Year of the Demon

wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive herself.

“Hey,” said Han, “you okay?”

“What?” Mariko paid only enough attention to know he was there. “Yeah,” she said distantly, “I’m fine.”

Han clapped her on the shoulder. “This was a win, Mariko. Come on, we’ve got a crazy-ass cult leader to interrogate.”

That snapped her out of her reverie. “He’s conscious?”

“Conscious? Hell, he’s walking around.”

It was impossible. Joko Daishi must have hit a hundred kilometers an hour by the time she ripped him off the bike. So when she saw him walking, a cop pushing him by his handcuffed wrists, the demon mask pushed up onto the top of his head, all she could say was, “You should be dead.”

He laughed—a good-natured laugh, amiable, not forced. “You cannot kill me. It is not yet my time.”

Han aped his laugh right back at him. “If you’d have landed on your head instead of your shoulders, it would have been your time, all right. We’ve got a couple of murders to pin on you—a kid named Shino and the little old lady whose house you killed him in—but when it comes time to charge you, I’ll make sure riding without a helmet makes the list.”

“I have seen the hour of my death,” said Joko Daishi, “and also the manner. I shall die by the sword.”

Mariko didn’t care if that was a biblical reference, a deliberate jab at her famed samurai showdown, or just the ramblings of a grade-one concussion. One way or the other, the guy was a nutcase.

He was smaller than she’d thought. He’d been downright terrifying on that motorcycle, his beard and hair streaming from his devil’s face as if his head were ablaze and trailing black smoke. He did not look at them when he spoke, but rather stared off into the distance, his tone reverent, as if there were a god in the room for him to talk to. Again Mariko reached the same conclusion: nutcase.

Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it until they’d walked him all the way to the wall. They put his shoulder blades against the dusty cinder blocks and made him sit, hands cuffed behind his back, and every last movement should have hurt like hell. He was lucky to be alive. He wore white clothes, loose but otherwise nondescript, certainly not padded like motorcycle leathers. Given how he’d landed off the bike, his entire back should have been in spasms.

Mariko could explain that away easily enough: his cult gave him easy access to kilos upon kilos of speed. He’d feel pain when he came down off his high, but not until. Yet he limped, an odd, rolling gait that couldn’t have come from Mariko’s high-speed takedown. If it wasn’t from pain, it must have been from a pre-existing injury, and Mariko would have sworn she’d seen that limp before.

Sudden insight flashed. She had seen it before, only a grainy image of it, on a low-fidelity security camera feed. “You’re the one who stole the mask,” she said.

“He is?” Han blurted.

“I saw him on the Bulldog’s security camera tape. He walked right past us to steal that mask from Kamaguchi Hanzo. Dressed head to toe in SWAT armor, remember?” She rounded on Joko Daishi. “That was a nice touch.”

“There is no place the Wind cannot reach,” he said.

“And I’m guessing you’re the same son of a bitch who broke into my apartment and stole my sword.”

He responded with an eerie, peeping-through-the-window kind of smile that gave Mariko the creeps. She’d been eyed up and down like a piece of meat before. Guys did that all the time, responding with an “I’d hit that” smile when they liked what they saw. This wasn’t like that. This was the smile of a serial rapist, one who was willing to kidnap and batter and bury alive because he didn’t really understand that other human beings were real. The “I’d hit that” guys viewed women as sex toys; Joko Daishi saw people as children’s toys: fascinating in their own way, but hollow, incapable of pain or fear, worth only as much as he valued them. And he had watched Mariko in her sleep.

Chills washed over Mariko like an icy wave, raising goose bumps all over her body. A vision flashed in her mind: Joko Daishi looming over her bed, silent, ghostly, masked behind the iron face of a demon. He had the sinister patience of a stalker, an invisible, disquieting, perpetual presence. It was every woman’s deepest dread: the ex-boyfriend who would never relent, never disappear, never let her go.

“Is that true?” Han demanded, snapping Mariko out of her nightmare. “Did you break into my partner’s apartment?”

There was that smile again. “There is no place the Wind cannot reach.”

“The same goes for the Kamaguchi-gumi,” Mariko said, feigning a cocksure confidence she did not feel. “Remember that sword you saw yourself dying on? The Bulldog’s going to be the one who rams it through your chest.”

“Kamaguchi did not respond quickly enough for our needs. The New Year approaches. The appointed hour is at hand. Securing the mask was necessary to usher in the Year of the Demon.”

Mariko and Han shared a glance. He could see in her what she saw in him: this man scared the hell out of both of them. But rather than revealing that fact, Han said, “Is this dude turning you on?”

“Big-time.”

Turning to their suspect, Han said, “See how that big loading dock door is open and we’re not freezing our balls off? That’s because it’s summer out there. We’ve got a few months until New Year’s, buddy.”

Mariko remembered the calendars in the basement where they found Shino. She wasn’t able to make much sense of them at the time, but she did remember that they seemed to be based on planetary cycles, not the Chinese or Western calendars. Not that it mattered. For all she cared, he could hang his pretty calendars in his rubber room in the asylum. In any case, she had bigger fish to fry. “I want you to tell me where the MDA is,” she said.

He blinked. Frowning, confused, he said, “I cannot help you.”

“MDA,” Han said. “Psychedelic amphetamines. You know how to cook them—or your people do anyway. Maybe your boy Akahata, neh?”

“Akahata-san is a servant of the Purging Fire,” said Joko Daishi. “He carries out his divine duty.”

“Right now?” Mariko felt something cramp up in her as she said it. Had she executed her sting more professionally, Akahata wouldn’t have escaped. C-team hadn’t been in position. Mariko wondered if she should have waited for SWAT after all.

“You cannot stop him,” Joko Daishi said. “He is bound on his holy errand.”

“And what might that be?” said Mariko.

“Purging society of its impurities.”

His serenity gave Mariko chills. “With MDA or with cyanide?” she said. “It’s both, isn’t it? How many people worship the great Joko Daishi? How many did you talk into following your path?”

“Do you even have the stones to follow it yourself?” said Han. “No. When we came, you tried to run. You’re not the type to go down with the ship, are you? You’re going to let all your people kill themselves and then you’re going to go recruit another batch.”

Joko Daishi cackled, not like a cartoon evil genius but like a little boy watching the cartoon. “You understand nothing. But soon you will. The Wind is coming. There is no place it cannot reach.”

Mariko inspected the table next to him. She saw nuts, bolts, rubber bands, all in little piles; sheets of foil, boxes of stainless steel BBs; duct tape, wire strippers, lengths of copper pipe. None of it was standard fare for making speed or Ecstasy. All in all it seemed less like a meth lab and more like the back room of a small appliance repair shop. And above it all, hanging on the wall, was another copy of that weird planetary calendar, just like the one from the house where they found Shino’s body. The calendar was all off—twenty-four months instead of twelve, ellipsoid instead of linear, festooned with astrological markers—but only one day was circled on it, and Mariko had a good guess about what that day might be: New Year’s Day of the Year of the Demon.

You understand nothing. That’s what Joko Daishi had said. It made Mariko think of the knowing laugh she’d heard from the lawyer, Hamaya Jiro, right before Han stormed out of that hospital room, right before Akahata slipped out of the TMPD’s grasp. She remembered with perfect clarity how that laugh had chilled her. That was the moment she realized the Divine Wind were dangerous. The cyanide cinched it. Coupled with her MDA theory, everything pointed to poisoned pills. A Jim Jones–style mass homicide, masked as a mass suicide. But Joko Daishi seemed sure that she and Han had it all wrong.