“Three years, sōsakan-sama. Since my father, who held the position before me, retired.”
So Hirata wasn’t as inexperienced as Sano had assumed. Now he remembered an incident that had occurred during his own brief stint with the police department, although not in the district he’d commanded.
“Aren’t you the doshin who broke up the gang that was extorting money from merchants in the Nihonbashi vegetable market?” he asked. The gang had beaten to death a man who had refused to pay, and eluded the police for months.
“Yes, sōsakan-sama.”
In the darkness, Sano couldn’t see Hirata’s expression. Nor could he detect in the young doshin’s voice any hint of boasting. Even more curious, he said, “Do you enjoy your work?”
“Yes, of course.” Now Hirata sounded resigned. “It’s my duty. I was born to it.” A pause. Then he blurted, “But if I had my choice, I’d rather serve you, sōsakan-sama!”
This uncharacteristically bold declaration surprised Sano. Then he remembered their first meeting, when Hirata had told him he wouldn’t be sorry for letting him assist with the investigation. “Because this assignment offers more chance for advancement, you mean?”
Hirata’s quilt rustled. “Well, yes. But that’s not the only reason.” After another pause, he spoke hesitantly. “You may not know this, sōsakan-sama, but the police force is not as it should be. Many of the other doshin take bribes in exchange for letting criminals go free. They let the rich escape punishment and send the poor to the executioner. They arrest innocent men just to close cases and improve their records. The law is corrupt, dishonorable. But you-you’re different.”
The hero worship in Hirata’s voice disturbed Sano. Although he knew that in his new position he might eventually acquire personal retainers, he must, for Hirata’s sake, discourage the young man’s attachment to him.
“We’ve only worked together three days, Hirata,” he said. “You don’t know me at all.”
“Forgive my presumptuousness, sōsakan-sama!” There were more rustlings as Hirata bowed, even though they couldn’t see each other. “But I know your reputation. You have the honor and integrity that others lack.” Hirata’s voice grew agitated. “Please. If I prove I’m worthy, let me devote my life to your service!”
Sano was not unmoved by Hirata’s earnest plea. Such an expression of loyalty to one’s superior evoked all the stern beauty of Bushido. Unfortunately, if they failed to catch the Bundori Killer, then Hirata, as Sano’s retainer, would be punished along with him. Sano couldn’t let this happen.
“Your offer is much appreciated, Hirata-san,” Sano said as coldly and formally as he could. “But the shogun may have plans for me that can’t include you.” For fear that the ardent Hirata might decide to share his fate, good or bad, Sano didn’t elaborate. “You shall consider our association temporary.”
Hirata made no reply, but his disappointment and humiliation sharpened the silence. That Sano had prevented a future, greater injury to Hirata did not ease his guilt.
The new awkwardness between them precluded further conversation. Huddled under their quilts, they sat in silence, periodically rising to stretch their stiff muscles and peer outside. Time slowed. Sano’s elation over the discovery of the house and its incriminating evidence faded as anticipation grew. When would the Bundori Killer come, and what would happen when he did? Would there be a quick capture, or a fight? Would he have to kill again? And was a second assassin lurking in the marshes, waiting to attack? Uncertainty made waiting an ordeal.
When nothing happened, uncertainty turned to doubt. Even allowing a generous margin of error in estimating the time, Sano was soon forced to conclude that the hour of the dog had passed. What if Aoi was wrong? What if the Bundori Killer didn’t show up? He would have wasted one of the precious five days left to complete his assignment and achieve the everlasting honor that his father had desired. And what if he then failed to find General Fujiwara’s descendants, or tie them to the murders?
The hours stretched to an eternity. Making perhaps his hundredth trip outside, Sano guessed from the position of the moon that it must be nearing midnight. For the killer to come here from Edo-as Aoi’s vision of him crossing the Ryōgoku Bridge had implied he would-he would have had to leave the city before the gates closed two hours ago. And with better knowledge of the marshes, he would have traveled more quickly than Sano and Hirata, and arrived by now.
A terrible sense of futility washed over Sano. The Bundori Killer wasn’t coming. Sano stood outside the door, arms folded against the cold, staring down the trail, as the bitter marsh wind tore away his last shred of hope. After a long while, he turned to go back inside, where at least now he and Hirata could build a fire so that warmth and sleep might speed the hours until dawn and their return to Edo.
Then he lifted his head in sudden confused alarm as a bell’s deep, sonorous peals, coming from the city, boomed across the marshes.
Hirata came hurrying out of the house to stand beside him. “It’s the Zōjō Temple bell,” he said. “But why would the priests ring it now?”
“I don’t know,” Sano said. The bells were sounded to mark Buddhist rituals that occurred at set times during the day or year. Only rarely did the priests depart from this schedule-to celebrate an unusual event, or to signal a fire, typhoon, earthquake, or other disaster.
A disaster such as murder?
Sano’s gaze met Hirata’s in sudden, unspoken understanding as they both guessed why the Bundori Killer hadn’t arrived as expected. Together they dashed into the house to collect their possessions and load their horses for a midnight journey to Zōjō Temple.
Chapter 16
Long after the Zōjō Temple bell ceased to toll, the Bundori Killer heard its relentless voice echoing in his mind as he sped down the dark country road toward the sanctuary of his lodgings.
No escape, the imaginary peals called. No escape!
Panting, he burst through the door of the secluded hut in an isolated village near the temple, then closed and latched the door. In the darkness, he threw his sword to the floor and tore off his bloodstained garments. Then he dived into bed. Terror gripped him like a great, nauseating sickness. Moaning, he thrashed under the quilts. This night, which should have been one of great triumph, had brought disaster.
Tonight he’d committed his fourth murder. With the confidence born of practice and a growing sense of invincibility, he’d expected it to be easier than the others, the satisfaction keener. He’d even dared the grave risk of leaving the trophy in the prominent place of honor that it deserved. But fate had conspired against him, and he’d made a mistake that could cost him his freedom, his life, and his chance to finish the mission he’d only begun. Tonight he’d left precious, dangerous evidence at the death scene.
The Bundori Killer drew his knees to his chest and balled his hands into fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. His clenched teeth clamped the tender flesh inside his mouth, drawing blood. He endured the pain as a punishment for his stupidity and cowardice-traits alien to Lord Oda, who had planned and executed his battles brilliantly, and feared nothing.
Far more serious than leaving evidence at Zōjō Temple was the fact that tonight someone had seen him, someone who could possibly identify him. If only he hadn’t returned to the temple again! He should have taken his earlier, unexpected difficulties as a warning against stubbornly adhering to his original plan. Now he must risk a different sort of murder, one he had no time to plan as meticulously as his others. Because he couldn’t allow the witness to live.