Laura Joh Rowland - Sano Ichiro Samurai Detective 02 - Bundori Read online

  Evidently perceiving Sano's frustration, Sparrow leaned forward and placed a consoling hand on his arm. "Don't be sad, sosakan-sama. Tozawa told me other important things about his ancestor. He said he was a brave general who won many battles for Lord Oda Nobunaga."

  Chapter 11

  Sano finished his inquiries in Yoshiwara, where the Great Joy's other occupants didn't supply any useful information, and a search of the quarter turned up no one who'd seen the lame, pockmarked suspect. Back in Edo, he traced and questioned the men listed in Uesugi's ledger with no better results. Still, these dead ends failed to discourage Sano.

  Sparrow's statement supported his belief that the ronin Tozawa was descended from Endo Munetsugu, as the hatamoto Kaibara was from Araki Yojiemon. Endo's and Araki's lords, Tokugawa Ieyasu and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, had been generals and allies under Oda Nobunaga. The historical records might reveal a link between past events and the murders. Sano decided to search the castle archives for this link before his meeting with Aoi.

  As he traveled through Nihonbashi, the day's brightness faded from the sky, drawing after it a ragged quilt of clouds that gradually immersed Edo in a gray twilight. The strengthening wind swept dust through the streets, and an odd, silvery light edged the castle's ramparts and the peaks of the western hills. Sano, walking beside his horse to rest it after the day's hard travels, observed with dismay the effect that the murders were having upon the city.

  Although full darkness wouldn't arrive for another hour, all the shops had closed for the night. The usual crowds of homebound merchants, artisans, and laborers had already vanished, leaving the streets in the possession of Edo's worst rabble. Idle young samurai and townsmen roved in trouble-seeking gangs. Itinerant ronin and other drifters loitered. Many frightened citizens, loath to leave the safety of their homes while a killer roamed, peered out from barred windows. But others catered to the menacing traffic and encouraged the depravity that could turn excitement into violence. Sake sellers did a brisk business, as did seedy teahouses- the only establishments still open. Illegal prostitutes flirted from doorways. On every corner, newssellers hawked broadsheets.

  "The Bundori Killer claims his third victim! Will you be next?" they shouted.

  At an intersection, a crowd gathered around an old crone with long, tangled white hair who squatted before a pile of smoking incense sticks. Eyes shut, hands raised heavenward, she keened, "The invisible ghost walks among us. Tonight another man will die!"

  As Sano had feared, the ghost story had spread, borne on a wave of contagious superstition that swelled unchecked because no other explanation for the murders had been found, and no human culprit identified. An evil carnival atmosphere pervaded the always unruly merchant quarter while Edo faced a threat the like of which it had never before experienced. Appalled, Sano tried to defuse the volatile situation before it turned dangerous.

  "Give me those!" He snatched the broadsheets from a news-seller and skimmed the sensationalized accounts of Kaibara's, the eta's, and Tozawa's murders, accompanied by lurid drawings of the trophies. Outraged, he tore them up and scattered the pieces. "You're scaring people. Go home!"

  Cutting through the crowd to the elderly mystic, he seized her arm. "Show's over. Get out of here." To the bystanders, he shouted, "Go home, all of you!"

  But more newssellers and seers continued to spread panic. The crowds ignored Sano's pleas. He looked around in bewilderment. Where were the police?

  A doshin and two assistants strode past him. The doshin escorted a wild-eyed samurai whose hands were bound behind his back, while the assistants carried between them another, this one bleeding from a wound on his shoulder and moaning in pain.

  Sano hurried after the police. "What happened?"

  "These fellows each thought the other was the Bundori Killer, and they fought," the doshin explained. To the gawking crowds: "Let us through!"

  Sano grew increasingly disturbed when he came to a gate, where he found two guards following his orders by questioning pedestrians. But at least three slipped by for every one halted.

  "You're supposed to stop everyone," Sano reproached the guards. "Do you want to let the killer get past?"

