No doubt you must be thinking, this is Meifu, the land of the dead. A Shinigami is dead by definition. And you'd be right, except that there are different kinds of dead. Metaphorical definitions not included, there's braindead, of course, which is not technically dead. A person can be braindead and in a coma, which all but some extremists would agree is still a state of living. Some claim they've died but only part-way and come back to life, usually after a temporary failure of vital functions, calling it a Near Death Experience; but modern science has shown that on a physiological level the accompanying light at the end of the tunnel is little more than certain areas of the brain triggering random lights and memories from a lack of oxygen.

On our side of things, the more permanent and nonreversible side, there's dead like Shinigami in which a sort of shadow of the body and mind continue on a different plane of existence, which is not the same thing as the living dead, the reanimation of a corpse. The Maria Wong case we took in '96 was an example of the latter. Almost without exception some external and not entirely well-intentioned force (or, in all my experience, a psychopathic pervert) is involved in these cases. Those are unusual afterlives, however, and most people pass on after their lives have been judged — to where nobody aside from King Enma really knows. Oblivion I hope. Whatever it is, it is the most absolute kind of dead imaginable.

Then, of course, there's clinically dead, what people most commonly think of when they think dead. Put simply, vital signs are absent. The body has completely shut down.

Watari-san was this last kind of dead.

—

He was lying on his back in a relaxed position. The expression on his long face, which was turned just a bit to his left, was peaceful with only the slightest furrow of his brows to suggest any kind of pain, or perhaps a final release from it. There was an understated quality of sorrow and freedom — otherwise incongruous traits — about his disheveled state. The starched white lab coat had spread out wildly around him against the starched white sheets on the standard hospital cot, rather than being arranged, and the same applied to his long wavy hair, which was unbound. His right hand rested on his stomach, the left on the sheets beside his shoulder. His round glasses had been laid unfolded and upside-down on the tray table beside him, and the window behind that was open to the night breeze. Watari's complexion was pale in the moonlight, but not much if any more so than usual. There was not the slightest trace of blood on or around him, nor signs of assault or puncture wounds. It looked for all one could see like he had dozed off and would wake up at any moment, except for the unnatural stillness of his body. Despite his many encounters with the deceased, this one still made Hisoka uneasy, whether he looked at him or not. This was a special case, he knew, because this time the stiff was someone he had grown close to, a coworker and someone he considered a friend — and someone he realized now he could not imagine being dead. That is, really dead.

But it was more than that. He could feel something alien about the situation, something that didn't quite fit, and it raised his suspicions. For one, the office hadn't been such a mess of papers and files when they left it hardly two hours before. 003 was missing as well, and it seemed highly unlikely she would voluntarily leave her master in this condition.

"You said the last time you saw him alive was about nine?" Tatsumi asked again, after he had finished looking Watari over. "The three of you came back here because Tsuzuki was feeling ill. Did you notice anything . . . strange about his behavior?"

"Strange? Can you be more specific? We're talking about Watari here," said Tsuzuki.

Hisoka rolled his eyes. "This is serious, Tsuzuki," he said, although he could see Tsuzuki was as well, even if his mouth wasn't hooked up to that seriousness. He was browsing Watari's files and loose leaf notes, looking for anything that might give some kind of insight into his death, while Hisoka tried to answer Tatsumi's questions adequately. "He was acting distracted," he told the secretary. "I mean . . . not normal, right-brain-doesn't-know-what-the-left-one's-doing distracted. His whole mind seemed to be focused on something else. It felt almost like nostalgia."

"This was your . . . impression," Tatsumi guessed.

Hisoka nodded. "That's what I was able to glean from his feelings. There are still some trace amounts of it here now. But if I had to come to some sort of conclusion, I would say it was nothing more than second thoughts."

"Second thoughts?"

"Well . . . You know, when something from the past pops randomly into your mind again and you wonder if maybe you could have done things differently."

"I understand," the other said, and made a quick note of it for the inevitable report to come. His eyebrows furrowed as he fixed Hisoka with an intent gaze, like he was searching for something more. "That doesn't sound so unusual when you put it that way."

As Hisoka groped for words, Tsuzuki spoke up. "He said something that struck me as odd. I remember because at first I thought he was talking about my indigestion: Spock-kun."

