“You always thought I’d get myself killed doing something stupid before I was twenty-five… but here I am a hundred and forty-eight, and you’re the one who can’t get through half a life.”
A modern-day American cop isn’t sure what this unnervingly familiar vampire wants from him, until Sano reveals the tragic events of a past life and his undying connection with a Meiji-era Japanese cop.
This story was last updated on May 12, 2019
I wasn’t particularly given to discouragement, but to irritation certainly, and I was starting to become rather irritated with this case. A thorough retread of the scene of the latest murder and a similarly meticulous review of everything we knew so far had been completely unenlightening. I had to keep reminding myself that such a reexamination could never be a waste of time — given that sudden epiphanies about things like this usually arose from collected subconscious understanding — just to prevent myself from considering the entire day meaningless. Still, if Hironaku’s investigations into Tomizawa turned up nothing inspiring, I couldn’t help feeling I might as well not have gotten up this morning.
Ironically, this total lack of progress on my part did little to reverse my opinion of the prior two investigators of the issue; I was just as certain of their incompetence as I would have been had I shown up in Tokyo and solved the case overnight. Perhaps this was a double standard of sorts, but I honestly didn’t care.
Eventually Hironaku entered my office looking concerned. Though not an immediate source of worry since he often looked that way, this wasn’t terribly encouraging either; presumably he wouldn’t look that way if he’d had any success. “Well?” I asked.
He started his report standing at attention, and eventually in some annoyance I gestured for him to sit down. It seemed I’d been right about Tomizawa: at least on the surface, the man was utterly unconnected and uninteresting — though he was the same class of businessman as half of the victims. That wasn’t the inciting part of Hironaku’s account, however.
“There was something strange about everyone I talked to,” my dutiful assistant was adding after he’d given me all the facts. “I’m almost certain they’d all been questioned about this before, and not long ago. They seemed intimidated somehow. It looks as if we’re not the only ones investigating Tomizawa.”
I frowned. Although there were quite a few possible explanations for this (among them that Hironaku was simply imagining things), my mind for some reason jumped straight to one potential answer in specific and clung there. I couldn’t help recalling the furnace that had been Sagara’s eyes yesterday when he’d asked about the person who’d hurt his friend, and Tomizawa’s name had been the only thing like a clue that he’d had taken from that conversation. If he’d gotten started on it then, he could well have reached all of the people Hironaku talked to before the latter did. I wouldn’t have thought him that resourceful, but…
Well, it was still just a guess in any event. But, given Sagara’s tendencies to involve himself in anything that held the prospect of a good fight, to stand up for his friends to the point of almost suicidal recklessness, and to do exactly what I told him not to do, it wasn’t exactly unprecedented. And even if he wasn’t behind this, checking on him to make sure he wasn’t up to anything else didn’t seem overcautious.
Hironaku made his usual polite inquiry, “Sir?”
I stood up, apparently with some abruptness if Hironaku’s slight start was any indication. “Look into his business and see if he has any connection there with any of the victims,” I ordered; “we’ll drop this if he doesn’t. I’ll deal with the third party.”
Hironaku made a (rather annoying) curious face, but only said, “Yes, sir.”
Alternately relieved at having some kind of next step to take even if it had little to do with the actual case, irritated almost to the point of anger at Sagara for this as-yet-hypothetical behavior, I went first to the Oguni clinic to look for him.
The look with which Takani greeted me, however, was not at all promising, given that I hadn’t had a cigarette for hours and therefore knew her disapproval didn’t stem from that. A sort of flash of dark triumph showed in her eyes, though, as she seemed to consider something for a moment before saying anything. “They’re not here,” she finally announced.
I shook my head, annoyance and suspicions growing. “Why doesn’t that surprise me…”
“Sanosuke felt he could guard his friend better at his own home, or something like that,” she explained, sounding somewhat exasperated, “and wouldn’t listen to anything I said. It didn’t help that Tsukioka-san is just as reckless and pigheaded as he is.”
“Tsukioka may not be thinking clearly,” I reminded her.
She acknowledged the point with a nod; then that same triumph of a few moments before flickered again in her eyes as she said, “Which makes it entirely Sanosuke’s fault.”
That had been the only reason I’d mentioned it, so I merely nodded as well. Obviously she’d known I wasn’t going to be pleased about this, and was looking forward to having revenge for Sagara’s complete disregard of her concern for her concussed patient exacted through me. I had to admit, I was going to be glad to comply, since I was almost certain Sagara had moved Tsukioka to his own home so he could keep a more consistent eye on him during his comings and goings as he got in the way of my case.
“If you do go over there–” She pronounced this very casually, as if there were any question in the matter– “do make sure Tsukioka-san isn’t moving around too much, won’t you?”
“Certainly. And if you see Sagara before I do,” I added darkly, “don’t mention that I’m looking for him.”
“Certainly,” she echoed, her eyes flashing again.
I smirked slightly and left her.
It occurred to me to wonder, during my carriage ride from the clinic to Sagara’s neighborhood, why I knew where he lived at all. My ally the good doctor hadn’t needed to tell me his address yesterday, and futilely I tried to recall why I’d ever looked it up, an event which I thought had actually taken place the last time I’d been in Tokyo. It was lucky, given that circumstance, that he was even in the same apartment now as then. Not that any of it mattered; it was simply a natural train of thought consequent on going there for a second time in two days.
On reaching the disreputable longhouse, I lifted a fist to knock (pound, rather) on the patched door, but changed my mind as I remembered him neglecting to lock it on the way out yesterday. Testing, finding it unlocked again (or still), I entered without warning.
The place only had one room, so everything was immediately visible: Tsukioka on a futon in the corner, Sagara sitting next to him, apparently in the middle of a relatively quiet conversation and both foolishly drinking sake despite one’s wounded state. Sagara broke off whatever he was saying as I opened the door, turning and beginning an irritated demand, “And who the hell–” but stopped short when he saw me.
If he couldn’t tell by my face that I was upset with him, my practically slamming the door behind me would have made it evident. His tone was already defensive as he wondered, “What do you want?”
“I told you to stay out of this,” I replied stonily without preamble.
His undecided expression settling into a scowl, he growled back, “So? Like I give a shit what you tell me.”
All suspicions confirmed, I didn’t even bother to ask for particulars, but went on with the tactic I thought would probably be most effective. “While you’re out playing vigilante, interfering in police business, your friend here is likely to get assassinated.”
“Why the hell do you think we left the clinic? They won’t know he’s here–”
“Oh, of course,” I broke in with heavy sarcasm, “they’ll have an extremely difficult time guessing he’s gone to his best friend’s house. How long did it take you to come up with that brilliant plan, ahou?”
Sagara sprang to his feet, fists clenched. “Well, if they do come here–”
Again I interrupted; I was in no mood for excuses. “You’ll be out intimidating witnesses I’d prefer to have compliant? What’s your plan in that case, to have him blow up your apartment defending himself?”
“What makes you so sure they’re gonna come after him anyway?” Sagara took a step toward me, clearly ready for a fight. “You don’t even know what’s going on or who we’re up against or why Katsu got attacked in the first place. For all you know–”
“There is no ‘we’ in this, boy.” My own fists were clenched by now; if he wanted a pummeling, I was ready to give him one. “Nor are you in any position to be telling me what I do and don’t know about my own case.”
