The Gate of Sorrows Read online

  Kotaro’s first task on returning home was to give Asako his cover story. He’d told her in the morning that he’d be home late, but with this new murder by the Toe-Fetish Killer, his schedule had changed suddenly. He’d have to be back at the office by ten, and he’d be there all night.

  Then, in the privacy of his room, he had stuffed his backpack with everything he thought he might need, including his flashlight and digital camera. He’d be watching the statue until morning. It would be freezing. A sleeping bag would’ve been perfect, but he didn’t have one. He’d just have to dress as warmly as he could.

  The real problem was—what if he couldn’t get inside? He needed a tool to open the back door.

  A crowbar. He’d once seen a news special about a ring of burglars that used them to lever open locked doors. He could borrow the crowbar that was sitting in the garage on his way out. At this time of year, his father was out every evening at New Year’s parties. He wouldn’t miss it for one night.

  Kotaro’s mind kept flitting from one thought to another. There was no way a monster like the one Mana had drawn could be real. If so, someone was pretending to be a monster. Why such an elaborate deception? Abducting homeless people—if that was the goal—wouldn’t be much more difficult than what the kids Kenji had been monitoring were doing.

  It was a strangely elaborate piece of performance art. If it weren’t for the missing people, it could easily be a reality TV prank.

  Kotaro’s research suggested that the tea caddy building had been abandoned because it couldn’t be sold. There was a conflict of ownership. Maybe someone was staging this whole thing to drive the building’s value down and force another party to relinquish their claim. But in that case, it would make sense to do something more conspicuous, more outrageous. Maybe the abductions were a warning of some kind? If so, it was a very roundabout way of sending a warning.

  Or perhaps it was some kind of copycat thing, re-creating or restaging some story. Kotaro had searched for something similar on a website devoted to summaries of serialized comics and movies dealing with winged monsters that terrorized cities by night, attacking people. His search returned—sure enough—Mothman and even pterodactyls, but no gargoyles. A humanoid creature with wings? That would be vampires.

  Vampires?

  Kotaro felt a flicker of fear. What if he got inside the building and found the corpses of the homeless people piled up and sucked dry of blood?

  C’mon, man, get a grip.

  He went downstairs at seven. Kazumi was just getting home. The tournament was approaching, and she was practicing every day before the new term began.

  On New Year’s Day, Kotaro had visited the Sonois to offer his greetings. Mika had seemed cheerful and happy. The feeling in the household had been warm, and Aunt Hanako had been in a good mood. Kotaro half-thought he might be able to pick up some fresh information about Mika’s problem, but what he saw put him at ease. Just as her mother had predicted, the worst seemed to be past and the problem was dying down. Which basically meant it was solved.

  “Hey, you’re home,” Kotaro said. Kazumi ignored him. For a girl of her age, an older brother ranked lower than an insect.

  “How’s Mika?”

  Kazumi padded off toward the bathroom, radiating an aura that declared, Can’t you see I’m tired and in a bad mood? As she went down the hall she half-turned and spat out, “You saw her at New Year’s.”

  “That was then.”

  “It was last week. What day is it, anyway?”

  “Fine, forget it.”

  Asako didn’t take her eyes off the TV all through dinner. She kept talking about what a terrible crime it was and how the world was getting worse and worse, but for all that she seemed to have a terrific appetite.

  The crime absorbed her attention. She worried about the victim’s family and hoped for a solution as soon as possible. Most people watching the news right now were probably feeling the same thing, and like most of them, Asako Mishima wasn’t unusually curious about homicides, nor was she impetuous or unusually tenderhearted.

  Yet to Kotaro—preoccupied as he was with Kenji’s whereabouts—there was something ugly about his mother’s interest in the crime. She might feel sympathy for the victims, but there was something about the crime that was intoxicating. And she was enjoying it.

  Kazumi had showered before dinner. Now she ate in sullen silence with a towel wrapped around her head.

  “Your father will be home tomorrow. I’ll be making something special. When are you planning to come home, Ko-chan?”

  Kotaro wasn’t sure what condition he’d be in at this time the next day, but it was no time to spoil his mother’s mood.

  “I’ll probably be home by dinner.”

  “You’re going to stay up all night and then go straight to class? Well, your studies are more important than that job of yours,” Asako said pointedly and stared at Kotaro. “Making a student work all night? I can’t say I appreciate what Kumar is doing.”

  “Come on, Mom. Cyberspace doesn’t go to bed when the sun goes down.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

  “We’re like security guards. Sometimes we have night duty. What’s the problem? I’m getting some good experience.”

  Kazumi pushed her empty plate away and left the table. After she went upstairs, Asako lowered her voice. “Do you think something happened at practice?”

  “She’s got a competition coming up. She’s just on edge.”

  “Are you going to take a bath before you stay up all night?”

  “No. I’d probably just catch a cold.”

  “Well at least change your underwear, for heaven’s sake.”

  For a moment Kotaro felt a pang of guilt about lying to his mother. He also found himself thinking she was a pain in the neck.

