Clocktower Page 6

  “What of Mari’s father? Was he informed?”

  “Investigator.” The doctor looked up at him. “Mr. Mishima has only been informed of one thing. That in a fit of hysteria, his daughter tragically took her own life.”

  Johnny lifted his pen up and narrowed his eyes at her.

  “You reported her death as a suicide? Why?”

  “Because, Mr. Tokisaki. There are no murders in Sonnerie. This is a good town, and these are good people. And there are some things we value more as a society than the dignity of one dead girl,” she said.

  “And what of Ayano? Her father gets the peace of closure, does he not?”

  “He is an Index. He has the right.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he is. How could you let a man believe that his own daughter, his only . . . his—” Johnny felt a sudden shortness of breath. His heart shot words out of his chest like bullets that got caught in his throat before they could be released. His body started to tremor again, and the room began to spin.

  “And what would you offer him instead? Bitter truth? Virtuous suffering?” The doctor walked closer to Johnny. “Let me make one thing clear to you, Investigator Tokisaki. If you think that I or any other Index is going to stand here and listen to your petty moral remonstrations, you’re gravely mistaken. Though each Index may differ in purpose and intent, we are united in one common goal. To protect our chosen city and her people. To uphold its laws and exemplify its virtues. To ensure that above all else, when our time comes, we are prepared.”

  Johnny pressed his hand against his drumming heart in an attempt to calm himself. He dug his nails into his shirt, and let his mind focus on a more immediate pain.

  “So it’s all for the greater good, then?” he managed to say.

  “It is. And though this duty weighs heavy on my heart, it is still my duty.”

  “Yeah.” Johnny stood back up straight, his breathing beginning to relax. “You keep telling yourself that, Doctor. I’m sure it’ll bring you a lot of comfort when you see her face in your nightmares.”

  Johnny stepped forward until they were inches apart.

  “And you will see her, Doctor. Every time you think you’ve satisfied your guilty conscience with those bullshit excuses, she’ll be there to remind you that you’re nothing but a Goddamn coward.”

  The Twelfth Index swallowed hard, her eyes breaking contact with his as she did.

  “Our meeting is over, Mr. Tokisaki. I trust you can find your own way out.”

  She was out the door before he could respond, leaving him in the vacant cold of the basement morgue, alone.

  Eighth Movement

  Diary

  Mrs. Saito’s car was waiting for him by the time he exited the hospital. He said nothing to the driver on the way back to the hotel, and when they arrived, he made straight for the café on the second floor to order a late lunch and unwind. A different waitress approached him after he took his seat. A plumper, rosy-cheeked girl with a gap between her teeth who spoke with a noticeable lisp. She took his order gingerly and disappeared behind the back, leaving him with a few moments to review his notebook and collect his thoughts.

  His conversation with Dr. Tonimura and the revelation that the body in the morgue was unmistakably Mari’s had restored some of his mental comfort, if only insofar as he could now be sure of her fate. He read and reread the notes he had taken throughout the day, but after the third go he realized he was still no closer to the answers he sought. There wasn’t yet enough information. The rosy-cheeked waitress came back a few minutes later with his roast beef sandwich and set it down neatly in front of him, then bowed and walked off out of sight.

  After a few bites, his mind began to perceive an issue that up till now did not exist. Mari’s death had been officially recorded as a suicide. A suicide that had been reported to her father, who might have little reason to believe otherwise. Knowing this, there was little chance that Mrs. Saito would give Johnny any kind of permission to speak with him. He was outside the circle of knowing at this point, and even the slightest hint that his daughter’s death was anything other than what he believed ran the risk of upsetting the nascent lie they had told.

  He considered his options with every bite until his sandwich had been wholly consumed. The more he thought about Mari’s father, the more something seemed off. Ayano’s father had been quick to come and retrieve her body, but now, three days had passed and not even a peep had been heard from Mari’s. He checked the time on his Casio and returned upstairs, where the files Mrs. Saito had given him were waiting. He didn’t have to read very deeply to find what he was looking for. Mari’s address was listed on the very first page. He took out his notebook and wrote it down so as not to forget, then set out once again.

  When he got to the lobby, he stopped at the front desk to ask for directions. Behind the desk this time was an older gentleman, in his mid-fifties at least. He had hair of salt and pepper and a thick, bushy mustache to match.

  “That’s down toward The Lugs,” he said. “Head down the main road for three blocks, then make a right. You’ll see a gas station—that’s the street you want. After that it’s pretty much a straight shot east until you hit Flute Street.”

  Johnny thanked him and exited out the front door. The streets were much fuller than they had been in the morning. Parents with their young children. Teenagers fresh out of school. On the surface, everything about Sonnerie seemed perfectly normal. He imagined Mari and Ayano had spent their days after school much like this. Lounging around central Sonnerie, enjoying a brief respite from studies.

  Perhaps not Ayano. He thought of her now as he crossed the second street with a group of younger high school boys. The heir apparent to the most powerful person in the city. He wondered if she was afforded the luxury of friends in such a tight-knit community. What loneliness she must have felt with that burden on her shoulders.

