Here's Chapter 5 Hope You Enjoy It :)
Tsubasa switched off CNN and listened to the crickets out in the dark. He had the windows in his cottage open. The breeze had died down, making the crickets even more noticeable. He almost turned the television on, but he didn't think he could take one more idiot talking about the possible firearm the sniper could have used. What the hell difference did it make? Two federal agents were in the hospital. Go find the fucker.
He put his feet up on the old flat-topped trunk set up as coffee table, its wood varnished to high gloss, probably hurting its value as an antique. The Sakuras didn't seem to think the terms of antiques. A different sort of family, for sure. Eccentrics. Tsubasa's parents were ranchers in Osaka. Hard working, well-respected. They had no idea what their son was up to.
Misaki's father was a widower, career military, who pretty much thought Tsubasa had killed her.
He wasn't that far off.
FOX News had done a diagram of the kind of wound Ruka Nogi might have suffered in his left upper abdomen. Explained how he could live without a spleen. About the risk of blood loss, the strain it put on the kidneys. Luckily, he'd gotten medical attention within the "golden Hour."
Misaki hadn't
Because Tsubasa hadn't been there.
He hadn't been there a lot during their two-year marriage.
He jumped to his feet and tore open small refrigerator, grabbed a glass container of leftover barbeque and popped it into the microwave. It was an ancient microwave. It must have been one of the first ones off the assembly line. The Sakuras weren't into gadgets.
He got out dill pickle slice and found a dried-up sesame-seed bun in the bread box. He softened it up in the microwave and put the whole mess together ans ate it leaning against the sink. Wondering what in hell he thought of he was doing. Northern Woods. The Sakuras. Prime Minister Anju's boyhood home just up river. Tsubasa knew better than to turn into some kind of nutball loose cannon, but here he was.
He'd read Mikan Sakura's dissertation on the Anju house and how the Anju family fit into the post Civil War. Thought he'd go blind. She'd just finish producing and directing a documentary. There was talk of her becoming the director of the Anju House and working to open it to the public as a historic site. Now that he'd meet her, Tsubasa couldn't see Mikan spending her time figuring out where the visitors' center should go, doing fundraising, training docent – she needed a new project.
Tsubasa had taken his own private, illicit, midnight tour of the Anju's house down river from the Sakuras. It hadn't produced a single thing except a spider bite on his ankle. His search of the Sakura house hadn't produced much more. He'd gone through file cabinets, photo albums, and old yearbooks. The father had written plenty boring papers of his own. The mother was into art.
He'd found Mikan's locked diary from when she was fifteen but decided he wasn't low enough to break into it and read it.
But he might yet. He was that goddamn frustrated. He wasn't sure what he expected to find in Kyoto. A connection, a hint, a link. Something that explained Misaki's interest in the Sakuras. Why she'd contacted Yuka Sakura in Paris two days before she was killed. What it had to do with her death.
She'd gone to Paris herself. On holiday, she'd told her friends and superiors, Euro-style. Tsubasa had shown up at her base in Germany without notice, found her gone, figured out where she was and headed to Paris to join her. He could track down anyone, so he'd tracked down his ambitious, incredible wife.
He hadn't considered the importance of her trip until she turned up dead. Then he wanted to know everything. Why Paris? What had Misaki been up to?
Weeks of probing, spying and prowling in Europe had landed him on the Cumberland River in the middle of Kyoto, playing gardener.
Waiting like a damn fool for answers to fall into his lap.
Ten days ago, he'd bought a ticket back to Paris.
But he hadn't used it yet. Because Mikan Sakura had returned from Scotland. And now her brother had been shot in the Central Park.
Suddenly Tsubasa realize the crickets had stopped chirping.
He set his plate in the sink and went still, listening aware of the .38 semiautomatic strapped to his ankle under his overalls.
"Mr. Ando? It's me, Reo Mouri." The voice amiable, familiar. "Would you mind if I had a word with you?"
Tsubasa stifled a groan. Just what he needed, a bottom-feeding reporter who liked to pass himself off as legitimate journalist-historian. Before he could respond, Reo was at the door. He was working on unauthorized, tabloid style biography of Prime Minister. He'd set up shop a couple of weeks ago at the cabin he'd rented at a fishing camp farther up river The Anju House. He was working his way to Mikan's good grace, presumably in trying to get access to the president and dig up any dirt he could find – not she was anyone's fool. As far as Tsubasa had seen, so far she hadn't told Mouri much more than what kind of mint extract she used in her sweet tea punch.