"Spock-kun," echoed Tatsumi.

"M-hm. I'm sure that's what it was."

"That's right," Hisoka said. "I don't know what it was supposed to mean."

"I figured he was referring to Doctor Spock," Tsuzuki said.

"The child psychologist?" Tatsumi turned to him. "Why would he mention him?"

"Not that Doctor Spock. The character on this old sci-fi television show, looked kind of like Terazuma. 'Live long and prosper' . . . or was it 'nanu-nanu'? Anyway, something like that."

"That sounds like Watari-san. But what's the relevance?"

"Probably none, knowing Watari."

"Mm. . . ."

While the two looked over the immediate vicinity of Watari's desk, Hisoka scoped out the rest of the room, and for the first time since discovering him dead felt a sense of remorse. People died in the middle of things. They usually didn't go with their affairs in order — not the cases he was familiar with anyway — but with projects unfinished, expectations unfulfilled. Watari had been excited for the eclipse that would now proceed without him. In anticipation of the event a telescope was set up at one end of the room. The papers scattered about the worktables and dumped on top of one another left Hisoka with a sense of yearning and frustration. The hi-fi must have been playing when he died. The record sitting on it was of more enka. Hisoka sighed. That at least partly explained the dark air.

Meanwhile a bottle of extra-strength aspirin sitting on top of one of the folder piles caught Tatsumi's eye. He shook it. It was empty. Tsuzuki looked up from one of the pages of notes he had swiped from Watari's desk. "Ah," he said with understanding. "Headache, Watari?"

"Some headache." Tatsumi replaced it and made a note. He adjusted his glasses and gestured to the pad of paper in Tsuzuki's hands. "What is this? Evidence?"

"It looks like what he was working on when he died."

The page was cluttered with diagrams and formulas upon diagrams and formulas, some of it hastily crossed out and all of it unintelligible to the two. The complex problems laid out there were beyond their understanding without first cross-referencing Watari's vast and obscure knowledge, but the handwriting was chicken scratch to boot. "I don't know what any of this means, Tsuzuki-san," Tatsumi said.

"Neither do I," said Tsuzuki. "But check out the margin."

Tatsumi studied it for a moment as he adjusted his glasses, then stifled a chuckle when it gradually became clear what — that is to say, whom — the doodle in the margin was an image of. "That's not Kurosaki-kun, is it?"

"Who else?" Tsuzuki said.

Hisoka looked up.

"Well, it is rather hard to tell given Watari-san's, ahem, artistic style." Tatsumi very professionally covered his amusement with a cough. "He looks like he's doing karaoke."

"Yeah, and enka at that." Tsuzuki put one hand to his cheek, wearing a facetious awe-struck gaze as he said, "Alas, that I couldn't see it until now: such soul! Such style! The boy's a natural. What a waste he hates the music."

Hisoka felt his cheeks burning furiously. "Shut up. Let me see that." He snatched the paper away and studied it closely. The figures were drawn so poorly it was anyone's guess who any of them were supposed to be. It didn't look a bit like him, first of all (the ears were much too big), and second it looked more like whoever it was was eating an ice cream cone in a sparkly suit than crooning old-folks songs. Tsuzuki was beaming, and Tatsumi could not quite wipe the smile from his face. Hisoka would have to thank Watari for this wonderful experience later.

For now, he thrust the notes back at Tsuzuki, demanding, "Where'd you get that anyway? You're not supposed to move stuff around in a crime scene, idiot. How do you know someone didn't take something when you've been thoughtlessly messing it up?"

"Jeez, Terazuma, can't you take a joke?" Tsuzuki said. A look of hurt crossed his face, but not because of any insult to his professionalism. "Besides, it's not like anyone would want to steal this chicken scratch."

"How would you know?" Hisoka wasn't really sure why, now that Watari was dead, he had the inexplicable urge to defend the scientist's brilliance, even though it had more than once been responsible for disrupting their own lives. "With all the things Watari-san's discovered and invented . . . There are sickos who would kill to make a quick buck off the work of someone like him, you know — or use it for evil."

Suddenly he remembered Watari's mention of the suspicious athletes foot patient. And he was about to tell Tatsumi when a feminine voice called out:

"Hi-i-i-i-i! Hope we're not late!"

