Josh: Fathers And Sons

After we gave the Emperor the encryption code for the archive and he dictated his post (consider my mind thoroughly blown by it, by the way), he dismissed us. Mary spoke then, saying respectfully, "Pardon me, your majesty, but perhaps we could stay a few moments longer? There is so much more that we would very much like to know."

Fukimitsu translated and Emperor Komei replied, with Fukimitsu's little smile widening as he pronounced, "The divine Emperor says that he would very much enjoy continuing a dialog concerning our mutual foe via posts on the archive instead of in person. He hopes that the enemy of his enemy is his friend, but at the same time every fiber of his royal being-blessed by sacred Nippon and directly descended from the great goddess Amaterasu- cries out to order your immediate executions with every moment you are in his presence."

I rose and stretched. "Welp, time to be hittin' that ol', dusty trail. Thanks for everything, your majesty." Bowing once more, we beat a hasty retreat back to the limo, with the Yoshida brothers giving our driver orders to return us to our respective apartments.

In the car, with Mary curled up on the seat next to me asleep, I heard Yoshida sniffle. "Are you getting sick, Yoshida? Do not give it to me. I can not afford to get sick right now."

"I am fine."

As we drove by a street-light, I saw that his face was wet. It took almost a minute for me to register what was happening (considering his normal disposition) and I asked, "Are you crying?"

"No."

"What is it?"

He wiped a hand over his face and continued to stare stoically out of the window at the dark shapes of trees as they whizzed by. In a soft voice, he said, "Yesterday, my father was a genocidal monster- an abomination. Today- while he did betray the Emperor's orders- he did it only and always in his service. Today, he is a hero, to me. My father."

I nodded. We drove home in silence, with only the sound of the road in our ears.

Tenno Heika Komei: The Unbalancing Of The Universe And The Invasion Of Most-Sacred Nippon

From the very instant of my birth in the city of Kyoto on the twenty second day of the seventh month of the Western year eighteen thirty-one A.D., I knew that the world was very, very wrong. While I still felt safe, warm and maintained by the aura of Nippon (or Japan), it was as if I was still in the womb, in a fashion- with a small pocket of comfort and, for lack of a better term, rightness- but just outside of this zone, just beyond a thin membrane was a tide of toxicity just waiting to crash down upon us and poison our very souls.

You may doubt that I could sense the wrongness of the universe in my first instant in the world, but I knew. Nippon told me.

From the day the divine sun goddess Amaterasu had blessed Nippon by making her great-grandson Jimmu the first Emperor, the land was good, the samurai did battle and honor reigned supreme. The land of the rising sun was complete and perfect under heaven. Then came the gaijin.

The word "gaijin" is often misinterpreted as meaning, "foreigner" or "barbarian". It is thought in most circles to be an insult, which it is, though some who have embraced the West foolishly believe it to be complementary. Gaijin means: "outside person", and never has there been a more perfect definition.

The invasion came on the twenty-first day of the seventh month of the Western year eighteen thirty-one A.D. Before this day there was only Nippon. Look back through history before this date and see how few real interactions there were with the rest of the world. How many tsunamis and earthquakes and natural disasters occurred that prevented the gaijin from having a significant impact on Nippon.

This is because before the year eighteen thirty-one A.D., there was no outside world.

There was only Nippon and her people and her divine Emperor, Shogun at his side. Then something changed, and the rest of the world suddenly, magically appeared.

The West (the term is used for familiarity's sake. For our purposes it is defined as, "that which is not Nippon") suddenly was vomited forth upon us, and we have been mystified, horrified and repulsed ever since.

A day after the invasion, Nippon gave birth to me to champion her in response. Nippon lavished blessings upon me, granting me long life, vitality and resources, and to my eternal shame it has not been nearly enough.

I attempted to warn my subjects time and again against the menace of the gaijin, but always the weakest of them have been seduced by the promise of an easier life that their clever contraptions could provide.

"But Emperor," My worthless Generals would whine. "Their guns would make our warriors so much better. It would allow them to defeat our enemies at range so much easier than with bows." Easier. Has any warrior ever been made better by walking an easy road? Nippon is Nippon because of its hardships. Our Samurai were supreme because while their choices were often the most simple, their paths they walked were hard.

At every turn we were seduced by the West, given promises and assurances that with every new adoption and integration into our lives that life would be easier. As easy as drowning. As easy as surrender.

In the Western year eighteen sixty-three A.D. I issued the Joi Chokumei, or the "Order To Expel Barbarians", but by that point even my Shogun had been enthralled by the outlanders, and while he paid lip service to the decree, by and large he chose not to enforce it. It was at this point that I meditated upon my failure as Emperor and came to the conclusion that I would be more effective operating from a position of secrecy.

