Ring

“It’s because she woke up and there was no one here with her.”

The baby often cried if her mother wasn’t there when she woke up. But she always calmed down when her mother ran to her and held her. When a baby cried it was trying to ask for something, but what … ? The baby was trying to tell them something. She wasn’t just being bratty. Her two tiny hands were clasped tightly over her face … cowering. That was it. The child was wailing out of fear. Yoko turned her face away, and then opened her fists slightly: she seemed to be trying to point forward. Asakawa looked in that direction. There was a pillar. He raised his eyes. Hanging about thirty centimeters from the ceiling was a fist-sized mask, of a hannya—a female demon. Was the child afraid of the mask?

“Hey, look,” said Asakawa, pointing with his chin. They looked at the mask simultaneously, then slowly turned their gazes to each other.

“No way … she’s frightened of a demon?”

Asakawa got to his feet. He took down the demon mask from where it hung on the beam and laid it face down on top of the dresser. Yoko couldn’t see it there. She abruptly stopped crying.

“What’s the matter, Yoko? Did that nasty demon scare you?” Shizu seemed relieved now that she understood, and she happily rubbed her cheek against the child’s. Asakawa wasn’t so easily satisfied; for some reason, he didn’t want to be in this room any longer.

“Hey. Let’s go home,” he urged his wife.

That evening, as soon as he got home from the Oishis’, he called the Tsujis, the Nomis, and the Iwatas, in that order. He asked each family whether they hadn’t been contacted by one of their child’s acquaintances regarding a membership card for a resort club. The last person he spoke to, Iwata’s mother, gave him a long, rambling answer: “There was a call, from someone who said he’d gone to the same high school as my son, an older boy, saying he’d lent my son his resort membership card, and could he get it back … But I searched every corner of my son’s room and never could find it. I’ve been worried about it ever since.” He quickly asked for Nonoyama’s phone number, and immediately called it.

Nonoyama had run into Iwata in Shibuya on the last Sunday in August, and lent him his card, just as Asakawa had suspected. Iwata had told him he was going away with this high school girl he’d been hitting on. Summer vacation’s almost over, y’know. I want to really live it up once before it’s over, or else I won’t be able to buckle down and study for the exams.

Nonoyama had laughed when he heard this. You idiot, prep school students aren’t supposed to have summer vacations.

The last Sunday in August had been the 26th: if they’d gone anywhere for the night, it would have to have been the 27th, 28th, 29th, or 30th. Asakawa didn’t know about the college prep school, but for the high school girls at least, fall semester began on the first of September.

Maybe it was because she was tired from being so long in unfamiliar surroundings: Yoko soon fell asleep right next to her mother. When he put his ear to the bedroom door, he could hear both of them breathing regularly, fast asleep. Nine in the evening … this was Asakawa’s time to relax. Until his wife and child were asleep, there was no room in this tiny condo for him to settle down to work.

Asakawa got a beer from the fridge and poured it into a glass. It tasted special tonight. He’d made definite progress, finding that membership card. There was a good chance that sometime between the 27th and the 30th of August, Shuichi Iwata and the other three had stayed at facilities belonging to Pacific Resorts. The most likely place was Villa Log Cabin at Pacific Land in South Hakone. South Hakone was the only Pacific Resorts property close enough to be a viable candidate, and he couldn’t imagine a group of poor students going all out and staying at a hotel. They would probably have used the membership to rent one of the cottages on the cheap. They were only five thousand yen a night for members, which came to a little over a thousand apiece.

He had the phone number for Villa Log Cabin at hand. He put his notes on the table. The quickest thing would be to simply call the front desk and ask if a party of four had stayed there under the name Nonoyama. But they’d never tell him over the phone. Naturally, anybody who had risen within the firm to the position of rental cottage manager would have been well trained to consider it his duty to protect guests’ privacy. Even if he revealed his position as a reporter for a major newspaper and clearly stated his reasons for inquiring, the manager would never tell him over the phone. Asakawa considered contacting the local bureau and getting them to use a lawyer with whom they had connections to ask for a look at the guest register. The only people a manager was legally bound to show the register to were the police and attorneys. Asakawa could try to pose as one or the other, but he’d probably be spotted immediately, and that would mean trouble for the newspaper. It was safer and more effective to go through channels.

