Chapter 7: Omen

Chapter 7
OMEN

 

I

 

Mima faced the camera and nailed her final pose, leg raised high. When the assistant director gave her the okay sign, she took in deep, shoulder-raising breaths.

Her head felt heavy. She slumped over, her arms resting on her thighs and her back arched. She held that position for a while. The nervousness and exhilaration had evaporated in an instant, and now she felt that if she moved another muscle she might collapse on the spot.

Then, with conscious effort, she pushed strength into the muscles at her core and stood up straight. She felt better immediately.

With slow footsteps, the idol headed for her green room. She left the recording studio and was proceeding down the narrow hallway when Tadokoro came to meet her. Her manager wore a secretive smile. Maybe he saw strong CD sales on the way.

“What a show!” he said, draping a pink cardigan over her shoulders. Keeping his arm around her, he walked her to the green room.

When she didn’t see her assistant inside, Mima asked, “Where’s Rumi-chan?”

Still grinning, Tadokoro said, “She went home already.”

“Oh, she did?” Mima’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. “I’d hoped we could go out for some tea or something on our way home.”

“That wasn’t very nice of her, then,” Tadokoro said matter-of-factly. He produced a taxi voucher from his pocket and handed it to Mima. “Go on home. Get some rest tonight.”

Then he gave her a wave goodbye and left.

Suddenly alone in the green room, Mima felt suddenly overcome by loneliness.

“What’s with them?” she said to no one. “How could they leave me by myself at a time like this? I don’t know what Rumi has going on, but it can’t be so important she had to just run off like that.” Mima puffed out her cheeks. “This is so lame.”

She threw off her costume and unceremoniously stuffed it into her bag, before quickly changing back into street clothes.

When she exited the TV station’s rear doors, a cluster of passionate fans—all men—were waiting for her, heedless of the late-night hour. When they saw the idol, they waved at her and broke out into cheers. She gave the men a smile and a little wave before climbing into her waiting taxi.

As she looked at her fans from the rear passenger window, a pang of anxiety bloomed inside her, an almost physical pain in her chest. The feeling confused her—where could it come from? She put both hands to her breast as the anxiety deepened into relentless dread.

She asked herself, What am I worrying about? The sales of my single? Where my life goes from here? No. It wasn’t either of those things. It was something more urgent—something far, far more urgent.

Suddenly, she heard the voice speaking inside her.

Mi-Mima-san…

And then she knew what it was she feared.

She was worried about that stalker. In all the excitement over the debut of her new song, she had nearly forgotten about that creep. But now his specter had begun reasserting its dominance over her thoughts.

But why now? Why was he causing her all this distress all of a sudden?

Mima shook her head forcefully, trying to banish his shadow from her mind. Rather than vanish, the phantom’s presence loomed larger still.

Mima’s sixth sense knew.

Step by inexorable step, that dreadful stalker was coming for her, a vicious beast, fangs bared.

 

II

 

Short of breath, her arms filled with bags, Rumi climbed the stairs to Mima’s apartment. She had to hurry if she wanted to be ready before Mima came home.

Once she reached the apartment door, she fumbled for the key and opened the lock. She scurried to the kitchen and placed the plastic convenience store bags on the counter. Various canned goods and fresh fruit spilled out from the bags. She set the ingredients out efficiently, thinking through the menu in her head—hors d’oeuvres, salad, and then a creamy vegetable soup for the main dish.

I’m so glad Mima-san’s new song is going to be a hit! she thought with a little smile.

Perhaps even more than the singer herself, Rumi had been worried about what would happen if Mima’s fans rejected her new direction. When Rumi’s dreams of becoming an idol were broken, Mima had become her emotional bedrock. By projecting her dreams onto Mima, Rumi had found a new purpose in life.

Rumi didn’t know how Mima saw their relationship, but to Rumi—at least in a sense—the two of them were one unit. Mima’s happiness was Rumi’s happiness; Mima’s sadness was Rumi’s sadness.

From the bottom of her heart, she hoped Mima would become Japan’s top musical artist, and the assistant had pinned much of those hopes on this new song. After all, it was the first step for the singer to grow from a mere pop idol into a true artist.

To Rumi’s delight, the new single was on its way to becoming a huge hit. She couldn’t wait for Mima to come home so she could congratulate her.

She looked at her watch. It was just past eleven. Any time now, she thought.

Redoubling her speed, she began peeling the onions when there was a knock at the door. Rumi looked up from her work with some confusion. Who could it be at this hour?