The merchants were replacing the samurai as the dominant force in Japan, therefore I would attempt to improvise and influence the world economically as the power behind the throne. I steadily and covertly began hiding assets and informing my most trusted clans, the Yoshidas and the Tanakas that I would soon fake my own death, which I did in the Western year eighteen sixty-seven A.D., obfuscating the details of my demise with such vigor that to this day historians still argue whether I died of smallpox or poison.

After I assumed the identity of Lord Yamamoto, I remained in hiding, created the Bengosha Company (Defender, in English) and set about preserving Nippon from the invaders at all costs. Despite my abhorrence of the outside world, I realized early on that I required more information about the West. We needed to know our enemy, but in every instance I was rebuffed.

We Japanese have always been terrified of the sea. We take to the water only as a last resort, and even then cling to shore as a child to its mother's leg. I would send out one spy ship after another to all the corners of the newly-deformed world, but always my loyal Samurai would fail to ever reach their intended destinations. It was only years later that I discovered the reason why: the kujira. The whales.

They surrounded my ships and sang their song, and my men would simply be gone. Over and over the kujira turned my spy navy into a ghost fleet. Finally I resorted to employing a gaijin spy so as to attempt to fool the kujira, but they even attacked his vessel in the Western year eighteen seventy-two A.D., banishing him forever from the Earth and leaving his ship the Mary Celeste adrift, a mystery to all in the world but myself.

Attempting to take the battle to them, I turned my resources toward their destruction, building a line of ships and encouraging whaling at every turn to attempt to at the very least thin their numbers, but again the gaijin exerted pressure, condemning us on "moral" grounds until the feeblest of us whined and begged and brought the defense of our shores to a halt.

It was then that I began to suspect that the invasion of Nippon was not some random occurrence or a mere quirk of a perverted and savage universe, but was instead being instigated by an insidious, ruthless intelligence.

Over the next half-century, I attempted to defend Nippon from the gaijin, but at every juncture I failed. Always the promise of an easier life beguiled my people and made them weak; the lure of greed and luxury overcoming the harsh realities of duty and honor. During this time I fought a war of attrition and slowly lost.

Finally I decided that the Samurai were never meant to fight a war of attrition, much less win one. The Samurai excelled in wars of blood and steel and winner-take-all, so from behind the scenes I created and nurtured an imperialist movement, a hearkening back to the days of yore where honor ruled Nippon. I guided the hand of my adopted great-grandson, Admiral Yamamoto as he planned his attack on the West and I cheered as their boats sank to the bottom of the Hawaiian reefs.

It was war, and amid the blood and the carnage and the sacrifice and the glory, my people had rediscovered who they were. While the odds were steep and victory over the gaijin was far from assured, we had reclaimed our souls.

Then came the fire.

If it had been but one of our cities, we would have surrendered- if they had given us the time- but they had constructed two bombs, so that is what they used. With one of our beloved cities murdered, we would have, to our shame, given up, but we would still have eyed our enemy with the sullen glare of one who would rise once more from the ashes. But two? Two broke us. Nagasaki did more than end the war, it ended who we were. It shattered our national soul, and from then we have been a terminal patient steadily bleeding out.

The West did what it almost always does after it destroys a people: it helped. MacArthur came and rebuilt our cities; they provided us with new facilities and new technology and new ideas and they replaced our bow with a healthy handshake. They made our lives so very much easier.

They killed us with kindness.

It was only after the war, after the lines of communication opened with the gaijin that I received enough information to put a name to my enemy, to the one who had somehow caused the invasion of my world and sought to conquer us absolutely: the Magician.

We fought our unwinnable war as best we could in the intervening years, and then in the Western year nineteen hundred and ninety A.D., my vassal Shigekazu Yoshida informed me of his new plan to create a deadly virus that would, at best, defeat our enemy, and at worst allow us to end the conquest, destroy our enemy and allow Nippon an honorable death. His plan was to work to formulate this virus and release it simultaneously on every continent, annihilating all human life outside of Japan. The island nature of our Empire would make it a simple matter to shut down our borders and forbid any travel even before we had released the virus, keeping the populace safe from harm, though should Yoshida's new "Calicivirus" somehow find its way onto our shores, at least we would die on our terms, not the Magician's.

It was then that I made a decision that haunts me to this day: I said no. Despite all that had been done to us, despite all that was at stake, I saw the human cost and deemed it too brutal and horrible a plan to carry out. Was I wrong? Should I have had the fortitude and will to annihilate all human life in the world? That is for history to decide, for whatever history is worth.

I do know that before the year of my birth, history means nothing. The Magician can shift the dates of events at will, changing important "facts" on a whim. And why? Because they never happened. For all intents and purposes, before the Western year eighteen thirty-one, there was only Nippon, the rest of what we now call "the world" simply did not exist.

Shigekazu Yoshida and his friend and assistant Tanaka disobeyed me. Yoshida, seeking first to understand the dispersal and infection pattern of the virus, turned to the Australian government to fund the Wardang Island project, a scientific endeavor they imagined would control their exploding rabbit population. Then, once he had collected his data Yoshida moved on to America, where he exploited the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta for their archives of viruses, attempting to tailor his "Human Calicivirus" until it was perfected.

