Here's chapter 14
Enjoy :)

Natsume bought a map at the Kyoto air port and drove his Black Ferrari F430 spider north until he came to Northern Woods, basically a wide-bend on the Cumberland River. It wasn't even a town, really. He pulled into a gas station and started to call Mikan for directions to her house, but there was no cell service. Before using a payphone, he asked inside.

"I thought Mikan was still in Scotland," the bubblegum haired lady at the cash registers said. "I've been telling the reporters that. She and Ruka used to like to come in here and but red licorice. I told them it'd rot their teeth." She eyed Natsume suspiciously. "Why should I tell you where they live?"

Natsume was in no mood to screw around and showed the woman his badge.

Directions involved a cornfield, a country church and a back road he wasn't supposed to take and one he was.

The back road brought him down toward the deep, slow river, and he turned left, as the old man had instructed, onto a long driveway that led to a log house nestled among shade trees and gardens, its sprawling lawn ending at a dock on the riverfront. On one side of the property were more fields, on the other, thick woods that seemed to go on forever. Spring was further along in Middle of Kyoto than in Tokyo, the leaves full and dark, a huge oink azalea growing close to the house, a tangle of white roses creeping up one side of the front porch.

Natsume parked behind an old pickup with Kyoto plates and climbed out of his car. He could smell freshly mowed grass tinged with the sweetness of flowers and heard a small boat puttering on the river.

In the side yard, a mid-night haired man in overalls stabbed a pitchfork into a pile of compost and dumped it onto a plowed vegetable garden. One end had sprouts growing – spinach, onions, loose-leaf lettuce. The man shooed a horsefly with one hand. "Can I help you, sir?" he called to him.

Natsume walked down to the garden. "I'm looking for Mikan Sakura."

"And you would be?"

"Alice Agent Natsume Hyuuga. I work with her brother."

The man – presumably the property manager Mikan had mentioned. Sweat dripped down his face nonetheless. "You're the other agent, who was shot with him, aren't you? Doing okay, sir?"

"Yes, thanks, and you're –"

"Andou, Tsubasa Andou." He grinned amiably, not breathing that hard from his work. "Chief manure spreader. Composted or not, horse manure stinks, don't it? I take care of the place."

Natsume noticed a black star tattoo on his upper left cheek below the eye. He had on a dirty T-shirt under the overalls. By contrast, Natsume had put on a suit for his travels south. His bandage arm had given him some discomfort on the flight, but he'd taken a couple of Tylenol when he landed.

"Mikan-chan's in the house," Tsubasa said. "Is she expecting you? She's got company."

Natsume didn't like the idea of her having company not after her early-morning phone call. She'd tried to hide her stress and fear, but they were obvious, He nodded to Tsubasa. "Yes, she's expecting me."

He left Tsubasa to his manure spreading and took half gravel, half stone path to the back steps. It seemed more like the main entrance than the one on the porch that faced the river. Thought a screen door, he could hear Mikan talking to a man with a pronounced southern accent.

They were discussing prune cake recipes.

"My granny always made a three-layer prune cake," the man said. "She insisted it was best the next day, after the flavors had time to settle and blend."

Mikan laughed, but Natsume could hear a lingering strain in her voice. He wondered if the guy with her noticed. "I like prune cake anytime, anywhere, provided it's not hard as a rock."

Natsume peered through the screen door. Mikan's visitor was sitting at a round table. He looked to be a year or two older than him, red hair and regular features. He wore a polo shirt, khakis and penny loafers. Mikan was at the counter in a flour covered pink apron.

She spotted him, her eyes connecting with his, widening, and Natsume knew that whatever had promoted her to call him in a panic was still a factor. He wasn't going to have prune cake and coffee and turn around and head back to Tokyo. Something was up.

The man at the table leaped to his feet. "Mikan?"

"It's okay," she said quickly, moving toward the screen door.

Natsume pulled it open. "How are you Mikan?"

"I didn't hear your car –" She smiled nervously. "Reo and I have been busy talking about prune cake recipes. Here, come in. Reo, this is Natsume Hyuuga, one of Ruka's colleagues from Tokyo. Natsume, Reo Mouri, a journalist and temporary neighbor."

Reo put out a hand, and then pulled it back. "Sorry, sir. I forgot you were hit the other day. The arm, right?"

"It's fine. Why are you a temporary neighbor?"

The man seemed taken aback by Natsume's directness, but he recovered and smiled. "I'm renting a cabin upriver a piece while I work on a book."