  With his bulging backpack slung over his shoulder, he crept into the garage and opened the toolbox. The straight crowbar was right on top. If he tried walking around Shinjuku at night with this thing in his hand—or sticking out of his backpack—he’d have company very quickly in the form of an officer of the law. He vacillated, wondering what to do, and finally decided to slip it into an umbrella case his mother had picked up for a hundred yen at a thrift store.

  He rode his bicycle to the station with the case bungeed to the frame. The train into the city had few passengers and was cozily warm. The heat coming up from the vents below the seats made him sleepy. As he sat half-drowsing, Kotaro almost wondered if his plan to break into the building was just a dream.

  A monster with wings …

  Mana’s upraised finger …

  He got off in Shinjuku and navigated his way to the ticket gate through the throngs of people who packed the station every day of the week, night and day, rain or shine.

  Shinjuku. Bright lights, dark corners, trendy and vulgar, vibrant and decrepit, throbbing with life and on its last legs. This entertainment district of entertainment districts, with everything ever found in any entertainment district anywhere, was impossible to categorize.

  Kotaro’s path from the station to the tea caddy building was in the opposite direction from the one he’d taken yesterday from Asashi House. Away from the bustle of the station, Shinjuku’s quiet neighborhoods were packed with residences along narrow streets. Kotaro could feel the life of the city pulsing around him.

  The power was still off at the tea caddy building. The blackness around the building was complete. An island of darkness like this was hard to find in the city.

  Kotaro’s heart beat faster. He was walking faster now, too, with the same rhythm.

  When he’d checked out the building in daylight with Masao, they’d both been astonished by the strange barricade blocking street access to the service entrance. Masao had conjectured that it might have something to do with a suspicious fire some time before.

>   There was no barrier facing the main entrance. The double doors were easy enough to approach, though not to go through. They were locked and secured with a thick padlocked chain.

  By walking between the building and a low cinder-block wall, Kotaro had been able to reach the back of the building and the service entrance, but the path was so narrow he’d had to traverse it by walking half-sideways. Masao didn’t even try. He was not only too large, his paunch was too big.

  The service entrance had also been locked. At least there’d been no security cameras or visible alarm systems.

  He took the same route around the side of the building to the back door. It was five past ten, slightly later than he’d planned.

  The street beyond the barricade was quiet. Many of the eateries were already closed for the evening. Still, it would be hard to explain what he was doing here if someone noticed him. He crouched low and breathed with his mouth open.

  The break-in technique he’d seen on the news required brute force. At the end of the process, the door would be twisted completely out of shape.

  Am I strong enough to pry this open?

  Kotaro suddenly remembered what his father used to say about people who tried to replicate things they saw on television: that they were idiots. Kotaro wasn’t here to steal anything, but the thought of what he was about to do made him feel scared, and guilty too.

  He pulled the crowbar from the umbrella case and gripped it with both hands. It felt cold and hard even through his gloved hands. Which side of the door was he supposed to attack? The one with the hinges? Or the knob side? The door had looked fairly strong in daylight—

  It was unlocked.

  Kotaro felt his heart shrink, climb up his throat into the top of his skull, take over from his brain, and begin pounding like a drum.

  He’d guessed right. People were using the building at night.

  He gave the door an exploratory push. It opened about eight inches. He could see the darkness within.

  A car approached on the road behind him. He ducked quickly. The car seemed to have its windows open in the middle of winter. The sound system was playing music with a heavy beat. The car passed and the beat faded.

  Kotaro could hardly breathe. He was sure someone would see him if he stood up. He got on his hands and knees, poked his head through the door, and pushed it open with his shoulder.

  The tea caddy building. Officially known as the West Shinjuku Central Round Building. Current tenants: darkness, dust, and mold. The smell was sharp in his nostrils.

  Inside, he rose to his knees and shoved the door closed with his shoulder. It shut with a metallic bang.

  The first floor was round like the building itself. Small windows ran along the wall near the ceiling, letting in just enough light to see. Few neighborhoods in Tokyo were without streetlamps. Funny how one never noticed them in the daytime, but they were indispensable at night.

  From the outside, the building had looked like it would be pitch-black inside. Kotaro was relieved to find it wasn’t quite that dark, but the dimness was more than a little spooky. The broad round space seemed empty of furniture and fixtures. It was clean. Maybe the room had been stripped of damaged items after the fire.

  A stairway followed the curve of the north wall to the upper floor. Very convenient. He wouldn’t have to waste time looking for a way up.

  He adjusted the pack on his back and shoved his flashlight into the pocket of his down jacket. With the crowbar in his right hand, he headed toward the stairs.

  Up the steps—a gentle gradient. The smell of mold was so strong that he started breathing through his mouth. Even inside the building, he could see his exhalations steaming out before him.

  Was there a draft? He sensed cold air flowing over the tip of his nose. There was a window open somewhere. That meant someone was upstairs.

  Second floor. The windows here were larger than on the first floor, yet it was darker. Why? Maybe the streetlamps outside were in the wrong location to shine in?

