Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 20

Thirteen years ago, on the night of Obon.

Kawai Nagano would never forget that quiet lane—the scent of ginkgo thick in the air, the crossing bell clanging in the distance. The barrier arm lowered, and moments later a train thundered past.

"Sorry, okay? I said I didn't mean it..." Her younger brother trailed after her, voice small. "Forgive me? I'll give you half my pudding tonight..."

She couldn't even remember what they'd fought about—something trivial, as always. All she recalled was shoving him and screaming:

"Drop dead! I hate you!"

Then came the impact, the wet crunch of flesh and bone. The image of her brother's face flattening beneath a tire was seared into her forever. The sedan paused, reversed, lurched forward, reversed again... Ninety seconds of green light stretched into an eternity of torture.

Only when the light turned red and the barrier lifted did the driver roll down the window, glance at the crumpled body, and speed across the tracks.

Later, everyone insisted it hadn't been Kawai's fault—the light was green, they'd just been playing.

But when she looked up at the temple's merciful Buddha, she felt nothing but sin.

For ten years she punished herself, terrified her memory might fade. Each night she closed her eyes and replayed it all: the ginkgo smell, the frantic crossing bell, her brother's mangled body—and the face behind the windshield.

Thirteen years of nightmares etched Sakurai Chizuru's face into her bones.

"I didn't want to kill, so I drew nine oracle lots, asking the Vajra Buddha if vengeance was allowed..."

Kawai's voice was soft. "All nine came up 'Great Fortune.'"

Saint Guan gave me nine holy cups. She snapped the slide back. A metallic click—the round jammed.

Japan regulates bullets more strictly than guns. Kawai used reloaded cartridges; mismatched specs, warped casings, damp powder—misfires were common.

Sweat beaded on Sakurai Chizuru's brow. She turned her head just enough to glimpse Kawai behind her.

"You're police! You can't take the law into your own hands! I'll turn myself in—please, let me apologize!"

Fushimi Shika lounged back, tone oily. "Exactly. Thirteen years, statute hasn't run out. Let the courts handle it—doesn't Buddhism say 'lay down the butcher's knife and become a buddha'?"

Kawai ignored him. She ejected the dud, rechambered. "Five misfires—that's heaven telling me to leave. Anything less, and heaven says I'm your reckoning."

Only then did Instructor Sakurai realize the click had been a jam. One bad round and her skull would've split.

"Wait!" she blurted. "If you kill me, you're a murderer too—why should you live? Call the police—that's the rational choice—"

"Right. I deserve death too." Kawai swung the muzzle to her own temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Click—another jam.

"That's fate."

She cleared the round, chambered again, leveled the barrel at Sakurai.

But two failures had stripped the gun of menace. Sakurai spun, yanked a stiletto from her suitcase, and lunged.

Kawai pulled the trigger.

Thunder cracked overhead; lightning tore the clouds. The gunshot vanished into the roar of rain.

The bullet punched through Sakurai's abdomen, grazed Fushimi's ear, and buried itself in the desk. He flinched—his ear stung; blood slicked his fingers.

Great, DNA everywhere.

Frowning, he looked up. Sakurai, carried by momentum, drove the dagger into Kawai's chest. Kawai didn't dodge; she fired again into Sakurai's gut.

Thunder rolled, deafening.

Tears of pain distorted Sakurai's once-sharp features. With her last strength she twisted the blade; Kawai coughed blood, the pistol clattering away.

Both women staggered and collapsed.

Sakurai sucked in ragged breaths, pupils pinpricks, adrenaline dulling the agony. Alive—she laughed wildly.

"I survived! I'm alive! This is fate! See? This is fate, you lunatic! That was years ago—meaningless! You attacked me over nonsense—so die! Just die—"

Her voice cut off.

A shadow fell across her face.

She stared upward, eyes wide, the dark muzzle reflected in her pupils.

"—Wai—"

Fushimi pulled the trigger.

The first round jammed; he calmly ejected and rechambered. Sakurai shrieked—Why? I'm not your enemy! I'm sorry!—but Fushimi's face was stone. He fired again.

The bullet punched through her forehead, exited the skull, and spattered blood across Kawai's badge.

"That's how you use a gun."

He turned to Kawai, slumped against the podium. "You used the deduction game as an excuse, hoping Minamoto Tamako and I would stop you. All that hesitation—look where it got you."

Kawai struggled upright, coughing red foam. "Wh... why?"

"Her spleen was shredded; she was bleeding out. Even if I hadn't shot, she'd have died."

"Then why finish it?"

"One—I despise Sakurai Chizuru. Once I defended a hit-and-run driver. Tasted awful."

"Two—stealing the diary was my idea, and you didn't sell me out. I hate debts. This settles it."

Fushimi knelt, meeting her eyes. "I'm the murderer. You're innocent."

Kawai stared, ears ringing, vision dimming—yet her heart felt light.

The thirteen-year weight dissolved. The road of atonement she thought could only end in murder had reached its terminus: guilt repaid, no blood on her hands, the promise to Minamoto Tamako unbroken.

As life faded, she drifted back six years: Tamako in a high-school uniform, waving a club application and shouting:

"Alright! To wipe out all evil, to uphold justice—I hereby declare the Reasoning Squad officially founded!"

Tears slipped down Kawai's cheeks.

"Sorry... last question from me."