The Devouring God (2 page)

 

CHAPTER 3

Tuesday Morning

“J
ust smile this time,” Ota shouted over his shoulder as he and Takuda weaved among shoppers and stalls in the crowded market street. “You scared the Mitsugi Carbon guys so badly that they don't even return my calls.”

Ota was a small, bandy-­legged man, and he scooted through the street market like a fox in underbrush. Takuda followed his employer patiently, even when he had to squeeze sideways between fishmongers' carts and vegetable stands. It didn't really matter if Ota got too far ahead. Takuda caught up quickly because the crowd parted before him. There was nothing obviously different about Takuda. Those who noticed him at all saw a larger-­than-­average Japanese man in a security guard's jumpsuit. Yet shoppers stopped in their tracks to let him pass, sometimes fumbling for change, sometimes fussing over their children, sometimes just staring into space. This was how he knew he was being summoned: Answering the call to action was always the path of least resistance, as if the universe were smoothing the path ahead of him.

It's always very easy
, he thought.
Always easy till it gets very, very hard.

Ota shouted over his shoulder again: “The section chief will be there. They're all in a tizzy, what with all the stupid rumors about this starfish killer, and we're there to make them feel safe. Now remember, it's a tiny office with one old woman manager and a college girl answering the phones, got it? Street level converted apartment, main room plus two eight-­mat rooms, bathroom, and galley kitchen—­front door, kitchen door, and bathroom window. When the time comes, you walk around, act as if you're checking it out, and then go back to your spot. Got it?”

“Yes, I've got it.”

“Good. Just be quiet, okay? Stand there looking relaxed and ready, and let me do the talking. This is our first call from one of these little local governments, and we want to shine here. That's why I'm bringing you.” Ota guffawed, looking back at Takuda. “With you, they wouldn't even need a door. You could just stand aside to let ­people in or out.”

They emerged from the market into the main street. A tall, thin priest stood on the corner with his brass begging bowl, so while Takuda and Ota waited for a break in traffic, Ota made the bowl ring with pocket change.

“For luck!” Ota was excited about the meeting.

The priest blessed Ota, but then his eyes met Takuda's. His smile wavered, only for a second. Takuda shook his head. He didn't even look over his shoulder at the priest as he followed Ota to the work site.

It was a simple apartment block, old but clean. The signboard affixed to the door read:

Mental Health Ser­vices

Fukuoka Prefecture

Satellite Office 6

The office seemed crowded when Takuda and Ota stepped in. A middle-­aged woman at a desk in the front room stood in response to Ota's cheery greeting. This was, Takuda assumed, the “old woman manager” Ota had mentioned. A long-­haired man sitting in the guest's chair at the manager's desk didn't acknowledge them at all. Takuda thought he might be a mental patient, but he was very expensively dressed to be seeking assistance at a satellite office in broad daylight. The “college girl” was busy at a desk in the room beyond the kitchen. She did not look up from her paperwork.

Takuda looked for an unobtrusive place to park his oaken staff. It was shoulder-­height on him, stouter than most fighting staffs, and he carried it everywhere when he was in uniform. Even Ota, who boasted about Takuda nonstop, would be amazed at how efficiently deadly Takuda could be with that staff. But it wasn't a great calling card. He leaned it gently against the wall beside a filing cabinet.

The section chief entered from a room labeled
Consultation Room
. He introduced himself as Hasegawa. He was young and athletic-­looking for a section chief with the prefecture. He invited them into his makeshift office in the consultation room, he and Ota exchanged business cards, and they sat down to talk while Takuda slid the door closed behind him.

“This is difficult business,” Hasegawa said. “This caller, this crazy foreigner, has indirectly threatened one of my staff, and it sounds like it's related to the starfish killings, but the prefecture won't do anything about it. They've sent that long-­haired boy out there, that Detective Kimura, to ask some questions, but they won't offer any protection. My hands are tied, so I have to hire private help.”

Takuda was surprised that the long-­haired young dandy at the manager's desk was a detective.
Maybe he's some sort of super detective who can wear whatever he wants.