But that would take at least three or four days, and he hated to wait that long. He wanted to know now. His passion for the case was such that he couldn’t bear to wait three days. What in the world was going to come of this? If indeed the four of them had stayed the night at Villa Log Cabin at Pacific Land in South Hakone at the end of August, and if indeed that clue allowed him to unravel the riddle of their deaths—well, what could it have been anyway? Virus, virus. He was all too aware that the only reason he was calling it a virus was to keep himself from being overawed by the thought of some mysterious thing being behind it all. It made sense—to a degree—to marshal the power of science in facing down supernatural power. He wasn’t going to get anywhere fighting a thing he didn’t understand with words he didn’t understand. He had to translate the thing he didn’t understand into words he did.

Asakawa recalled Yoko’s cries. Why was she so frightened when she saw the demon mask this afternoon? On the way home on the train, he’d asked his wife, “Hey, have you been teaching Yoko about demons?”

“What?”

“You know, with picture books or something like that. Have you been teaching her to be afraid of demons?”

“No way. Why would I?”

The conversation had ended there. Shizu was unconcerned, but Asakawa worried. That kind of fear only existed on a deep, spiritual level. It was different from fearing something because you had been taught to fear it. Ever since he’d come down out of the trees, man had lived in fear of something or other. Thunder, typhoons, wild beasts, volcanic eruptions, the dark … The first time a child experiences thunder and lightning, he or she feels an instinctive fear—that was understandable. To begin with, thunder was real. It really existed. But what about demons? The dictionary would tell you that demons were imaginary monsters, or the spirits of dead people. If Yoko was going to be afraid of the demon because it looked scary, then she should also have been afraid of models of Godzilla—after all, they were made to look fearsome, too. She’d seen one, once, in a department store show window: a cunningly-made Godzilla replica. Far from being frightened, she had stared at it intently, eyes glowing with curiosity. How did you explain that? The only thing he knew for sure was that Godzilla, no matter how you looked at it, was an imaginary monster. So what about demons … ? And are demons unique to Japan? No, other cultures have the same type of thing. Devils … The second beer wasn’t tasting as good as the first one. Is there anything else Yoko’s afraid of? That’s right, there is. Darkness. She’sterribly afraid of the dark. She absolutely never goes into an unlit room alone. “Yo-ko,” sun-child. But darkness, too, really existed, as light’s opposite pole. Even now, Yoko was asleep in her mother’s embrace, in a dark room.

PART TWO (#ulink_4dc48e79-3a32-5f5e-8ba9-ddf017402211)

1 (#ulink_8df09d3b-5085-59d5-bfc3-51b164c93070)

October 11—Thursday

The rain was coming down harder now, and Asakawa turned his wipers on high. The weather at Hakone was liable to change at any moment. The skies had been clear down in Odawara, but the higher he climbed, the moister the air, and as he neared the pass he’d encountered several pockets of wind and rain. If it had been daytime, he would have been able to guess at the weather on the mountains from the appearance of the clouds over Mt Hakone. But it was night, and his attention was fixed on whatever came into the beams of his headlights. It wasn’t until he had stopped the car and looked up at the sky that he’d realized the stars had disappeared. When he’d got on the Kodama bullet-train at Tokyo Station, the city had still been wrapped in twilight. When he’d rented the car at Atami Station, the moon was still intermittently peeking out from gaps in the clouds. But now the fine water droplets drifting across his headlight beams were growing into a full-fledged downpour, pounding on his windshield.

The digital clock over the speedometer said 7:32. Asakawa quickly calculated how long it had taken him to come this far. He’d taken the 5:16 down from Tokyo, arriving in Atami at 6:07. By the time he’d left the gates and finished the paperwork at the rent-a-car place it had been 6:30. He’d stopped at a market and bought two packs of cup o’ noodles and a small bottle of whiskey; it had been seven by the time he’d found his way through the maze of one-way streets and out of town.