It was at this point where Yoshida simply ran out of money, as I had long-since refused to aid him, and it was here were one of the Magician's own servants, King Leopold I of Belgium discovered his work and betrayed his own master to assist him. Hoping that if he were to funnel the funds to Yoshida through his own descendant his treason would remain undiscovered by his master, Leopold provided millions and the virus was completed.

Of course, at the very instant of victory, the Magician bore down on Yoshida and murdered him, the virus later destroyed by my now-fellow archivists.

Now, at last, the Magician is coming. I can feel it in my very soul. He rides the waves accompanied by his vile minions, escorted by his fleet of kujira. He is coming here: to my childhood home, to my castle where no gaijin has ever set foot, and here will take place the final battle to preserve Nippon. He will attempt to gain entry to our most sacred shrine deep in the heart of the castle and perform his magic, his trick, ending our world.

We will stop him. We will destroy him once and for all.

So swears Tenno Heika Komei, one hundred and twenty-first Emperor of Nippon.

Mary: The Brothers Yoshida

November 25th, 2008:

In the waiting room of the posh, dockside offices of the Bengosha Corporation, we whispered amongst ourselves as we waited for an hour past the time of our appointment with Yoshida's uncles:


JOSH: Mary, did you bring a cake? Because I just had another birthday waiting for Yoshida's goddamn uncles.

YOSHIDA: You were told it would be some time. Do not complain to my uncles about this when we are admitted to their office. And do not bow.

JOSH: I thought it was the thing to do?

YOSHIDA: It is for Japanese to do, not you. You don't know what you're doing. It is the equivalent of a limp, wet handshake in the Western world, but worse.

JOSH: It's a bow, Yoshida. It's not that complicated.

YOSHIDA: And yet you manage to fail at it spectacularly. Yours is more of a spasm than a bow. It is wrong. It is like watching a monkey attempt to try and ride a unicycle. Stop giggling.

JOSH: Monkey on a unicycle.

YOSHIDA: My uncles despise Westerners more than you can imagine. My father created a virus to annihilate virtually all human life on this planet, and of his brothers he was regarded as the nice one. You must be on your best- stop giggling, you idiot!

JOSH: Monkey on a unicycle.

Finally the door to the offices opened, and the same assistant we'd ridden with earlier in the limousine led us inside. There were two desks side-by-side in the large office, and behind them was a wall of glass overlooking the ocean. The office was decorated with Japanese antiques, with twin suits of armor on either side of the door and paintings of castles on rice paper on the walls. The only modern things in the room were the desks and the white, plastic computers that sat on top of them.

The brothers Yoshida glared at Josh and I as we walked in, their expressions equally filled with revulsion at the very sight of us. They did not get up.

There were three black, antique Japanese chairs lined up in front of the twin desks, and Josh threw himself into the middle one, the wood creaking ominously. The Yoshidas' eyes narrowed. Josh turned and nodded to Kisho (We're going to have to start calling him by his first name, now) as he sat on his left, then smiled at me when I took the seat on his right. Then he smiled at the brothers Yoshida, cleared his throat and said, "I had always heard that the Japanese people were two things: punctual and polite, which is amazing because you two absolutely suck at both."

The assistant's eyes opened wide in shock as he gaped at Josh, then looked over to the Yoshidas and back to Josh, clearly reluctant to translate. Josh waved him on, urging him to relay what he'd said. After he'd done so in a hushed, stuttering monotone, the Yoshida brothers expressions changed from merely disapproving to outright rage. The two exploded, rising from their chairs as a stream of what had to be curses spewed from them in unison.

I can only imagine my own expression at this point, and when I glanced over at Kisho he was literally covering his mouth with both hands, his eyes like saucers behind his thick glasses. Meanwhile, Josh kept smiling through the onslaught, then slowly rose from his chair, calmly brushed himself off and yelled, his expression suddenly ferocious, "Oh, shut the f*ck up, the both of you!"

The Yoshida brothers actually did, their faces utterly stunned. Without waiting, Josh continued while standing, "Your brother and his assistant were brutally murdered. We have been hunting his killer. My father was murdered by the same man. My mother is dead. I have been bitten by hissing, poisonous centipedes, gnawed on by eels, beaten up and blown up. Virtually everyone who ever tried to help me is dead. I'm wanted for murders I didn't commit. We have sacrificed our entire lives to get the murderous, rampaging monster who slaughtered your brother, and by God you will show us some f*cking respect!" He finished his speech by bringing his fist down on one of the desks so hard the computer actually jumped a half-inch off the desktop.

Josh nodded to the assistant. "Translate that, poindexter. We've wasted enough time already."


Five minutes later everyone was seated once more, and we had been served a delicious tea along with some kind of gooey rice cake which was the consistency of a pink pencil eraser. I nibbled mine politely while Yoshida crammed the entire thing in and chewed loudly with his mouth open. Josh took one bite before replacing it on its tray and remarking to the uncomprehending secretary, "No more for me, thanks. I already had doorstop for lunch."