“I understand your situation,” Ota said, bowing where he sat. “Ota Southern Protection Ser­vices is here to help in any way possible.”

The section chief bowed in response. No one spoke for several seconds.

“Perhaps we should talk about how much help we can offer,” Ota said. “Security Guard Takuda, please wait outside.”

As Takuda turned to go, the “college girl” slid the door open and backed into the office. She turned without looking and almost rammed Takuda's belly with a loaded tea tray. When she looked up at Takuda's face, she squealed and dropped the tray. Takuda caught it, but plastic packets of cookies skittered off the edge and across the floor.

“Nabeshima, you clumsy girl!” Hasegawa was on his feet.

She grimaced and apologized, bowing backward out the door with her eyes on the floor. As she pulled the door shut, she gave Takuda a quick, wide-­eyed stare.

The second stare confirmed it.
She sees what I am, or she sees more than most.

Takuda slid the tea tray onto the desk.

“Security Guard Takuda has reflexes like a cat,” Ota said with obvious satisfaction.

Takuda unloaded the tea tray. Ota shooed him out and took the pot to pour for the section chief. Takuda took the tray and bowed backward out the door, just as the girl Nabeshima had done.

Out in the main office, the office manager and Detective Kimura continued their conversation. Nabeshima stepped forward with eyes downcast, but her jaw was set. “Security Guard . . .”

“Takuda.”

“Security Guard Takuda, there are no words to excuse my behavior. I am truly and deeply sorry. Please accept my apology.”

She performed a pert little bow, the kind of bow she probably did on a girlfriend's doorstep before they went clubbing, and she introduced herself as Kaori Nabeshima. He returned her bow as appropriate to his age.

As he straightened, she said, “Security Guard Takuda, what happened to your face? Were you injured in the line of duty?”

The silence was so sudden and complete that the slight buzzing of the light fixture seemed immense. The pair at the desk slowly turned to look.

“What is she talking about?” The detective's whisper was loud enough to hear anywhere in the office. “Is there something wrong with his face?”

The girl's eyes were large and so black that it was hard to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. They were expressionless. Takuda realized that she had heard and seen strange things all her life, and she was very, very brave to ask him about his face—­whatever of his face she could actually see.

Maybe she sees all of it. Maybe it's worse than I think.

“My appearance is partly due to injuries in the line of duty,” he said. “I'm surprised you noticed in this dimly lit office. Most adults can't see that well even in broad daylight.” He looked down at the empty tray in his hands, trying to seem as relaxed and unthreatening as possible. “With such unusually keen vision, I'm sure you often see things no one else can see. Perhaps it's been that way all your life. It must be tiring.”

She stepped backward, blinking. He handed her the tea tray. She almost ran for the small kitchen.

Ota backed out into the main room, leading Ha­segawa. “Come for a moment and tell me what you think of the guard I brought you.”

Hasegawa glanced up at Takuda and frowned back at Ota.

Ota pushed forward, beaming. “Just look at the protection! I can have this man show up in uniform every evening at sundown. Now, you've really honored us by calling for our help. We're very grateful. We're so grateful that we're just going to charge you the rate for one security guard.”

He paused long enough to let that sink in, and then he announced to the room in a stage whisper, “When I bring in Security Guard Takuda, I usually charge for three men.”

Nabeshima giggled politely from the kitchen door, and even the tired woman at the desk smirked at Ota's presentation, if not the tired joke itself. Detective Kimura crossed his arms and assumed an indulgent smile.

Ota moved to the center of the room, behind Kimura's chair. “Well, then, there's a great lunch spot right around the corner. Security Guard Takuda, if you'll look the place over and take your station, over there, by the filing cabinet, that will be good for the moment.”

Takuda felt all eyes on him as he eased past the manager. Nabeshima flattened herself against a filing cabinet to let him pass into the tiny hallway.

The office was a converted “2LDK” apartment: a living room converted to a front office, two bedrooms converted to Nabeshima's office and consultation room, a tiny bathroom, and a galley kitchen separated from the main room by an old-­fashioned hanging accordion screen. Takuda examined the kitchen door and opened it to check the narrow alley. He tested the latches on the windows in the kitchen and bathroom. In the bathroom, he glanced at his face.