This seemed to anger him more than anything else I’d said. “So you were lying to me yesterday.” He was shaking his head slightly, and I thought that, for some reason, in addition to being irate, he was also maybe a little hurt. “My best friend gets half-killed, and you give me a bunch of bullshit to try and keep me from getting revenge. You are such a bastard.”
Absolutely nowhere was where I’d feared we might go with this, and those fears were justified more with every passing moment. It was interesting that Tsukioka wasn’t taking part in the exchange, though he was watching intently… perhaps he was still unwilling to talk to me, or maybe simply didn’t have the energy. At any rate, continuing my attempts at rational persuasion was obviously a complete waste of effort. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you without beating it into you,” I said in a tone of finality: “I don’t want you involved in this.”
Sagara’s flaring anger was almost visible in the air around him, and, as such, so was its unexpected cessation; it was like watching a fire die down as something seemed to strike him and he looked at me with a strange expression.
“‘I don’t want you involved,'” he repeated slowly, almost as if to himself, and then again, with heavier accents, “‘I don’t want you involved.'”
He was right; that had been an odd way to word it. This wasn’t his business, he was going to get himself killed, I didn’t need some idiot getting in my way, certainly… but to imply that I personally had some desire for him specifically not to be involved… It may have made my reply a little more caustic even than I’d intended: “Keep repeating it until you have it memorized, ahou, if that’s what it takes. Because if I get so much as a hint that you’re sticking your nose in my business again, I’ll break it along with the rest of you.”
Still he was giving me that look that I didn’t quite understand (or perhaps just didn’t want to), and either had no reply or was, for once in his life, restraining himself. But since the conversation was obviously over, I turned and left.
I’d really expected physical violence from that scene, and wasn’t entirely sure why it hadn’t turned out that way. On some levels Sagara was as incomprehensible as he was asinine, and I thought it was safe to say that I found him as aggravating as he obviously found me, for all I didn’t throw tantrums about it like he did. He was probably back there right now pouring out his irritation to Tsukioka the unfortunate captive audience, whereas nobody would be hearing from me about any of this.
Still, I was stalking away from his apartment with a severe scowl, cursing this maddening end to an unproductive day, Sagara for his stupid persistence, for his expressive face, for picking up on the fact that there might be reasons I wasn’t admitting for not wanting him involved, and for forcing me to say even that much.
I’m struck, somehow, by the details of my surroundings. Or, rather, I’m struck by my attention to the details of my surroundings. For while the surroundings themselves are not entirely consistent — the settings alternating from one moment to the next — no matter where I find myself, I view the area with wearyingly, almost painfully precise, acute observation.
At times the stone walls of a labyrinthine cavern surround me. The rock is a dark, slightly warm-tinged grey, uniformly rough-textured, except where mineral deposits liven its surface with off-whites, yellows, and soft oranges in smooth streaks. Fantastically-shaped columns in all these colors rise like strange, unbearably slow-growing plants, marching away in infinite variety into the darkness not far to either side. The scene is lit only by a small flickering light like a fire of some sort; I think it must be an old-fashioned lamp or torch, though no such object is visible.
A web-like network of paths, smoothed to a dull shine by the passage of countless feet, oddly clean of debris and even dust, wind their diverse ways among pointed spires tapering to water-touched tips, boulders so large their full extent cannot be seen in the limited light, misshapen pillars that presumably reach the invisible ceiling, and sudden drops into abyssal darkness. On the rare occasion when the cavern roof dips low enough to be seen, I note that it’s as uneven as the floor, hung with lethal lengths of stone reaching their fragile points down toward me as if regarding me with the same minute attention I give to them as long as they’re in view.
The air is very still, damp with a cool wetness that makes me think somehow of clammy, unresponsive flesh, and faintly acrid. The silence breaks only to the echo of my footfalls and the occasional, distant sound of water dripping into some invisible pool.
At other moments, however, I traverse the claustrophobic corridors of some strange building or complex. The wood forming the old-fashioned paneling that criss-crosses the walls and ceiling is slavishly neat and well cut, and has a preternaturally even grain like the plasticky fake oak coating on cheap plywood furniture. There is a smell like that of fresh-cut wood, but beneath this lingers the same scent of acrid minerals and damp stone as the first setting, and I’m not fully convinced they aren’t actually the same place. The same mysterious light even accompanies me here as it does through the other locale.
Beneath the wooden decorations, the walls and ceilings are neatly plastered and painted, and I have a feeling that all of this covers hard cut stone. The hallways are eight feet wide and the ceiling precisely as high, and this, combined with their seemingly endless length into darkness and the suddenness of crossing ways’ appearance at either side, gives them an increasingly close and paranoid feeling in direct contrast to the cavern’s open moroseness. In fact, as I proceed, a sensation of discontent — of fear, even — grows steadily on me until the speed of my steps is almost double what it was when I began to explore.
Along with this comes, inexorably, the awareness that he is here. Exactly what connection this awareness has with the fear, the nature of the fear, or the continuing evolution of the fear, I can’t tell — but there’s undoubtedly a correlation.
Then, at times, I’m elsewhere; and, while I return continually to the two underground locations, and walk without destination there, this third option is never the same place twice, and my actions fit the circumstances. These scenes hold more narrative cohesion (within themselves, not with each other), as if they’re interpolations of clear but unfamiliar memory into an unsettling, nonsensical main story.
Like me, he’s moving alternately through the corridors and the cave; but whereas my progress is aimless and random, his is purposeful and directed. He’s coming closer. He’s coming to me.
Naturally this alters the nature of my own movement; it’s now as pointed as his. I don’t think I’m afraid of him, precisely, but I don’t want to meet him. And I am afraid of something. It’s a strange, almost giddy sort of fear, intoxicating and not all together unpleasant. In fact, it feels very much like the nervous excitement I remember feeling as a child playing hide-and-seek or certain varieties of tag. Here and now I find this reaction rather annoying, since I don’t consider this a game.
And he’s getting closer.
Heat washes over me even in the dead of night as I sit with my back to the low wall my compañones and I put together for defense. My gun propped at my side and the dull pain of a recent, treated injury throbbing in my left thigh, I remove my helmet and sponge the sweat off my face with a sun-bleached, fraying handkerchief, then return to eating the bitter pomegranate in my hand and occasionally chucking the seeds to a couple of nighttime crows.
He sits nearby, unconcerned with danger or cover, atop the stacked stones of the wall, wordless but speaking volumes with his presence. He’s clad like I am — like a soldier — but a single glance is enough to show that he’s not really one of us. His eyes glow faintly in the dark.
Evidently he knows the cave and the passages better than I do, for he subtly maneuvers me into one dead end after another. Every time I encounter one of these spots — where the path I’ve taken ends in a precipice or dives into a glassy pool, or the hallway I’m walking turns a corner that brings me abruptly face-to-face with converging walls — I’m forced to double back, and can feel the distance between us closing more rapidly. It can’t be long now.
Eventually I catch a glimpse of him leaving some spot I just traversed, and begin to run. It seems stupid, but I can’t stop myself; the agitation of the scene has approximately doubled at the sight of him, brief and unclear as that was — though he is not what I fear. Oddly, another sensation joined the fear at that moment as well: the feeling that, for all my reluctance to encounter him, still I want to. He’s only trying to get to me, after all… he’s been following me for so long… he must be so tired…
Mobbing the officials checking passbooks seems reckless, but if not now, when? Cries go up from all sides enumerating the grievances my people have suffered, and the entire busload of workers leaving the Bantustan for their daily toil surges forward. We have no cover, no weapons, and no great hope, but it seems we’ve chosen this time and place to take a stand as so many others have been doing over the years throughout the country we long to reclaim.