In all, once the initial shock of Josh's outburst had worn off, the Yoshida brothers had adopted a stern yet courteous posture toward us, ordering refreshments and seeing to it that we were made comfortable.

Once all the pleasantries had been seen to, one of the brothers adopted a very serious tone and said something in Japanese to Josh. The assistant translated, "Now that we have made you welcome, we have but one question: are you or are you not a member of Greenpeace?"

Josh looked up from his tea and said without hesitation, "Screw Greenpeace. Whales are evil and should be slaughtered as fast as we can forge the harpoons."

For the first time, the brothers smiled, clearly extremely pleased. The other brother asked, "And why do you say they are 'evil'? We hunt them for research, nothing more."

Josh and I exchanged looks, having known that this moment would come. We had gone over it back in the sky-rise apartment, wondering just how much we should tell them. If we revealed too much about what was really going on they would think we were insane. Too little, and they wouldn't be able to help us effectively. Eventually we decided to tell most of it, but just a piece at a time to see how they would react. If they were entirely resistant, at least we had Kisho to back us up.

Sighing, Josh started, "The whales are being controlled in some way... perhaps scientifically, by the same man who murdered your brother and his assistant. This man, whom I'll refer to as 'The Magician', has-" he stopped then, noticing an unmistakable widening of both of the brothers eyes. "Wait... you know that name. You've heard of him, haven't you? Even in English you know the name of the Magician."

The assistant translated, the brothers turned and stared at each other for a long moment, then they both rose from their desks. They spoke, and the translation came: "You will ride with us. There is someone you must meet."

Pierce: Shipment Received

I have the package. Thank you for doing the right thing. I never believed that you had any intention of actually creating the virus using the formula, but it was simply far too dangerous to go another moment with it out in the open as it could have fallen into the wrong hands.

I realize that we didn't have the most pleasant of introductions, so let's begin again. For the purposes of this archive you can call me Agent Pierce. Three years ago I became aware of Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's "studies" in Atlanta, where he had insinuated himself into the workings of the Centers For Disease Control. I suspected that together with his assistant Mr. Tanaka, Yoshida was merely using the Centers' data for his own purposes, that of creating a new virus for use as a weapon. The information I possessed had been gained through means that were unsuitable for use in court, and my superiors were uninterested in pursuing the case as strongly as I was, mainly because they couldn't comprehend the science and because frankly if the alleged perpetrator isn't of Middle Eastern decent they tend to be indifferent these days.

Nevertheless I continued steadily attempting to build a case, and just when I thought I had him locked in he was killed in the hit and run crash. I did what I could to find whatever work he may have left behind, and after reading these archives I see that his son Kisho knew there was a hidden repository, though he obviously was in no hurry to recover them, not knowing what they were and having little interest in what he believed was his father's work. I believe it was simply Kisho's natural contrariness that led him to keep this information to himself, not a desire to do harm to others.

Since then the case remained dormant as there were no further leads. Still, I made sure that I kept my ears out should I have misjudged Kisho's involvement. Though he had only just turned eighteen, I made arrangements to be made aware should he say key words over the phone. That's when I was alerted to the call from Miss Stroud and from there your activities have been quite pronounced.

Mr. Howland, based on everything I've seen and read, I tend to believe in your innocence. That in mind, I'm not sure a judge and jury would see it the same way, especially down in Georgia. I'm officially recommending that you turn yourself in. Officially and for the record, I believe you should do that, and when I finish sending this post I will be notifying the authorities down in Texas as to your whereabouts (you did mention these time-stamps aren't working, didn't you?). With the new, falsified I.D.'s in your possession and your significant resources you might be able to escape. My only hope is that the two of you don't charter a small plane from an independent airfield and fly to another state as that would make the manhunt far more difficult. From there you could press on to one of the coasts and rent a Learjet, making your way to the Pacific where you could, with luck, locate the murder weapon. Officially, this would be tragic. Worst of luck to you.

As to all the absolute insanity that I've read in these pages, I can't imagine what's true and what isn't. It's abundantly clear that you believe it, and it ties together loosely with the facts I've gathered on my own, but I'm reserving judgment.

That being said, for the sake of finding this "Magician" and the man calling himself Hollis, I believe we should proceed as if it were true. While Josh and Mary focus on recovering the knife, I think we should be proactive. Leonard/Leopold mentioned a number of names (which I've run through databases and come up with nothing) but he also mentioned a place. He spoke of a man named "Taras" in Kiev. Kiev isn't that large a city, so I believe we should send someone in to see if we can find him. I have a man in mind, though he should only be given a code that will allow him to post, not read what has already been written here. This "Taras" was mentioned in the same breath as Hollis, so I'm going to assume that he is staggeringly dangerous. Regardless, this Magician and Hollis have always picked the time and place of our encounters, so I believe it's about time we turned the tables.