"He's working on an unauthorized biography of Minister Anju," Mikan said neutrally, then stepped from behind the counter. "Thanks for stopping by, Reo. Come back anytime for your slice of prune cake."

He lifted a lightweight jacket off the back of a chair. "I'll see you later, Mikan, Agent, very nice to meet you. I'm sorry about what happened."

He slipped out the back door.

Natsume glanced around the country kitchen and its squared-off log walls with thick layers of white caulking between them. The oak table and chairs were worn and cracked with age, the simple linoleum floor spotless, the cabinets and countertops timeless and functional. A cross-stitched sampler about friendship hung above the table.

The window next to the table looked out on the side yard with its azaleas and vegetable garden. Tsubasa Andou had abandoned his pile of horse manure.

The place was more isolated than Natsume has expected.

"Whose truck?" he asked.

"The family's. Tsubasa-sempai uses it, too. Reo walked down from fishing camp where he's staying." Mikan returned to her mixing bowl and cutting board of what presumably were chopped prunes and lifted it into her mixing bowl.

"I met you're gardener. He almost stuck me with his pitchfork. Reo's a buff guy, too." Natsume settled on a stool across from her at the counter, noticed the slight tremble in her hands. "How come you don't have any scrawny old guys hanging around you?"

"Reo runs to keep in shape – apparently he has a grueling deadline for his book. I met him last fall when he was still deciding if he wanted to take on the project. He wants to interview me, but I keep putting him off."

"By bringing up prune cake recipes?"

"Watch, he'll find some way to use it in his book." She picked up a wood-handled spatula and folded the prunes in the brownish batter. "And Tsubasa-sempai's the nicest guy. Anyway, a pitchfork's no match for whatever you're carrying."

Which Natsume had no intention of discussing with her. She lifted her bowl and started spooning the thick batter into one of the square pans she had set out on the counter. She took a breath, setting down the bowl quickly, as if she'd been about to drop it. The tremble in her hands was noticeably worse.

She avoids his eyes and spoke as she stared down at her cake batter. "You didn't have to come here. I should have stopped you. I'm sorry you've wasted your time." She picked up her bowl again, stubbornly folding batter into another pan. "I'm not in any danger here."

Natsume didn't respond. She set down the bowl once more, batter spilling down sides, then tore open the oven door and shoved the pans inside. She turned on the timer with more force necessary.

"I need air," she said, pulling off her apron and tossing it onto the counter.

She moved down a hall toward the front of the house, at a fast walk at first, then a run. Natsume could hear her footsteps on the wood floor. He eased off the stool and followed her out to the porch, over furnished with old rockers and chairs, even an iron daybed.

Mikan had made it down the steps and was well on her way to the river and the small, well-kept dock.

He wondered if she'd run right into the water and try to swim away from whatever was bothering her. It wasn't him. Or not just him. He was a reminder, tangible evidence that she wasn't just home on vacation. That was an illusion, a ruse that had helped get her through the morning.

She stopped at the very end of the dock.

Natsume walked out to her. An ancient fishing boat bobbed in the dark water. He felt urge to grab her and jump in the boat, go wherever the river took them and forget about the shooting and whatever had frighten her. In an image that felt real, that rocked him to point his knees almost buckled. He saw them stopped at a quite clearing, a blanket spread, the sun on them as they made love. It was as if her body was under him now, soft and yielding, their lovemaking tender, slow, as if they didn't care about the world. (A/N: Not my Idea…)

Christ. What the hell is wrong with him?

Mikan glanced back at him. She was on jeans and lightweight zip-up top. "How's your arm?"

The air seemed cooler, damper, on the river. His arm ached. His whole body ached. "Doctor re-bandaged it this morning before I left. It's healing well. Doesn't bother me that much." He glanced at the undergrowth and the rocks along the riverbank, upriver, toward the Anju House. "You swim in the river?"

"All the time. The Corps of Engineer dams backed up the river so that it's wider and deeper here than it used to be. It's more like a lake nowadays, so the current's not bad."

He shifted back to her. "Snakes?"

"Oh, sure but they leave us alone. Sometimes you can see a Japanese Keelback sunning on the rocks. There non-poisonous." She looked back at him, her words almost rote. "People often confuse them with water snakes that are poisonous."

Natsume decided to let her talked about snakes and prune cake, until she clam enough to tell him what was going on, why she'd called him at six in the morning – why she hadn't called him again and dissuade him from coming down here. "You can tell the difference?"