The left side of his face was crisscrossed with scars as if he had been laid on a griddle and turned once to make sure he was cooked through. The right side of his face bore several shorter scars and two healed burns, patches of shiny, pinkish skin on his cheek and forehead. Rising from beneath these obvious scars and healthy skin alike, faint lines of puckered, silvery flesh stood in ranks of discrete and unreadable characters, primitive cyphers that banded his head in cryptic ranks. His forehead bulged ominously at what he now thought of as “the corners” where the bone had thickened beneath the scalp, nascent horns ready to burst through the skin.

He kept his face largely immobile in the mirror because the effect was seldom what he intended.

Perhaps this is what the Nabeshima girl sees. Perhaps she sees even worse. Thank the Lord Buddha that my Yumi doesn't see me this way.

“Hey, Security Guard Takuda, don't get lost in that little bathroom. What are you doing, powdering your nose?”

No one laughed at that one. When he went back into the front office, he asked the office manager to move away from her desk so he could check the window beside her. They all stood in silence as he inspected the latch and looked for signs of tampering.

Finally, he turned to them.

“The apartment is solid. The front and back doors are steel, with operational standard locks. The bathroom and kitchen windows are too high for entrance without considerable noise. The window here by the desk is operational and safe. Use the speaker phone, not the headset. No one could get in here before you could call and get out via another exit.”

Ota clapped his hands. “But that won't be necessary, because Takuda the Giant will be here.”

“That's very rude,” the office manager said. She sat down without even glancing at Ota.

Ota seemed not to hear her at all. “Well,” he said to Hasegawa, rubbing his hands together, “shall we be off?”

When they had gone, the office manager introduced herself as Kaneko Yoshida. She was brisk and polite. “There's a chair in the storeroom, Security Guard,” she said. “Please bring it out. I'm sorry I can't offer you anything more comfortable at the moment.”

“Now then,” Detective Kimura said to her as Takuda sat, “tell me more about this foreigner who wants your bones.”

 

CHAPTER 4

Tuesday Morning

D
etective Kimura leaned forward. “You must have been very frightened, Ms. Yoshida.”

Yoshida frowned. “I thought it was a mistake. His Japanese was good, but
bones
had to be a mistake. It had to be. Then he laughed, a very nervous laugh, and it sounded very brittle and metallic. It was like he was calling through one of those old analog cell phones.”

“Now listen to me,” the detective said. He put his hand on the desk, not close enough to touch her, but she withdrew her arm anyway. “While you're telling me what he said, tell me how he said it. You said you couldn't identify his accent, but try to tell me anything you remember.”

“That's what I've been doing,” she said. “You haven't been taking notes, though.”

He tapped his temple to indicate that he didn't need a notebook. “Please continue.”

Yoshida didn't bother to look exasperated. “He was still talking in a rush, even though he sounded a little relieved to tell his big secret. He said the desire is not normal, but it is very comforting, like a place he goes when he is troubled or bored. He says that more and more, he goes there when he is doing something else, and even when he is very busy.”

“So he is now in some discomfort. He's really obsessed, and it's getting in the way with his daily life. In a week, he'll be integrated, ready to completely decompensate.”

Yoshida sat back. “That's fancy diagnostic talk. Are you a trained psychologist?”

“I've dealt with a ­couple of cases like this.”

She blinked before continuing. “You have the mistaken confidence of the self-­educated. I doubt any psychiatric professional would be confident enough to predict a complete psychotic break a week ahead. Anyway, he said he finds himself drawing bones in his journal at night and even in the border of his notepad during staff meetings, and he hopes the dean doesn't see him.”

“So he's tenured.”

“A foreigner with tenure here in Fukuoka? I seriously doubt that. He may be a full-­time employee, but not with tenure.”

The detective shrugged to indicate that she might be right.

“Anyway, he had slowed down a little by this point. He said these thoughts are pleasant except for two aspects. First, that these thoughts come from somewhere else, as if someone else desires these things through him, using his mind. And second, that there is a
flavor
or a
tone
to these thoughts that he cannot explain.”