Opinions? Ideas?

Yoshida: 13

I said I'm busy.

I believe I remember you. You're the agent who failed so utterly to find my father's killer. I'm pleased you finally at least found some worthy adversaries: a crippled old woman and her nursemaid.

Don't bother me again.

Pierce: Cease And Desist

Joshua Howland and Mary Stroud, you have one chance and one chance only. Proceed immediately to an office supply store and purchase a large shredding machine. Shred every single page in Doctor Yoshida's file box and ship the destroyed remains to Cynthia's house care of Agent Pierce. There will be no negotiations or bargaining.

Cynthia may be under the impression that her life cannot get any worse, but as I think we all know, she's mistaken. Life in a mansion and life in a penitentiary serving time as an accessory could not be more different, even in her condition.

Do the right thing and do it now. You will be found and you will be caught, and in the meantime Cynthia and even Jeff will be put under arrest if I don't get those shredded files by tomorrow morning.

Cynthia: Lacesso

The agent from Homeland Security refuses to relent, rightly suspecting me of remaining in contact with Joshua. I have yet another interview with him early tomorrow morning. The questions he is asking and the direction his interrogation is probing leads me to believe that his focus is on the elder Doctor Yoshida's research on the human Calicivirus project. I am pondering allowing him access to this archive as it clearly places the blame for the creation of the virus on three dead men: Yoshida, Leonard and my husband. If the agent believes even part of this record, he might be a very valuable ally with the potential to clear our names. It would be a considerable gamble, but the upside is too significant to ignore. At worst he will simply arrest me on the spot, and this holds no great threat to me as I am already a prisoner of my own body.

Should the agent be inclined to disagree with our assertion of innocence, the two of you should do your best to remain hidden. First thing in the morning check out of the hotel and continue traveling westward. Do not post your location, merely continue your march without leaving a paper trail. Use the identification blanks to forge a new identity for Miss Stroud and purchase a new vehicle paying cash.

I do not know how much of Leonard's post was true and how much was a fabrication of his own mind, but having experienced a good deal of doubt concerning my own mental stability of late, I am of the inclination to take most of what he wrote as at least partially credible. He believed that it was important to recover the murder weapon- the Magician's knife- and it is my opinion that that should be our paramount priority. Whether he was correct or not in his assumptions, the acquisition of evidence in the murder of Mrs. Walentowicz is still a valid goal.

I find myself struggling with placing my innermost thoughts and feelings down in this journal, but as Joshua has reminded me in the past, I cannot ask you to do something I am unwilling to do myself. I shall endeavor to rise above my reticence and communicate what are, for me, subjects I would not under normal circumstances broach in any company.

To wit: if Leonard asked my husband Scott to fund Yoshida's Calicivirus project without informing him what it was he was becoming an accessory to, I will never forgive him for it. While it seems obvious that Leonard had been driven insane in the very last moments of his life, the project went on over the course of years, and he had every chance to amend his decision. He was wise to take the coward's way out, for I would have spent the rest of my own life making every effort to punish him for the loss of my husband. I truly believe that if Scott had not been enmeshed in this filthy business via Leonard/Leopold then he would still be alive today. For this, I will always despise him.

Leopold: Valediction

My thoughts grow more scattered and I do not have long. If there is such a thing as a benevolent God or Gods, my single desperate prayer is that I am allowed to stay dead. To begin:

In attempting to explain the events that led her to contact me and ask for my help, Cynthia eventually decided to allow me access to this archive, and for this I am most grateful. I write this valediction while flying on my golden, gleaming, private jet, soaring through light blue skies over dark blue, glittering seas, and while most would consider the sight beautiful or even breathtaking, I for one care not a whit for it. The world is an ancient, used-up thing, running down to its final hours and I both cannot stand to see it grow another minute older and at the same time cannot bear to watch it die. I suppose I am a coward. It is why I became who I am and why I have not the stomach to fight an unwinnable battle now.

While I can, I shall inform you of what you face, or more properly what faces you. I trust you will find my knowledge of the matter to be as pathetically limited and useless as I have, and probably even moreso as my faculties desert me.

He is old... far older than myself or Hollis or Nhlakanipho Mabuza or Taras the Mutineer or Crayton or even the Red Lady of Babil, who is so old she no longer remembers her own name. He is older than all of his creations combined, and he changes his name with every new conquest. The human soul is not meant to be trapped inside a host for longer than a few hundred years. It gets pulled taut and stretched so thin that it feels as though you can see through it, the world tinted with a filthy gray haze.

Is he even human any more? Was he ever?

My mind is going... I know that now. He is withdrawing his favour, allowing me to unravel because he knows that I have broken my oath to him. There is so much I want and need to tell you, but it is all a swirling, glittering dust in my brain.

