Demon City Shinjuku: The Complete Edition (27 page)

They watched the car until it had become another dot on Shinjuku Avenue. Then crossed the bridge. Ahead of them awaited the resumption of the same old high school lives they had left three days before.

Kyoya said in a teasing voice, but looking ahead with a straight face, “Mephisto told me—you took out Suiki all by yourself. You're one scary woman.”

“Well—no—it was nothing like that.” Sayaka blushed.

“Nothing you have to apologize about.”

Kyoya grinned, but he couldn't see into her heart. What rose into her thoughts at that moment—the face of the man she loved—was not her father alone. But Kyoya as well.

Now it was his eyes that sparkled, a knowing smile coming to his lips.

“And what pleasant thing are
you
thinking about?” Sayaka asked coyly.

“Oh no, nothing at all,” he protested—though probably a bit too much.

He recalled the end of the famous fable, and the last thing to emerge from Pandora's Box.

It was called
hope
.

Nothing terribly unusual happened in the world that night.

In Paris, a terrorist planting a bomb at the base of the Eiffel Tower was arrested. In Saudi Arabia's Nefud Desert, units of the Tezie Lancer Corps, attached to the Ethiopian Army, briefly skirmished with the Jordanian Holy Land Armored Division.

During work to restore the Van Allen radiation belts, a NASA repair ship collided with an abandoned satellite from a certain other country, and Russia dispatched a Soyuz “Thunderbird” rescue craft.

Otherwise, for the most part, the planet was at peace.

It was the year 2030, the thirteenth day of the month, 2:55 in the morning. The city was Tokyo.

In the skies above Shinjuku's Chuo Park a helicopter was on its regularly scheduled patrol. Despite the faint starlight, the landscape below came alive in the night vision scopes. Spotting a strange human-looking shadow, the helicopter moved in.

The gas turbine engine was equipped with noise suppressors. Even when the target had keen hearing or heightened senses, it could close within tens of feet before being detected. That feeling of being watched or the disturbance in the air would likely betray its presence first.

And yet the helicopter had come within a dozen yards when, without a backwards glance, it—he—proceeded slowly toward the Koshu Highway on Twelfth Street in the old capital city center, between the fifteen-foot outer wall and the ruins of the Park Hyatt Hotel.

He must've been drunk or high or have a few screws loose, except that he walked with a steady gait, which made the pilot and police inspector riding shotgun feel all the more uneasy. But what caught their eye—the scene as bright and distinct as daylight—was that the man was wearing what looked like a long gown.

They couldn't make out the face.

This late at night, and where even robbers and extortionists and other assorted bad guys feared to tread, a solitary figure must be up to no good.

“What do you want to do?” the pilot asked the police inspector.

The man was exhibiting sufficiently suspicious behavior to justify a bit of “hovering” questioning, and a paralyzer gun would do the trick nicely. But a lone drunk was hardly cause for great alarm. Sending around a paddy wagon would take too much time. And anyway, after six o'clock in the evening, in or about the DMZ, the decision was left up to the cop on the scene. The rules of engagement for public servants were clear on that score.

In other words, arrest him, take him into protective custody or leave him be—it was up to them. The inspector had started off thinking protective custody, then considered doing nothing, then favored arrest.

He didn't have any reason, except that the man didn't strike him as a pedestrian or common drunk. The inspector tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Let's at least pick him up for questioning.”

“Roger that.”

He dropped the helicopter down vertically as he answered, stopping fifteen feet above the man's head. The swish of the rotors tousled his hair and tossed the hem of his gown. Now he looked up. The angle provided a clear look at the bushy black beard covering the man's mouth. He was thin to the point of being gaunt.

The inspector and the pilot were both struck by a grave and momentous vibe. They exchanged curious glances.

The inspector thumbed his mic. “You there. Don't move. Put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers together.”

Normally he would have used much less polite language than that, but something about the gown-wearing man demanded a measure of decorum.

“This is Shinjuku Police Patrol Helicopter SH 909. We'd like to ask you a few questions, purely on a volitional basis. You're free to leave at any time. Answer in your normal voice. The audio sensors will pick it up.”

“Understood.”

A low and dignified voice radiated from the speakers, that made the inspector wonder for a moment if this was a job better left to the chief inspector. But he mustered his courage.

“What's your name and address?”

“I have no good name to call myself. My address is here.”

“C'mon, no playing games,” the inspector said, with more anger than the situation required. That recoiling sense of unease had left him since seeing the man's face, and he seized at the opportunity to overcompensate. “You want to settle this with a tranquilizer dart? Name and address. Identify yourself.”

“In that case, I shall think of a name henceforth.” As calmly as ever. “My address is here.”

The man reached into the collar of his robe and took out what looked like a cheap memo pad, the kind of thing sold at any stationery store. The men in the helicopter felt a slight sense of relief.

The voice that followed was full of confidence and light with laughter. “Shinjuku Ward, West Shinjuku Nichome, Chuo Park.”

“What?”

“Do you have any other questions?”

The police inspector mulled it over in silence. Then demanded, “What in the world are you doing at this time of night?”

The man gazed curiously at the white wall. It was covered with talismans and sacred symbols of all sorts. They were there to keep the magic
inside
from getting
out
.

“This is
my
house. It will soon be complete. I've been strolling around inspecting it.”

“What are you talking about? Chuo Park is the property of the ward. Besides, the DMZ is the no-go area for a reason.”