  The farther north he journeyed, the busier and more industrial his surroundings became. The groups of schoolchildren that had been walking all around him dispersed and were replaced with men both younger and middle aged. Some wore suits and others more factory-style jumpers. They talked among themselves and mostly ignored his presence save for the occasional, “Excuse me,” or “I’m sorry,” as they passed.

  He made a right at the third intersection and proceeded east for another thirty minutes until he reached a housing district at the far end of Sonnerie. Flute Street was an exceptionally narrow corridor running north to south, though it seemed to dead-end not far along as he looked toward the clocktower. The homes here were by no means dilapidated or in poor upkeep, but they had a staleness to them that betrayed their age and discomfort on the land that they stood.

  He proceeded south for another few minutes before he came across #213, and a sign on the mailbox with the characters “Mishima” written above it. Johnny wasted no time hopping up the front porch, and gave the old wooden door a few swift taps.

  “Mr. Mishima?” he called after a moment. The blinds on the windows were drawn, and what little of the interior he could see was dark. He gave the door a few more knocks. “Mr. Mishima?” he called again, but still there was no answer.

  He repeated this a few more times before taking a step back and giving the house a look over. Perhaps Mari’s father was out on some errand. Or he had decided to go to work today. But Johnny struggled to comprehend a parent who could be anywhere else but at home grieving, especially so soon after the loss of their only child.

  On either side of the home were small gaps that separated it from its neighbors, neither of which was more than a few feet wide. The one on the right had a tall gate attached, and the one on the left was free of obstruction. Johnny took stock of the situation and waited for a younger couple out for a walk to pass by before slipping past the side of the home and into the smallest backyard he had ever seen.

  In truth, it was probably
only a foot or two wider than the gap between the homes he had just passed through. There was a pair of steps that led to a back door that looked not dissimilar from the front, and on either side of the door were small, grass-filled beds that had been lined with red and white pinwheels. There was hardly any hint of breeze, and they all stood frozen in time, without the faintest sign of life.

  The blinds on the windows here were pulled down as well, but one of the windows on the second floor had been left open.

  “Hmm.” Johnny scratched at the stubble that was starting to form on his cheek. He looked around for something he could use as a ladder, but found nothing besides a locked shed and a few gardening tools littered haphazardly around the grass. He stepped back for a moment and looked up at the window. It was small, but not so small that he couldn’t fit through, and positioned less than a meter directly above the window in front of him. His clothes would make any kind of vertical maneuvering difficult, but there was no other option.

  He put his hands on top of the first-floor window frame and tried to get a grip, but the frame itself was narrow and unstable. He could find no purchase with which to support his weight, and quickly backed down.

  Johnny grunted in frustration. He was just about to give up and return to the front when he remembered the small passage on the other side of the house. He took one last look at the lock on the shed, then moved over to the yet-unexplored side to find an assortment of bagged plastic bottles and aluminum cans. Behind them all, next to the gate to the front, was a medium-sized trash can—exactly what he needed.

  He checked around again for any onlookers, then carefully moved the bottles and cans out of the way, and lifted the trash can up and over to the spot just below the open window. With no obstacles left barring his way, he climbed up and grabbed onto the bottom of the open window, then lifted himself inside.

  The room he had entered was unmistakably Mari’s bedroom. A small army of stuffed animals stood guard upon the shelves, and lining the wall above her desk were pictures of places far from Sonnerie. The Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids of Giza, Big Ben. Johnny spent a few seconds sitting perfectly still and listening to the sounds of the house. His entrance had not been entirely clandestine, and he was sure that if anyone was home, they would come upstairs to investigate the noise.

  After thirty seconds of stillness, he slowly stood up and brushed himself off. For now, it seemed no one was home, and he was free to investigate.

  Despite the bright pinks and pastels that colored the walls, there was an undeniable melancholy in the air. At first glance, everything seemed to be the picture of a normal teenage girl’s room—at least how he imagined one. The bed was neatly made; no loose clothing was strewn about the floor. He realized after a moment that his shoes were still on, tracking the dirt from outside into this pristine sorrow.

  “Forgive me, Mari,” he whispered to himself as he walked toward the desk. He thought of her ravaged body back in the morgue, waiting for her father to claim her, but just as quickly pushed the image out of his mind. There was work to be done.

  He started at her desk, opening each drawer carefully and thumbing through their contents. Most of them held stationery of one kind or the other, and the main drawer in the center was full of worksheets and old tests from school that she had clearly been studying. On the desk itself were a couple workbooks, and a framed picture of Mari and one of the girls he had seen in the newspaper. He picked up the picture and studied the face of the other girl for a moment before returning it and taking a step back.

  The wall across from the bed had a small closet that was partially open, as well as a large dresser. He did a cursory check of these, but again came up with nothing out of the ordinary. Shirts, skirts, and underwear. Nothing too daring or unusual. On top of the dresser was an antique music box. He opened it and examined the inside, but here too was nothing of note.

