smarter than a temper tantrum to persuade Captain Kusama. Or by signing on with Furukawa. There was no telling what might have happened if she’d joined the Wind. With their resources, maybe she could have—
No. There was no point in thinking that way. This was Joko Daishi’s fault. Not Mariko’s, though in theory she could have changed what happened. Not Shoji’s either, though she could have changed it too. Mariko understood that as an intellectual principle. But in her gut the guilt had such a crushing grip that she could hardly speak.
* * *
It was an hour before she could pull herself together—or if not together together, then at least together enough to manage a phone call. Furukawa picked up on the first ring.
“Here’s how this works,” Mariko said. “I team up with you long enough to bring down Joko Daishi. Not kill; I said bring down. As in arrest and arraign. Once he’s behind bars, we’re through. Understand?”
“I do,” he said.
“Then let’s start with you telling me how this goes. I’ve never worked in organized crime before.”
BOOK EIGHT
AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA PERIOD, THE YEAR 21
(1588 CE)
33
Fat, cold raindrops assaulted Katsushima Goemon like a thousand tiny arrows. The whistling wind gave them speed enough to sting.
They rattled against the oilcloth tarpaulin that he had draped over the top of his stolen wheelbarrow. It had been some time since he’d looked underneath, into the belly of the barrow. It was too dark, and even if it were not, he could not bear the sight of his friend’s sleeping face. He knew Daigoro wasn’t asleep.
Lightning flashed, illuminating his path. It was not much farther now. That was good; Goemon had lost so much blood that he was hardly able to stand. The barrow seemed to push back against him. When he left Daimatsu shrine, he’d headed first for the horses, but the mere sight of them was enough to dissuade him from riding. He was in no state to properly tack up a horse, much less to hoist himself into the saddle. Nor was he willing to simply heave Daigoro’s limp body over the back as if it were nothing more than a sack of rice. At least he could pretend his friend was a little more comfortable in the barrow, sheltered from the pelting rain.
Horseshoes clopped behind him, splashing in the puddles. He could not ride, but neither would he abandon his mount to be stolen. The horse deserved better than that, and so did Daigoro’s mare. He’d hitched one to the other, and he’d walk them all the way back to Izu if it came down to that. In truth Goemon’s horse didn’t even belong to him; he’d borrowed it from the Okuma stable, and he would see it returned home. If he lived that long.
At last he reached the gate of Oda Tomonosuke, who could hardly be called a friend. Closer to say Lord Oda owed a debt, one so deep that it was not wrong for Goemon to rouse the man from sleep on such a foul night.
He smashed his fist on the gate. It left trickles of blood in its wake. Goemon was no healer. He’d bound his many wounds as best he could, but the knots had loosened on his long walk, and now his bandages wept with red-tinged rainwater. That was why he’d come to call on the Odas. Their kenjutsu was the best in Ayuchi, and of necessity the best martial schools always employed skilled healers.
Goemon pounded the gate again and heard an irritated shout on the other side. The rain drowned out the words, but it was clear that someone was coming. When the gate opened, Goemon was surprised to see not a door warden, not a servant, but Oda Tomonosuke himself. He was not much older than Goemon, with stern, sunken eyes and the scraggly beginnings of a beard. His hair was a matted mess and his clothes were soaked through.
A quizzical frown wrinkled his face as he laid eyes on his visitor. “Do I know you?”
“You do, though it’s been a while,” Goemon said. “Twenty and thirty years ago we used to face each other in duels. Right over there, in your own dojo.”
“I fought many men in those days.”
“Your students will remember if you do not. I bested you every time. And three or four years ago, I fought your son to a standstill on the same ground.”
Oda’s owlish eyebrows drew together as he searched his memory. “Katsushima Goemon.”