The Oni, page 22
“Yeah. Lost an invasion of privacy suit.” He smiled. “How much is this stuff worth?”
Cooper’s shoulders sagged. I’ve blown it, she thought. Came on too strong. Let my instant dislike for Kura cloud my judgment.
“I’m not an expert in this field.”
“Put it this way: how much would the museum pay me to sign this and not make any waves? Ever since Shogun was on television, Japanese antiques have been hot. I’ll bet I could get a good price up around Twelfth Street.”
“I’m not empowered to negotiate.” Cooper struggled to conceal her dismay. Allison Zebar would give her a well-deserved tongue-lashing. Fortunately, Cooper had spent so much of the afternoon tracking down Kura that it was too late today to return to the museum. She wouldn’t have to face the silver-haired woman until morning.
That damned paper! It wasn’t even the real purpose of her visit, only an excuse. Cooper was beginning to wonder exactly what that real purpose was.
She wanted to drop the subject. Instead, she found herself saying, “There’s a legend tied to some of those relics.”
Kura shrugged. “Something about a demon and an iron sword. My old man never really went into it.”
“The demon was supposedly imprisoned by your ancestor, thirteen hundred years ago.” Briefly, Cooper outlined the tale that Nakato had told her, concluding. “The iron sword was crafted specifically to slay the oni. Your family was entrusted with guardianship of both weapon and prison.”
“You know more about it than I.” Kura slid back on the platform and sat cross-legged. “My old man wouldn’t talk about the past. Or the future, for that matter. At his funeral, a friend of his told me how he’d spent World War II in an American relocation camp. From that time on, he only spoke of the immediate present.”
“Yet a few months before his death, he was ready to go to court to reclaim these ancestral goods.”
Kura scratched his ear. “Yeah, I thought that was weird at the time.”
“Perhaps he knew he was dying. This was his last chance to make amends to his ancestors.” Let it go, Francine, she told herself. Why don’t you let it go?
Kura nodded. “Maybe that’s it. I know a few old Nisei like that. Like the line about there being no atheists in foxholes?”
“I’ve never been convinced of that,” Cooper replied.
The photographer refolded the release and skimmed it to the rear of the platform. “Tell you what, Franny. Give me your phone number and I’ll let you know. Okay?”
Cooper’s lips thinned to invisibility. “No one calls me Franny, ever. It’s Francine. Sometimes Fran. In your case, Mrs. Cooper will do.”
Kura leered and tugged at the waistband of his trunks, pulling the suit up over the roll of flesh. The bulge at his groin grew more pronounced.
“That’s almost a challenge, Mrs. Cooper.”
“You scumbag!” Jennifer screamed as she stepped in front of the curtain. Her mint-green down jacket billowed over matching ski pants and sweater. She struggled to get her knapsack’s straps over her shoulders, snagging a strand of red hair.
Kura turned, face sagging. Cooper noted the deep hollows around his eyes.
“Hey, Jen, come on. I’m just kidding around.”
“That’s all you ever do, Andy.”
“Where are you going? The session’s not over yet.”
“My session with you is over, for good. It’s not enough for you that I pass up paying jobs to pose gratis so you can build up a new portfolio, or that I have to nurse you through screaming nightmares and watch you gulp uppers by the handful and choke on your lousy nicotine habit and put up with your constant pawing! You have to grope this bimbo right in front of me! After you insult me to her, like I wasn’t even standing here. I’m not deaf, Andy, though you’re making a good try at that with your tapes at full volume.”
“I need that music to create.”
“Bullshit. You need it to blot out the real world, when you would be better off having your nose rubbed in it!”
Jenny adjusted the knapsack and strode in long steps to the huge double doors of the freight elevator. She yanked the bar aside, cursing when she broke a fingernail. The doors flew apart with a vibrant clang. Cold air rushed up through the gap, penetrating even the circle of light, cooling the sweat on Kura’s neck and back. He leapt from the platform and started after her. The chill slowed him down.
Jenny glared at the stocky photographer and pointedly threw a switch. The elevator groaned and jerked into motion.
