Narumi caught her breath.
“That said, putting him on the spot right now would only make things worse. Whether he tells the truth or not, he’s going to blame himself for what happens as a result.” Yukawa looked down at Narumi. “That’s why I want you to do something.”
Narumi straightened. “What?”
“Kyohei is going to have to live with a very big secret. But someday, he’s going to want to know why his uncle made him do what he did. If he comes to you with that, I want you to tell him the truth, the whole truth. Then I want you to let him decide what he should do. I’m sure you know better than anyone what it is to live with the consequences of one’s actions.”
Every word Yukawa spoke sank deep into Narumi’s heart. It made her heart ache, but there was no helping that.
She stood and stared into Yukawa’s eyes. “Okay. I will.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that.” Yukawa said. “There’s something else I want you to do, too.”
“I…” Narumi began, steadying her breath. “I should turn myself in, shouldn’t I?”
Yukawa looked surprised for a moment. Then his smile returned to his lips. “I want you to value life. Yours and others. More than you ever have before.”
Holding back tears, Narumi looked off into the distance, out across the sea.
SIXTY-THREE
Tatara flipped through the pages of the report, the wrinkles across his brow frozen in deep lines. Kusanagi sat across from him, rubbing his hands together beneath the conference table. His palms were sweating.
“So basically,” Tatara said, looking up with a deep sigh, “we have absolutely no evidence?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kusanagi said, lowering his head. “As that says, it’s very likely that Setsuko Kawahata was involved with the murder of Nobuko Miyake. However, as long as Senba remains unwilling to talk, it will be extremely difficult to prove.”
Tatara leaned one cheek on his hand and groaned. “If Tsukahara couldn’t crack him, neither can we. Not to mention the Miyake murder was a closed case. We can’t do anything about that. Nor should we. You did a good job, though. At least, I’ve got some closure on this now.”
“What about Hari Cove?” Kusanagi asked.
Tatara groaned again and pulled a notebook out of his pocket.
“Yeah, about that, I got a call from the police. Sounds like they’re going to write the whole thing off as an accident after all. The testimony they got left no room for questions, and forensics says the chances of the accident having been arranged are next to nil. They didn’t say anything about Tsukahara’s connection to the Kawahatas, either. Of course, we haven’t told them what we know.”
“Well? Should we?”
Tatara’s eyes went a little wider. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared back at Kusanagi. “Now? What good would that do? We’re not reopening the Nobuko Miyake case.”
Kusanagi shrugged. “So what do we do then?”
Tatara picked up the report and slowly tore it in two. “This is the prefecture’s call, so we take it. I’ll explain everything to Tsukahara’s widow.”
“Are you—” Sure, Kusanagi was about to say, but he swallowed his words.
Torn report in one hand, Tatara stared straight back at him. “I meant what I said. You did good work. Now it’s time for you to go back to your regular assignment.”
Kusanagi stood, bowed stiffly, and walked over to the door. He stepped outside, glancing back at Tatara before he closed the door behind him. The white-haired director was looking out the window, lines of deep regret on his face.
SIXTY-FOUR
Kyohei paced around the lobby while his father was settling the bill at the front desk. He checked the lounge and the pool, even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Yukawa was nowhere to be found.
He said we’d talk tomorrow, Kyohei thought, getting angry. Grown-ups were always breaking promises as if it didn’t matter at all. He’d thought the professor was different, though.
“Come on, we’re going,” his father called out to him. “If we leave now, we’ll get to the station right on time. Hurry up.” He began walking toward the front entrance, checking his wristwatch.
Kyohei had run out of excuses. Shoulders slumped, he followed his father.
They got in a taxi just outside the hotel. Kyohei looked out of the window. He could see several boats in the harbor. In the distance, the swimming beach shone white under the sun. He spotted the breakwater where he and Yukawa had launched their water rocket. It seemed like an eternity ago.
The taxi got to Hari Cove Station faster than he’d expected. As soon as he stepped out of the door, he started sweating.
“It’s hot again,” his father said. “Good thing the waiting room’s got air-conditioning.”
The small waiting room was up some stairs, just before the gate. It was cool inside, but that wasn’t what made a smile break out across Kyohei’s face. Yukawa was sitting in a corner of the waiting room, reading a magazine.
“Professor!”
Yukawa looked up and nodded. “Right on time,” he said. “Getting on the next express?”
“Yeah, you too?” Kyohei said, putting down his backpack and sitting next to Yukawa.
“No. I’m going back to Tokyo by bus with the DESMEC crew.”
“Oh,” Kyohei said, disappointed. He had been hoping they could talk.
“But I did come here to see you,” Yukawa said, then he looked up at Kyohei’s father. “You don’t mind if I speak with him a bit?”
“Not at all,” Kyohei’s father said. “I’ll be outside.” He made a gesture of smoking a cigarette.
“First, let me give you this,” Yukawa said, pulling some papers out of his jacket pocket. “The data from when we set off our rocket. You’ll need this if you’re going to finish your report.”
“Oh, right,” he said, grabbing the papers and looking them over. They were covered with tiny, precisely written numbers. Someone who hadn’t been there that day would have no idea what they meant. But Kyohei did. He remembered when the rocket flew right, and when it didn’t fly at all. He could draw a picture in his mind of exactly how the water shooting out from the back of the rocket sparkled in the sun over the waves.
“There are some mysteries in this world,” Yukawa said suddenly, “that cannot be unraveled with modern science. However, as science develops, we will one day be able to understand them. The question is, is there a limit to what science can know? If so, what creates that limit?”
Kyohei looked at Yukawa. He couldn’t figure out why the professor was telling him this, except he had a feeling it was very important.
Yukawa pointed a finger at Kyohei’s forehead. “People do,” he said. “People’s brains, to be more precise. For example, in mathematics, when somebody discovers a new theorem, they have other mathematicians verify it to see if it’s correct. The problem is, the theorems getting discovered are becoming more and more complex. That limits the number of mathematicians who can properly verify them. What happens when someone comes up with a theorem so hard to understand that there isn’t anyone else who can understand it? In order for that theorem to be accepted as fact, they have to wait until another genius comes along. That’s the limit the human brain imposes on the progress of scientific knowledge. You understand?”
Kyohei nodded, still having no idea where he was going with this.
“Every problem has a solution,” Yukawa said, staring straight at Kyohei through his glasses. “But there’s no guarantee that the solution will be found immediately. The same holds true in our lives. We encounter several problems to which the solutions are not immediately apparent in life. There is value to be had in worrying about those problems when you get to them. But never feel rushed. Often, in order to find the answer, you need time to grow first. That’s why we apply ourselves, and learn as we go.”