Through the chaos of shouting, the shots fired as the first police arrive, the crashing of cars and equipment beaten and overturned, only one thing remains constant: the light pressure of a cold hand on my elbow.
When next he catches up with me, I take a moment to look more closely at him before moving on. This steadier observation is no clearer, however. In direct contrast to the continually sharp detail all around me, he seems strangely blurred and imprecise. In fact, all I can make out of him most of the time is a vaguely human-shaped group of colors: brown, tan, black, white, red. As I begin running again — still unable to bring myself to endure an encounter — I reflect that the details are there; the problem is in my own eyes. Or, rather, in my mind — it’s almost as if something inside me simply refuses to recognize him.
Weariness has joined the other sensations with which I’m struggling, and my steps begin to drag. The burning sluggishness gradually suffusing my limbs only increases the other agitation, and heightens the awareness that it can’t be long before this all comes to an end. What end that will be I don’t like to think.
For maybe the hundredth time, I reassure my husband that we’re not sending military support against Iran and, in my position as solely an aide, I’ll be in little danger. The look on his face forestalls me reminding him, in this instance, that even should I end up in danger — even should the worst occur — I’m proud to face it while serving my country. Instead, I set down my carry-on and pull him to me for one last kiss before I leave for at least the next eight months.
And from across the terminal, I can feel him watching. I can’t see him and wasn’t aware until this point that he was here, but I know that gaze: focused and intense, bright brown like a bird of prey, unblinking.
Suddenly the boxy corridor draws up at a blank wall. For a moment my mind is equally blank as I glance from one corner to another, looking for a means of escape that does not exist, trying futilely to decide what to do. There is nothing to do. As I turn I hear his footsteps just around the corner.
Again his appearance seems to augment everything I’m feeling; now nearly in a panic and weary almost beyond endurance, I stumble back. I want to reach out to him; I wish I could pull him away from the terror that hovers around him like a cloud but is not a part of him. I do reach out, in fact… but only as I retreat. Unable to take my eyes off him in the grip of some sort of slowing paralysis, I move sluggishly from him, back, back, back… until I hit the wall.
There is nowhere else to go.
He steps toward me.
I wake up with a jerk.
As my harsh breathing and pounding heartbeat calm and the heat of nightmare fades in the cool normalcy of my dark bedroom, I stare up at the ceiling in some turmoil of mind. What the hell was that? I haven’t suffered from bad dreams since childhood, and why on earth should I be dreaming about him in any case?
Thanks to the haziness that surrounded him in those underground places, the majority of the dream, I don’t know how he looked there — though I’m certain his appearance was different than in what I’m pleased to call ‘real life’ — but I knew him beyond any doubt. It was the feelings that identified him: that fear, which, though prompted by his presence, was not specifically — indeed, was almost aggressively not directed at him; and the simultaneous sensation of strong sympathy…
I wish I had a name to call him by, even just in my own thoughts.
I know it’s simply the atmosphere — the dim light, the weariness of my body roused from sleep — but as I sit up with a sigh, I feel a nearly overwhelming sense of sadness, something severe that’s growing into what I might call misery.
This is very annoying.
As I rise and go in search of coffee — it’s early yet, but I might as well stay up, since I doubt I’ll get any more sleep — I count the days until the promised week will be finished and this will, hopefully, all be over. I base this hope, logically, on the idea that my current stress is caused by my lack of knowledge and combating desire to understand, and that once he’s explained the charade my life can therefore get back to normal. I base this hope, emotionally, on exactly that: hope. I’m not given to nightmares and confusion, and I don’t want to be.
Being forced to sit patiently — helplessly — and wait, sleepless and obsessing about the matter over coffee at four in the morning, isn’t helping. That young man is going to have a lot to answer for.
“I feel like someone is… stalking me.”
I wouldn’t have heard this if I hadn’t been planning on spending only a short time at the police station that morning, since I was only in the habit of leaving my office door ajar under that particular circumstance. In fact, it was pure chance I was at the station at all; after two more days of absolutely no results on any front, I was utterly sick of the place.
“Someone has been following me,” continued the woman’s voice. She was undoubtedly talking to the officer whose desk was closest to my office door. “I tried to tell myself I was imagining things, but now somebody’s been inside my house… My brother tells me I’m being silly, but I’m very particular about my housekeeping and I know when something is out of place; I know when something is missing.”
The report I’d come here to consult locked back into my desk, I was moving toward the door when the next statement made me pause. The officer had asked politely for the woman’s name, and she replied, “Tomizawa Nori.”
Of course there were plenty of people in Tokyo called Tomizawa, but since it was a name of interest in my case I wasn’t going to ignore it. Positioning myself just inside the door, I listened now deliberately.
“Yes, my brother is Tomizawa Daitarou,” she went on. “I know he’s been in here a lot, but today I’m here without his knowledge. If he’d thought this was serious he would have come himself, and he won’t be happy I came… he doesn’t think anything is really going on. But, as I told you, I can tell.”
To his credit, the officer broke in at this point and attempted to get the information from her in a more organized fashion — but there was little more to be learned than her initial words had indicated. She kept mentioning her brother — who was, after all, the same Tomizawa that had employed the late Irutou — and I was amused to observe the mixture of emotions with which she spoke of him: though evidently proud of the relationship and happy to be associated with such a successful businessman, she just as evidently didn’t appreciate the way he at least attempted to run her entire life.
Interesting as this was, however, it was not useful. What did concern me was the basic fact: that someone connected to that single name Tsukioka had mentioned was being stalked none too subtly… and I was certain I knew by whom.
Now I was angry. Everything Sagara had done so far had been foolish and annoying, but at least it had made sense. This was just random and stupid, and now was causing the precinct pointless extra work.
I considered talking to the woman on the way out, but decided not to; it would be unwise to give her the impression that her brother was under any kind of suspicion — and further questioning in any other light would not make sense. Besides, I had other questioning to do.
Sagara was one of the few people I’d ever met that could make me genuinely angry rather than merely temporarily irritated. I didn’t like to think why this was, but it was a condition I could not ignore. And the ultimatum I would give him today was one he would not be able to ignore.
Stepping into his apartment, the first thing I saw was Tsukioka apparently hard at work, probably on his newspaper, at a dingy little table that stood on two legs, a large rock, and a piece of firewood. Though seeing someone so industrious under his own motivation — especially with the added inconvenience of a cast on his slung left arm — was good for my faith in humanity, none of this was particularly surprising: setting aside the condition of Sagara’s table, Tsukioka’s continued presence and improving condition had been reported to me by the lady doctor, who had visited daily as much at my request as out of her sense of professional responsibility. I thought she was still as annoyed with the two young men (particularly Sagara) as I was; she’d been happy to assure me that Tsukioka was recovering and hadn’t been attacked again.
Tsukioka looked up at me as I entered, his eyes dark and suspicious, and remarked, “In some cultures it’s considered appropriate to knock before entering.”
Ignoring this (not unintelligent) comment, I demanded, “Where is he?”
Tsukioka gestured, indicating the rear wall and, presumably, whatever lay outside. I stepped back through the door.