“My tits are too small?” she shouted up the shaft. “Go fuck a cow!”
Kura reached the double doors. He glared down, spat, and slammed them shut.
“Temperamental bitch,” he muttered. “Damn! I’ll have to walk down.”
Cooper had slipped her coat back on and was buttoning it. “Tact is not your strong point, is it, Mr. Kura?” She picked up her purse and manila envelope.
“Not when I can’t think straight.” His eyes narrowed. He owed this woman no explanations. “Are you leaving, too?”
“I don’t see what I’d gain by staying.”
“The least you can do is fill in for Jen for the next hour. It’s your fault she ran out.” A corner of his mouth curled upwards. “I don’t know if you can squeeze into her bikini, but I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m sure you would, you dirty little boy,” Cooper said, fully aware the man was no more than five years her junior. “I have more important tasks than providing you with wet-dream material.”
“Damn it, you owe me. I won’t let you leave.” Kura moved toward her, arms and legs spread widely, a parody of a sumo wrestler.
Cooper raised an eyebrow. “How’s the wrist feel?”
Kura glanced at his right arm. The muscles still ached dully. Cooper passed within arm’s length of him and then through the door to the ill-lit stairwell. He did not lift a finger.
On the landing, framed in the open doorway, Cooper turned.
“By the way. Do you still have the documentary proof your father used to establish ownership?”
Kura shook his head, eyes fogging. “I burned them. I like to travel light.”
Cooper chuckled. He seemed to have managed to do that quite well in the intelligence department. “In that case, I won’t be bothering you again, Mr. Kura. I doubt we’ll need that release, after all.”
That bluff ought to deflate his balloon a bit, Cooper thought smugly. She descended as quickly as caution and dignity permitted. A genealogy could be reconstructed, and in a legal test the museum would have to yield its copy, but Andrew Kura might not realize that.
Considering that Francine Cooper had apparently wasted the entire day running around New York, had committed herself to several hours of unpaid research of the dreariest sort, and was about to battle her way through early rush hour crowds to reach the room on West Seventieth Street, she felt curiously at ease with the world. The paralyzing numbness that had infected her for most of the previous day had been purged from her system, and her talk with old friend Jiro Nakato helped put things into perspective.
Cooper began to realize that her attempt to “clear” her daughter was an excuse for busy work, something to occupy her conscious mind while her subconscious dealt with the shock of her grief. It was the same trick she’d used when her husband had been killed in a guerilla raid in Southeast Asia, more than a decade ago. She’d kept pressing for details, reports, every scrap of information she could dig up until, finally, she’d done all she could, and the pain became bearable. Cooper’s mother had never had that knack of coping; she’d carried the death of Cooper’s father, in the last days of World War II, like a cross, and when her only child also became a wartime widow, the flood of memories killed her. The fatal stroke must have seemed quite a convenience to her.
Cooper had done all she could to find out about Lynda’s death, and she was glad to be free of the burden. She was also glad that she didn’t have to spend any more time on Andrew Kura, the has-been photographer.
As she stepped out onto the narrow sidewalk, it did not seem that she could possibly be mistaken.
CHAPTER 41
An unmarked patrol car stood facing south along the park side of Riverside Drive. In the front passenger seat. Lieutenant Amos Foster gazed sourly out the side window. Beyond the web of naked branches and the lights of the elevated Henry Hudson Parkway that sliced the park lengthwise, behind the Palisades on the opposite shore of the river, the last dull glow of daylight was fading.
A raw wind blew off the Hudson River, carrying muted sounds of parkway traffic as it seeped around the car and through the partially rolled-down window on the driver’s side. With it came the dry odor usually associated with an impending snowfall. Foster rubbed his gloveless hands together and blew on them for warmth. The car heater, beneath the dashboard, roasted his kneecaps.
