Chapter 39

Tamako saw her long-dead grandmother.

When she was small, she had loved curling up in Grandma's arms. Grandma ran a little Japanese sweet shop, standing beside the ovens all day, her apron steeped in the scent of sponge cake until the fabric itself smelled like dessert. Nestled against her, Tamako felt wrapped in warmth and sugary steam, as if she'd already slipped into heaven.

So cozy.

Tamako's eyes half-closed, a faint smile on her lips.

Then, without warning, Grandma pried her mouth open, shoved two odd pebbles onto her tongue, and forced her to swallow a mouthful of ice-cold water.

"You're nothing but trouble," Grandma said—in a man's voice.

Tamako jolted. Grandma had turned into a man? Had the fairy tales come true? Was she Little Red Riding Hood facing the wolf in disguise...?

The thought had barely formed when Grandma's face stretched. Her mouth lengthened into a muzzle, fangs glinting, ears rising as gray brindled fur sprouted across her body. A wolf-headed monster loomed over Tamako, grinning.

"That's right, little girl. I gobbled up your grandma, and now I'm going to finish you off!"

"AAAAAAH!" Tamako shot upright.

Her pupils were blown; she gulped air in frantic bursts. Grandma—why Grandma? Was she still haunted by that old guilt...?

Moments later her vision steadied. She realized she was curled against someone else's chest.

"Just a dream... but where am I?"

Tamako blinked around. Her cheek rested on Shika's knee, half-lying under a thick futon. A pot-belly stove crackled nearby, and a quilt lay over her—no wonder she felt toasty. The last thing she remembered was dozing off on the bus.

A dream within a dream?

Her fever had only just broken; her thoughts still swam. The other cadets could huddle together, but Shika was out here alone in a blizzard, probably shivering in some cave...

Maybe worry had conjured him into her nightmare.

She tilted her head, meeting his eyes. "Fushimi, you poor thing."

Shika: "???"

Had the fever fried her brain? He had zero experience nursing anyone, but instinct told him to pat her cheek. "Hey, snap out of it."

Tamako frowned, rubbing her eyes. "Wait—not dreaming? How did I get here?"

"Long story."

Last night Shika had driven up the mountain, then hiked to the north-slope assembly point. He lurked near the bus for half an hour until he spotted a cadet stepping off to relieve himself. A few questions later he learned Tamako was running a high fever.

Instructor Shirata had draped his own coat over her and had the girls cradle her for warmth. No medicine on board; she had to ride it out. With no contact to the outside, dwindling food and water, and snow falling, her odds looked grim.

Shika wrapped a stone in paper and pitched it at the bus window, luring Shirata out for a parley through the storm.

"Had your fun yet? How exactly do you plan to clean up this mess?"

Shirata lit a cigarette—something he never did on duty—and exhaled a plume of frost. Stress and the thin shirt he now wore made the nicotine feel necessary.

"What mess? You're following orders, aren't you?" Shika kept one eye on the bus, wary of cadets trying to flank him.

"What orders?" Shirata asked.

"'Since you're going to fail anyway, go wild.' Your words." Shika quoted him exactly. "So I did. I threw myself into the role of a slippery killer."

Shirata gave a mirthless laugh. He couldn't bring himself to say, "It's only an exam," not after he'd scolded Yoshimura for the same thing. A lion uses full force even on a rabbit; calling "time-out" mid-hunt would cheapen the test. In a way, Shika had turned the exercise into the genuine "hell-forged trial" it was meant to be.

"Then why drag Tamako along? Escaped fugitives don't take hostages for fun."

"Wanted a bargaining chip. Problem?"

Shirata knew bravado when he heard it, but he let it pass. After a pause he accepted Shika's terms: provisions in exchange for Tamako.

"One last thing," Shirata flicked ash away. "Where are you hiding?"

"Thirty kilometers east of Kitashindake's foot. Tiny inn, great hot spring. Had it booked for the night."

Shirata sighed so deeply the snow seemed to shiver. "Total defeat."

If this had been a real manhunt, the suspect would have slipped the cordon, fifty-two officers would be stranded awaiting rescue, and casualties might have followed. Better to be rivals on the field than liabilities in the field.

Shika offered no comment.

Ten meters of swirling snow separated them; each faded into darkness, faces unreadable. A cigarette ember winked, then steadied as Shirata's breathing calmed.

At last he murmured, "You pass."

Shika had expected fury, a failing grade, maybe a permanent black mark like Sakurai's meltdown. Instead—

"If you'd abandoned the mess, I'd have expelled you. But you came back. That's the conscience of a cop talking." Shirata sounded as though he were convincing himself. "Your temperament's too volatile; the sooner you're posted to a koban for seasoning, the better."

Conscience of a cop? I haven't even clocked in yet, Shika thought. Not a yen in salary and already lectured on duty.

Besides, "too volatile"? I'm a law-abiding citizen.

Under Japanese law, actions within the bounds of regulated competition don't constitute assault. That gray area is why high-school kendo and boxing clubs see so much hazing—technically, this final exam was just an asymmetrical match writ large.

Shika had already mapped out the legal defense. If he could win in court, it wasn't a crime.

"So the exam's over?" he ventured. "Need me to radio for rescue?"

"No," Shirata said with a chilly smile. "Those idiots can hike back on foot."

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