  He switched the bar to his left hand, got his flashlight out and clicked it on. A circle of light fell on the floor. He saw someone’s leg and panicked, then quickly realized it was the leg of a table. He almost laughed out loud. A round table. Two, in fact. Toward the back wall, a counter. It almost looked like a café.

  He leaned against the wall and tried to calm his breathing. He opened his ears. Maybe he could catch a clue—something moving, a person’s voice, the sound of the wind.

  He felt the same draft moving past the tip of his nose. It was coming down from above.

  He switched off the flashlight and kept climbing. Until now he’d been walking up the center of the stairs. Too risky. He moved to the left, close to the wall, his back half-rubbing against it as he moved upward, one careful step at a time.

  The third floor was even darker. Nothing was visible beyond the landing. The darkness was a solid mass. It’s because I’m above the streetlights, he thought. Or maybe it’s something else?

  His heart still occupied the space where his brain was supposed to be, and it was starting to hammer again. With each beat, he flashed back to the scene he’d pictured earlier—mounds of bloodless corpses. White faces. Legs and arms sprawled in all directions.

  His imagination was working overtime. He toggled the flashlight on and saw why the floor was so dark. A partition wall divided it, cutting off any light from that side of the building. The area beyond looked like it was designed to be lived in.

  This is the floor where somebody died.

  The lover, or ex-lover, of the young mogul who owned the building had died here under strange circumstances. There was something on the web about how she may have killed herself, but someone had managed to block any investigation.

  He played the circle of light around the room and saw nothing of special interest on the floor or the walls or the ceiling. Just an empty building. An empty, unused room—

  Were those footsteps over his head?

  He stepped into the lee of the nearby door, killed the flashlight, and stood there rooted to the floor.

  Four floors. One more to go. If I don’t keep going, this whole visit is wasted.

  He climbed stiffly, flashlight pointed at his feet, dragging his back against the wall so hard that it was difficult to move forward.

  Fourth floor and more darkness. The cold was deep here. Outdoor air was clearly coming in from somewhere.

  The first thing he saw in the beam of his flashlight was a heavy door. Another living area? No, the area behind the wall was too small for that.

  He traversed the room with the beam. His breath caught in his throat.

  A ladder. It led to a hatch in the ceiling. The hatch was closed, but not all the way. The ladder was designed to fold out and down from the ceiling at the pull of a cord.

  The draft was gone. That hatch must’ve been open. He slipped the backpack off and set it down slowly by his feet.

  Well, guess it’s time to climb up there. That’s where someone—

  No. He’s here.

  Kotaro turned. Something struck his left wrist. The crowbar clattered to the floor. The next instant his right arm seemed to vanish and then reappear, twisted behind his back. He flew face-first into the nearest wall, flattening his nose.

  “Ow!”

  He felt like a fool, but it was the only thing he could think to say. No one had manhandled Kotaro like this before, ever.

  “Ow! Cut it out!”

  Not only was his right arm twisted up behind his back, something long and hard was pressing down on both shoulder blades, keeping him from moving his left arm. All he could do was flop it uselessly. The side of his face was trying to merge with the wall. His left cheekbone and the bridge of his nose ground against the concrete.

  “What the hell are you doing? You’re hurting me!” It’s hard to yell out of one si
de of your mouth, but Kotaro did his best.

  He sensed the surprise of the person behind him.

  “What … you’re just a kid.” A gruff old voice. “Okay, who are you? What are you doing here?”

  I haven’t done anything wrong. Kotaro decided to take the good-offense route.

  “Tell me who you are first!”

  The voice over his shoulder was calm and unhurried. “I asked you first. What were you planning to do with this thing?” The bar pressed even harder against his back. Kotaro groaned. He’s got the crowbar.

  “Look, I’d really like to tell you. It would help if you’d back off a bit.”

  This was a good time to be polite. The man didn’t seem all that dangerous. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  “I’m not a kid, by the way. Well, I’m sort of a minor.”

  The man actually laughed. “Sort of? What kind of sort of?”

  “I mean, I—I’m a college student. I’m not a kid anymore. Maybe I’m one of those people who still needs a legal guardian or something.”

  “Where’s your ID?”

  “In my backpack.”

  “That doesn’t work for either of us.”

  “No, that doesn’t work at all. So, could you let me go?”

  “Why were you carrying this?”

  “I thought I’d pry the door open. The back door. But it was open already.”

  The man sighed. “I should’ve locked it.”

  I knew it. This guy has a key.

  “I wasn’t going to steal anything. I’m looking for someone.”

  “In here?”

  “Yes, another student. Like me.” It was hard for Kotaro to talk with his face and chest mashed against the wall. He paused to get some oxygen, but before he could go on, the man came back with a question.

  “Would his name be Morinaga?”

  Kotaro gagged with astonishment. “Yes!” he croaked.

  This old geezer knows Kenji!

  The pressure of the bar against his back went away. His right arm was free. He slid to a squatting position and gasped for breath between attacks of coughing.