Before I can forget or before I am forced to forget, I tell you this despite knowing that any endeavor to stop him is almost certainly doomed: he will perform a trick. He will use the charms, his knife, a rabbit and his own blood, though his body contains no blood any longer, if it ever did. It is quite probably too late to stop the charms, but the knife and his blood may yet be within your grasp. Keep them separate and failing that, use Yoshida's formula.

There are twenty-five million American dollars in a Swiss bank account under the name "Joshua Frederick". Falsified driver's licenses and passports under that name are being delivered to your hotel now.

Some barriers are beginning to erode in anticipation of what is to come. You will hear things... comments coming from the mouths of those who speak them but do not think them. Expect this phenomenon to increase in the days ahead and try to pay it little mind as most of the bleed-through thoughts will be gibberish.


I willingly ceded him my homeland and was then granted dominion over it in the next world when it was renewed; I swore my oath because someone else would have anyway and I thought I could use the power to make things better, but whenever I tried of course it always went wrong. Women and children... I wanted to pass laws protecting them but was defeated. He has a particular hatred for women, though I know not why and neither did Taras when I asked him in Kiev.

I feel it now, his gaze upon me... there can be no question that he knows, that he is doing this to my mind from afar. I had such vast power, such wealth and endless grinning slaves, but it was I who was the slave, though I wore a crown.

Oh, God, Scott I didn't know... I hoped he could not, would not find out. I thought that if I kept you totally in the dark and asked you to do me the favor on faith that you might be safe. I had to end this, had to break the cycle, cut short the loop and pray that either time would play out as normal or simply end. I had hoped so foolishly that if you had supported Yoshida's efforts at a last-ditch failsafe plan he wouldn't notice. Sorry, so sorry, nothing but sorrow for you and for us all. You would think after so many generations it would be easier to accept the death of your own blood. Scott, please forgive me and forget that favor I asked you- Doctor Yoshida will find funding on his own somehow. Forget the favor. Scott, do me a favor and send me photographs of that newborn son of yours. Please do. Please do not send the check. Nevermind, please. Void, void, void, void please write void on the check if you would, my second cousin my great, great, great grandson, my blood, your blood, your blood if you wouldn't mind, mind, mind my mind is going goddamn you to hell you beast I will fight for this for one more minute I will be myself and sign my name and write my will and use my will and please God let me stay dead this time I'm so sorry I'm I am I am I remain for this cycle and next and forward through all eternity, eternally, eternally yours,

Eternally Yours,


Leopold George Christian Frederick, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Duke of Saxony, King of the Belgians

Josh: You Can't Tell The Players Without A Scorecard, So I'm Making A Scorecard

Okay, time out. I feel like events are absolutely spinning out of control here and I need to get a handle on them. To recap and provide a time line (and correct me if any of this is out of whack, I may not be entirely accurate as I was just blown up last night):

-Over a decade ago, Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida and his assistant Tanaka begin experimenting with the Rabbit Calicivirus on Wardang Island, Australia, secretly releasing the infected test-subjects onto the continent and wiping out ninety-five percent of the rabbit population. He does this as a dry run to see how the virus would work if adapted for humans.

-Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida moves to Atlanta, Georgia and gains access to the Centers For Disease Control, or CDC (at right. Put up a boring, official government seal, eh, Mary? Well, two can play at that game!) This allows him to work to perfect the human Calicivirus strain with financial aid from (and I still find this just about impossible to believe) my father, Scott Howland.

-As Shigekazu and Tanaka are about to fly back to Japan with the formula that will essentially kill all human life on Earth, their car is hit by a semi truck. Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida is killed instantly while Tanaka is dragged off into the backwoods of a small town called Hollis Crossroads by The Old Man (I'm just going to go ahead and capitalize it. I thought of calling him "The Southern Gentleman" or "Colonel Sanders" or something, but frankly having dealt with him first-hand I'm way too terrified of him to get cute with a nickname). The Old Man rams a chisel into Tanaka's spine to paralyze him from the neck down, then spends the next year (!) teaching him to speak English.

-Meanwhile, six months or so later in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a semi truck broadsides my parent's car, killing my father Scott and paralyzing my mother Cynthia from the neck down. This is the one that I cannot wrap my head around. The deliberate act six months before was to paralyze Tanaka... the random act six months later paralyzes my mother in precisely the same way.

-The aftermath of the attack is witnessed by Mrs. Justina Walentowicz, who just happens to be one of, if not the luckiest Bingo player in the state (B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O. and B.I.N.G.O. was his name-O. Good, hopefully now it's stuck in your head, too).

-My mom and I start investigating the crash, hiring Mary Stroud, a P.I. from Madison, Wisconsin. Mrs. Walentowicz gets interviewed a couple of times, then she's horrifically murdered, her head pulled down into her abdomen and up through a hole cut in her stomach. In her smiling mouth is a photograph of the semi truck she thought she saw drive away from the crash. Pushed up and into her brain is a freshly amputated rabbit's foot infected with the Calicivirus.