Not Mima-san, Rumi thought, her body stiffening. Mima-san would have used her key to unlock the door.

The assistant cautiously approached the door. Oh, that’s right, she thought, relaxing. It must be Tadokoro-san.

Letting out a breath of relief, she unlocked the door. Maybe that Murano Yuji would be with him. She thought of his carefree smile and blushed.

She turned the knob and opened the door, revealing the dim glow of the hallway’s nighttime lights. Standing in their illumination was a lone man.

Rumi gasped.

It wasn’t the manager. It certainly wasn’t Murano Yuji.

Who was it, then?

She stared at the man’s face. A warm bead of sweat ran down her spine.

She had seen this man before, somewhere. But where?

Suddenly, it came to her. She recoiled and moved to shut the door. This was the last person in the entire world she ever wanted to see again. It was the man who had stood in the hall outside the K-TV green room, hidden in the shadows of the steel emergency exit door.

When she had faced him then, she’d been too scared to look upon his face. Even now, the murky hallway light left most of his features obscured by darkness. But she had no doubt that this man and the one she had faced before were one and the same.

It was his smell that did it—a dreadful smell she had never encountered before that day—or since.

Faster than Rumi could close the door, the man’s hand was on the knob. With incredible strength, he forced the door back open, sending her tumbling to the entrance floor.

The man stepped inside, and for the first time she got a clear look at him.

His long, disheveled hair hung over a craggy, angular face with little eyes, a big nose, and thick lips. He stood with a slouch and was stocky around the waist.

The man spoke. “You’re that assistant girl.” His voice was hoarse and unpleasant.

Still on the floor, a wide-eyed Rumi looked up at him and nodded once.

“You’re Mima-san’s assistant,” the man said.

Rumi nodded again and again.

“Well, I want you to assist me now,” he said with a smirk, strangely and vaguely shy. He looked her in the eyes while she shook her head violently from side to side.

“No!” she shouted. “Absolutely not. Who do you think you are, coming into another person’s home like this?”

The man leaned over her, right down into her face. He stared her down. “I’m going to make you come with me whether you like it or not. Look me in the eye. Do you see how serious I am? I want your help and I’m getting it.”

Rumi pushed at him with both hands and said, “Don’t get any closer! I’ll call for help. The walls here are thin. Someone will come right away!”

She got to her feet. She was ready to scream the moment he tried to do anything else. The apartment building was occupied mostly by families. If she screamed, especially at this hour, someone would surely come running.

She returned his stare, speaking firmly, “Now go home.”

The man’s lips curled up at both edges. “I’ll be going nowhere. Not until you agree to come with me, that is. And you will come with me, be sure of that. You don’t have any choice.”

In a calm motion, he reached for his rear jeans pocket and pulled out a photograph.

“Look at this,” he said, holding the picture in front of her face.

When she saw it, she let out a little cry. It was a picture of Mima and Aran Naoto together.

“You know what this picture means,” the man said. “The media would love to get their hands on this. But you wouldn’t want that to happen, now, would you?”

Rumi shook her head no, tears filling her eyes.

“If I offer you this picture,” he said, “you’ll help me, won’t you? It won’t take long.”

Wiping her eyes, Rumi nodded.

 

III

 

Why isn’t the door locked? Mima wondered, standing at her apartment door. She remained there for a moment, hand on the doorknob, head tilted, while she dredged her memory, wondering if she’d forgotten to lock the door before she had left.

She didn’t think that was the case, but no other explanation came to her.

She deliberately avoided connecting the unlocked door with the shapeless dread that still lurked in the in the pit of her stomach. If she had thought the two were related, she never would have been able to set foot inside.

Slowly, she pushed the door open and, heart thumping away, she stepped in. The apartment’s lights were on, and her answering machine was switched off.

Did I really leave the apartment like this? Exasperation over her carelessness edged out her fear.

Then she smelled something. It smelled good, and it was coming from the kitchenette. She looked that way and saw a wide variety of food neatly laid out on the counter.

Mima clapped her hands in realization. Rumi had come over. Now that Mima thought about it, her manager had been acting strangely, too. From the look on his face, Bon-chan had seemed like he’d been hiding something.

So Bon-chan wanted to throw me a surprise party. Rumi didn’t leave early—he must’ve sent her out to get things ready.

“Rumi-chan,” the singer called out. But there was no answer. “Rumi-chan!”