Kannuki Wakaba stepped into the room all smiles, followed by a slightly rumpled and characteristically indifferent Terazuma. "Why would we be late?" he grumbled, cigarette hanging from his lips. "We came as soon as we heard."

"We stopped at Mr. Donut," Wakaba chirped, and held the cache out to Tsuzuki.

—Who started and all but hid behind Hisoka at the offer. "Keep them away from me."

The girl looked at him funny. "What's wrong with you, Tsuzuki-san?" she said.

"Food poisoning," Hisoka explained, and her mouth made an understanding 'o'.

Meanwhile, Terazuma was pleading with Tatsumi: "What's the meaning of dragging us out of bed at eleven at night and telling us we have a case? The chief said we could take a break."

"I know, and I sympathize," Tatsumi said, "but— Are you sure it's wise to have a lit cigarette in this office? —Something of a rather urgent nature came up. You understand how that is. Besides, I doubt you go to bed before eleven, Terazuma-san."

"Yeah, yeah. It's part of the job description, right? On-call for the rest of the afterlife." Terazuma dropped the butt into the nearest empty coffee can, taking the chance that it wasn't unreasonably loaded with dangerous chemicals.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Hisoka asked. "Tsuzuki and I just found out fifteen minutes ago."

"Found out what?"

"Well . . . that Watari-san's dead."

Wakaba and Terazuma both started. "He's dead?" they exclaimed incredulously together.

After a moment to let it sink in, however, Wakaba shrugged and Terazuma said, "Makes sense. I was gonna say," he said pointing his thumb at Watari's body, "with all us talking, that guy really sleeps like . . . Well, you know."

"The dead?" said Wakaba.

"Yeah."

—

"So what's this urgent case you have for us, Tatsumi-san?" Wakaba said after a little assurance that the sudden demise of their coworker was no cause for immediate concern. She unpacked the donuts but no one seemed very interested in them.

"Yeah, where are you sending us?" Terazuma put in. "—And why wouldn't you tell us over the phone? This better not be some sappy schoolgirl suicide inspired by the melancholy of the full moon or cicadas or some stupid schoolgirl crap like that. I'm getting really sick of those. . . . What?"

The others had gone silent, looking worriedly at Wakaba out of the corners of their eyes. With a tiny cough she pretended she hadn't heard. "I didn't mean . . . Nothing against schoolgirls," Terazuma muttered.

"I didn't say anything," Wakaba retorted, avoiding his eyes and grabbing a donut.

"It's just that . . . you know, there's been so many of them lately. . . ."

Wakaba mumbled something around the donut that the rest thought it might be best not to clarify.

"So, as you were saying . . ." Tsuzuki, who had taken a seat on one of the lab stools, prompted cautiously.

"As I was saying." Tatsumi cleared his throat. "I wasn't sure how I was going to say this but given the circumstances I guess I shouldn't beat around the bush. This urgent case actually involves the Earl of the Castle of Candles, and you are to report to his residence for further instructions."

A stunned silence greeted his words.

"Look at the bright side: you won't have to leave Meifu."

"I think I'd rather take the schoolgirls," Terazuma said.

Wakaba crossed her arms. "This does sound suspicious. Are you sure it can't wait 'til morning?"

"It absolutely cannot wait," Tatsumi said.

"What did he bribe you with this time?" said Terazuma.

"Premium-grade smoked wild salmon from Alaska and macaroons."

"Ha! it's only a medium-level emergency then," said Terazuma hopefully. "We can take care of it tomorrow."

"Please, Terazuma-san," the secretary implored, "Kannuki . . . I can't impress on you how important this is. It's not the gifts. You both owe your livelihood to Hakushaku-sama — we all do — and it would only be right to return the favor and help him when he's in need. It's your duty. And more importantly, I gave him my word—"

"You promised we would do it before you even asked us?"

Tatsumi nodded gravely. "If you don't take this job, you understand it will reflect poorly on the chief and I. And defending my integrity and the trustworthiness of this office is not something I very much enjoy doing," he said as he looked up, his glasses catching the glare of the fluorescent lights. "Do I make myself clear?"

Terazuma swallowed the retort that had been on the tip of his tongue. "Crystal."

"But what kind of job is it?" Wakaba said.