A dirty yard containing a privy separated the various buildings of this particular residential area, and here I found my quarry. Not expecting me and completely oblivious to my presence in the shadows just inside the entrance of the enclosure, he didn’t notice me until my hands actually gripped his collar. He gave a startled cry as I yanked him backward and stopped him from exiting the yard; I didn’t give him a chance for any further exclamation.
“I warned you to stay out of my business,” I growled, propelling him toward the nearest wall while his surprise still left him relatively mobile.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he yelped. Jumping back, away from me, regaining his balance and clenching his fists, he assumed what I thought he intended as a defensive stance. “I haven’t done a goddamn thing!”
“Tomizawa Nori,” I said, advancing. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
He frowned, actually loosening his fists a trifle and straightening as he stared at me. “Who?”
“Don’t fuck with me.” I took the last few steps necessary to seize him again.
He struggled violently as I shook him, shouting directly into my face. “I don’t fucking have any idea who or what you’re fucking talking about!” He managed to land a blow on my chest, but it didn’t stop me from slamming him into the wall and holding him there.
“Don’t bother lying to me,” I hissed. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to accomplish, but leave the woman alone.”
For a long moment, unmoving and almost limp, he stared into my face, his breath tangible against my lips, as wordless as if I’d actually stunned him — but I knew better; Sagara Sanosuke wasn’t stunned by such a small amount of rough handling. He was obviously trying to think of what to say next, whether because he didn’t feel he could keep lying and was deciding how much to tell me or because his anger had rendered him momentarily mute.
“I…” His brows lowered in an expression almost more of confusion than anger. “I’m not lying. I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Was it the unexpectedly grave tone? Was it the look in his eyes as he stared into mine? Whatever the reason, I believed him. More than that, I felt like I could trust him. Which was as stupid as it was unprecedented.
And yet it was an impression I could not dismiss. With bizarre suddenness I wasn’t upset with him anymore… further proof that I genuinely believed him, for whatever reason. With the anger gone, I felt only the weary frustration and confusion that were such an integral part of this case.
“Fine.” Why did my response sound so surly? More importantly, why did I seem to feel a certain comfort from his proximity, as if he were a shield against the aforementioned feelings? Why didn’t I let go of him, move away from him, once the word was spoken? He was staring at me now as if he wanted to ask the same question. Honestly I thought he knew the answer as well as I did, and the months of denial and repression were suddenly seeming like a profound waste of my time and his.
I saw the resolution half-forming in his eyes and the restrained tendency of his movement toward me. His dark brows jerked down and then up again as if he couldn’t decide, not merely what to do, but what to think or feel. After all, just a moment ago I’d slammed him into the wall and told him not to fuck with me, and now I was giving him some kind of look I surely never had before. But hesitancy did not become him.
Perhaps it was to teach him better, perhaps to overcome those of my own instincts that still thought denial was a good idea… whatever my motive, I pulled his body against my own and his face to mine so decisively that it could have been described as roughness.
It seemed a stupid moment for kissing, and yet I couldn’t help feeling a growing sensation of completeness… as if some fundamental desire like hunger or thirst was fulfilled after ages of abstinence. His form was hot against me, his lips eager, his arms around my neck. Clutching at him, kissing him hard, I felt inclined never to let go.
Which was all just really… stupid… at the moment.
I was supposed to be working; he was supposed to be staying out of my way… and if he hadn’t been harassing that Nori woman, who had? But I couldn’t take my hands off him; just at the moment, I couldn’t do without him. I’d been so frustrated lately; none of my efforts had been paying off… and the feeling of him so close, his compliance as I ground him against the hard surface behind, the desire I sensed in him… it was all going a long way to make things right.
It still seemed like a stupid moment for it, though.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one to think so. When I finally pulled my tingling lips from his just far enough to draw a deep breath, he did likewise and admitted a little shakily, “I’m confused.”
I gave a short laugh. “As opposed to…?”
“Hey,” he protested, “don’t go pretending you still think I’m the world’s biggest idiot when you just kissed me like you were going to eat me.”
“I’m fairly certain I can do both,” I replied. I wasn’t really clearly aware of what I was saying, though… His arms had slid to my back and tightened… I hadn’t realized until this moment just how much I needed a chance to think about something besides exsanguinated corpses and untrackable murderers. Needed a vacation of sorts from the realization that I was failing continually to do my job and live up to my own standards. Needed to feel a lithe, willing body in my arms and discuss the minutiae of how that came about and what was going to happen next as if it were the most important thing I had to deal with right now.
“And how ’bout an apology for just assuming I was doing whatever you thought I was doing when I wasn’t?” Without giving me a chance to reply to this demand, however, he went on. “How the hell did that turn into kissing me, anyway? I mean, I knew you didn’t hate me as much as you pretended, but how did we go from ‘I warned you to stay out of my business’ to your tongue in my mouth?” He wasn’t adjusting to this change of dynamic nearly as smoothly as his cavalier words suggested; most of his face had turned bright pink — except for his cheekbones, which were more of a bright red — and his tone was uneven.
Again I laughed slightly. “I don’t want to think about my business any further at the moment.” I’d moved my face back toward his, and now spoke almost directly into his mouth.
“You’re a strange guy,” he whispered, raising his chin so that his lips came again into full contact with mine.
Absorbing heat from his solid form, responding in kind to the increasing eagerness of his mouth and hands, it was easy to forget everything else I was supposed to be worried about. As such, it was also a very simple matter to pretend — for the moment, at least — that the pleasure I derived from the taste of his kisses, the rippling of muscle across the small of his back beneath his gi, and the pressure of his hips against mine arose purely from its fulfillment of my need for a distraction.
His next statement, when our lips parted again, was made in a satisfied, confidential murmur that I rather liked. “It’s always pissed me the hell off how much I didn’t hate you. ‘Specially back when you kept beating me up every day. Took me a while to realize you might be the same way.”
At this I couldn’t help chuckling again. “You’re under a number of false impressions.”
He jerked back — not far, but even half an inch seemed quite a distance when my arms were around him. Rather than confused, this time he looked wary and perhaps a bit unhappy. That was quite a confession he’d just made, after all, and my words could easily be interpreted to mean I didn’t really care about him at all in return. And while I wasn’t ready to admit (even to myself) the extent to which I did care, I didn’t want him under the impression that I was playing with him. Not that I didn’t still save my reassuring point for last.
“I only beat you up twice,” I began, withdrawing one arm and raising a finger, “so ‘every day’ is an inaccurate description. And I could beat you up again any time, so your implication that those days are past is also in error.”
He listened wordlessly, still with that guarded look, as I counted off these points that would normally have angered him. That they didn’t in this instance told me he was even more worried about my final point than I’d thought. Raising a third finger I finished, “And don’t assume my mental processes are the same as yours… I’m more the type to deny and ignore an illogical attraction than berate myself for it.”
His consternation melted away into an open, pleased expression that went a long way toward erasing my lingering uncertainty about taking this step. “That does seem more like you,” he admitted, grinning. Again he raised his lips to mine and kissed me slowly.
He was very good at that.
“So you gonna start calling me Sano now?” was the next important matter of business he felt the need to introduce as my hands went about a leisurely exploration of his body. “Or is it still going to be ‘ahou’ all the time?”