  The guards only shrugged helplessly. "There are too many people," one said, "and they won't answer questions or let us search them without a fight."

  In more haste than ever, Sano continued toward the castle. The police could control the mounting hysteria for just so long. Only catching the killer would end it.

  As he hurried along the streets, leading his horse, he passed through deserted districts where dark warehouses and buildings razed by recent fires offered a hostile environment for the loitering crowds. A new thought took shape in his mind. He hadn't yet felt personally endangered by the killer, and he shouldn't now. Unlike Tozawa, he was armed. Unlike Kaibara, he was young, strong, and capable of self-defense. And he firmly believed, albeit without proof, that the killer chose his victims because of who they were or what they represented to him.

  But fear is contagious. The killer preyed on samurai who traveled alone at night, as he did now. Madness often confers a peculiar strength-enough, perhaps, for the Bundori Killer to conquer the most formidable, forewarned adversary. Was he pursuing a new trophy tonight? Memory served up images of the bloody, mutilated bodies and gruesome trophies Sano had seen. The gathering darkness added danger. Rational thought couldn't keep dread from taking root and growing within Sano.

  He quickened his pace, forcing the horse to trot beside him. Did he hear footsteps coming down the side street he'd just passed, or see a shadow lurking in the ruin of that burned building? Ahead, he saw lanterns burning above a gate and heard voices and laughter from the district beyond it. Mocking his cowardice, he nevertheless started to swing himself onto his horse's back-when a man leapt out of an alley and into his path, sword raised.

  "Sano Ichiro, prepare to die!" he called.

  Surprise tore a yell from Sano's throat. His horse neighed, rearing before he could fling his leg over the saddle. The reins ripped free of his hands. He fell backward, landing hard on the base of his spine. The shattering jolt drove his teeth together and forced the breath from his lungs. Pain shot through his back. His swords clattered against the ground. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard his horse's hoofbeats receding into the distance. He saw his attacker advancing upon him.

  Sano lurched to his feet. Dizzy and disoriented, he trod on the hems of his trousers, and nearly fell again. Only his years of training and swift natural reflexes allowed him to right himself and draw his sword. Not waiting for his assailant to strike first, he launched a wild diagonal slice. His blade met his opponent's in a resounding clash of steel. He couldn't see the man's face, hidden under a wide hat, or distinguish any details about him other than his medium height, short kimono, and tight leggings.

  "Who are you?" he shouted.

  Without answering, his attacker thrust his weight against their crossed blades. Sano jumped backward, avoiding a wicked up-slash that would have slit him from groin to throat. The wall of a shop halted him with a shuddering slam. Fresh pain burst in his already sore back. He parried another cut the instant before it reached his chest. Now his attacker's face was almost touching his as they both struggled to free their blades. He heard and smelled the other's sour breath. Pushing away from the wall, he managed to shove the man aside and regain clear maneuvering space in the street.

  He circled the crouched figure at a distance of several paces, delaying the next clash. As a samurai, he'd been born to fight, to kill, to die by the sword. Battle lust rose in him, fiery and intoxicating, his learned response after thirty-one years of conditioning.

  Yet he'd had enough senseless violence and bloodshed to last a lifetime. And he wanted to know who this man was, why he'd attacked.

  The man launched a fresh assault, forcing Sano to return strike for strike. Steel rang upon steel; echoes reverberated from the walls. They dodged and pivoted, rushed and retreated. Sano's recently inju
red left arm ached whenever he wielded the sword with both hands. A part of his mind registered distant sounds, growing closer. Shouts. Running footsteps. Doors screeching open. On the periphery of his vision, he saw lights moving toward him. But instead of fleeing, his attacker persisted.