He turned to the windshield. Half a block down, a medium-sized, unremarkable-looking man stood by an entrance to the park, apparently walking his German shepherd. His long gray overcoat flapped around his shins. The dog did not pull at his leash, but patiently awaited the man’s decision to move. Only the man’s left hand, with the end of the leash wrapped around it, was visible. The right hand sat deep in a wide coat pocket. Too deep. Foster knew there was no lining to that pocket. The coat hung loosely to mask the shotgun clutched beneath it.
Nightfall.
Foster caught the waiting man’s eye and nodded once. Without outwardly acknowledging the gesture, the man in gray tugged on his leash. Dog and man started into the park. They were soon swallowed in gloom.
That was the cue for others to begin their patrols. Each man and woman carried a walkie-talkie, but Riverside Park was riddled with radio dead spots. It was safer to use signals whenever possible rather than grow too dependent on a device that might fail at a crucial moment.
In addition to the uniformed officers normally assigned to cover this park, a score of plainclothes-men stalked asphalt paths between West Ninety-First Street and the park’s southern boundary at West Seventy-Second. Most were volunteers from the Street Crime Unit. They all could well be wasting their time. The killer might not strike again tonight. If he did, he might strike north of the stakeout area, or outside of the park altogether. But they had to start somewhere. Foster had only a sketchy, two-day pattern to go on, until something new turned up.
Something new meant another murder.
“Let him try it tonight,” Foster muttered through stiff lips. “We’re ready for him.”
The door on the driver’s side clicked and swung open. Foster turned his head. His hand darted beneath his coat to touch the .38 revolver in its shoulder holster.
“Talking to yourself again, Amos?” A ruddy, horse-faced man slid onto the cold leather seat. He hugged a plain brown bag to his chest.
Foster grunted. “I meet a better class of people.” He took his hand out, empty, and thrust it toward Sergeant Evans. “Give.”
“Don’t spill it on your foot.”
“Can’t tell you anything, can I?”
Steaming warmth helped thaw his fingers.
“Goddamn.” Evans screwed up his face when he peeled off the lid of his own coffee container. “I asked for two black. They put cream in yours, too?”
“Doesn’t matter. Think I’ll just hold it. You called the hospital?”
“Can’t tell you anything, either. Yeah, I called. They’re pretty sure now that they can save Carver’s sight. Eyes heal fast. Of course, it’ll be months before the Department puts him on a beat again.”
Foster smiled. “Good. The rookie gets a vacation, and I get a partner who can concentrate on tonight’s stake-out instead of blaming himself for something that isn’t his fault. Right?”
“That cuts two ways.” Evans took a noisy sip. “Faugh! Sugar, too!” He swallowed half of the beige liquid at a gulp. “Did I miss anything?”
“Sun went down. Troops are moving.”
“I noticed. Got some bad news for you. I ran into Diehl at the counter.”
“Ouch.” Foster rubbed his forehead, although his afternoon headache had vanished as soon as he’d come on duty. “Damned reporters. Well, somebody besides us had to connect the murders, no matter how tightly we screwed on the lid. Anyone else?”
“A photographer I don’t know. Must be new on the staff. That’s all. Of course, the night is young.”
“Last chance for the 1982 Pulitzer. Think they know anything hot?”
“I didn’t ask. That would have clinched it for them.”
Foster stifled a yawn. “Probably doesn’t make any difference. The rag Diehl works for, if they can’t find a story to sensationalize, they’ll invent one.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and grab this nut tonight before New York even knows he’s running loose, eh? Make your mayor look real good!”
“I hope so, Joe, and not just to give the man in Gracie Mansion another crack at the governorship.” Foster snapped off the lid on his coffee, sipped, pursed his lips and sealed the container again. Holding it on his lap with both hands, he stared moodily into the deepening shadows of Riverside Park. “I hope so.”
He woke puzzled and dissatisfied. For the second day in a row, unbidden sleep had overcome him. The terror he’d inflicted these past two nights should have strengthened him, just as hatred had nourished him through his thirteen-hundred-year confinement. He did, in fact, feel much more vital than when he’d first broken free. No one would crawl away from one of his blows now! He was master!
Still, the spells of narcotism could not be shrugged off. They might bode ill for his plans of conquest.