“Which did he say?”

“Which
what
did he say?”

“Did he say
flavor
or
tone
?”

“He said both. He said that there is a
flavor
or a
tone
to these thoughts that he cannot explain. At this point, I said he didn't mean
bones
, and he just used the wrong word. Or maybe
bones
meant something else, some sort of slang in the caller's mother tongue. Now I see that I made this a statement instead of a question because I wanted to convince him of the answer. But really, I knew the whole time that he meant what he said. I didn't give him time to answer, and I told him there were many men quite happy to have this desire.”

“What did he say to that?”

“Not a word. I told him that in Fukuoka, there was a show club called Tomato Tomato, but I didn't even know if it was open anymore. This isn't Tokyo, and I don't think there's a big gay neighborhood like Shinjuku Ni-­chomé, maybe just a few isolated clubs. I told him he could ask around at the baths in Futsukaichi, or go ask in town. And I told him his Japanese was so good he could probably meet men online . . .”

“But he wasn't interested in men, was he?”

Yoshida sat back in her chair. “Just that student.”

“Was he angry that you thought he was a homosexual? I certainly would be.”

“I can only imagine, Detective. No, he was very calm, and he talked to me very politely, as if I were a stranger's child. His Japanese really is good, and he understands sarcasm. He told me that his desire is not sexual, that it is actually something quite pure and reverent. Just saying that he wants to lick the student's bones does not explain the devotional aspect.”

“ ‘Devotional aspect,' he said?”

“Those were his words. I just told you. He also said he is very curious about the texture of the bones, how they will feel on his tongue. He imagines that the cranium, the jaw, and the cheekbones will probably be smooth, like polished ivory, but that the long bones, like the humerus and femur, may have some subtle grain like fine wood.”

“Unbelievable.”

“He said he has licked various surfaces around his house, trying to imagine how different bones would feel. He asked me if it sounded silly, walking around in the dark, licking countertops and cabinets and doorsills. I asked if he had hurt anyone or acted on these desires, and he seemed not to hear me. He said it was ridiculous to think about the texture because all the bones would be smooth when he had licked them clean.”

“A man this disturbed can't stay hidden long. This isn't his first threat, and we'll be able to catch him easily.”

After a moment of silence, Yoshida spoke quietly and deliberately. “You can't even trace the call. How can you catch him?”

The detective smiled. “You know, when I worked in Tokyo, we had a system where we could track a cell phone to within one hundred to five hundred meters. We could receive the location circled on a map at any fax machine anywhere in the country.”

“And why doesn't that work here?”

The detective just smiled.

“This is an old trunk exchange,” Takuda said. They both turned to look at him. “Not only is there no stored information available about incoming calls, there's no way to trace incoming calls without advance preparation and active switching. Even though we have the destination, there's no way to trace to the origin until we can isolate the transfers for that particular call. It will take luck, but we will do our best.”

The detective said, “Security Guard, when you say ‘we,' you mean . . .”

“Ota Southern Protection Ser­vices. We offer a wide range of ser­vices, as I'm sure President Ota will tell you.”

“I'm sure. Tell me,” he said as he turned back to Yoshida. “How did the conversation end?”

“He said that because I thought this was some sort of sexual act, his offering should include a woman's bones as well.”

“ ‘Offering'?”

“His words. He said his ex-­girlfriend would be perfect, but she is a little short, and her teeth are crooked. These imperfections would ruin his offering, but it would be a beginning. Perhaps he should start there, he said, just because she is so short. He said, ‘A journey of a thousand leagues also starts with a single step.' ”

“Ugh. What did you say?”

“I said nothing. I sat there thinking how terrible it was that both this man and I lived in the same world.”

The detective was silent.

“He said he still had a question for me, and I reached for the phone to disconnect, but he spoke too quickly.” She straightened in her chair as if to collect herself. “He asked me again how tall I am.”

The detective sat forward. “Do you think he means to harm someone?”

She frowned. “I don't know how he intends to get a woman's bones otherwise.”