“Ignoring the signs could ruin the investigation,” Hirata added.
“I know.” Sano could admit to Hirata what he couldn’t to Reiko. “We’ll have to check out those stories about the sect.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll decline Minister Fugatami’s invitation. I don’t think a trip to Shinagawa is necessary yet, because we can tap another source of facts about the Black Lotus.”
“Who is that?” Hirata asked.
“The prime suspect herself,” Sano said. “It’s time for another visit with Haru.”
16
They who defy the Law of the Black Lotus
Will have the whip laid upon them,
Their bodies will be beaten and cuffed,
They will suffer grief and pain,
To the point of death.
– FROM THE BLACK LOTUS SUTRA
Night enfolded the Zōjō temple district. Diffuse moonlight frosted the roofs and treetops, but darkness saturated the deserted alleys. Sleep had silenced ten thousand voices, slowed heartbeats, stilled movement. The autumn wind’s hushed breath absorbed the exhalations of slumber.
Priest Kumashiro stood in an underground room beneath the Black Lotus Temple. In a corner huddled the monk Pious Truth. Ropes bound his wrists and ankles; swollen bruises discolored his face and naked body. Two priests, holding wooden clubs, stood over him. Pious Truth was panting, slick with sweat, his terrified gaze focused on Kumashiro.
“Has he confessed?” Kumashiro asked the priests.
They shook their heads. Pious Truth cried, “I didn’t tell her anything, I swear!”
But Kumashiro believed Pious Truth had indeed revealed Black Lotus secrets to Lady Reiko. She must have told the sōsakan-sama, whom Kumashiro had seen prowling the temple grounds today. Entrances to the subterranean complex were well hidden, but Kumashiro had to learn the full extent of the breach in security.
He crouched before the monk and said in a quiet, menacing voice, “What did you say to her?”
Pious Truth cowered, but spoke defiantly: “Nothing.”
Kumashiro struck the monk across the mouth. He yelped in pain. “I’m loyal to the Black Lotus,” he protested, drooling blood. “I would never tell an outsider anything!”
Rising, Kumashiro contemplated the monk who’d already withstood two days of torture. It was time for stronger coercion. “Bring him to the medical chamber,” Kumashiro ordered the priests.
They dragged Pious Truth out of the cell, following Kumashiro down a tunnel just high and wide enough for men to walk upright and two abreast. The walls and ceilings were reinforced with planks; between these, tree roots veined the soil. Hanging lamps lit the way, casting weird shadows.
“What are you going to do to me?” Pious Truth said anxiously.
No one answered. The pulse of the hand-operated bellows that pumped in air from concealed vents was a continuous, rhythmic clatter. Rancid odors tainted the air. Pious Truth mewled. Kumashiro led the group into one of a series of connected rooms in a branch tunnel. At the center of the room stood a table. A vast hearth, with a huge basin set on a charcoal brazier below a stone chimney, occupied a corner. Muted voices, clatters, and the burble of liquid issued from an adjoining room, out of which sidled Dr. Miwa. When he saw Kumashiro, wariness tensed his pocked face, but his. squinty eyes brightened at the sight of Pious Truth.
“Is this a patient for me?” he said.
“He’s a runaway.” Kumashiro beheld the doctor with undisguised revulsion. “I want you to make him cooperate.”
Bowing, Dr. Miwa displayed his uneven teeth in an ingratiating smile. “Certainly.”
The priests heaved Pious Truth onto the table. He struggled, yelling, “Let me go! Help!”
No one aboveground would hear him, Kumashiro knew. The priests tied the monk down, then left. Dr. Miwa fetched a cup of liquid and held it to Pious Truth’s mouth.
“No!” Pious Truth shrieked. “I don’t want it!”
Kumashiro forced Pious Truth’s jaws apart. Dr. Miwa poured. Although the monk gurgled and spat, most of the liquid went down.
“I’ve given him an extract of fan xie yie leaves, ba dou seeds, and morning glory,” Dr. Miwa said. “It will purge excessive spiritual heat and evil influences from him.”
“Spare me the medical gibberish,” Kumashiro said, annoyed by Miwa’s pretense that what they were doing constituted a genuine cure. “He’s not a patient. Nor are you a healer.”
Anger flushed the doctor’s muddy complexion, but he remained silent, too much a coward to contradict a superior.
“You were a failure as a physician, and if you think High Priest Anraku respects your credentials, think again.“ Kumashiro found pleasure in wounding Miwa’s vanity. “He only tolerates you because you’re useful to him.”
The same applied to everyone in the sect, including Kumashiro. They were all here to serve Anraku’s purposes, but Kumashiro didn’t mind because if not for Anraku, he would be dead, destroyed by the life he’d led.
A son of a high retainer of the Matsudaira branch of the Tokugawa clan, Kumashiro had grown up on the Matsudaira estate in Echigo Province. As a boy he’d excelled at the martial arts, but his teachers had criticized his spiritual disharmony, which blocked his progress along the Way of the Warrior. Kumashiro himself perceived something wrong inside him-an emptiness; a sense that real life lay beyond a locked magic door. This angered and frustrated him. He grew more and more aggressive during practice sword matches. Other boys on the estate avoided him because he picked fights and beat them; his own mother was terrified of his temper. Violence eased the gnawing emptiness in Kumashiro, but didn’t open the door. However, Lord Matsudaira was impressed with his fighting skill and, when Kumashiro was thirteen, took him to Edo as a guard at the clan’s city estate.
In Edo, Kumashiro received a new pair of swords. The law permitted samurai to test blades on peasants without being punished, so Kumashiro wandered the crowded streets of Nihonbashi, seeking a suitable target, until a beggar accidentally bumped him.
“Humble apologies, master,” the beggar said, bowing.
Kumashiro drew his new long sword and slashed the beggar’s arm. The man cried out in pained surprise, and Kumashiro stared at his victim’s wound, transfixed by a rush of sensation. Drawing blood had opened the magic door a crack. Noises seemed louder, colors more vivid, the sun’s heat newly intense. The smell of humanity quivered Kumashiro’s nostrils. It was as if he’d finally gotten a taste of real life.
The frightened beggar turned to run, but Kumashiro lunged, cutting bloody gashes in the man’s legs and back. Every cut opened the door a little wider. Heady new vitality filled Kumashiro as onlookers scrambled for cover. The beggar fell on hands and knees.
“Please, master,” he cried, “have mercy!”
Kumashiro raised his sword high over the neck of his victim, then brought it slashing down. The blade severed the beggar’s head. Warm, red blood sprayed Kumashiro. His veins, his muscles, his very bones tingled with intoxicating energy. He felt the dead man’s spirit fill his empty space, and a thunderous rapture as his internal forces balanced in harmony. Killing had brought him to life, to the Way of the Warrior.
And that moment had brought him here, to this underground room, where a young monk lay tied to a table. Kumashiro watched as Pious Truth moaned, convulsing against the ropes.
“Ah, the medicine is taking effect,” Dr. Miwa said.
Sweat and urine poured from Pious Truth and puddled on the table. Retching, he vomited. The stench of diarrhea arose.
“Soon the purge shall be complete,” said Dr. Miwa.
Excitement crept into his voice; he was trembling as if with sexual arousal. His breath hissed faster.
“It’s a fine doctor who enjoys the suffering of his patient,” Kumashiro said. Yet although Miwa’s perversion disgusted him, Kumashiro knew very well the exhilarating combination of violence and sex.