“It will still be ‘ahou’ whenever you deserve it,” I replied immediately. Since he really didn’t deserve it at the moment, though, I added experimentally, “Sano…”
Perhaps it was my tone, or maybe the breath of the word against his ear, but he shuddered tangibly, stiffening slightly against me and letting out a little sigh. I found this somewhat extreme reaction to that one simple word rather arousing, and it was the growing sensation of intense physical desire that reminded me of the specifics of our present situation. This was neither time nor place to give in to that sort of impulse.
“God knows what your friend is thinking by now,” I murmured after another kiss; they were becoming increasingly difficult to pull away from.
Sano started. “Oh, shit, that’s right.” He moved away from me now just as indecisively as he’d moved toward me earlier — torn, I thought, between worry that Tsukioka might come looking for him at any time and curiosity about just how far I was willing to go in the relatively public yard behind his apartment. “He probably thinks I’m dead,” he continued pensively, “and if he hasn’t come out here to check yet, he probably won’t…” I could almost hear the unspoken, “So we might as well keep making out,” at the end of this, and chuckled yet again. “Or maybe he did come out and check already.” He blushed slightly as he added, “I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”
This made me laugh outright. “Ahou,” I said, and pulled him back against me for one more — just one more — kiss. “Go back in. I have to get back to work.”
“Oh.” He stared uncomprehendingly for a moment as I began to straighten and smooth the uniform his searching hands had disarrayed. “I– What? No!” He scowled at me. “You can’t just leave right after you–”
“You have a houseguest and I have work to do,” I replied in what I’d intended as a cool, authoritative tone but that came out sounding somewhat fond and amused. “I hadn’t meant for this to happen just now.”
“You probably hadn’t meant for this to happen ever,” Sano grumbled. Brightening slightly he added, “But I was just too damn sexy for you to resist!”
I rolled my eyes and said again, “Ahou ga.” But I couldn’t help smirking a little, since his statement was essentially true. “My point is that I don’t have time for you today. I’ve already been here longer than I should have.”
“When will you have time?” he wondered, part eager and part suspicious.
“I don’t know. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s still a crazy murderer out there somewhere.”
“I’ve been trying to forget,” he muttered darkly — then, throwing me a piercing look, added, “for you.”
Surprised into momentary speechlessness, I stared at him. Sagara Sanosuke, exercising deliberate self-restraint? For my sake? At last I said, “Thank you.”
Now he was staring at me. He’d probably never expected that phrase from my lips. Not that it was the first unexpected thing he’d received from my lips today. “You’re welcome,” he said. He continued in a tone suggesting he spoke almost against his will, “But if I do find out who did that to Katsu, nothing’ll keep me from going after him.”
Fleetingly he had that hard, deeply angry look in his eyes again, and I realized that his willingness to sit quietly and stay out of my business was probably actually based more on having no idea where to look or what to do than respect for my warnings. This should have annoyed me, but its only real effect was to make me laugh again. I hadn’t meant for this to happen today, but if I’d realized how therapeutic it would be I might have initiated it long before.
“Don’t laugh at me!” he protested, glowering. “Just because you’ve got no friends–”
I interrupted him with the command, “Go back inside.” Laying my hand flat against his chest I advanced, pushing him backward with every step. He only gave way, I thought, because he wasn’t really angry with me just then. He still appeared too surprised at this new development between us for any other strong emotion. There seemed to be a sort of glow about him, too — a flush of the face, a brightness of the eyes, an energy in his movements even greater than usual — and I wanted nothing more than to drink it directly from his heated skin. But there would be time for that later.
All the way across the yard he walked backward, staring at me with those shining eyes, but after he’d tripped a third time and nearly fallen he finally decided to turn and walk like a normal person. This was probably more in response to my mocking expression than the stumbles themselves. Near his door he stopped and again gave me his full attention. “When will…” he began, but trailed off with a pensive expression suggesting he was as uncertain about exactly what he was asking as he was of my probable response.
I shook my head. “I’ll come find you when I know.”
At first he seemed annoyed at this evasive answer, but after a moment he grinned and replied, “You know what’ll happen if you make me wait too long.”
I grimaced, and it was only half facetious. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You better.” For an instant he flashed a smile at me that was astonishingly bright and evidently a good reflection of what was going on in his head — an open, guilelessly happy look that seemed to encompass not only his feelings for me, whose depth I had perhaps underestimated, but also the wholeheartedness and strength that were such an important part of his character — before turning away toward his apartment, leaving me staring after him with a heart pounding rather harder and faster than I was used to.
In the midst of the turmoil my brain has been experiencing all week, it actually feels a little strange to be meeting Renee normally for a normal date as I might on any normal weekend. And I can’t decide whether a dose of such normalcy is more likely to be a good, healthy, grounding circumstance or only make things worse by contrast.
“Let’s go make fun of antiques on Old Center Street,” is Renee’s suggestion when I, unable in my distracted state to come up with anything acceptable, wonder what she wants to do. I agree readily, drawn somewhat out of my reverie by the pleasant idea. It’s interesting how many of our excursions start with “Let’s go make fun of–“
Old Center Street, the original main thoroughfare of the city, is relatively short and narrow by today’s standards, and features a lineup of old or at least old-style buildings that, this century, mostly sell useless and spectacularly tacky junk ranging in age from twenty to two hundred years. There are a few art galleries, pretentious jewelry stores, and hipster clothing shops tucked in among these, and Renee and I have made the tour a few times since we started dating. Added to the reliable entertainment furnished by the things people are willing to pay money for, a pleasant walk in nice weather is never unwelcome.
Whether or not it can distract me from vampires remains to be seen.
Renee is a corporate officer for a line of hotels, and it’s not unusual for any meeting between us to start with the details of her latest amusing and frustrating inspections. Her sarcasm is pleasantly familiar, but even the entertainment value (and outrage at the idiocy) of the employees that populate her buildings is difficult to concentrate on from the very moment she starts speaking.
I struggle to pay attention, to stay invested, as we amble along, but I find myself watching the shadows with a concentration of vision that renders my hearing a secondary consideration at best. It occurs to me after a while, only increasing my irritation with myself and the situation, that the sun is still up; why am I already looking around like this in the daylight? I’m no expert, but I believe the majority of vampire myth dictates death or injury as a result of UV exposure, and all my encounters with strange people thus far have been at night.
An antique store we’ve visited every single time we’ve come down here draws us in as usual, and the work-related conversation gives way to sotto voce commentary on the available goods and resultant assumptions about the mindsets of people in previous decades and centuries (as well as the mindsets of people willing to buy these things today at these prices). It is somewhat engrossing, I have to admit, and there are quite a few minutes — many of them stacked all in a row — inside the store during which I give not a thought to vampires or anyone masquerading as such. But the issue rises to the top of my consciousness immediately again when I step outside and observe that sunset it upon us.
“What are you looking for?” Renee eventually wonders, indicating that my attempts to at least keep my searching glances subtle, if I can’t eliminate them entirely, have failed.
“Nothing.” The idea of explaining does cross my mind, and in a serious way, but is dismissed after not too long. Aside from the irritating fact that I’m now operating under an assumption that I’m being constantly stalked, and therefore anything I say to Renee is likely to be overheard by one of those people, I also find I can’t be sure of her reaction. Would she worry about my state of mental health, or dismiss my fixation and concern as meaningless? Would she consider this a legitimate threat that requires an actual police response, or merely a dark practical joke? I don’t know, and it’s not a conversation I want to have. We’ve been dating for several months now, but apparently we just aren’t that close yet.