A tunnel loomed in front of him, its entrance outlined in brilliant orange light. On the other side, just after he entered the Atami-Kannami Highway, he should start to see signs for South Hakone Pacific Land. The long tunnel would take him through the Tanna Ridge. As he entered it the sound of the wind changed. At the same time, his flesh, the passenger seat, and everything else in the car was bathed in orange light. He could feel his calm slipping away, he could feel his hackles rise. There were no cars coming from the opposite direction. The wipers squeaked as they rubbed against the now-dry windshield. He turned them off. He should reach his destination by eight. He didn’t feel quite like flooring it, although the road was empty. Subconsciously, Asakawa was dreading the place he was heading to.

At 4:20 this afternoon, Asakawa had watched as a fax had crawled out of the machine at the office. It was a reply from the Atami bureau, and he had expected it to contain a copy of the Villa Log Cabin’s guest register for August 27th through the 30th. When he saw it he did a little dance. His hunch was right. There were four names he recognized: Nonoyama, Tomoko Oishi, Haruko Tsuji, and Takehiko Nomi. The four of them had spent the night of the 29th in cabin B-4. Obviously, Shuichi Iwata had used Nonoyama’s name. With this he knew when and where the four had been together: on Wednesday, August 29th, at South Hakone Pacific Land, Villa Log Cabin, No. B-4. It was exactly a week prior to their mysterious deaths.

There and then he’d picked up the receiver and dialed the number for Villa Log Cabin to make a reservation for tonight for cabin B-4. All he had tomorrow was a staff meeting at eleven. He could spend the night down in Hakone and easily be back in time.

… Well, that’s it. I’m going. The actual place.

He was eager. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine what awaited him there.

There was a tollbooth just as he came out of the tunnel, and as he handed over three hundred-yen coins he asked the attendant, “Is South Hakone Pacific Land up ahead?”

He knew full well it was. He’d checked his map any number of times. He just felt like it had been a long time since he’d seen another human being, and something within him wanted to talk.

“There’s a sign just up ahead. Make a left there.”

He took his receipt. With so little traffic, it hardly seemed worth having someone stationed here. How long was this guy planning to stand there in his booth? Asakawa made no move to drive off, and the man began to give him a suspicious look. Asakawa forced a smile and pulled away slowly.

The joy he’d felt a few hours ago at establishing a common time and place for the four victims had withered and died. Their faces flickered behind his eyelids. They’d died exactly one week after staying in Villa Log Cabin. Now’s the time to turn back, they seemed to be telling him, leering. But he couldn’t turn back now. First of all, his instincts as a reporter had kicked into gear. On the other hand, there was no denying that he was scared to be going alone. If he’d called Yoshino, chances were he would have come running, but he didn’t think having a colleague along was such a good idea. Asakawa had already written up his progress so far and saved it on a floppy disk. What he wanted was someone who wouldn’t run around getting in his way, but simply help him pursue this … It wasn’t like he didn’t have someone in mind. He did know one man who would tag along out of pure curiosity. He was a part-time lecturer at a university, so he had plenty of free time. He was just the guy. But he was … idiosyncratic. Asakawa wasn’t sure how long he could take his personality.

There, on the mountainside, was the sign for South Hakone Pacific Land. There was no neon, just a white panel with black lettering. If he’d happened to be looking away when his headlights hit it, he would have missed it completely. Asakawa turned off the highway and began climbing a mountain road between terraced fields. The road seemed awfully narrow for the entrance to a resort, and he had lonely visions of it dead-ending in the middle of nowhere. He had to shift down to negotiate the road’s steep, dark curves. He hoped he didn’t encounter anybody coming from the opposite direction: there was no room for two cars to pass.

The rain had let up at some point, although Asakawa had just noticed it. The weather patterns seemed different east and west of the Tanna Ridge.

At any rate, the road didn’t dead-end, but kept climbing higher and higher. After a while he started to see summer homes scattered here and there on the sides of the road. And the road suddenly widened to two lanes, the surface improved drastically, and elegant streetlights graced the shoulders. Asakawa was amazed at the change. The minute he entered the grounds of Pacific Land he was confronted with lavish accoutrements. So what was with the garden path that led here? The corn and weeds hanging over the road had narrowed it even further, heightening his nervousness over what lay around the next hairpin curve.

