcony’s sliding door, that no one was standing behind her.
Nikki slapped her hand over her mouth, but a whimper of fear slipped out.
“Miss Delany?”
“Need to pee!” Nikki yelped. She fought with the bathroom’s door until it was open only wide enough to allow her to slip through. She slammed it shut behind her and flipped the little catch lock.
Her mother was right. She was going insane.
What if I killed Gregory without even realizing it? Maybe I put that sword into the locker. It would explain how I knew where it was and what the PIN was more rationally than the idea of some psycho fan.
Well, good news, she wasn’t being stalked by a nutcase.
Unless, of course, you can stalk yourself.
The door rattled.
What a thing to realize when cornered by a homicide detective.
“I’m going pee!” she called.
The door shuddered and somehow held.
“Tanaka-san?”
A knife blade stabbed through the fabric of the door and sliced downward.
Nikki screamed . . .
. . . and blinked down at a dead man lying crumbled outside the open bathroom door. There was a neat slit in the back of his suit coat, wide as a katana blade, seeping blood. She had the katana in her hands, the blade dripping blood.
“Oh. Oh. Oh.” Something warm was trickling down her face. She glanced in the mirror over the vanity. Blood streaked her right cheek.
And her eyes were so dark brown that they were nearly black. As she stared into her reflection in shock, they shifted back to her normal blue.
“Oh. Oh.” Had she just killed Detective Tanaka? She didn’t remember doing it—but he was dead, and she was holding the bloody sword. She looked again at the man.
“Tanaka-san?”
The back of the man’s head looked wrong for the police officer. Instead of neatly trimmed black hair, the man had grizzled brown hair with touches of red. There were two odd bumps on the top of his head.
She had to step over the body and spreading pool of blood to get out of the bathroom. She glanced down as she did and nearly stumbled.
The body wasn’t human. The bumps on the head were furred ears. There were no eyebrows over full burnt-amber eyes set in a raccoonlike mask of dark fur. The face extended out in a muzzle, ending in a black dog nose. A mouth full of sharp teeth hung open, lips still locked in a snarl.
In a hand that was dark-furred and claw-tipped, the man-beast held a very big knife. It was wearing a conservative suit with patent leather shoes and an expensive wristwatch. There was a hole punched into the chest of the white button-down shirt now soaked with blood.
No one else was in the apartment.
She whimpered. Where was Tanaka? Who was this? What was this?
Had she just killed a man, and her mind was trying to make it okay by seeing him as a monster? She closed her eyes for a minute and opened them again.
Still a raccoon in a business suit with a knife.
Far down the hall, the elevator stopped on her floor with a “ding.” It reminded her that her neighbors might have heard the whole fight and called the police. She snatched up her backpack and shrugged it onto her shoulders.
She needed . . .