  Sano's inner energy, called forth by combat, flowed from his spiritual center, empowering him. But that perfect coordination of conscious thought and unconscious action, which he'd rarely approached and achieved only once before, eluded him. Forced to rely heavily on learned expertise, he must win this fight in a rational, rather than a spiritual way. As he parried strikes, he noted his opponent's bold strokes, flamboyant style, and aggressive risk taking. Shrewdly he encouraged these faults. He adopted an awkward crouching posture. He limited his cuts to defensive parries, yielding the offensive to his attacker. He slowed his movements by a carefully calculated instant. With these ploys, he achieved his aim of making himself seem less competent than he was, but also endangered his life. The whistling blade shredded his left sleeve; a line of pain burned his forearm. A low slice grazed his shins and left the hem of his kimono flapping. He dodged just in time to avoid a cruel cut to the temple.

  Gradually he became aware that a crowd had gathered in the street, which was now almost as bright as day. He could see his attacker's fierce grimace beneath the concealing hat. The spectators, bearing lanterns and torches, surrounded them in a ragged, shifting circle. Now his lunging, darting opponent moved against a changing background of figures: excited samurai, cheering and hooting; two gate sentries, mouths open in awe, spears dangling idle in their hands, one holding the reins of Sano's horse, which must have tried to run past them in its wild flight; men who looked like shopkeepers, armed with clubs and sticks, eyes alight with vicarious excitement. Fragments of talk impinged on Sano's concentration:

  "What's going on, why are they fighting?"

  "It's the Bundori Killer!"

  "But they're men, not ghosts, and that one wears the shogun's crest."

  "It's just a duel."

  Although any of them would have readily defended their own lives, families, and property, no one moved to help Sano. They knew better than to interfere when samurai fought. One stray cut could kill anyone who got in the way.

  Now Sano saw that his ruse was working. He felt his opponent gaining false confidence, growing even bolder. At last, Sano seized his chance.

  He took a weak swipe at his opponent, who parried easily. Sano dropped to his left knee, pretending that the stroke had downed him. The man raised his sword high in both hands. His grimace widened into a grin as he prepared to deliver the final killing cut.

  Sano moved with all the speed and strength he'd held in reserve. Before the deadly blade reached him, he lashed out his own sword in a short horizontal arc.

  The man screamed in agony as the blade cut deep into his belly. Dropping his sword, he crumpled to his knees, hands pressed against the front of his kimono. Blood and entrails spilled from between his fingers. He raised his head to gaze in shocked disbelief at Sano.

  Rising and backing away, Sano saw the life fade from the man's eyes, and animation leave his features. The attacker opened his mouth as if to cry out again. A gout of blood spurted forth. Then he fell sideways and lay motionless, hands still clasped over the fatal wound.

  Sano cleaned his bloody sword on his soiled, tattered garments and sheathed it. With the heady heat of the battle still pulsing through his veins, he stared down at his conquered enemy while the silent crowd watched and waited. His heart's agitated thudding slowed and stabilized. His lungs stopped heaving; the cold night air dried the sweat on his face as he tried to make sense of what had happened.

  Believing that the key to the murders lay in the samurai victims' connections with Araki Yojiemon and Endo Munetsugu, Sano didn't think he'd slain the Bundori Killer. His own lineage disqualified him as a target; he had no family ties to Araki or Endo. And how, without a concealing cloak or a container of some kind, could his assailant have transported a severed head past the strolling crowds, gate sentries, and police? If only he could have spared the man's life and learned his name, his motives.

  Sano knelt beside the body and pushed aside the wicker hat that had fallen over its owner's face. In the glow of the spectators' lanterns he saw small, sharp features and teeth; the youngish, fox-like visage of a total stranger. Gingerly he rummaged inside the dead man's blood-soaked garments, seeking a clue to his identity. His probing fingers touched a hard lump secreted between the under and outer kimonos. He pulled out a cloth pouch whose contents clinked as he loosened the drawstring. Into his hand he poured ten gold koban and a folded paper.

  The shiny coins drew gasps from the crowd. Sano unfolded the paper. A handful of dried melon seeds trickled out. As he read the characters inked on the paper, revelation chilled him.

  "What's going on here?"