The three-story building on the other side of the spacious parking lot doubled as an information center and a restaurant. Without thinking twice, Asakawa parked in front of the lobby and walked toward the hall. He looked at his watch: eight on the nose. Right on schedule. From somewhere he heard the sound of balls bouncing. There were four tennis courts below the center, with several couples giving it their all under the yellowish lights. Surprisingly, all four courts were occupied. Asakawa couldn’t fathom what made people come all the way up here at eight on a Thursday night in the middle of October, just to play tennis. Far below the tennis courts he could see the distant lights of the cities of Mishima and Numazu, glittering in the darkness. The emptiness beyond, black as tar, was Tago Bay.

As he entered the information center, the restaurant was directly in front of him. Its outer wall was glass, so he could see inside. Here Asakawa got another surprise. The restaurant closed at eight, but it was still half full of families and young women in groups. What was going on here? He cocked his head in puzzlement. Where had everybody come from? He couldn’t believe all these people came here on the same road that had brought him here. Maybe what he had used was the back entrance. There must be a brighter, wider road somewhere else. But that was how the girl he’d spoken to on the phone had told him to get here.

Go about halfway down the Atami-Kannami road and turn left. Drive up the mountain from there. Asakawa had done just that. It was inconceivable that there was another way out of here.

Nodding as he was told that it was past time for last orders, he went into the restaurant. Below its wide windows, a carefully groomed lawn sloped gently through the night toward the cities. The inside lights were kept intentionally low, probably to better allow customers to enjoy the view of the distant lights. Asakawa stopped a passing waiter and asked where he could find Villa Log Cabin. The waiter pointed back toward the entry hall Asakawa had just come through.

“Follow that road to the right about two hundred meters. You’ll see the office.”

“Is there a parking lot?”

“You can park in front of the office.”

That was all there was to it. If he had just kept going instead of stopping in here, he would have found it on his own. Asakawa could more or less analyze why he’d been drawn to this modern building, to the point of barging into the restaurant. He found it somehow comforting. All the way here he had been imagining dark, utterly primitive log cabins—the perfect backdrop for a Friday the 13th scenario—and there was nothing of that in this building. Faced with this proof that the power of modern science functioned here, too, he felt somewhat reassured, strengthened. The only things that bothered him were the bad road that led here from the world below, and the fact that in spite of it there were so many people playing tennis and enjoying their dinner here in the world above. He wasn’t sure exactly why this bothered him. It was just that, somehow, nobody here seemed quite … lifelike.

Since the tennis courts and restaurant were crowded, he should have been able to hear the cheerful voices of people from the log cabins. That’s what he expected. But standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking down over the valley, he could discern only about six of the ten cabins built among the trees scattered over the gentle slope. Everything below was immersed in the darkness of the forest, beyond the pale of the street lamps, unrelieved by any light coming from inside the cabins. B-4, where Asakawa would be spending the night, seemed to stand on the border between the darkness and the lighted area—all he could see was the top of the door.

Asakawa walked up to the office, opened the door, and stepped inside. He could hear a television, but there was no sign of anyone. The manager was in a Japanese-style room in the back, off to the left, and hadn’t noticed Asakawa. Asakawa’s view was blocked by the counter and he couldn’t see into the room. The manager seemed to be watching an American movie on video, not a TV program. He could hear English dialogue as he watched the flickering light from the screen reflected in the glass of a cabinet out front. The built-in cabinet was full of videotapes, neatly lined up in their cases. Asakawa placed his hands on the counter and spoke up. Immediately, a small man in his sixties stuck his head out and bowed, saying, “Oh, welcome.” He must be the same man who had so cheerfully showed the guest register to the guy from the Atami bureau and the lawyer, thought Asakawa, smiling back at him pleasantly.

“I have a reservation, name of Asakawa.”

The man opened his notebook and confirmed the reservation. “You’re in B-4. Can I get you to write your name and address here?”