The Art of Arrow Cutting Read online

  “Mage. Michelangelo Gaetano Magistrale, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Mage? As in Wise Man from the East?”

  “I’m from New York,” Mage admitted. “The wisdom must’ve been an optional extra.”

  “Hey, you left New York. That makes you wiser than most.” He stared at the window; the sky was as dark as despair.

  “Four o’clock,” said Mage.

  “Three fifty-seven.” Takumo grinned, holding up a digital watch with more functions than his Swiss Army knife. “Wonders of Japanese technology. What d’you want to do with the hand?”’

  “What?”

  “‘Here comes the sun,’” he sang softly. “I think the thing has to be home by sunrise or it’ll start to bleed like a bitch. You want t’explain that to the warden?”

  Mage stared at the hand, which was hanging limply, wrist down. There was a dark-red film on the blade, but the wound and the end of the wrist looked dry; the few drops of blood on the floor were his. Just looking at the thing made his savaged triceps hurt like hell.

  “What d’you think it’ll do if we open the window and let it go?” he asked.

  “Let it go? You mean throw it out and shut the window behind it pronto? It probably can’t find its way out without the head to see for it. What time is sunrise, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I never was a Boy Scout.”

  Yukitaka sat in the Toyota drumming his fingers on the dash and waiting. Every few minutes he glanced at the tourniquet on his left forearm as though it were a watch. The sky was still black but the sun would rise in less than an hour. Yukitaka had a momentary vision of circling the world, constantly flying ahead of the sunrise, and he smiled briefly at the idea. Tamenaga could afford it, and might have done so had their positions been reversed. Or would he cut off his arm to save face?

  There was a slight twinge as the knife was pulled out of his hand, but the pain troubled Yukitaka Hideo far less than the humiliation. He brooded on his failure as the hand flopped to the ground and began to creep across the frost toward the Toyota, its senses and its strength severely diminished by its distance from Yukitaka’s head.

  Yukitaka glanced at the dashboard clock again and cursed. He disliked English, with its complicated grammar and downright bizarre spelling, but he was frequently grateful for the swearwords. He opened the door and stepped out into the bitter cold.

  He caught his left hand on his wrist like a falconer and hastily removed the leather glove. Hand and forearm bonded in a moment, without even a mark. He bandaged the hand as best he could, loosened the tourniquet and drove back to the hotel.

  The sun rose just as Yukitaka was parking the Toyota, and he screamed with pain as blood squirted suddenly back into his palm.

  Mage and Takumo watched the first dawn rays hit the clouds, nodded at each other in weary jubilation and crept back to their beds.

  7

  Gilded Honor

  Mage’s second dream of the morning was disturbed by the call to breakfast, for which he was silently but sincerely grateful. He sat up, saw the chair jammed under the door handle and jumped out of bed as hastily as possible to remove it. Takumo looked at him blearily and closed his eyes again. Mage glanced at the gash in the bedpost, shook his head and reached for his clothes. The urge to disbelieve everything that had happened the night before, to dismiss it as a dream, was strong, but he found it difficult to disbelieve or forget what he’d seen.

  In the dining room, he rescued his breakfast pancakes from the mandatory drowning in maple syrup, poured himself a mug of coffee and sat at an empty table despite a vacancy opposite a pretty redhead. Takumo—his dark hair damp from the shower, his eyes bloodshot but wide open—appeared as he was finishing his second cup of coffee.

  “Morning.”

  Takumo nodded. “I’ve volunteered us for garbage detail. Hope you don’t mind.” Mage grunted. “That way, we get finished early and split.”

  “Where to?”

  “The university, check out the library.”

  “Okay. After that?”

  “Where would your girlfriend have gone?”

  “She wasn’t my girlfriend,” said Mage automatically.

  “Figure of speech. What else should I call her?”

  Mage conceded the point wearily. “I don’t know, and I don’t know where she would have gone. Vancouver? Edmonton? The States? Back to Totem Rock?”

  “Won’t they be looking for her there?”

  “Yeah, and everywhere else.”

  “Or waiting for you to lead them to her.”

  Mage’s coffee suddenly tried to climb back up his throat. “Oh, Jesus.” Several of his fellow diners turned around and glared. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and tried to smile.

  “So sorry.”

  “You’re probably right, but what else can I do?”

  “Forget her?”

  Mage smiled bitterly. “She’s not someone you’d forget.”

  “Or fake it, anyway.”

  “Then they’ll think I have whatever-it-is …”

  “The three magic beans.”

  “The what?”

  “Sorry. Your story smacks a little of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’”

  Mage carefully swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I’m going to keep looking.”

  “Why? You only met her once.”

  Mage took another sip of coffee to give himself time to think. He was sure there was a good reason why he needed to find Amanda Sharmon, but he couldn’t put it into words that made sense. He wondered if he’d fallen in love with her and decided that that probably wasn’t it. Maybe it was just that he didn’t know which way to run … no, that wasn’t it either.

  “It’s starting to bug me,” he replied finally. “I hate mysteries.”

  Takumo grinned. “Okay, I can relate to that. So. Where was she from?”