"Well . . ." Now Tatsumi was the one to seem doubtful. His brows furrowed as he said with some deliberation: "I can't be exactly sure, though he did say you would be fully briefed on arrival. You see, he was reluctant to tell me and Watson seemed to know nothing specific about it. To tell the truth I think he was embarrassed of what I might think of his problem. I don't think he trusts me on a personal level half as much as on a professional one, though I don't know what I did to make him feel that way. . . ."

"So he could just as well be making it all up!" Terazuma said.

"I doubt he'd do something like that, and go through all the trouble, but I suppose it is possible," Tatsumi said.

"He would if he were trying to get me to come over," Tsuzuki said, his chin rested on one hand. "Boy am I glad that, for once, this doesn't concern me."

"Oh, no, Tsuzuki-san," Tatsumi began. "Maybe I wasn't very clear. You're going too."

"What?" Tsuzuki nearly hit his chin on the table in surprise. "Wait a minute, Tatsumi," he said, suddenly desperate. "There must be some mistake. I'm sick, remember? I can't go anywhere in this condition." He hugged his stomach to illustrate.

"You've seemed fine since I've been here."

"Yes, well," he stammered, "that's because I knew the situation with Watari was more important so I had to put my health momentarily aside for the sake of professionalism—"

"Good, because this is a very important situation as well."

"But it still hurts!"

Tatsumi smiled. "And I'm glad to know that won't interfere with your getting the job done."

Having no choice but to resign to his fate once again, Tsuzuki slumped in his seat. "Why do I have to go? Why don't you send Hisoka in my place instead?"

"I wouldn't mind that," Terazuma said, grinning. "We'd get done a lot faster."

Tsuzuki frowned. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm sure you'd rather go with him anyway, weirdo."

"Wha . . . What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The blush that spread over the other's face told he wasn't so ignorant, however. "You're one to talk, Tsuzuki!"

"You know I can't send him, Tsuzuki-san," Tatsumi said. "The Earl would be disappointed in me."

"Besides," said Hisoka with an exasperated sigh, having listened to their conversation while he surveyed the room for clues, "that would hardly be fair seeing as I work harder than both of you combined."

"It's true," Wakaba said.

"Hey, don't stick me in the same category with this numbskull," Terazuma growled at him, pointing in a rather vulgar manner at Tsuzuki.

Tsuzuki started. "Who are you calling a numbskull, you oaf?" Terazuma turned and narrowed his eyes at him, and one could almost sense the hair bristling on the back of both their necks and electricity rearing to strike across the room. "You can't really expect me to work with him!" Terazuma said.

"I do," Tatsumi said bluntly. "The Earl asked for him specifically."

"Figures," Tsuzuki said with a sigh of resignation. Terazuma snickered.

"Just think," said Wakaba, who could always be counted on to put a positive spin on a situation, "with three of us on the case it should go a lot faster."

"You really don't know the Earl, do you?" Tsuzuki said. She smiled.

"And the sooner you get there the sooner you can leave, right, Tsuzuki-san?" Tatsumi added, matching her happy-go-luckiness. "Give me a status report in a few hours, will you?"

Tsuzuki blinked. "You mean we have to leave now?"

"Of course. You didn't think I meant 'urgent' in a figurative sense, did you?"

He sniffed and slid off the stool. "You're so mean, Tatsumi."

—

As the others discussed the case that the Earl of the Castle of Candles had handed to them, and it quickly became clear his talents would not be needed, Hisoka took the opportunity to look around the office on his own. He was disappointed that Terazuma of all of them had no interest in the case that was right before them, but that didn't mean his skills as a detective should go to waste. Hisoka had made a point of soaking up all of the man's pointers over the years for just such an occasion, because the alternative was relying on Tsuzuki. Not that Tsuzuki was a bad partner, but he was quite . . . outdated.

He waved a curt good-bye to the three as they left for the Castle of Candles, and Wakaba waved to Watari as well. Hisoka thought sadly that if not for her Terazuma might leave his head at home, and he felt that she and him were very much kindred spirits in that respect.