-In researching the rabbit's foot and trying to narrow down where it came from, we contact Wardang island and acquire the number for Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's son, Kisho. In addition to having a charming, bubbly personality, Kisho is set to identify the virus of that particular rabbit's foot and determine which continent it came from (and by the way, I'm ready to just call that one over and say it came from Wardang Island. Test away, but I have no doubt). In conversation with Kisho, we find out about his father and the semi truck attack.

-I fly down to Atlanta to get Shigekazu's notes on what we think are the rabbit Calicivirus and also to poke around a bit and get more information on his murder. Mary stays in Milwaukee to keep in touch with Detective Ward, the officer in charge of the Walentowicz case, and also secretly to investigate my family, her own employers (sneaky monkey).

-While recovering Shigekazu's research, a man with an Australian accent leaves me a note giving an address in a small town called Hollis Crossroads and a reference to Tanaka. Meanwhile, Mary discovers that my father wrote Shigekazu a check for three million dollars.

-Sh*t gets weird in Hollis Crossroads to say the very least. What up until this point I considered to be a murder investigation turned into an absolute horror show. So much happened out at that damn house I think I'm going to spend years unraveling it and undoubtedly trying to suppress it. The Old Man killed my bodyguard and essentially framed me for it, Tanaka was unknowingly covered with centipedes (and was there special meaning behind that? I mean, it was beyond creepy and gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it, but did they have some significance beyond that?) and The Old Man's assistants killed Tanaka and themselves all while wearing the same smile Mrs. Walentowicz had (I believe I called it one part amused, one part amazed and one part batsh*t crazy. I'm standing by that description). Finally, we learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that I way-overuse parentheses (true).

-Finally, The Old Man was humming the bingo song (was his name-O) which, along with the matching smiles reminded us of poor Mrs. Walentowicz. Mary called her daughter, found out just how awesome a bingo player she really was and learned that she had been given a special offer to join a retirement community for great bingo players only: a rest home that just happened to be located in Hollis Crossroads. Mary and I are going to go and check it out tonight under the pretense of a married couple considering putting her mother in the home.


The thing I can't stop thinking about is the fact that the murderer driving the semi (Let's just call him The Driver from now on, k?) who killed both my and Kisho's father probably saved the world by doing so. Whoever he is, he and The Old Man are cold-blooded murderers and utter monsters... but are they really the good guys here? I'm going to do my best to bring them to justice, but is that even really the right thing to do?

Also, things happened at that house that I cannot begin to explain. Was most of it a trick somehow? A carefully crafted illusion? Or was it something more? If it was... if it was really what I think it was, then what chance do we have?

Okay, I feel more up to speed. Not better, particularly, but more up to speed. Time in.

Yoshida: 8

Stroud has read me the file. I only needed two lines of code to recognize that the Rabbit Calicivirus has been strengthened and adapted to infect the human race. I cannot comprehend why my father would do such a thing, but I cannot deny that he did it.

Whoever plowed that truck into my father's car may have saved our entire species.

Josh: The Old Man

This post has my name in the title, but Mary is playing secretary and taking dictation for me as my injuries tend to make typing difficult. We made it to Atlanta and have checked in to a different hotel (The Ritz-Carlton) under Mary's name, as mine might draw the wrong kind of attention. It's almost midnight and I'm beyond exhausted, but I have to get this down before the details escape me.

It's been the longest twenty-four hours of my life, so strap in, this is going to take a while to tell. If you don't believe it, I absolutely understand, because I was there, I saw it happen and even I'm skeptical.

A note on format: there's quite a bit of "dialog" in here, and both Mary and I have been struggling with how to write that out in these posts. We've sort of been putting it in "book form", where we just write down what people said as if you were reading it in a story. It's certainly weird to do when it's your own life, but I think both of us feel that it puts you (the reader) more in our position, and lets you know what events were actually like. Obviously, these are our impressions and recollections of what was said- it's not like we're remembering conversations verbatim, so don't take every word as Gospel. It's a work in progress, so if anyone has a suggestion for a better way to do it, let me know. I might mess around with a screenplay format and see if that works, I don't know-

(How long will you be stalling before you get to what happened, Josh?- Mary)

Mary wrote that. Cruel woman, taking advantage of the non-typing infirm. Fine, here we go.

Last night after I finished posting I drove my rental car over to the offices of Executive V.I.P. Security in downtown Atlanta, filled out seemingly a dozen forms and underwent a credit check. They were (rightfully) concerned about the fact that I needed a bodyguard on such short notice, and that my description of my situation was both menacing and vague. Finally, upon receiving a sizable "hazard pay" bonus but still with obvious reservations they assigned me a bodyguard and sent us on our way.

My bodyguard was black, bald, squat and without anything resembling a neck. He was only about six feet in height, but seemed equally wide, and I was thankful I'd decided to rent a luxury sedan instead of a compact. His name was Adalius, and any thoughts I had about him being all brawn and no brain were dispelled on the walk to the car.