  “Here.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “She goes to the hospital here.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know … but it’s serious, and not contagious, so it’s not AIDS. Cancer, I guess.”

  “Did she look sick?”

  “No. Worried, but not sick.”

  “Hm. Accent?”

  “Canadian.”

  “East? West?”

  “I don’t know. Anywhere except Quebec. I’m not very good with accents. She’s a student, or she was, and she said she was from Vancouver originally… . Where were you going?”

  “Back home.”

  “L.A.?”

  Takumo nodded, drained the last of his tea and stood. “Let’s go.”

  The dumpster was behind the building, where the sun didn’t touch the frost until eleven. Mage walked carefully around the northwest corner, then stopped so suddenly that Takumo walked squarely into the Baggie of garbage in his left hand and almost tripped.

  “Hey—”

  Mage dropped his other Baggie and pointed. Long blond hair was hanging over the edge of the dumpster. Takumo stared. “Oh, man …”

  They stood there silently for several seconds. “Did you ever see this Japanese horror movie,” asked Mage nervously, “where this samurai comes home to his former wife and all that’s left is her ghost, and her hair, and she—”

  Takumo nodded. “Seven times. It’s called Kwaidan.”

  “Seven?”

  “I was working as a projectionist at a film festival.”

  Mage nodded. Takumo dropped his Baggies and they both took a few hesitant steps closer to the bin.

  “Actually …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was thinking about the time the cops raided Barker Ranch and saw this hair hanging out of the medicine cabinet—”

  “And it was your father. You told me.”

  “Sorry.”

  Another step carried them within arm’s reach. Takumo learned forward cautiously and touched the hair. Nothing happened. He grabbed it, winding it around his fingers.

&nbs
p; “I got it. Open the lid.”

  Mage shuddered slightly, reached for the handle and threw the lid up as forcefully as he could. It seemed to hang in midair for a second, then crashed backward resoundingly, leaving the dumpster open. Nothing happened.

  Takumo tugged experimentally, and the hair slid over the edge and dropped to the ground. Both men stared at it; then Takumo knelt and took it in both hands.

  “Don’t say it,” Mage said.

  “Don’t say what?”

  “‘Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well …’”

  “‘I knew him, Horatio,’” corrected Takumo. Mage blinked. “I do Shakespeare as well as stunts. ‘Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?’” He studied the wig, turning it over in his hands. “Are you sure this lady was really blond?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’re you sure?”

  Mage stared into his memory and saw Amanda’s face as clearly as if it were a photograph. “Her eyebrows were pale. Very pale.”

  Takumo nodded. “Could this be her?”

  “Presuming you mean ‘hers’ … yeah, I guess so. The length and the color are right.”

  “It’s real hair,” said Takumo. “Human hair. Very expensive. People don’t just throw it away.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “Ninja always used ropes of real hair, paid a fortune for it.”

  “You can tell by the feel?”

  Takumo laughed. “No, but there’s a label in here. See?” He stood and threw the wig to Mage. “Besides, I was a very low-budget ninja. Used ordinary nylon rope.”

  Mage looked at the wig. “No bloodstains.”

  “You really are paranoid, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,” replied Mage automatically. “And the same people were out to get her, too.”

  “It wasn’t the people that had me going,” retorted Takumo. “Hey, what if you’re wrong? What if your blonde’s just set you up to take the rap?”

  Mage stared at him. “Now who’s paranoid?”

  “Hey, man, when you’re five-foot-five, illegitimate, and named after the most notorious criminal in the local mythology, you have an excuse for paranoia that six-foot-three can barely understand.”

  “I’m six-one,” replied Mage.

  “Neat. So you can look inside and see if there’s a body.”

  Mage gulped, then peered down into the bin. “Nothing but Baggies.” He opened the other lid and stared into that half. “No.”

  “What if she’s—”

  “Don’t even think it,” replied Mage, shuddering. “Why would they put her in a Baggie and leave her wig hanging out like a billboard?”

  Takumo shrugged his eyebrows. “Shall we dump the trash and split?”

  “Suits me,” Mage said, unzipping a pocket in his jacket and stuffing the wig inside.

  “What’re you keeping that for?”

  “Damned if I know,” he replied and walked back to where they’d dropped the bags of garbage.

  The woman behind the admissions desk at the university was thirtyish and tired-looking, but as helpful as she was permitted to be. Yes, they’d had a student named Amanda Sharmon. No, she wasn’t still enrolled. No, she couldn’t tell him why. Yes, there was a copy of her last-known address and phone number on file, and no, she couldn’t give it out, but yes, they could attempt to relay a letter. Could they phone her, ask if she wanted to speak to a Mage—a Michelangelo Magistrale—and hand the receiver over if she said yes; it was an emergency. The woman looked at him, then nodded.

  There was no answer, but the phone hadn’t been disconnected. Mage thanked her and turned to leave, then stopped.

  “Has anyone else been here recently to ask about her?”

  “No,” she said positively. “Why?”

  “Just paranoia,” he replied and grinned disarmingly. “Do you know who her tutors were?”

  “No, but the math department would.”

  “Great. Where is it?”