After they had left, he went to the window above the bed that had been left wide open. A mild breeze blew through, summer-warm even in this eternal spring, but he shivered. The murderer must have left through that window — and it was possible he came through it as well. He thought of malign spirits that often wandered the world of the living looking for a host or victim but were rarely seen in JuOhCho: they had to be invited in before they could do anything, but Watari would know better than to do that. Maybe his imagination was simply overacting, but all angles must be considered. One thing was for sure, 003 was missing. Whether she had been kidnapped or flown the coop, so to speak, there was no way of telling. In light of all that had happened, however, he found himself worrying about her, although experience told him if anyone could take care of himself it was she. There was too much he didn't know.

The moonlight streamed in through the open window, it's source out of sight behind the trees, but it was an eerily pinkish light falling on Watari's face and lab coat that made Hisoka's skin crawl, literally. Suddenly he felt the ache of the curses burnt into his skin almost a decade ago flaring up again as they hadn't in years except in his worst dreams. He had hoped he had forgotten that feeling, but it returned as fresh in his mind as though Kyoto was only last weekend. The moon alone, for all the powers attributed to it, could not do that. There was only one thing that could.

Suddenly it all clicked. The careful disarrangement of the room and body, the chosen night, the open window now clearly not an escape but an invitation . . . all pointed at a single brilliant and sinister mind.

He knew who the murderer was.

Something fluttered out of the corner of his eye. On the floor near the bed sat a small piece of paper, neatly folded in the middle forming a little roof that slid across the linoleum with the breeze. It had most likely blown off the bedside table, where it would have been seen by the casual eye and where the breeze would have most easily picked it up. There was something written on it, but not legible from the angle at which Hisoka stood. He bent nonchalantly to pick it up, and facing the open window so that no one might see what he had he read it.

In small, neat print was a simple message:

I'll be waiting on the bridge.

And that was all. . . .

"Did you find something, Kurosaki-kun?" Tatsumi asked, suddenly close to his ear. Hisoka jumped. How had he sneaked up on him so quietly? Hisoka quickly folded the piece of paper in one hand and slid it inside his sleeve.

"No," he said quickly. It wasn't like him to intentionally lie to Tatsumi he knew, but then it wasn't like Tatsumi to be so subtle about his suspicion. Just like it wasn't often Hisoka's curses burned and Tsuzuki got sick and one of their coworkers turned up dead. "I thought my shoelaces had come undone."

He met Tatsumi's eyes. Tatsumi stared back. Not for the first time in his career, Hisoka wondered if those weren't actually some kind of telepathic X-ray glasses the secretary wore.

Hisoka looked away and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Um, Tatsumi-san," he said, "do you need me here anymore? Because I haven't gone all night and the tea's kind of catching up with me. . . ."

"I don't need you for anything else." Tatsumi gave him such a worn and gentle smile that Hisoka almost felt bad about deceiving him. Almost. "I have just about all I need to file a report. You should go home and get some sleep."

"Yeah," Hisoka said.

He left the room and started down the hall with a certain reverence in his step for the deceased. When he had turned the corner, however, his pace quickened with a sense of urgency. Instead of heading for the exit, he turned in the direction of his office.

—

I couldn't believe Tsuzuki and Tatsumi-san — or the others, for that matter. How could they treat Watari-san's death like it was some everyday occurrence when the circumstances surrounding it were obviously sinister? I couldn't believe that I was the only one who cared about what happened to him, because even though they were under stress from the Earl as well it just wasn't like them to just dismiss something so serious. Anyone with half a mind could see that someone had wanted to grab our attention: the mysterious nature of the murder itself, the note . . .

'I'll be waiting at the bridge.'

I wondered about that note, and what bridge the killer was referring to. There was only one that seemed likely, the bridge with the red stained wood railing in the garden. I had no time to think about the significance of the choice of location. Time was running out. Seeing as no one else cared, it was up to me to stop Watari's killer; and for his sake, and whomever else he planned to hurt, I could not fail to meet him as he demanded. I couldn't help this intuition that the note had been left expressly for me to find, like it was all some sort of game. Which explained 003's disappearance: he must have had her as well.

I say 'he' because there was no doubt in my mind who it was. There were several possibilities, but they were quickly eliminated one by one as it became clear from the evidence there was only one person who had the motive and the means to commit such a crime. Whether it was voodoo or chemicals that were to blame, there was only one man who was more than familiar enough with both.

