IWATA LEFT THE MEISHIN EXPRESSWAY, switching on to the Tomei for Tokyo. He kept his eyes on his lane, not looking beyond the cones of light on either side of the road. Though his head ached badly and he needed sleep, Iwata sensed a change coming. He turned on the radio and heard a young man laughing modestly.
“No, of course I don’t see myself that way. I don’t even see myself as a particularly worthy man. I’m only interested in personal growth. If I have started something which helps people to achieve their own growth, then I’m very happy. But guru? No, certainly not. I’m just a man conscious of the emptiness inside people. The uncertainty that gnaws away. The doubt that presses down. And I’m interested in talking about that. I’m interested in clarity and well-being. And, above all, I’m interested in people.”
“If you’re just joining us, tonight’s guest is Akira Anzai, interim leader of controversial and much-discussed spirituality group, Theta. As ever, we want to hear from you. Mr. Anzai is happy to take questions. Our number is—”
Iwata switched the radio off and, on a whim, dialed the number for the Shibuya Police Station armory. After a long while, an old voice answered uncertainly.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Nakata, it’s Iwata from this morning.”
“Yes, I remember you. I don’t get many phone calls down here.”
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor. I need the address of a colleague.”
“I have access to those records. Who are you looking for?”
“Inspector Akashi.” Iwata said the name casually.
Nakata paused and Iwata could hear Mahler softly playing in the background.
“Hideo Akashi?”
“That’s right.”
“… One moment, please.”
Iwata heard a metallic clank of a filing cabinet before the old man came back on the line.
“Do you have a pen?”
Iwata jotted down the address and thanked Nakata warmly. He programmed it into his satellite navigation system and saw that Akashi had lived almost an hour outside of Tokyo, in Chiba.
Iwata made the turning and a few moments later, his phone started to ring.
“Are you at home?”
“I’m driving, Sakai.”
“Where?”
“Just going for a drive.”
“A drive. Sure. With no particular destination, I presume.”
“Why, are you lonely or something?”
“Dream on, dickhead. Anyway, I already have a man in my life.”
Iwata leaned forward.
“Kiyota?”
“The very same. Well, I have a good lead at least. Nippon Kumiai hadn’t seen him in weeks but the asshole has a fourteen-year-old girlfriend—Asako Ozaki. I’m betting that’s the girl Tsunemasa Kaneshiro’s colleague was talking about harassing him. We find her, we find Kiyota.”
“Great work, Sakai.”
“Gee, thanks.”
* * *
A bleak, foggy day was dawning as Iwata reached Chiba. The GPS had guided him to a large, empty space strewn with litter. Building sites in the distance had been abandoned. A half-completed highway overpass ran south. To the east, several derelict structures stood isolated. The wind blew through a silent pachinko parlor. An empty business center was falling apart, unsold houses were being consumed by weeds. Life had been intended here but it had not taken root. To the north, a few kilometers away, Iwata saw rusty train tracks. The land was flat and brown, stretching out into a prosaic distance. Crows flapped up from the mud into the thick fog.
Iwata double-checked the address. He got out of the car and noticed a dirt track leading away from the road to the center of a desolate field. Squinting through the mist, he saw a jagged shape. Iwata walked toward it uncertainly. At the end of the path, the fog relented and he saw the burned-out wreckage of a small cottage. A simple brick foundation was still standing but the wood and plaster had been devoured by flame. Only a spindly black framework remained like scorched bones in a pyre. Iwata smelled the burning—a stench that would never fade. Local police had erected a sign warning off passersby. Iwata knew they would have figured this for a simple delinquency.
He went through the space where the door would have been, and the house caught its breath.
Pillars of light stabbed through the destroyed roof and rainwater leaked down the walls. Charred household objects quaked under Iwata. The merest of touches sent puffs of ash flaking up into the air. Strange objects made up the floor—twisted and distorted shapes, having lost all form trying to escape from the flames.
Iwata looked for improbable points of ignition at the front door and the exterior walls. He checked the plug sockets and sniffed surfaces for flammable liquids. He could not make out the origin of the fire. He looked for signs of drug use but found nothing.
He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home.
There was a sadness to this place. The house creaked quietly in the wind, glad to have been burned down. Iwata tried to picture a home here, he tried to see a life in this place—among the abandoned, the residuum, and the half-formed. He could not see Hideo Akashi living in such a place, beneath the highway overpass, in an old hut built on a muddy desolation. He tried to gauge the man’s frame of mind at the end.
Did the fog seep through your thin walls? Did it soak through your house and absorb your mind in the days before death? Did you go through the motions, saying what you were required to say? Did you feel relief as you jumped?
Iwata felt the loneliness of the dead man and a cutting sympathy for him. He had to crouch to get his breath back.
Whomever is delighted in solitude is a wild beast or a god.
Iwata filled his lungs resolutely and stood back up. And as he did, deep in the char, he saw something. Beneath drooping nails, burned wood, and twisted plastic, it glinted up at him. Iwata sunk his arm into the detritus and plucked it up. It was a small, glassy glob of amber—honey-like and hard. He blew ash from its surface and held it up to the light. Golden bubbles were captured inside it, minuscule termites and flecks of dirt preserved forever.
“What are you doing here?”
Iwata closed his eyes. Outside, he could hear something was coming.
When the wicked came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and they fell.
He pocketed the stone and stepped outside into the swirling gray fog. A rumbling grew near.
Iwata took several steps forward and heard a whining squeal.
The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid?
The fog turned pink now and headlights pierced the mist. A black car broke into view, traveling fast, already on him. Iwata reacted, struggling for balance as he dashed back to the house. The car was in touching distance but Iwata leaped through the window frame of the house. He heard a simultaneous metallic crunch into the bricks.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Iwata was on the floor, blood from his reopened head wound seeping into his eyes—a jagged pipe cutting into his ribs. He scrambled to his feet and fell back down hard, a shooting pain in his ankle drawing a yelp from his throat. Iwata forced his head up and saw the car had crashed into the foundation of the house. Blood dripped loudly from his nose into his lap. It sounded like applause. Stark headlights bathed the wreck of the house and exhaust mixed in with the fog. A car trying to get into a house, it seemed almost comical. The car’s gears were grinding violently now. Iwata drew his gun and forced himself to stay on his feet. He squinted through the pungent smoke, trying to see the driver.
“Get out of the car with your back to me and your hands up!”
A moment of stillness and trembling. A silhouette through the smoke, watching Iwata.
Then the car shot off in reverse, the red lights shrinking in the gray. Iwata struggled out from the filth and hobbled away from the wreckage. He felt blood streaming down his ribs and face, his ankle was pounding—an interminable distance to the Isuzu. A brief sequence of blackouts punctuated his journey to the car. Then he was on the backseat, struggling with his phone. Iwata dialed Sakai’s number but she didn’t pick up. Gasping for breath, he called the emergency line and gave his ID.
“Black Honda 2010 Odyssey model … damage on the rear of vehicle…”
“Hello? Inspector? Hello?”
“Just attempted to run over a police inspector…”
“Hello? Inspector? Hello? Are you there, Iwata?”
Iwata could only see the dashboard clock, darkness and fireflies spreading across his vision.
Faltering breaths slowed.
His eyes closed.
Atomization.