He and Tsubasa were about the same age. But Reo Mouri seemed like a throwback to another generation, pre-World War II, maybe even pre-World War I. He was unfailingly polite and tended to dress in a penny loafers, chinos, polo shirt and Rolex watch.
He opened up the screen door, then remembered his good ol' boy act. "What can I do for you, Mr. Mouri?"
"I'm sorry to bother you this late. I've been working all day on my new book. I didn't have the radio on. I just heard the news-"
"Yes, sir it's an awful situation."
Reo shook his head in obvious despair. He had a broad forehead, a strong jaw – not bad-looking guy. "It's terrible. Mikan's gone to Tokyo?"
"She left a short time after she heard about the shooting."
Reo took in a breath. "Good Heavens. I simply can't imagine. The FBI just held a press conference it was carried by all news channels. Ruka Nogi or should I say Sakura's still in critical condition, but at least he's stable. He made it out of surgery. Mikan must be beside herself."
Tsubasa noted the familiar way Mouri talked about Mikan and wondered if they'd stuck up a real friendship since she'd arrived back to Northern Woods. He turned on the tap at the sink and rinsed off his barbeque plate. "She was pretty upset when she left here, Mr. Mouri."
"Understandably. Do you know anything? Anything that's not on the news? Are the parents flying in from Paris? Will Ruka be brought down here to recuperate-"
"If I knew anything," Tsubasa said, turning from the sink. "I don't believe I'd tell you. No offense, sir but you're a reporter. It's not my job to blab family business to reports."
Reo's back stiffened visibly, but he smiled. "No offense taken, but you're quite wrong about me. If I were the kind of reporter you obviously think I am, I'd be on the phone to CNN right now alerting them to Ruka Nogi's connection to the Prime Minister. But I haven't done that."
"No money in it?"
"Name recognition. That would help me with my book when it goes to press." He sighed his shoulder sagging . "I've never been good at selling my-self. My interest is always the story. This book – I'm doing a responsible job on it. I want to be respectable. The most difficult part…" He trailed off, avoiding Tsubasa's eyes. "Mikan. I didin't expect-" He seemed unable to go on.
"You didn't expect to want her approval," Tsubasa finished for him, then added, matter-of-fact, "She's a beautiful woman."
Reo still didn't look at him. He nodded, embarrassed. "That's right. I want to do my best work on this book. I'd like her respect. I've read her dissertation, and I understand the documentary she just finished is stunning. I can't compete with that kind of scholarship. Of course, her work doesn't focus on the minister. What I'm doing is quite different."
The guy sounded smitten. Tsubasa got it, but Mikan Sakura was sister like material as far as he concered. "Look, Mr. Mouri," he said, "you don't have to justify yourself to me. What you do is none of my business. I'll tell Mikan you dropped by and let you know if I hear anything. Fair enough?"
Reo seemed to be pleased, even relieved. "Thank you. It's a worrisome situation, isn't it?"
"Sure is, sir."
"Mikan… I wonder how long she'll be up there. If she needs anything-"
"I'll tell her you offered,"
After Reo left, Tsubasa got a beer out of the refrigerator and walked down to the dock. It was dark out, not much for moon and stars. Chilly. He could fly up to Tokyo. Ask questions, stick his nose where it didn't belong.
Get arrested.
Bad enough having Reo Mouri, would-be Ministerial biographer, sniffing around Northern Woods. In Tokyo, Tsubasa'd be facing scores of hardnosed, cynical reporters who had space and time to fill whatever they could fill it with, all of them eager for anything that would spin the Central Park sniper story into a new direction for another day or two of audience-grabbing coverage.
He should have used an alias. Never mind Mouri and a bunch of national and Tokyo reporters – if the FBI and Alice fed his name into a computer, God only knows what'd pop out.
"Yeah, well." Tsubasa said into the night. "Whatever."
He finished his beer and went back inside.
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Sneak peak of the next chapter:
Mikan stepped backward toward the exit and stumbled on someone's feet. Before she could fall flat on her face, a firm hand caught her by the elbow, steadying her.
"Whoa, there. Easy."
She spun around, straight into Natsume Hyuuga, the agent who'd been shot with her brother. She recognize him from the photo they'd shown on TV. He was tall, lean, his raven hair softened, and he had, Mikan thought, the most alluring, incisive and rarest eyes she'd ever seen. Crimson. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt under a dark plaid flannel shirt and sneakers.
The crimson eyes settled on her. "Mikan Sakura, right?"
Till Next time ;)
~claire-chan143