Neither of us is particularly demonstrative, so when she slips her hand into mine with a firm grip, I know it’s not a casual gesture, but a bid for my fuller attention. She’s a demanding person and often possessive, which I don’t mind in general because these are characteristics that we share, but right now her desire to be my sole focus, though totally understandable, is an inconvenience. And I find myself annoyed all over again at my supposed stalkers for their ruination, when I can’t even detect their presence yet and am only just assuming, of something as personal as a date with my girlfriend.
At this thought, a new (if interrelated) consideration arises within me: why am I allowing the behavior of others — in this case, merely their presumed behavior — to dictate my own? Am I not my own man, a responsible adult capable of decisions, motivations, and strength of character entirely unrelated to what those around me choose to do? Even if I am being stalked — and even if I am being stalked by vampires — that such a circumstance should ruin my evening out with my girlfriend only means I’m allowing it to do so.
It’s probable that my resolve regarding this matter has been weaker than it should have because I’m so unaccustomed to dealing with this type of distraction. When have I ever found something so gripping, so engrossing? I’ve had little practice keeping my head under such circumstances, so even where I feel I should excel based on my own natural propensities, I’ve been failing simply through lack of experience.
In order both to provide Renee with an explanation of sorts and to take control of my own experience and frame of mind, I decide to tell her about the murders. It’s not what’s really bothering me, but it’s connected.
“That isn’t your case, though, is it?” she wonders when, after glancing around to make sure no one detectable is listening in (I can’t do anything about anyone hypothetically lurking in the shadows), I’ve outlined what I know so far.
“No,” I reply. “But I’m sure you’ve heard about the latest murder. The body was found at the grocery store in my neighborhood.”
We’re walking along the lamplit sidewalk between stores, and she doesn’t slow as she gives me an appraising look. “Yeah, I did hear about that. It didn’t occur to me that was the one you shop at, but I guess it was.”
I nod. It’s possible she believes now — and my manner of presenting this would not have deterred the belief — that I have some level of interest in the case, possibly even some discomfort or concern regarding it, because of its closeness to home. Being so disingenuous with my own girlfriend may not be the optimal way of dealing with this situation, but it’s better than nothing, than not dealing with it at all.
That I’ve sunk to ‘better than nothing’ makes everything all the more galling.
“Someone’s obviously going out of their way to make these look like classic vampire attacks,” she muses, and I appreciate that she’s humoring me and engaging in conversation about this, even if vampires aren’t the topic I would really prefer at this time. “And you have to assume the average person doesn’t have the equipment or know-how — or patience — to drain large amounts of blood from bodies.”
I nod, trying to keep from glancing down the alley we’re passing as I do so. It’s getting darker and darker, and I’m not so much wondering whether one of those people is nearby as assuming they are and just wondering whether I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of them. This has gotten extremely stupid.
“That makes it seem less random, doesn’t it?” Renee goes on. “Somebody planned and bought equipment for this.”
Even as I’m agreeing with her and entering into a discussion of what equipment might allow the thorough bleeding of a human body through small wounds in the neck — and, though neither of us is anything like a medical professional, certain questions of blood pressure and the seeming difficulty of the task arise almost immediately — I’m remembering, with a bit of a chill, something I overheard that Megumi woman saying: “Do you have any idea who’s vagabonding around here? When I felt the touch on one of the police, I thought they might be farther along than they usually get.”
I’m coming to accept the fact that some part of me is taking the vampire idea entirely seriously, so it’s no surprise that that part feels some immediate, sardonic pity for my co-worker who isn’t likely to get anywhere on his case against a ‘vagabonding’ vampire. That same part of me wonders, furthermore, whether Megumi, with her holstered wooden stakes, is in the area to deal with the problem herself. If some vampires are the enemies of humanity and others are not, it seems the latter would feel a moral imperative to protect the weaker humans from the former. Somebody qualified had better be handling the matter, if the police are destined to fail at doing so, before more innocent people die.
Of course, maybe vampires simply don’t care about human murders. I’m pretty sure tracking down whoever is ‘vagabonding around here’ isn’t the reason the young man is present.
The rest of me, the part that believes itself the most rational and still insists that vampires can’t possibly exist, is simply more irritated than ever that I’m having these thoughts at all. It rededicates itself to the conversation with Renee, which may be about vampire attacks but is probably about the more human kind of monster the police are more accustomed to dealing with, no matter how much morbid know-how, patience, and purchased equipment they may have.
We look through a few shop windows as we carry our discussion onward, then cross the street and head back in the opposite direction, still leisurely doing the same, but make no move to further our original plan of browsing and deriving amusement from store contents. It’s as if we’ve come to an unspoken agreement not to get any closer to other people than we have to, whether because our conversation is confidential or because I’m still obviously distracted I don’t know.
And I wonder, as we walk, whether the growing sense that someone is watching us, listening to us, following us, is merely the inevitable result of my preexisting paranoia, or something more substantial.
Renee is too sharp for this. She knows perfectly well that I’m disengaged, even without my constant attempts not to look around trying to find the source of my suspicions. She knows I introduced the current topic of conversation in an attempt to keep up a real interaction with her, and she knows the degree to which I’ve failed. It’s no great surprise when, eventually, undoubtedly tiring of my half presence, she pulls my person two steps down the space between two buildings and my face down to hers for a kiss that’s far more pointed than passionate.
And now there can be no mistake: I’m certain I feel eyes on me, with every bit as much focus as Renee’s lips. It’s like a burning, not on the back of my neck since I can’t pinpoint any location so exact, but somewhere on my figure. And this time it’s undeniable.
As she draws away, Renee is giving me a piercing, calculating look. Clearly the purpose of that kiss was not to make another demand for my greater attention but to assess more precisely the lack thereof. And when I can’t help glancing around in a brief but undoubtedly quite visible (and futile) attempt at locating the fiery-eyed watcher whose scrutiny so intensified during the last several moments, my returning gaze finds Renee’s somewhat narrowed as she meets it.
“We should get going,” she says, and her tone is distinctly cool. I don’t think she’s necessarily upset with me, but she’s certainly not pleased with the situation.
I couldn’t agree more.
I tried to insist I was surprised to find myself going to see Sano the very next day, but in fact it was no surprise at all: following yesterday’s unexpected, transformative encounter, I’d made little to no progress tracking down the murderer — still — and I found myself not only looking forward to having something else to think about, but actively yearning for his distracting company. Craving it. I knew I’d been long repressing an attraction to him, but I couldn’t help thinking it had broken out far more intensely than it probably would have if the dam hadn’t burst in the middle of a case like this.
This time I actually knocked, and relatively quietly too. The sun had only just disappeared behind the horizon, but I had no idea when Tsukioka was likely to be resting; no need to disturb him if I wasn’t here, for once, to wreak havoc of the peace of the household. Beyond that, I wanted Sano to come out here alone.
The way his face lit up when he saw who stood at his door was… not just gratifying, not just amusing and touching… it was exhilarating. And not simply because his face was so nicely shaped and that seeming inner light made him even more handsome and desirable; there was an answering spark in me, a flame fanned by the sight of him and his pleasure at seeing me, that was as galvanizing as it was confusing. I’d been away from him for months working in other parts of the country without any hint of discontentment; why did I find now, after barely a day and a half, that I missed him madly, was almost ecstatic to meet him again? It seemed I’d opened a greater floodgate even than I’d realized by admitting my interest in him. I would have to be careful.