Who else but he would have the gall to taunt us with a note like that? Who else was so sadistic, who knew where to strike us? The burning in my skin reminded me how deep my hatred went. It would never go away. I hurried to my office and grabbed the .50 caliber Desert Eagle Mark VII I kept in the top drawer of my desk, and stuck it in the waistband of my jeans under my jacket. This was no model. And even though it was mostly useless against the malevolent spirits that made up a great deal of our trouble, my man was human. At that point I was merely thinking of my own safety, but, standing waiting for the elevator, I can't deny the lust for revenge that was inside me. One way or another, I wanted him to pay for what he did to me and Tsuzuki, and now Watari-san. I wasn't sure I would be able to stop myself, or that I would want to . . . If I were to kill him—

—

A loud ding, echoing through the deserted silence of the granite-lined hall, startled Hisoka and the elevator doors opened. The fluorescent light and sterile, reflective steel interior that beckoned him inside suddenly seemed so separate from the rest of the building that he worried if he got on now it would take him to another world, with the mysterious stranger for his guide. Indeed, by some strange stroke of luck (or misfortune) the young man in the suit and headphones who had passed them in the hall two hours before now stood in this of all the possible cars. Twice in one night, the same ambiguous expression behind the same set of frames, the same irritatingly nonchalant disposition. For a second Hisoka seriously considered taking the stairs. But then the stranger looked his way and recognized him with a slight smile and an even slighter widening of the eyes, and Hisoka felt compelled by some ingrained fear of social discourtesy to get in.

He awkwardly maneuvered himself into the car, consciously keeping his gaze pointed anywhere but at the man, and careful to keep a good space cushion between them. He said nothing, and neither did the man, as Hisoka pushed the button for the first floor. The fourth basement light was also on. How far down did the building actually go anyway? he thought anxiously as the doors closed in front of him like the jaws of some great metal beast, locking him in on his ride to the bowels of the earth with the mysterious stranger.

The car started to move. Utter silence descended but for the faintest whisper of cables.

Curiosity gnawing on his shoulder, Hisoka tried to look at the man without looking at him. The man stared at the metal doors. The tinny voice inside his headphones repeated the same mantra from before: "I didn't understand . . ." The beat steadily filled the deafening stillness in the car like a drop of dye fills a bucket of water, cloudy tendrils rippling out to the far corners. Building, building . . .

The trip down the few floors lasted a small eternity.

With detached clarity, Hisoka could sense himself starting to panic. What if it did go on forever? What if when the car stopped it were to open out onto a field of near-total darkness and isolation straight out of TRON? If it came to it, he thought, feeling the weight of the pistol in his waistband, he could take this guy, but another plane of space and time was a completely different kettle of fish. Of course, such a thing defied the laws of physics . . . but in a way, so did his very existence. Change rattled in the stranger's pocket, and his heart skipped a beat. The stranger, unaware of Hisoka's nerves, calmly watched the floor numbers light up above the door.

At last the one lit up and the doors opened onto the perfectly typical first floor of the building, and Hisoka alone stepped out. The man remained inside, staring at the numbers above the door on his way to the basement. Get a hold of yourself, Hisoka chastised himself. You're letting the night get to you. There're no devils here, no glitches in the space-time continuum; there's only one thing out there you need to worry about and you have the homefield advantage. That thought readied him for what awaited.

When he stepped outside it was a different story.

The lunar eclipse was total at this hour, the face of the moon fully red. Now that he knew the perfectly natural and logical cause of the occurrence, Hisoka expected it would not bother him, but he was mistaken. Walking out past the safety of the steps and off the long front walk, out among the cherries in perpetual full bloom that crowded the landscape, the red moon hanging large and low in the sky, it was as though he had wandered into a page from his own history. He couldn't help the whimsical thought that he must be dreaming, or that someone was playing a cruel joke; but he knew as his skin burned with old curses that it was all very real.

He knew he would see him again — and this time, when he reached the bridge agreed on in the note, he would overcome his fears and finish what he should have had the strength to do years ago. But as it was the eerie air under the cherries that seemed to suck up all sound into the whispering of their petals made him pause, and the bridge seemed very far away. There was something here—

He froze as he heard the sudden voice behind him; it was all too familiar:

"What a pleasant surprise. My, but this brings back memories. Doesn't it . . . boy?"

—
to be continue..