  She told him, and he thanked her with a smile and a slight bow before dashing outside to where Takumo was waiting.

  “Why so happy?”

  “They haven’t been here yet. We’re one step ahead of them!”

  “Pun unintended, I presume,” said Takumo dryly. “So where to now, kemosabe?”

  “Math department. They’ll be able to tell us who her tutors were, the tutors can tell us who her friends were, her friends—”

  “You hope,” said Takumo. “Do you need me, or shall I check out the library?”

  “I think I’ll be okay on my own.” He glanced at his watch. “Meet you back here at one o’clock.”

  The timetable on the door suggested that Dr. Corwin should be inside; Mage had left college after only one year, but he’d learned how little that meant. He knocked tentatively and was rewarded with a loud grunt that might have been “Come in.”

  Corwin was a lanky, sandy-haired man in his forties. He looked up from the papers on his desk and over his thick glasses.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Corwin?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’m trying to contact a student of yours … well, an ex-student. Amanda Sharmon.”

  “I can’t help you.” He looked down at his papers again, dismissively.

  “You remember her?”

  “Certainly. Best student I’ve had in years. Damn shame. But I don’t know where she is now. Sorry.”

  “Do you remember who any of her friends were?”

  Corwin peered over his glasses warily. “Who’re you?”

  “My name is Magistrale. Last time I met Amanda, she told me she was coming back here to go into the hospital. I said I’d visit her there, but I missed her and …”

  Corwin chewed his lip. “I don’t know anybody who’s seen her this semester.”

  “Please … it’s very important I find her.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I can help her.”

  Corwin snorted. “You a magician?”

  “No.”

  “Faith-healer? Miracle-worker? Shaman? Witch?”

  Mage bit back his anger, trying not to reveal his ignorance. “I said help her, not cure her.”

  Corwin shook his head.

  “She didn’t finish her degree,” persisted Mage. “Some of her classmates should still be here. Some of her friends. One name. Please.”

  “When did you last see her?” asked Corwin finally.

  “Last week. Tuesday.”

  “How was she?”

  “Worried.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Scared. Anxious. Broke. I gave her money for the bus. But she looked … she didn’t look sick.”

  Corwin stared at him, his expression neither hostile nor friendly, the red pen in his hand swaying like a metronome, left, right, left, right. He hated making decisions based on inadequate data and was convinced that he usually made the wrong choice.

  Mage, not moving from the doorway, looked around the room. Two walls were lined with bookshelves, one was mostly window, and the fourth was adorned with diplomas, certificates, and an Escher print: Regular Division of the Plane III. Men on horseback, tessellated together, reds going left, whites right. Mage decided that he didn’t much like it, but he could see why it would appeal to a statistician. Or to a political scientist. He looked at Corwin, waiting for him to make a decision (preferably the correct decision); he shoved his hands into his pockets, indicating that he had no intention of closing the door, and discovered Amanda’s key. His fingers twisted the cord around his fingers as Corwin wavered, left, right, left … .

  “Jenny Holdridge,” said Corwin finally.

  “Thank you. Where can I find her?”

  “The office should be able to find her, or if you’re really in a hurry, she works part-time in the library.”

  “I am. Thank
you. You won’t regret this.”

  Corwin grunted a dismissal and dropped his gaze and his grimace back to the papers on his desk.

  Did you phone your uncle?”

  “Yeah. He hadn’t heard from her. What’ve you found?”

  Takumo munched at his salad like a ruminant, then answered, “Found is a little strong. I kind of focused on the idea that we weren’t going to be going up against Godzilla or Ghidrah, that I should concentrate on something you wouldn’t notice if you passed it on the street—assuming the street was in California, of course. It didn’t narrow the field as much as I’d hoped … so I started with Kwaidan and some other Lafcadio Hearn stuff and went from there.

  “The thing last night was a rukoro-kubi, a spinning-head goblin. It’s a carnivore” —he took another mouthful of salad, with a condescending glance at Mage’s hot dog— “and it usually eats carrion, insects, that kind of shit. When it attacks humans, it likes to go for the extremities—fingers, toes …” He crossed his legs suddenly. “You know. They’re supposed to be rare, if that helps.”

  “How d’you kill them?”

  “My, aren’t we macho all of a sudden? You exorcise them—don’t ask me how, I just eat Buddhist—or you stop the head from returning to the body by sunrise.

  “Rukoro-kubi are bakemono, which are kind of like ghosts—except that they were never really human and they’re not really dead—and kind of like goblins. Most bakemono don’t look very human, but the more human they look when they want to, the more human they aren’t, if you can dig that.

  “Shuten-doji are bakemono too. They’re your basic vampires, except that they can appear by day or night. Apart from that, they can do anything Count Dracula can do … including count. The best defense against them is to drop some rice in their path, ’cause they have to stop and count the grains. They’re kind of your undead number-crunchers. Hell’s accountants. Mujina are more like gorgons. They’re false-faces, and the females like to look like pretty girls” —Takumo smiled sourly— “but their real faces are voids that can send you mad or just scare you to death. Don’t ask me how to kill them; the book doesn’t say.