This last thought, cold as it was and little quarter as I was inclined to give it right now, was reinforced by his manner of greeting me. After what had passed between us yesterday, I was expecting some enthusiasm, but I wasn’t expecting him to fling himself at me. He didn’t even bother to close his apartment door first.
Breaking the contact he’d initiated, not terribly happy with just how much I enjoyed the sensation of his breath against my face, I sighed, “You have absolutely no sense of discretion.”
“Never wanted one, either,” Sano replied lazily, grinning up at me.
I shrugged away from him, trying not to glance around to note the precise number and nature of passersby or neighbors who might have observed his attempted kiss. “Don’t get all over me in public.”
“That’s just like you.” Sano sounded annoyed. “We gotta sneak around. Keep things quiet. Don’t let anyone know that we might be human.”
“Who says I’m human?” I replied sardonically.
At this he appeared even more irritated, and, finally closing his apartment door, brought an accusatory expression toward me. “I’ve waited a fucking long time for you to get your head out of your almighty ass and pay some real attention to me,” he growled, “but no way am I going to do this if you’re going to be all embarrassed about me and pretend it isn’t happening.”
I wasn’t about to admit that he’d always had my attention, and to let him know that I didn’t think him nearly as worthless as he assumed I did would just be unsporting. “Good of you to realize how embarrassing it is for me to like someone like you…” I paused to admire the glow of anger in his eyes before continuing, “but that has nothing to do with it.”
“Well, then, what does?”
“I once stabbed you to make a point about the dangers of keeping people you care about around while you deal with serious situations.” Remembering the relative privacy we’d managed yesterday in the yard behind his apartment, I began walking in that direction.
Sano followed. “I thought it was to make a point about how Kenshin trying to protect people didn’t work.”
“It was a multi-pointed demonstration. What I mean is that it’s unwise for someone like me, someone in a position to have any number of enemies — especially right now when I have no idea who my enemy is — it’s unwise for me to publicize my close relationships.”
I thought he would protest further, but either he actually comprehended what I was trying to say or decided it wasn’t worth arguing at the moment. He only grinned complacently and echoed, “‘Close relationships…'” Then, the instant we were secluded within the yard that had been my destination, he was against me, pulling at me with strong hands mostly below the belt, dragging me into tight contact with him and leaning up to breathe into my ear, “You kissed me here yesterday, and it wasn’t even this dark out then.”
“And I would fuck you here right now,” I told him, almost growling in response to his groping hands, “if it were just a little cleaner.” My arms slid around him, reciprocating his suggestive gestures despite having just said that I didn’t intend to do what I was certain we both wanted.
His voice was husky and a little breathless as he said, “It’ll be really dark back here soon… You wouldn’t even notice how dirty it is.”
“I’d still be aware of it,” I said regretfully. “I’ve seen it in the light, and my imagination would make it worse when I couldn’t see it.”
He laughed, and the rich sound in the growing shadows was tinged with both amusement and a regret even stronger than mine. “It’s kindof insulting that you’d be thinking more about the walls and shit than me at a time like that.” His tone brightened as he added, “But it’s nice to know you do plan on fucking me sometime or other.”
“Right now is inconvenient,” I breathed into his neck.
Once again he didn’t protest when I expected him to. “Yeah, with Katsu here…” I could tell he was trying to stop pressing against me so meaningfully, stop grinding his hips against mine. He took a deep breath, drawing back slightly. “Well, at least kiss me.”
“Your self-restraint keeps surprising me,” I told him in perfect honesty. It wasn’t that I’d expected him to beg for sex right here and now — though, secretly, I might have liked him to — but neither had I expected this kind of forbearance from him, especially after I’d already been taken unawares by his consideration and constraint yesterday; I thought I’d reached my allotment for, oh, the next year or so.
“I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” he replied, and, despite his slightly flippant tone, I got the feeling he was quite serious; he was both chiding me for underestimating him and promising that there was more to him than he felt I was aware of.
He was wrong; I’d always been aware that there was an entire world beyond that shallow and careless exterior… but I’d certainly never let on that I knew, perhaps because I’d never before considered reaching into those depths and seeing exactly how far they extended. Now the thought of finding out everything that lay in that interesting space beyond the beautiful brown eyes unexpectedly caused me to shiver with an anticipation that, though it was not in itself physical, made me suddenly want to fuck him more than ever. Unfortunately, we’d already discussed and dismissed that possibility. So I just kissed him instead.
“You know, I honestly didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said eventually. “I figured I’d have to come looking for you and remind you I exist.”
After the consistency with which he’d returned to my mind even in the midst of the work I’d been doing, this idea was consummately absurd.
“What are you laughing about?” he demanded. “I’m serious. You think I don’t know your work’s more important to you than anything?” He added almost disdainfully, “I think I know you at least that well. Besides, aren’t you married? You probably already have shit to do after work.”
“Which is why I came here straight from the station today,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm.
“You are married, though, right? I thought Kenshin mentioned that sometime…” And now, though he was aiming for casualness, there was a certain concern in his voice as he essentially asked whether his involvement with me was causing infidelity on my part. Of course he wouldn’t like the thought of that. Neither would I.
“Technically, yes,” I answered. “It’s been more convenient not to divorce, but we’ve been separated for three years.”
On the east side of one of the surrounding buildings — Sano’s apartment, actually, if I was judging correctly — the shadows grew around us more quickly than in the rest of the yard. His shifting movement as he looked up at me, however, and what little I could see of his face told plainly that he was dying to ask why I’d split from my wife; he wanted reassurance that I was free to pursue whomever I preferred at this point, that this was all legitimate. Moreover, I thought, he wanted gossip.
“It was only natural,” I said, happy to give him what he wanted in this instance. “It was an arranged marriage. We never disliked each other, but there was never a strong attachment either.”
“No, no, no, you said that wrong.” I could hear the grin in the words. “You guys never disliked each other; therefore there was never a strong attachment.”
I laughed again. Trust him to put it like that.
Someone had entered the yard, no doubt on the way to the privy, and started at our presence. He couldn’t have gotten a very good look at us in the shadows, but whatever our low voices and close proximity to each other put him in mind of — a cop abusing his power, some kind of secret assignation, or the perfectly innocent (if fairly intimate) conversation it actually was — he hurried past with eyes averted.
Smirking, I went on in a quieter tone, “Tokio lives in Toyama with our three children. I don’t see them often, but we exchange a lot of letters.”
“Wow, three kids…” I wasn’t certain exactly what was in Sano’s tone. Jealously that I had three children with a woman he’d never met? Wonder at the fact that I was old enough to have three children at all? Or something else?
I decided to inquire. “Is that so unbelievable?”
“No…” He shrugged, biting his lip. “No, not really. It’s just… I mean… do you like them?”
So that was it. He still maintained some (probably more than a little) lingering suspicion that I was a heartless bastard, and was having a difficult time reconciling that with the idea of a fond father.
I chuckled again and, after the privy-using stranger had passed us once more and left the yard, started to do something I had never dreamed I might be even remotely inclined toward: tell Sagara Sanosuke all about my children.
It was, as the entire conversation had been, a profound relief. The topic was so far removed from the late local string of murders that I could almost pretend to forget the latter was taking place. Beyond that, I found myself enjoying the discussion for its own sake. I’d certainly never been one of those fatuous parents that rambled at length about every insignificant detail of their children’s lives, but my offspring were consistently fairly amusing and intelligent, for their ages, and I rarely if ever got the chance to talk about them.
