“Good stuff,” Tsunehiko mumbled, his mouth full.
Sano nodded in agreement. The rice was fragrant, the vegetables and soup well seasoned and savory. Ryokan Gorobei offered good value for its prices. He must remember to leave a generous tip. The knot of worry in his stomach loosened, releasing a voracious hunger. He ate almost as much as Tsunehiko, leaving only a portion of untouched radish pickle for his disappointed secretary to finish.
“My, it’s noisy,” Tsunehiko remarked as they finished their last cups of sake. “What are they doing over there?”
He leaned over and started to slide back the window panel.
“Don’t-” Sano flung out a hand to stop him.
Tsunehiko looked around in surprise. “Why not?”
Sano dropped his hand. “Never mind,” he said. He didn’t want to reveal their whereabouts, but he couldn’t resist looking outside. Maybe this time he would see the watcher. “Go ahead.”
Tsunehiko opened the window. The laughter and music that had grown steadily louder during their meal rushed in on a cold gust of wind. Sano looked across the garden toward the other guest rooms. Through the open window of one, he saw a group of samurai. A woman in bright kimono, probably the inn’s “waitress,” knelt in their midst, playing the samisen. One of the samurai struck a clownish pose and began to sing in an off-key voice. The others roared with laughter. In another room, two priests chanted sutras. Sano turned his gaze to another wing that stood a little apart from the rest. Was the watcher one of those shadowy forms silhouetted in flickering lamplight against the translucent windows? Or was he staying at another inn, ready to pick up their trail in the morning? Maybe he lurked somewhere in the darkness beyond the village. Safe within his own cozy room, listening to the ordinary noises, Sano could almost believe that the watcher posed no danger to them.
Almost.
Tsunehiko yawned. “I’m so tired,” he said.
Sano yawned, too. His body’s need for sleep was fast overcoming his mind’s desire to stay alert. When the maid returned to fetch the trays, he asked her to set out their bedding. Then he put on his cloak and swords.
“I’m going out for some fresh air,” he told Tsunehiko. He didn’t want to frighten his secretary, but he wanted to take one last look for the watcher, and assure himself that they would be safe for the night.
Outside, he made a circuit of the courtyard, which had grown quiet as the parties wound down and the guests prepared for bed. He looked out onto the deserted street. A few lanterns still burned outside the teahouses and inns. On the way back to his own door, Sano greeted the nightwatchman, a younger version of Gorobei who must be the innkeeper’s son. Otherwise he saw no one. He no longer felt the watcher’s presence. Was his own fatigue making him less sensitive to it?
Back inside the room, he locked the windows and doors, frowning at the flimsy wooden catches designed more to ensure privacy than security. Tsunehiko already lay asleep on the floor, his fat body hidden under the quilt with only the top of his head showing. His daytime wheezes had turned into soft, phlegmy snores. Sano shed his cloak and swords and extinguished the lamps. He lay down on his futon, drawing the quilt over himself. As drowsiness descended upon him, he heard the rhythmic beat of the night-watchman’s wooden clappers signaling “All is well.” But his hand reached out from under the quilt, toward the weapons that lay beside him. With his last conscious effort, he grasped the hilt of his long sword and unsheathed it.
Sano slept.
In the garden of the Ryokan Gorobei, the watcher waited behind a spreading pine tree. As midnight drew near, lamps no longer burned in the guest quarters. The inn’s grounds lay in almost total darkness, illuminated only by a diffuse glow from the star-pricked sky. Shrubs and buildings loomed blackly over gravel paths that gave back a dim reflection of the starlight. Only the wind’s restless movement animated the night, rattling the darkened paper lanterns and the trees’ bare branches.
Then footsteps crunched on the path. A yellow light rounded one wing of the guest quarters. The nightwatchman appeared, lantern slung over one arm, clappers in his hands, and a sturdy wooden club hanging from his sash. He was making his rounds, as he had done without pause since sundown. He strolled past the buildings, stopping beside each door.
In the lantern’s light, the watcher could see the man’s round, cheerful face beneath his straw hat, see his breath clouding the cold air. He held his own breath, willing himself to become part of the tree that hid him. But he had no real fear of discovery yet. He knew from long observation that the man came into the garden every third round and only as far as its edge during the others. He exhaled when, just as he’d expected, the man turned and passed through the gate that led to the street. A moment later, the footsteps sounded again, the light came around the building, and the whole routine repeated itself.
But now the sight of the man filled the watcher with impotent rage. How would he get inside Sano’s room-and out again- without the miserable fool seeing him? He could approach the door while the nightwatchman was out in the street, but what if he was unable to force it open quickly enough? The nightwatchman would return and sound the alarm on his clappers. The whole village would awaken and descend upon the grounds like a swarm of demons.
The watcher tried to persuade himself to give up and wait for another chance, along the road tomorrow or at the next night’s rest stop. But a consuming urge to finish his deed now, tonight, kept him in his place. This time, when the man finished inspecting the garden and turned toward the gate, the watcher moved out from behind the tree.
His hands grasped the man’s neck. He squeezed, crushing the soft, warm flesh and rigid sinew.
The man let out a choked cry. He stiffened and dropped his lantern and clappers. His body thrashed; his legs flailed. He gasped and wheezed, fighting for air. His fingers clawed the watcher’s, trying frantically to break their grip.
The watcher held fast, clenching his teeth with the effort. He barely felt the pain as those scratching nails tore at his knuckles. Soon the man’s struggles weakened. His gasps ceased; his hands dropped. He twitched for a moment more, then went limp. The watcher eased the lifeless body to the ground and dragged it into the shrubbery. He snuffed out the fallen lantern. Darkness enveloped him in its protective cloak. A sense of absolute power swelled inside him. No one stood in his way now.
He moved across the garden toward Sano’s door.
Screams and moans echoed in Sano’s ears as he walked again through the foul-smelling corridors of Edo Jail. This time his guide was not Mura the eta but Magistrate Ogyu, his black ceremonial robes sweeping the filthy floor.
Ogyu stopped at the end of the corridor and threw open a door. “Come, Yoriki Sano,” he called, his high, reedy voice nearly drowned out by the cries of the prisoners. “Come and experience the fate of those who disobey orders and leave their obligations unfulfilled!”
Sano didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to know what lay beyond that door. But an unseen force propelled him down the corridor. Almost sobbing with terror, he fell to his knees, seizing the magistrate’s robes.
“Please… no… ”
Ogyu laughed. “Where is your samurai courage now, Yoriki Sano?” he mocked.
With a mighty kick, he sent Sano flying through the door to land inside the room on hands and knees. Sano cried out, once in surprise, then again in shock at the sight that met his eyes.
Inside the morgue, Mura and Dr. Ito stood on either side of a dissection table. Mura held a long razor and had a white cloth tied over the lower half of his face. As Dr. Ito raised a beckoning hand, Sano noticed something that turned him sick with fear.