In the next instant, Yanagisawa realized his mistake. Grief resurged with such force that he pushed the boy away from him, turned, and ran outside, where he leaned on the veranda railing and panted. No matter that the boy looked exactly like Yoritomo and might have the same talents; Yanagisawa couldn’t bear to see him again. Every time he looked at the boy, he would be reminded of Yoritomo, confronted with the fact that the boy wasn’t, and could never be, Yoritomo.
Yanagisawa forced himself to walk down the steps and around the corner toward the next house, to enter another door despite his fear of what else he would find. A woman met him in the entryway.
“So it’s true,” she said in a tone that mixed dismay with curiosity. “You’re really here.”
“Someko.” Yanagisawa was amazed because she’d hardly changed in eighteen years. Her deep red kimono clothed a figure that was still small and compact. Upswept hair studded with ornaments gleamed richly black. Her wide face with its delicate, rounded chin was unlined; her tilted eyes sparkled. Someko was as beautiful as the day Yanagisawa had first bedded her. Were he in the mood for sex, he would think her hard to resist even though he usually preferred his lovers-female or male-to be under thirty, and she was at least a decade older.
“I want to see our son,” he said.
“I understand. Your favorite son died, so you need one of your others.”
Her nerve startled Yanagisawa. “Your tongue is still as sharp as a fox’s teeth.”
She smiled, bitter as well as amused. “If my tongue is sharp, it’s because of you.”
She’d been married to a Tokugawa army officer, and he’d stolen her from her husband, whom she’d loved, and made her his concubine. He’d tolerated her anger and her vicious remarks because they’d added piquancy to the sex. After she became pregnant, he’d provided generously for her and, later, the child; but she’d obviously never forgiven him for eighteen years of forced, lonely seclusion. She’d spent them nursing her grudge.
Now Someko took a closer look at him and smirked. “You’ve changed, though. Still handsome as a devil, but you’re an old man.” Compassion altered her manner. “Yoritomo’s death must have been hard for you. I’m sorry.”
Yanagisawa fought tears. “Why should you be?”
The eyebrows painted high on her forehead rose. “I’m a mother. I couldn’t wish losing a child on anyone.” Her bitter smile returned. “But if I could, it would be you.”
Tired of sparring with her, Yanagisawa said, “Where is he?”
“Who?” Someko pretended confusion. “Do you mean Yoshisato? He has a name.” She spoke with rancor because Yanagisawa had ignored her child while lavishing attention on his favorite. “He’s having a martial arts lesson with his tutor.”
She led Yanagisawa to the courtyard at the center of the estate. On the wide, paved square stood a middle-aged samurai dressed in white martial arts practice clothes, sword in hand.
“Where is Yoshisato?” Someko asked.
“He was here a moment ago,” the tutor said. “One of the maids came and told us that his father was here. He just left.”
Yanagisawa realized that Yoshisato had run away to avoid him. “What a nerve he has.”
“He takes after his father.” Someko gave a mean, satisfied smile. “I guess he doesn’t want to see you as much as you want to see him. You may as well go.”
Yanagisawa had come here intending to pick and choose, and he himself had been rejected. He felt an unexpected pang of hurt. He missed Yoritomo so terribly that he wanted to go home and crawl back into bed. But he couldn’t let Yoshisato get away with his insolence, and he still needed a political pawn.
“I’m going, but you can tell Yoshisato I’ll be back,” Yanagisawa said.
13
Hirata peered down at the incense teacher’s house. Incense bowls and tools, the cushions, and even the tatami mats were gone. Since yesterday the room had been picked clean by people desperate for anything they could use or sell. Hirata would have left someone to guard the scene, had he known he would be investigating the crime.
Large white flakes sifted from the sky. It was snowing. That would certainly help the suffering folks of Edo, and if there were any clues left in the house, Hirata had better find them before the snow ruined them. He lowered himself through the hole and dropped into the room. There he discovered something he hadn’t noticed yesterday. The rest of the house tilted at a steep angle farther down into the crack. Fallen rafters and massive rocks blocked off the other rooms. Hirata put his shoulder against a rock and exerted his mental concentration and physical strength against it. The rock wouldn’t budge. No one else was around to help.
A cheery voice called, “Hello down there!”
Hirata looked up to see three faces around the rim of the hole. Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi peered at him. He cursed under his breath. “What do you want?”
“You know,” Tahara said with a winning smile.
“Forget it.” Hirata crouched, raised his arms, and sprang.
He caught the earth at the edge of the hole. Deguchi pulled him up as if he were as light as the snowflakes that melted against his face. Kitano asked, “What were you looking for?”
“Nothing,” Hirata said.
Tahara’s high eyebrow lowered in displeasure at Hirata’s curtness. “You must be on an investigation.” He glanced at the sunken house. “Looks like a big job. Want some help?”
The last thing Hirata wanted was to put himself in their debt, but he needed to get into those rooms, and he couldn’t fail Sano. “Sure,” he said. “Make yourselves useful for a change.”
“First, let’s make a deal,” Kitano said. “We excavate the house. You do the ritual.”
“I should have known there would be a catch.” Hirata decided that the ritual was a small price to pay. “All right.”
Tahara, Kitano, and Deguchi lined up along the chasm. Hands held out from their sides, their feet planted wide, they gazed down. “Stand back,” Tahara said.
Hirata complied. Their aura pulsed, slow and faint, then with a force that strengthened tremendously with each throb. The humor disappeared from Tahara’s face. Kitano’s jaw tightened under the scarred skin. Deguchi’s eyes shone so brightly that Hirata almost expected their sockets to burn black. The air around the chasm shimmered, as if from rising heat waves. Hirata heard movement inside the buried part of the house. A broken rafter suddenly flew up from the chasm and landed at his feet. Hirata gaped at it, then at his companions.
“I didn’t know you could-”
Their attention was concentrated on the chasm. Timbers, roof tiles, wall panels, and rocks propelled themselves upward, onto a pile that accumulated on the ground. The men’s bodies were rigid, their fists clenched. Sweat dripped down their contorted, straining faces. Within moments the debris was emptied out of the house.
“Why didn’t you tell me-?”
Groans burst from Tahara and Kitano. Deguchi’s throat jerked. The chasm opened wider, its edges pried apart like lips separated by massive jaws. The house began to rise up from the depths. Splintered beams and boards emerged above ground level, accompanied by the noise of wood scraping against rock. Stunned, Hirata watched the house levitate, its broken plank walls and window frames and torn paper panes coming into view, then its base and stone foundation pillars. It hovered above the chasm like a corpse resurrected.
Kitano and Tahara bellowed. A visible energy wave emanated from Deguchi’s speechless mouth. The men stepped backward. The roofless house wafted through the air toward them and gently landed on the space they’d vacated. Their aura turned off abruptly. The house crumbled into a heap of ruins. The three men bent over, hands on their knees, shaking and gasping.
Hirata regarded them with disbelief, admiration, and envy. “I want to learn to do that. Show me how.”
“No.” Tahara spat froth onto the ground. “You’re not ready.”
“What do you mean? I’m one of you. Whatever knowledge you have, we should share equally.”