A Cruel Season for Dying (27 page)

The man sat in a pew near the rear of the empty church, the second time he’d sat here in the last few weeks. He didn’t know
why he’d come, either then or now, although today was Marian’s birthday, and this morning’s trip to her grave had been completely
unsatisfying. Standing there in the dreary coldness of the cemetery, he hadn’t known what else to do or where else to go.
And like a sleepwalker who suddenly discovers himself stranded, he had found himself sitting inside St. Sebastian. Perhaps
all along he had been fooling himself about his detachment from his human life.

He breathed in the heavy silence. He was alone. So totally alone. And any extreme isolation was dangerous. It affected judgment.
The police were not stupid. Lieutenant James Sakura was not stupid. And he had been pushing the limits with his hasty awakenings
of Pinot and Kerry.

He should awaken Zavebe and move on. New York had proved a fertile hunting ground, but there were other cities where he might
expect to discover many more of the Fallen. And perhaps he had already found the most powerful here.

He rose and moved quietly near the cages of twin confessionals, his shadow looming like a dark and misshapen gargoyle. As
he walked past the stand of lit candles and votives, pennies and nickels winked at him from the offertory tray.

A gust of cold wind ruffled the flames and made him turn. Students from Immaculata, the parish elementary school, had entered
the church with their teacher and were tramping down the center aisle, two by two. Outfitted in navy-and-white uniforms, the
students marched in on saddle-oxford feet toward the main altar in a gait that resembled a loose type of military precision,
with a Catholic-school reverence for the Divine Presence. There seemed to be a thin attempt to keep talk to a whisper.

“Lucia Mancuso, you are supposed to be one of God’s angels sent to proclaim the birth of His Son, not talk to Anna Marie Gandolpho.”

“Yes, Sister Isadore,” the girlish voice answered, making a run up and down a musical scale.

The children had taken position in a kind of semicircle before the side altar, where the newly installed Christmas crèche
held prominence. He moved out from the shadows into half-light. The child’s voice had tickled his ear.

She was neither the tallest nor the shortest girl in Sister Isadore’s class, but she was clearly the prettiest. Even from
where he stood, he could see her precise, nearly exotic features. The light olive skin that was almost translucent. The dark
pixie cap of straight glossy hair. He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the muscle of his heart constrict and relax.
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing his human self to stay calm. When at last he looked again, it was to feast on the
light that encircled Lucia’s small, perfect head, to devour the aura burning as brightly as any Gadriel of the Cherubim had
ever seen.

Hanae touched the small of her back. The pain had settled in a tight web. She’d been sitting at the worktable far too long,
fighting the clay. How could she have been so foolish as to believe her skills could match the memory stored in her fingers?
She had never attempted a piece as demanding as this bust. She bit her lip. The likeness was to be Jimmy’s Christmas gift.
She rested her forehead against the cool, raw mass.

She had not been the hoped-for child of Japanese parents. Born a girl in a culture that favored males. Born blind in a society
that shunned imperfection. The female offspring of a mother who’d struggled in her pregnancy, who’d almost died giving birth.
And more tragically, there would be no more children.

In a country that stressed conformity, her visionless eyes had kept her from being completely Japanese. She existed in her
own world. Foreign.
Hanae. Cherry blossom. Blemished blossom.
Yet her blindness had allowed her to define herself, to grow in ways not granted other Japanese women.

Her earliest memories were of her mother’s soft coos against her ear, the warmth of her father’s hand on the top of her head.
Like every Japanese child, she had been spoiled and indulged. Fed sweets until
she had almost grown fat. Given toys and puzzles for her little fingers to explore. And when she had asked for a pet, her
father had bought her first finch that very day.

She would have liked to explain to her parents that her sightless world suited her, since it was the only one she’d ever known.
Yet they would have never understood, for they held themselves somehow responsible for her blindness.

But English saved them all. She had a good ear and learning languages had been easy. Of course, it had been the stilted English
of language tapes. But it was good enough, so when the man had asked directions in faltering Japanese, she was able to help.

James Sakura had come from New York to visit his grandmother on Hokkaido. A yearly ritual. But fate, her mother said, had
brought him to Kyoto, to the park that day. Hanae always waited there while her mother did the shopping. He was sitting on
the bench next to her when her mother returned. For a while the three of them made polite conversation, Hanae acting as interpreter
when Jimmy’s Japanese failed.

The next day she had asked her cousin to accompany her to the park. She never knew if Nori saw through the pretense of wanting
to attend the toy boat races on the lake. But it didn’t matter. James Sakura was waiting for her.

The following day her mother went with her. And in what was a bold overture for a Japanese woman, Hanae’s mother invited James
Sakura to their home for tea. Over the next weeks Hanae saw Jimmy often, storing away each memory, saving up for the time
when he would go away forever. Yet before he had left Kyoto, there had been many surprises for both of them. Jimmy had been
brought into a case in which she’d played her small part. And Jimmy had asked her to marry him.