  He took another moment of stillness and listened to the sounds of the house. The chirping of birds carried on from somewhere outside, but inside there was only stagnant air and the sound of his slow exhales.

  When he was again satisfied in his solitude, he moved over to the bedside table and opened its single drawer. Inside, staring back at him, was an aged and battered Sony Walkman with a headset still attached. Deeper inside was a stack of cassettes, all belonging to the same family of Jack Flanders radio adventures from the 1970s that Johnny recognized instantly. He popped open the Walkman, revealing a cassette labeled, “The Fourth Tower of Inverness.”

  “Ah ha,” he whispered. “A classic.” Johnny put the headset over his ears and sat down on Mari’s bed, then hit the play button. He couldn’t help but smile at the voices of characters he once loved himself. Mari had still been in the early part of the story. The hero, Jack Flanders, has just arrived at his aunt’s estate—a veritable castle named Inverness. As he approaches the grounds, he sees four distinct towers reaching up to the sky. But when he speaks to his aunt, she informs him that Inverness has only three towers.

  That was as far as Mari had gotten. The conversation with his aunt was just finishing, and the real story had only just begun. He took the headset off and placed the Walkman back inside the drawer, then carefully closed it up again. It was certainly an interesting find. Not the kind of thing he expected a teenage girl in a town like Sonnerie to possess, but it brought him no closer to the answers he sought.

  Undaunted, Johnny came to his feet again, but as he did so he felt the back of his left foot kick up against something hard under the bed. He bent down to one knee and lifted up the skirt, revealing a small wooden box with the same symbol on it as the pin on his collar. Johnny reached his arm in and pulled the box toward him. It was heavier than it looked. Dark brown wood with gold engravings on it. He pulled lightly on the lid until it popped off, then stared down at its contents.

  On top was a leather-bound book, again marked with the same symbol as the pin on his collar. The words, “The Chronicle of Sonnerie” were embossed upon its cover. It had the look of a Bible, but was much thinner. Perhaps only a third of the size. He took a quick look over it, then pushed it aside, revealing another, much smaller green notebook underneath. This one had two Japanese characters written on it that read, “Diary.”

  He pulled it from the box and examined the first few pages. The first entry was dated in the spring of the previous year. It was short, barely a paragraph long.

  April 15

  Daddy got me a new diary for my birthday! And just as I was getting near the end of my old one, too! How did he know!? Anyway, this is my first entry. It’s finally getting warm outside again. March was so cold this year. Can’t think of anything else to say now. Hello future me!

  Johnny flipped through the pages. Mari had kept quite the meticulous record of her high school life. Most of it was the drab complaints of a bored high school girl. Long-winded bellyaching about teachers and boys. He skimmed over each entry until one caught his eye. It was written in black ink instead of blue, and she had clearly been in some distress while writing. The hard press of her pen had left imprints on the following pages, and the entry itself was only a single sentence.

  July 14

  I lost my virginity today.

  Johnny narrowed his eyes and flipped backward, looking again for any mention of a boyfriend or any particular love interest, but found nothing. Not even the slightest hint. He read each page carefully until he was back at the entry for July 14, but when he was about to turn the page, a sharp thud startled him so suddenly he dropped the diary on the floor and instinctively drew his revolver and cocked the hammer.

  He stood as still as stone and listened. The sound had originated from the first floor, he was certain. Someone was in the house, and there could be no doubt that the sound of the diary hitting the hardwood floor had given away his presence. He stayed like this for several minutes, waiting for his unseen opponent to make the first move.

  Bu
t it never came. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed without another sound. The door to Mari’s room was partially open, and he kept his eyes fixed on what little of the hallway he could see.

  After twenty minutes had come and gone, Johnny resolved to take his first steps. He shifted his weight as carefully as possible until he could place a hand on the bedroom door and open it completely.

  Nothing.

  To his immediate right was a closed door at the end of the hall, and to the left was an L-shaped staircase that hugged the wall leading to the first floor. Johnny stood still again and listened to the silence for a moment before inching toward the stairs. He peeked over the rails below, but there was nothing to see. Just another hallway that terminated somewhere out of sight.

  Johnny kept his pistol trained forward and started to descend. With each step, his sweaty grip tightened until at last he reached the bottom. Directly in front of him was another door that was open only slightly. On the left, the hallway ended at the front door, and on the right was a fully open door to the first-floor bathroom.

  He stopped again here and listened more carefully now. There was something amiss in the silence—a dull, nearly inaudible rhythmic creaking emanating from behind the door in front of him. He pressed his ear against it, but as he did, one of the floorboards creaked as loud as cannon fire, giving him away.

  There was no time to think now. He kept his pistol pointed forward in his right hand and threw the door open with his left, then leapt into a room that was the portrait of horror itself.

  Instead of one person he could easily identify, there were three. To his left was the shape of a girl on her knees, staring upward. Far to the right at the end of the room, standing in the kitchen, was a man, or what he thought could be a man. The details of his face evaporated as Johnny focused on the third figure directly ahead: a body, strung from a noose that rocked steadily back and forth. With each swing, the beam to which the rope was attached groaned.