His mind was not a subtle one. The fact that thirteen and a third centuries of total darkness might have left him leery of direct daylight did not occur to him, although he well knew of his kind’s natural affinity for cave-dwelling. The possibility that refusing even to acknowledge this state could erect a psychological block in his primitive brain driving him to retire well before dawn—he would consider this laughable, were it not beyond his comprehension. Instead, he thought the fault might lie with the release of his sexual passions, draining him, sating him. He had grown unused to such excesses.
Easy enough to find out! After more than a thousand years of celibacy, he would manage a few nights by way of experiment.
He leapt from his hiding place. His size was tripled before his three-toed feet touched the ground, and did not slacken its rate of increase. Thin white frost rimed the stone walls on either side of the underpass. Tonight he set himself a task beyond mere exploration: a search for a more suitable dwelling place. These caves near the river were wide open on either end, and most were barely deep enough for their own shadows. He’d noticed some smaller, better insulated caves with open pits for entrances, but rushing water gurgled through these. He could not drown, but suddenly to be dragged out to sea by an underground stream would be inconvenient.
He turned away from the river. The east held more promise for his quest. Woe to the fisherfolk who crossed his path this chilly winter night!
The German shepherd stopped in the center of the path. Limbs stiffened. Flanks heaved. Ears flattened against the skull. There was a wrongness here, an odor so elementally aberrant that it undermined the animal’s training. Discipline called for silent tracking. The dog’s growling was low, from deep in the throat—low, but audible.
“What is it, boy?” whispered the man in the gray coat. His only reply was an increasing uneasiness. The rapport between man and beast, so useful in normal investigations, now only fostered mutual disquietude.
The detective’s fingers tightened on the shotgun’s trigger guard.
In the shadows ahead, a few paces before the parkway underpass, dead brush rustled.
The weapon rose beneath the coat until its barrel protruded from a gap between two buttons, even with the man’s navel.
He snapped off an elm branch as thick as an ordinary man’s leg. Swinging it, he shattered several lesser branches. A serviceable club. He returned to the asphalt. Pathways meant little to him, but they meant a great deal to the peasantry on whom he wished to test his new weapon.
He glanced up. For the first time, he had a view due east unobstructed by highway underpasses or thick clumps of nearby trees.
His brutal eyes widened in amazement. Mountains glimpsed dimly through drizzle the night before were not mountains at all. Squares of light dotted their tall, regular shapes, lights in the hundreds, the thousands! So bright they might consist of every candle in the empire! More extraordinary—within the glaring squares, occasional shadows moved. Familiar shapes. People!
The mountains were artificial constructs designed for habitation!
No simple fishing village boasted so many imposing castles. He had to be in the very capital of the empire … perhaps of the world!
Here were lodgings worthy of his rank. To start, he need oust but one clan and intimidate the retainers to do his bidding. He would have a readymade headquarters. He felt a niggling reluctance to tie himself to a surface dwelling, but he paid it no need. Once his rule was firmly established, he could live where he pleased.
His three-toed feet scraped along the hard, black asphalt.
Suddenly there was a man barring his way, and some sort of animal as well. A dog, apparently, though he’d never seen one quite that large. He roared challenge, rushing forward. He also added a few hand’s-breadths to his considerable height, to be sure.
A thunderclap ripped the air. His side burned. As his free hand grasped at the hole from which black ichor slowly leaked, animal fangs tore at his left calf.
He forgot the wound and roared again, exulting in the promise of battle. His own weapon came into play.
Amos Foster pushed open the car door far enough to dump his nearly full cup of coffee into the gutter. Evans tossed his own container out the half-opened window. A second report shattered the night.
“Both barrels,” Evans observed, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel.
“Move it!” Foster barked.
The unmarked patrol car came to life, headlights blazing. Evans turned sharply and jolted over the curb. Tires squealed protests. Foster flipped on the siren and slapped a switch to start the rotating red beacon on the roof. As they sped down twisting, narrow paths, the flashing crimson light played eerily on leafless elms and denuded underbrush, giving the illusion of a forest fire.