She nodded. "Japanese Keelback swims on top of the water with their heads above the surface –water snakes tend to swim under the water. A Japanese Keelback will stand its ground."

Like her, Natsume thought. Like her brother. Even in short time they'd worked together, Natsume had done enough arrest with Ruka to know he didn't like to back down. "Ever run into a Japanese Keelback?"

"All the time. Ruka and I used to catch them when we were kids, but Ojii-san told us to leave them alone. None of the snakes will bother you if you don't bother them. It's when they're startled or feels threatened that they bite."

He smiled. "I'll try not to startle or threaten any snakes."

She didn't smile back, seems barely aware that he'd spoken. She just stared into the water, as if she were looking for snakes. "Thank you for coming down here. It was a decent thing to do. I know I must have sounded awful on the phone this morning. I'm sure I overreacted to something."

"Tell me about it."

She shook her head. "I have to show you."

But she didn't want to show him. Natsume could see reluctance in her body language. Tight, closed, afraid. Showing him meant that the "something" that had prompted her to call him was real.

She dropped her arms to her sides and pushed past him with sudden energy, almost knocking him into the river.

He followed her back to the house, into a country-style living room with quilts and afghans in odd colors piled onto overstuffed furniture and shelves bearing an eclectic collection of books, including scholarly works and what had to be every mystery Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie had ever written.

"Wait her," she said, her tone more tired than commanding, and retreated back to the kitchen.

Natsume debated going after her, but decided to do as she'd asked. He stood in front of the stone fireplace, noting a wedding picture on the mantel. The parents, Izumi and Yuka Sakura. He was handsome, she was beautiful – startling beautiful. And obviously much younger.

Mikan returned with an envelope and sheet of paper that she lay on the marble-topped coffee table. "Here, I've already touched them, so they have my fingerprints on them."

Natsume took in the words in a single glance.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

"Jesus Christ," he said under his breath.

She seemed almost relieved at his reaction. "I didn't know what to do. It was in with a bunch of cards and letters, some of them kind of nutty." She sank onto a chair and took a breath. "It's amazing what some people will stoop to. I don't want to take any chances, but I don't want to send you all on a wild-goose chase, either."

"This was in your mail?"

"Tsubasa-sempai piled it on the kitchen table, unopened. It was here when I arrived. I opened it this morning." She leaned forward and stared at the paper, her cheeks pale, but she seemed calmer now that she'd told him about it. "After O called you, I checked all the phones for bugs. I don't even know what one looks like, and I imagine there are ways for someone to tap a phone line that I'd never find."

"I couldn't make myself tell you on the phone, I was really spooked. I let my thinking run wild."

She was upset, uncertain, a capable, intelligent woman not used to being out of her element – not used to having to trust someone, count on someone, besides herself.

But Natsume knew there was more. Something else.

She twisted her hands together, working one of her delicate ring up to her knuckle, then back down again. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

"None of us does."

"Ruka, my parents. If something happens to them because of something I did or didn't do…" She trailed off, not finishing.

"Your parents are still in Paris."

She nodded, taking a small breath. "I know. I called them, too. I didn't tell them about the note." She stopped abruptly and lifted her eyes to him. "I don't like being afraid, you know."

Natsume sat on the edge of the couch and folded his hands. His head ached now, too. But his thinking was clear, sharp. After he'd left her last night, he'd thought about finding her collapsing in Central Park – thought her body language and how similar it was to when he'd caught her following him to Sister Amanatsu's.

Mikan Sakura wasn't a bad liar. But she wasn't a good one, either.

"What happened in Central Park?" he asked her.

She almost slid off her chair. "What Ruka –" She took a breath. "You know what happened. You were there. It's where you and Ruka were shot."

"To you? What happened to you in Central Park? Why did you almost pass out?" He settled back on the couch. "Don't dare lie to lie. It won't work."

"Nothing happened, at least, nothing that relates to the note."

"Mikan, you're a smart woman. I'm sure you're a hell of an archaeologist, not that I'd be able to judge. It's not my area of expertise, like law enforcement isn't yours."

She was silent, still twisting her ring.

"You're feeling isolated," he said, "and you don't need to."

"I don't want to send you all of on some wild-goose chase. If I tell you what happened, which was nothing, you'll investigate." She shook her head. "No, it's crazy."

"Guess what, Dr. Sakura. You don't get to decide."

That brought her up short. "All right. Fair enough. I'll let that be your job."