  Looking up at the sound of a familiar voice, Sano recognized his old foe, the doshin Tsuda.

  "You again." Tsuda's gaze moved from Sano to the corpse, then back; he scowled. "Sosakan-sama or not, you're under arrest. I'm taking you to police headquarters."

  Sano got to his feet. Wiping his bloody hands on his ruined kimono, he said, "I killed him in self-defense. But I'll be glad to go to headquarters with you. I want to report that someone has hired this assassin to murder me."

  Police headquarters occupied a site on the southern edge of the Hibiya administrative district, as far from the city officials' mansions and the castle as possible because of the spiritual pollution its association with executions and death conferred. Sano, escorted by the surly Tsuda, gained entry from the guards at the gate and left his horse with them. Inside the walled courtyard lined with doshin barracks, he stared in surprise.

  The yard, which should have been empty at the day's end, was jammed with people. A crowd of young samurai, hands tied behind their backs and minus their swords, squatted on the ground. All sported bruises and bloody gashes. They glowered at a gang of young peasants in similar condition. Doshin and assistants stood watch over them all.

  "What's going on here?" Tsuda asked a colleague.

  "Those samurai got drunk and looted a shop," the other doshin said. "The townsmen tried to stop them, and a riot started. Two people were trampled to death."

  Tsuda bent an accusing stare upon Sano. "The Bundori Murders have caused a lot of trouble," he said. "But not as much as they will if they go on."

  Sano could neither disagree nor dodge the blame. This most recent incident in the age-old conflict between samurai and townsmen could burgeon into the full-scale warfare that had troubled Edo's early history. He'd seen the heightening tension that the murders had wrought. He'd experienced the fear himself. And now he knew he must stop the Bundori Killer soon-for the sake of the whole city, as much as to save individual lives and fulfill his own vows.

  Tsuda led him into the main building. In the reception room, a large space broken by square pillars hung with lanterns, more doshin and their noisy prisoners had gathered. An emaciated man with long, matted hair, dressed in rags, harangued the clerks seated at desks on a raised platform.

  "I am the Bundori Killer," he shouted. Two guards tried to drag him away, but he repelled them with wild kicks and punches. "Take me to the magistrate at once!"

  "And just what proof is there that you have in fact committed murder, Jihei?" the chief clerk asked wearily.

  "Proof? I need no proof! I am the Bundori Killer! I weave magic spells to strike down evil men with an invisible sword and make trophies of their heads!"

  He whirled in a manic dance, and a glimpse of his haggard face and sunken, red-rimmed eyes gave Sano pause. Was this man really the Bundori Killer, turning himself in? Incredulous, he glanced at Tsuda.

  The doshin grimaced. "He's a simpleton who lives under the Nihonbashi Bridge. He's confessed to all the murders, even though we know he couldn't have killed Kaibara because he was in jail then."

  That anyone, even a simpleton, shoul
d want to confess to a crime he hadn't committed escaped Sano's understanding. Clearly the Bundori Murders had loosed a current of madness that ran just beneath Edo's surface.

  "Come on," Tsuda growled. He ushered Sano into a bare, windowless cell that Sano recognized from his police days as the place where samurai criminals-in deference to their status-were interrogated instead of at the jail. He lit the lamps, called two guards to watch the door, and left.

  Sano waited. After at least two hours had passed, the door opened, and in walked Yoriki Hayashi.

  "So, sosakan-sama." Hayashi's lips twisted in a sarcastic smile. "You've decided to contribute to the troubles the murders are causing?"

  Sano refused to take the bait. Arguing that he'd only been on the case for two days, or that he wasn't responsible for the mass hysteria the murders had provoked, would only invite more insinuations and preclude the cooperation he wanted from Hayashi.

  "If you're concerned about the disturbances in the city, then you should help me catch the killer," Sano said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. "I want five more doshin to conduct inquiries, while their assistants perform door-to-door searches. And I want clerks to solicit and take statements from citizens who might have information about the murders."