Mima circled her room. She even looked in her closet, and in the shower room and the water closet. Rumi was nowhere to be found. She’d been cooking, that much was certain. But what had stopped her—and where had she gone?

Maybe she’d forgotten some ingredient and ran off to get it at the convenience store? Surely she would have locked the door if she had had to leave the apartment empty.

What had happened to her?

Mima returned to the front door, opened it, and looked outside. Perhaps Rumi was out in the hallway. The dimly lit space gave no sign of any presence—not Rumi’s, not anyone’s. Only the cold, nighttime air occupied the passageway.

Mima closed the door and sat in the foyer.

Her concern expressed itself as irritation. She thought, If Rumi were going to leave, she could have at least written a note.

Sitting there stewing about it wasn’t going to help anything. Mima shook away her foul temper and slowly stood back up. That was when her eyes caught sight of a small red object next to her pumps beside the door. Mima stooped down to pick it up. The thing looked like a small scrap of colored paper.

She held it in her hand and inspected it. Whatever it was, she had probably stepped on it and gotten it stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She wadded it up to throw it away, and her fingers became wet with a faintly red liquid.

It was a rose petal—a red rose petal.

A red rose petal!

Instantly, with that realization, her blood froze. Unbidden, her sixth sense began clamoring inside her thoughts. A rose petal. A red rose petal…

Her primal intuition roused the fear and anxiety she had so assiduously tried to forget. They emerged from the edges of her consciousness and came out into the open, no longer possible to ignore, their heads held high and arms spread wide.

Desperately, Mima tried to banish the truth from her thoughts; if she let herself appreciate what that rose petal signified, her mind would fall to pieces.

Mima needed a lifeline. She went to the phone. She’d reach out to her manager, have him come over.

She didn’t know where he was. He could have been at the television station, or his own apartment, or at the agency’s office. But she needed to find him and get him here. If she didn’t, she worried this incomprehensible terror would soon drive her mad.

Fretfully, she reached for the phone, when suddenly, it rang.

On conditioned reflex, her hand went to the receiver. Subconsciously, she knew she shouldn’t answer, but her hand, unbidden, had already lifted the receiver and placed it against her ear.

“Hello,” came the man’s voice. “Is… is this Mima-san?”

Mima felt the last fragile barriers of denial fall, leaving no separation between her conscious mind and subconscious terror. Her body trembled as she heard the hoarse voice speak. “Hello, Mima-san? This is Mima-san, isn’t it?”

It was the voice of the man who had tormented her over the phone, the sick stalker who had given Rumi that letter—the same one who had personally delivered another message to her very door.

Her voice shaking, Mima said, “What do you want? Who are you?”

“Who am I? You know who I am, Mima-san.” The man’s voice took on a mocking tone. “It is I, your Darling Rose.”

Starting to reclaim her composure, Mima resolved to get this creep to give up his location so that she could send the police after him. “All right, ‘Darling Rose,’” she said, “what do you want with me?”

“I’m glad you asked,” the man said. “I’m calling to request your presence. You can’t say no, mind you. I’ll wait five minutes. Come to my location within five minutes. I’m in K-TV’s old studio in Azabu. If you run from your apartment, you should get here in about four to five minutes. But five is what you have. If you try to contact your manager or the police, you won’t make it in time, so don’t try it. Five minutes, starting now.”

The man sounded as if he were going to hang up the phone. Before he could, Mima said, “What are you talking about? There’s no way I’m going to some abandoned studio. Just tell me your name and where you live, and I’ll meet you there instead.”

“You won’t come? That won’t do at all. You know Rumi-chan, don’t you?”

“Rumi? What’s happened to her?”

“Nothing has happened to her yet. But if you don’t come here, she’s going to die. If you’re even one second late, she will die.”

“Wh-what are you saying? Is she there with you?”

Mima pressed the receiver to her ear. She could hear Rumi’s voice, faint and distant, saying, “Mima-san… Don’t come… don’t come.”

In blind fury, Mima shouted, “You have Rumi?! You have Rumi?!”

“That’s right. And if you don’t come, she dies. This is not a joke. I killed that whore Ochiai Eri, you know—one more kill won’t make a difference to me.”

The man’s voice had grown flat, detached, and somehow that was even more forboding than before. Mima believed it. He really had killed Eri.

“All right,” she said. “I’m coming. The old K-TV. I just want you to let Rumi go.”

“If you come, I’ll spare her life. I promise you that. But you’d better hurry. Here we are still talking, and you’re already down to four minutes.”