He smiled, trying to take some edge off his demeanor. But his arm hurt, and he still had an image of them on the blanket. "That is my job."

She didn't relax. "I saw a man I thought I recognized. He was up on the street, on Central Town, looking down into the park."

"Recognized him from where?"

She hesitated. "Paris."

Hell.

Natsume didn't speak. He wanted her to do the talking.

"I'm sure it was just my mind playing tricks on me. He reminded me of a man I saw at the Musée du Louvre. We were all there – my parents, Ruka, me." Mikan jumped abruptly, turning away from him and gazing out a window onto the porch down to the river. "I was on my own. Waiting at the Delftware. It's a huge museum – we limited ourselves to the Italian collection."

"Where was your step-mother?"

"Viewing Paolo Veronese's, The Wedding Feast at Cana. It's an incredible painting. I was in an adjoining gallery. I don't remember what I was looking at. Earlier Italian works, I believe. This man approached me, and we chatted for a minute or two about the paintings, the museum. He was friendly. Japanese, I think. My parents know so many people; I assumed it was one of their friends or acquaintances."

"Did you ask them about him?"

"No. It didn't occur to me. It's not as if he said outright that he knew them."

"Describe him."

She didn't hesitate. "About six feet tall, angular features, dark hair. Natsume, he can't be the same man as the one I saw at the park. It'd been a long stressful day. I couldn't swear –"

"What was he wearing?"

"Black leather jacket and black turtleneck. So was the man at the park. That must be what made me think I recognized him."

"Ruka didn't see the man who approached you at the museum?"

"I don't know how he could have."

She turned from the window, her arms crossed on her chest, a way, Natsume thought, for her to keep him from seeing her hands shaking. She was a woman accustomed to staying in control. She wouldn't want him to see just how the events of the past few days had rocked her. "You're going to tell Agent Yome, aren't you?" Her tone was cool now almost resigned. "About both the letter and the man in the park."

"Damn straight."

She nodded and let her arms drop to her side. No shaking hands now. "I wasn't holding back on you. I was convinced – I am convinced that man isn't the same man I ran into the museum. Even if it is, so what? It doesn't mean he had anything to do with the shooting. It could just be one of those weird coincidences. If I hadn't gotten the letter…" She didn't finish.

"We'll get to the bottom of whatever's going on."

"Maybe it's nothing." She tried to smile. "I should show you my letter from the psychic."

Natsume got his feet, feeling the silence of the place; the isolation on this quiet stretch of river, Obviously Ruka hadn't expected his sister to come home to a threatening letter.

It was postmarked the day of the shooting. Whoever sent it hadn't wasted time.

"What goes on prune cake?" Natsume asked. Mikan seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. "What?"

"Frosting." He wanted her out of her spinning thoughts, just as his uncle had done with him with his talk of his orange eggs. "Does it have a frosting, or do you eat it plain like gingerbread?"

"It has a caramel glaze. You put it on when the cake's still warm."

He could hear the southern roots in her words, a soft lilt that seemed to match the breeze off the river.

"You can probably finish making it before the FBI gets here. I'll call Koko in Tokyo and find out what he wants to do."

She nodded, her breathing shallow, and then started for kitchen. She paused in the hall doorway and glanced back at him. "I'm glad you're here." Then a quick smile, a welcome flash in her eyes. "I think."

Natsume glanced at the note.

I'll know if you talk.

Wait.

She'd waited – she waited to tell him.

Everyone assumed the answers to the sniper attack were in Tokyo, embedded somewhere in what he and Ruka did for living. Natsume was no longer so sure. He had a feeling they could be here, in Northern Woods, in the lives of a well-known, progressive family who happened to be friends and neighbors to the Prime Minister of Japan.

He dreaded making call to Koko in Tokyo.

And Ruka – what to tell him about his sister's letter?

Nothing, Natsume decided. At least not until he knew more.

He could smell the prune cake baking, filling the house with warmth. And the scent of cinnamon. Cozy, homey smells. She'd imposed normalcy onto herself as a way to cope. He pictured Mikan racing around that morning, pulling apart phones, trying to talk herself into believing the note didn't mean anything, that she'd been right about the man in Central Park, after all, and he was no one.

Maybe she had a point. Maybe the wide coverage of the shooting and something about the Sakuras themselves had brought out the head cases.

But Natsume didn't think so.

What can you say?

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*Gabsterela
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Happy Father's day To All your Dads and especially To My Dad... :))

Till the next chapter ;)
XOXO
~Claire-chan143