Rosebuds, Chapter 13

The 'you have mail' sound kept beeping continually on Mireille's computer as constant emails kept coming in-from the same sender. The client was not happy with their job in Tokyo, and Mireille was not surprised. She felt rather dulled after the whole incident.

The Corsican blonde leaned back in her chair, her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. Kirika lay asleep on her bed, although it was nearly noon.

= = = = = = =

Their getaway from Japan had been extremely trying for both of them. Kirika had still been having some trouble walking with her ankle, but Mireille had been insistent on not delaying their departure. Kirika had worn a long sleeved-shirt and her long jeans in order to hide her cuts and bruises despite the heat. It hadn't been particularly enjoyable to be the only person in Tokyo walking around in winter clothes in late June, but Mireille assured her that it would be cool on the plane.

They had spent several hours staring at the news channel, dreading any reports that their faces had been seen and hoping that they had destroyed all cameras. Of course, the strange killings made headlines across Japan, but hardly anyone remembered any distinct details about the assassin's appearances. Students in the auditorium reported a Japanese student shooting and killing nine teachers with phenomenal accuracy, but none could remember distinct details of her face, only that she had short hair. One of the teachers who was interviewed mentioned the hundreds of short-haired girls in the school and due to the large population, it was impossible to identify her based on students' recollections since most did not know her, and she had not stood out from the crowd, because of her matching school uniform. Police demanded to know who had been sitting around her, but then dismal news arrived: Both of them had been killed. Later the two teachers who had been holding Kirika in the classroom came forward and explained her actions, but both admitted that if they saw her in a crowd of school students, they would not be able to pick her out. Kirika's schoolbag and the notebooks inside had been recovered, but they had been nameless and never used. The strongest witness had seen just a glimpse of Mireille's face. The boy she had knocked down during her first few moments in the school-the one she had wondered about not shooting-had caught a glimpse of her face. Her heart had plummeted at the news, especially when police brought the student into custody and began a thorough investigation, but either out of fear or shock he remembered little, only that the assassin had been tall, blonde, and female. Was she a foreigner, or an Asian woman who had dyed her hair blonde? police demanded. He didn't know. There were hundreds of Japanese blondes, after all.

Mireille considered wearing a wig. That thought made Kirika laugh for the first time in weeks. Looking out the window, Mireille saw several Asian blondes in the span of five minutes and gave up the idea.

Mireille insisted that they could not go through check-in at the airport- and especially not security-at the same time. They had not brought much baggage-Mireille had brought two carry-ons and Kirika had brought one, but just the one bag became a problem when Kirika tried to pick it up. She was just beginning to regain use of her left hand, which had all the stitches in it, so she would have to use her left hand to carry the bag, which unfortunately wasn't designed for one to carry on the shoulder. With her right ankle still bruised and swollen, Kirika was walking with a tilt to the right, and the bag added an unnecessary weight to that side. She was sure to attract attention and when people rushed to help, they would be sure to notice the cut in her hand and ask how it had happened. Japanese people had a tendency to ask many questions, which was not considered rude at all in their culture.

So Mireille repacked everything, switching the contents of Kirika's bag and one of hers, which had a strap for the shoulder. By then they didn't have much time left, and after she checked and rechecked Kirika over again to make sure that no wounds showed, save for the hand, they hurried off.

The Corsican blonde went through security first. Her passport and boarding pass were all in order-the attendant barely glanced at them-and a scan of her bags turned up nothing that roused suspicions.

Kirika didn't get by as easily. The first thing the security agents took notice of was her ankle, but they only offered sympathy and helped her place her bag on the machine. However, the security agent raised one eyebrow upon opening her passport. Slowly he glanced from the picture to the girl in front of him, then back to the picture.

"You're twenty-three years old?" he demanded in Japanese.

"Hai," Kirika answered.

Mireille was sitting on a bench just beyond security beside a large potted plant, pretending to enjoy a bottle of water. Somewhat hidden behind the leaves, she watched the situation worriedly. Kirika didn't look at her, although Mireille was sure she knew that she was there.

"There's nothing wrong with her boarding pass," one of the other security agents told him. "What are you holding up the line for? You've been stopping every young girl since the shooting at your daughter's high school."

"Please," said Kirika innocently with a hint of pleading, "I need to catch my flight."

Mireille silently willed him to let Kirika go. They didn't have much time left.

The guard was silent, glaring at Kirika for a long time. Then suddenly he glanced towards the bench by the potted plant. Kirika felt a spasm of fear flash through her, but Mireille was gone. Then the guard turned to the agents with just three words: "Search her bag."

Kirika smothered a groan as he turned away from him and began to help the next passenger, disgruntled at the wait. The agents apologized to her but said that they had no choice.

Mireille had chosen temporary refuge in a bookstore, pretending to be examining the various volumes. In her mind she was raging at the guard, waiting for him to release her partner.

Finally Kirika reappeared and looked around the bookstore, making a point of accidentally bumping into Mireille before apologizing politely and hurrying off. Mireille read a few more labels before following. By then Kirika had checked in and she had just ten minutes before takeoff.

As the plane left the Japanese runway, Mireille closed her eyes and drew a blanket over her shoulders, purposely speaking little to Kirika. Much like the way they had arrived, Kirika watched her homeland disappear out the window until the last tree was no longer visible and they were above a sheet of clouds.

= = = = = = =

Another beep drew Mireille out of her temporary doze. She had exactly one hundred and sixty-nine emails from the client lined up in her inbox now, one hundred and sixty-eight of them unopened. The Corsican blonde shut down her computer and left the pool table.

She walked up the steps leading to their beds and leaned against the wall, watching Kirika for a while, pangs of regret shooting through her. If only I hadn't accepted this contract, we wouldn't have had to go through all this, she thought remorsefully.

And then there were the students at Tsubaki High School, whose lives had either been taken or dramatically affected by the botched assassination. Mireille had killed only a security guard and someone who appeared to be a secretary-someone whose last words she still didn't understand-and hadn't felt nearly as much guilt as Kirika, who had been forced to kill nine teachers and several students, two of which might have been close friends if they had lived. Mireille had let Kirika cry in silence after the incident, not knowing how to comfort her.

And lastly there was the principal that should have died at her hands. Mireille's hands curled into hard fists as she put her head on her knees, thinking about how innocent a person he had seemed. Kirika had been somewhat close to several of their targets or people that had been killed before, including Nazarov, his kitten, and her painter friend. Mireille had not understood her then, but now she did. She could still hear his laugh, filling her with happiness and making her want to laugh with him.

"You know everything? You know he was a decoy?"

Clean, crisp English words rang through her mind, and suddenly she realized that there was only one person who could have been the decoy: Andre Charbonneau.

Decoy for what? Mireille wondered. Hiring corrupt teachers and incorrectly managing school funds?

"Mireiyu?"

The Corsican blonde lifted her head abruptly. "You're awake."

"Un."

Kirika regarded her old partner with that look that had always made Mireille feel as if she could see into her soul, but her question was unexpected: "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing." Mireille stood up and headed towards the kitchen, pushing the thoughts of Andre Charbonneau out of her mind. "What would you like for lunch?"