She wanted to call Han, to ask him . . . ask him what? To find the rest of the kids for her? Thousands of cops were already on it, with no success. Han couldn’t help her. She was on her own.
She parked the cart, traded up for the Beemer, and looked herself over in the mirror. She was sweating. The guard in the gatehouse would notice. She cranked the AC to full blast and sat there for as long as she could stand to sit still. That lasted less than a minute. Then she dabbed herself dry with a tissue and drove up to the gatehouse.
“Everything’s in order,” she said. “I want to speak with Joko Daishi. Do you think he’ll be with the first ones?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. But you’ll never get there in time. Once the purification starts, you can’t interrupt him. His sermon must be heard.”
Sermon? The last time she’d heard a sermon from Joko Daishi, it was about blowing up the Korakuen subway station—
Oh no.
The first ones weren’t First Ones, like his first disciples or first rank of priests or something. They were the first batch, the first kids to receive purification.
And Joko Daishi had already collected them in whatever passed for a church in the Divine Wind. Mariko and Han had shut down one of his “churches” already, back when they first brought him into custody. That was just an empty mattress store, which he’d converted into a bomb-making workshop. It was abandoned now. She’d find no leads there.
Her phone buzzed. She glimpsed at it and saw a text from Han. It said get out NOW. Even via text, they shared a thought pattern that verged on telepathy. He wasn’t one of those people who said now when they meant soon. If he was texting, not calling, it was because unwelcome ears were nearby. That meant he had a bunch of cops in tow and they were right around the corner. Even as she peered down at the phone, she heard the first of the helicopters.
She wanted to squeeze the gate guard for more information, but there just wasn’t time. She peeled away, hit the street, and made her first turn just as the armored SWAT van rounded the corner. She was safe.
But the kids weren’t. They’d never heard of the three-hour rule. They had no way of knowing their three hours were up. Wherever this new church was, hundreds of children were waiting like lambs for the sacrificial knife. Joko Daishi was heading straight for them, and Mariko didn’t have a damn clue where to find him.
BOOK TEN
AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA PERIOD, THE YEAR 21
(1588 CE)
44
Just as he expected, Shichio found the teahouse far more beautiful than the waterfall behind it. Yes, the cascade and its pool were picturesque, but that only accentuated the artistry of the carpenter who built the teahouse. His first masterstroke was the choice of location. Like the largest stones in a rock garden, the teahouse could not be placed just anywhere—or rather, it could be, but only by a witless cretin with no appreciation for composition. Finding just the right setting, and then just the right size, the right shape, the right facing, then choosing the angle of the roof, the thickness of the beams and joists, even the age of the wood—there were a hundred decisions to be made before anyone ever picked up a saw.
Shichio had stopped in the hamlet at the mouth of the narrow valley to make inquiries about the teahouse. If the villagers had it right, it was built over a century ago by the Zen master Ikkyu. If so, then the tiny house was a testament to his satori. A hundred decisions, a hundred perfect choices made by an enlightened mind. Constant spray from the falls might have led to mildew, but instead the interior smelled only of the red cedar planking. The wood had grayed with age, but Shichio suspected fall colors would bring out the red. He vowed to come back and see for himself—perhaps on his triumphant return to Kyoto, after Nene and the Bear Cub were dead and he could put all of his nightmares behind him.
Perhaps he could even rid himself of his dreaded, beloved mask. At the moment he held it in one hand, stroking it with his thumb. The better part of him wanted to throw it in the pool and never think of it again. But it was the smaller voice that held