The man didn't answer. Then he smiled. A hair-raising aura filled the cockpit of the helicopter. As if trying to expel it, the inspector pressed, “To start with, where is this house of yours? And how do you intend to finish it soon?”

He didn't think the man was crazy and so took what he said at face value. Again, there was something about him that demanded it.

“But of course. Construction hasn't yet begun. In two more minutes.”

The two men in the helicopter finally grasped the man's nature. Madmen wandering about the DMZ late at night—this was why they had to make sure. They aimed a different night scope inside Chuo Park. The dense canopy of trees moved. There was no wind.

Shadows roamed the winding paths. There should be nothing living there. Attempting to surmount the wall, the cloudy forms sprang up from among the trees and were flung back—evil spirits repelled by the talismans.

Apparently detecting the invisible electromagnetic waves employed by the night vision scope, an eerily familiar voice barked from the speakers. “This is the Shinjuku Police Headquarters. SH 909, proceed into the park.”

The two ignored it. The first ploy the ghosts of Chuo Park used to lure fresh victims into their lair was to mimic an authority figure known to the listener.

Those who heeded such commands and stupidly entered the grounds of the park found there—nothing like any houses or dwellings. The only “buildings” were the ruins of the library and a Tokyo Electric underground substation, also in ruins.

The pilot flipped up the protective cap on the joystick, revealing the trigger buttons for a 30mm Vulcan cannon and a tranquilizer gun powerful enough to sedate an elephant. The heads-up display projected the aiming and firing data inside the helmet visor.

A square floated in the middle of the display. When the square aligned with the center diagonal, the weapons system locked the guns on the target. The firing computer was linked to the night vision scope. The aim followed the pilot's vision, making it impossible for the target to escape.

“Ten seconds,” the man's voice said, reminding them of the number. The time until this so-called construction began. But what? Not a single pillar or column stood in the park. And anyway, the ward certainly hadn't issued any building permits.

“Eight seconds, seven, six—it might be dangerous for you there. You should come down.”

The helicopter didn't move. “Here goes.” The pilot's finger pressed against the button.

“Hold on,” said the police inspector. “At this point, we might as well make sure of what we're shooting at.”

The year 2030. The thirteenth of the month, 2:55 in the morning. A bar in Mejiro. It was called “Junko's Jail.”

“I'm bored. Let's go someplace more exciting.”

A girl in a sailor suit yanked on his hand. The boy in a high school uniform almost fell off the bar stool. He managed to catch his balance and resolutely shook his head.

“No way. Any place more exciting than this is right out for underage kids. Here is hip enough already.”

“Hip?” the girl pouted. Across the counter, the bartender flashed a wry smile. “Even this guy is some teaching assistant sent over by the Education Association. The beer and whisky is all non-alcoholic. The hostesses are nuns working part time, so no touchy, no feely. Who in the world would bother coming to this place?”

“You got it all wrong, sister,” said the fat lady bartender, polishing a glass and glancing around the place.

The bar's owner, Junko Toya. She was amazingly fat. She'd started off wanting to be a hostess, but none of the customers would get within an arm's length of her. So she was stuck there behind the counter, looking rather like a hippo in a mud hole.

“Green Mountain Blues” drifted though the dim, twenty-by-fifty foot interior. The hostesses in their precisely buttoned-up blouses and the uniformed high school students sat there ramrod-straight, discussing an upcoming exam. Seven or eight altogether.

“Plenty of seminary students come here. And just between you and me, one way or another they're all as horny as alley cats.”

“Let's go, Izayoi-kun.” The girl again pulled on the boy's arm.

“Hey, if you want to go, then go. I'm getting to like this place,” he grumbled, a glass of non-alcoholic beer in one hand. For a high school student, he wasn't overly tall or short, his shoulders not too broad. And yet he was a solidly built and rather handsome young man.

At first glance, he might seem the kind of honors student never found without an English dictionary in one hand, but draw closer and he had about him an approachable, laid-back air.

Told that, just a short time ago, this young man had engaged in a fight to the death in
that
place, with the fate of mankind in the balance, and managed to eke out a win, the average onlooker would gape at first—then upon further consideration—nod in agreement.

His name was Kyoya Izayoi, a senior at Minakaze High School in Tokyo. “Sorry, but I work as a bouncer here. I can't be going anywhere for five more minutes.” Then for some reason, he glanced at the clock on the wall. A shadow passed across his face.

“What?” asked Toya.

“Oh, nothing.” Kyoya shook his head. Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, he added, “This time of the night gives me the creeps. Three in the morning.”

“Huh,” Junko Toya nodded.

Three o'clock in the morning.

The time of night when humans and demons crossed paths. The time when everybody slept, when the human heart was the weakest and most likely to part with that which made it human.

That time would soon be arriving.

“You're mean,” the girl complained. “You finally said we could go on a date, so I came all the way here. You didn't say anything about getting together on the job. I thought Izayoi-kun had more class than that. I'm going to—

The rest of the sentence died in her mouth. Her eyes grew wide. She looked at the side of Kyoya's face.

This time, like a receding tide, all sounds ceased. The music too. The eyes of the hostesses and the guests focused on Kyoya.

The girl watched dumbfounded as he silently slid off the bar stool. Something sprouted from his fists. A pair of disposable chopsticks. Standing in front of the bar, Kyoya slowly rotated his body like a radar dish, scanning the room. And quickly oriented himself in the direction of the door.

His hands rose above his head, the tips of the chopsticks jutting out. There was something in front of him. He had seen something.