That had been five years ago. She lifted her head and, regulating her breathing, centered herself. Once more, her hands reached
for the clay. She could feel that the nose was wrong. The forehead too wide, the eye sockets too deep. Jimmy’s face. The face
she held so clearly in her mind’s eye, the face she loved above all others, she could not find in the clay. It seemed as blank
to her as the face of a stranger.

She stood up and stretched. Taiko rose too, sensing her restlessness. Her skin seemed too small, her breath too shallow. She
reached back and loosened her hair, letting it fall to her waist. In every part of her, there was an unaccustomed energy that
she both welcomed and loathed.

She pressed against her abdomen. Jimmy’s other gift. Not planned like the sculpture. But unexpected. Now that Dr. Blanchard
had confirmed her pregnancy, she had to tell Jimmy. Had to find the right time. But he was so seldom home, and with the increasing
pressures of the case, it would not do to have him …
Upset?
Was that what she feared? That Jimmy might not want this baby?

Anyone could see they were sisters. The exactness of their features was the same, although the one who waited outside on the
steps of St. Sebastian was taller and fairer than the other. And there was a frailness in the older sister, where the other
was pure energy.

“You shouldn’t have waited, Celia,” the dark little one said as she bounded down the steps.

“You know Mama wants us to walk home together.”

“It’s only five blocks, CeCe.”

“Never mind. Where’s your jacket, Lucia?”

The girl touched her arms as if to confirm she was without her coat. “Guess I forgot it in the classroom.”

“Maybe it’s in church.”

She shook her head. “I’ll get it tomorrow.” Lucia hooked her arm through her sister’s and pulled her down the last of the
church steps onto the sidewalk. “You worry too much, CeCe. Let Mama do the worrying.”

The older girl adjusted her backpack. It seemed too heavy for her delicate frame. She coughed, a deep croupy sound.

Lucia turned and frowned. “You getting sick again?”

“You worry too much, Lucia,” she said, mimicking her sister, a breathy laugh mixing in with the tail end of her cough.

“You should have gone home.”

The girl shook her head, fighting off another spasm.

“Why didn’t you wait inside?”

“I did.” Her voice was wheezy. “I watched some of the practice. I walked out at the end.”

They began to move, arm in arm, down the street. Lucia doing most of the talking, Celia nodding in agreement or shaking her
head in despair.

“You know Pete Fazio is in love with you,” Lucia was saying.

“He is not. Besides, Jennie Daughtery likes him.”

“So. He doesn’t give a damn about fat Jennie Daughtery.”

“Lucia, that language. Papa would kill you.”

“And who’s going to tell him?”

Celia looked down to her saddle oxfords, then up at Lucia. A smile lit her beautiful face. It was easy to see that it was
love, not intimidation, that would keep her from tattling.

“So when are you going to tell Pete you like him?”

“I … I don’t.” It was a weak denial.

“If you don’t tell him, I—” Lucia didn’t finish but stopped, turning sharply. Her dark eyes searched the empty street behind
her. After a moment she frowned, shrugged her shoulders, and turned back.

“What’s wrong, Lucia?”

“Nothing.” Lucia had begun walking again, her step quicker, her sister struggling to keep pace. “Come on,” she ordered. “It’s
getting colder.”

The man watched from his sheltered position as Lucia’s aura, a guiding light in the darkening street, pointed all three of
them in the direction of home.

Hanae pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, resting her forehead against the stubborn clay. She had no more success
with the bust this evening than she had had this morning. Her wrists were stiff, the tips of her fingers numb. But it was
her heart that most ached. Jimmy’s face could not be coaxed out.

She lifted her head, touching the Band-Aid wound around her index finger. She had injured herself with one of her knives.
It was just a small cut, but for some reason the bleeding had been difficult to staunch.

“Have you been working all day?”

She started at the sound of Jimmy’s voice, her hands reaching for the cloth to cover the bust. “I did not hear you. You are
home early.”

He moved closer, planting a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Still won’t let me see?”

“No.” She turned and let him kiss her full on the mouth. “How was your day?”

He walked away, and she could hear him open a door to one of the birdcages and make a cooing sound. “Why don’t they ever have
anything to say to me?”

“Maybe they don’t know how to speak to a detective.”

His laughter told her he understood her not so subtle message. “Michael came in to see me today. He’s decided he wants off
the case.”

“I am sorry. For you. And for Kenjin.”

“It was never anything official. He was more or less operating on his own.” He moved back toward her. “What’s this?” He was
touching the finger she’d hurt.

“Nothing. A small cut.” She felt his lips brush against the Band-Aid.

“I need a bath.” He released her hand.

She listened as he walked out of the room. Enter their bedroom. Kenjin gone. Off the case. Like the blood from the cut, it
stirred something dark inside. Tonight she must perform
chinkon-sai
to calm the unsettled spirits.