Sano seemed more than a little intrigued — possibly because of that aforementioned lingering suspicion that no emotion so soft as fatherly affection could possibly exist in my heart, possibly simply because he liked children; whatever the reason, I appreciated his engagement and his interested questions.
I also got the feeling that he still wanted to do any number of obscene things to me right here and now, despite the unsexiness of our topic and the fact that we’d separated to a more reasonable distance for a conversation like this. And he was still restraining himself. The angle of his body, the pattern of his breathing, the way his eyes caught the occasional glint of light as they moved restlessly over me… these were the only symptoms he displayed, but they were clear enough.
This continued desire, the restraint, and even his evident absorption in a subject I hadn’t expected to engross him so readily made him that much more attractive to me as well. I was actually starting to consider lowering my standards of cleanliness and perhaps making use of this yard after all — despite the potential witnesses that occasionally passed through on their way to and from the amenities in back — when the conversation took a less pleasant turn.
It was inevitable, I supposed. Just because he’d refrained for a while from poking around in my business didn’t mean he’d forgotten about it, and I had mentioned that I sometimes described some of my simpler cases in my letters to my children. Even so, I could not but respond at first with an almost angry sigh when Sano asked how the murder investigation was going.
“That good, huh?” Though there was sympathy in his grinning tone, I still pinched his ass; it helped me resign myself to talking about this. “Hey!” he yelped, obviously having been expecting something else entirely from my moving close to him again. “What was that for?”
For no reason I could quite understand even in my own mind, I decided to confide in him. It was odd and seemed a little unwise, since, though things between us had changed, he hadn’t changed… but I wanted to trust him. I wanted someone to whom I could explain all my feelings of frustration and inadequacy regarding this case, and I wanted that someone to be him.
Fortunately, my good sense intervened. Maybe at some point I would be able to converse that intimately with Sanosuke, but that point was not the second day of our new relationship. Some things I would tell him; everything I would not.
“The name your friend provided may be of some use after all, but I’m still not sure yet.” Taking advantage of my regained closeness to Sano, I spoke in a low and guarded tone; I didn’t see anyone around at the moment, but this still wasn’t something I wanted to proclaim to the entire street. “Tomizawa fits the specific class that half the murder victims have been, and some of their deaths must have been advantageous to him in a business sense… but so far that’s all that links him to the crimes. Apparently he hasn’t changed his habits or acted at all strangely recently, and the people around him can verify where he’s been most of the time…”
“He hired an assassin?” Sano suggested.
“That’s the obvious conclusion,” I nodded. “The problem is that we’ve found no evidence of that yet… and he’s going to realize any time now, if he hasn’t already, that he’s under investigation, which will put him on his guard and may make evidence even harder to find.”
“Do you have to have evidence? Can’t you just go after him yourself?”
“I am authorized to carry out private executions,” I allowed, “but only when I’m personally convinced of someone’s guilt, and then only if the criminal seems likely to escape the law or cause serious trouble before he can be brought in. And I’m not convinced Tomizawa is our man.”
“Your job is so cool,” Sano murmured. He might as well have said, “You are so cool,” for the tone he used.
I wasn’t about to admit how much his admiration pleased me; instead I just kissed him again.
“So what do you do next?” was his next question. He’d seemed reluctant to pull away from the kiss, and it was interesting that, even so, he’d gone right back to the topic of the murder case. Where the previous question hadn’t, this one set off warning bells.
“Keep investigating Tomizawa,” I replied, deliberately vague.
“And didn’t you say some woman with that name was being harassed? You thought it was me, but since it wasn’t, who was it? Is that part of this?”
I had long denigrated Sano’s intelligence, mostly for my own amusement, but in reality I’d been perfectly well aware that he was far from the idiot I always named him. And I knew perfectly well what the eager yet contemplative tone in his voice meant right now. Sternly I said, “I told you to stay out of this.”
“Yeah, and then you kissed me so hard it practically gave me a boner. Mixed messages, I thought.”
I couldn’t help smiling, but my voice was dark when I answered with words whose significance he had specifically comprehended only a few days before and that should mean even more now: “I don’t want you involved in this.”
The moon had risen as we talked, and now, by its light that intruded into our shadowy corner, I could clearly see the scowl on his face. “You still think I’m weak, don’t you?” He sounded more unhappy than angry, but the anger was building.
“Only relatively,” I said lightly, and even I didn’t know whether I sought to tease or reassure. Either way, he couldn’t doubt my complete seriousness as I went on, “But, Sano, this murderer is a monster. It’s my profession to deal with him. It’s not yours.”
“I used to fight — sometimes even kill people — professionally too, you know,” he tried, sounding surly.
“But not anymore. There’s no reason for you to be involved in this now.”
He pulled away, and the sudden absence of his warmth against me left a coolness even greater than physical contrast could account for. “I don’t need this,” he said quietly. “I don’t know whether you think I’m going to get in your way and fuck things up, or if you’re trying to pull a Kenshin and protect me, but either way, you don’t have to, because I’m not weak.”
I didn’t know if I was more annoyed at the suggestion that I was ‘trying to pull a Kenshin’ or the fact that he’d completely ignored the possibility that I didn’t want to see him used against me by the unknown enemy. But I couldn’t throw him on the ground and kick open an old wound this time to make my point. Well, I could — and would, if he made me angry enough — but at the moment it didn’t seem the optimal course of action.
Instead I said tightly, “Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. This is my job, which I’m going to do my way. It’s not your responsibility, and there’s no reason for you to get involved.”
“No reason except maybe I don’t want you involved with this monster either,” Sano shot back, “but since you have to be, it’d sure make me feel better if I could help.”
I stared down at him. It wasn’t that I couldn’t comprehend his frustration at the idea of being left behind or even the implication that he wasn’t strong enough… it was just that I hated the thought of him being exposed to a murderer who had, so far, drained all the blood from eight bodies… hated it even more than I’d suspected I would. And I appreciated his reciprocal desire for my noninvolvement — again, more than I’d suspected I would — but that didn’t change a thing.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last, “that I can’t take your feelings into consideration here.”
“Funny how you can take yours, though,” he said bitterly.
I was going to tell him that we couldn’t have it both ways. I was going to tell him that it made sense for him to be the one to give way in this scenario because I was assigned to this and he was not. I was going to tell him that it didn’t matter whether or not he was weak when the important factor was his level of strength relative to the anonymous murderer, and that was something we couldn’t know. I was going to tell him to stop being an idiot. I was going to tell him again that I was sorry. But I ended up telling him none of these things, because the irate, hurt expression on the face that caught the moonlight as he turned it up toward me suddenly affected me as it never had before.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve really been happy you came ’round tonight. But right now…” He broke off with a growl of frustration and turned away. Two steps from me he finished belatedly, “Good night,” unwillingly, as if he thought I didn’t deserve it but couldn’t bring himself to leave without it.
With very much the same attitude, I sent softly after him the only thing that was really available for me to say at that point: “Good night.” And though I was a little annoyed and more agitated, I refrained from adding, “ahou,” tempted though I was.
A problem that started early and that I struggled with throughout this story was to keep both halves interesting without either one getting ahead of where I wanted it and revealing information I wanted very specifically timed. Hence scenes like Part 7 that are basically filler, though I tried at least to make sure they entertained and provided some food for thought.