ADALIUS: So, what... you a rich white boy like to dress down in flannel and jeans and all that sh*t so you don't look rich and seem like just another dude, huh? Probably got all that liberal white guilt about black folk, am I right? Sh*t, I know I'm right, baby.

ME: That's not bad.

ADALIUS: You need me to drive?

ME: I guess not.

ADALIUS: Fire it up, then. See, I knew if I said, "You need me to drive", you'd be all like, "Uh... I better say I don't because otherwise it'll seem like a racial thing", even though you really did want me to drive, probably 'cause I know Atlanta and you don't.

Me: Actually, why don't you drive-

ADALIUS: It's too late for that sh*t, motherf*cker, you driving. (Laughs) I'll work the radio, you don't know these stations, know what I mean? You probably want to smoke some reefer, too, all that flannel. You got any weed?

Me: (Starting the car) Uh, no... not on me-

ADALIUS: I know where we can hook you up. Drive, baby, I got your back. You with Adalius now, you ain't got sh*it to worry about.


We drove for a good hour and a half in the darkness, rolling out of Atlanta and southwest toward Alabama. The expressway gave way to a two-lane highway, which then became a simple asphalt road, the streetlights becoming more and more sparse. Adalius spent his time punching buttons on the radio, trying to find the R&B stations that had the furthest range and regaling me with stories of the time he did security for rapper Jay-Z and witnessed first hand the greatest sight he had ever been blessed to see.


ADALIUS: Beyonce's booty is more than just a physical manifestation of perfection, baby- that sh*t is supernatural! That ass got its own aura, know what I mean? Goddamn, did this road just turn into dirt? It's a good thing I'm packing, know what I mean? These rednecks ain't particularly fond of black folks, especially not one as pretty as me. Tell me again how this ain't a drug deal.

ME: This is not a drug deal.

ADALIUS: F*ck you, it ain't. If this is a drug deal, I'm joining their side, you know what I mean? Don't f*ck me on this, Josh.

ME: I swear to God this is not a drug deal. Honestly, I don't really know what it is. I'm just here to get some answers, that's all.

ADALIUS: This shit is dangerous, I can feel it.

ME: Maybe. If I didn't think it could get weird, I wouldn't have hired you, right?


He nodded uneasily, leaning forward in his seat to squint out into the darkness. One bend in the road later, we drove up to the address, a once-majestic three-story home with peeling paint and moss creeping up past the first floor windows. All the shades were drawn, though we could see faint light from inside around the edges. We got out of the car silently, keeping the headlights on and pointed toward the front door. The only sound was the muffled chittering of bugs and our own, nervous breathing. I started walking slowly toward the house, Adalius falling in behind me.

The porch was slanted and half-rotted, a rusty hatchet inexplicably stuck into the hand-rail. I put a hesitant foot down on the first step, listened as it creaked ominously and stepped back quickly. Then I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, "Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"

There was a pause, then from inside the house came a frantic, terrified yell. "Help! Help me, I beg you! Help! Help!" The words came with a thick Japanese accent and just kept coming, the cries for help continuing on and becoming more frightened.

I looked back at Adalius to see him shaking his head. "F*ck that. Cop time." he said, and pulled out his cellphone. He grit his teeth, muttering, "No signal. You?" I checked the Blackberry and couldn't dredge up a hint of a connection.


ADALIUS: I ain't no S.W.A.T. team. This ain't my thing.

ME: You can hear him. That guy's not faking. Come on, we'll go in together. I don't like it either, but... (motions toward the direction of the voice)

ADALIUS: (Pauses as we listen to the cries for help) F*ck it, then. Alright. Take that hatchet.

ME: What?

ADALIUS: Take the blade. I can't watch your back and do this at the same time. Back me up or I'm sitting my ass in the car.


He pulled his gun, a small, black automatic pistol while I wrenched the hatchet out of the porch's soft wood. The hatchet may have been rusty and old, but a quick, painful run of my thumb across its edge told me it was razor sharp. Out of the corner of my eye I saw either a small rodent or a large insect scurry off the edge of the porch as Adalius gingerly walked up the steps. I yelled, "We're coming! Hold on!"

Immediately we heard, "Thank you! Thank you! I am here! Be careful, he's-" the voice stopped, muffled, and Adalius and I exchanged looks. He grit his teeth, took the safety off his pistol and warily proceeded over the threshold, pushing the front door aside with his free hand. The foyer was dark and smelled of mold, funneling down into a long, straight hallway lined with darkened doorways. The layout of the house was unusual, the three-story quasi-mansion at some point long ago seemingly having been converted into a now mostly-vacant boardinghouse. At the end of the corridor we saw light coming from under doors on the left and right. All was quiet except for the groaning of the floorboards underneath our feet. We glanced on either side of us through the open doorways into the first rooms, but both were pitch dark.

As Adalius passed the first set of darkened doors, I saw a figure dart out of the room on the right, and before I could react he grabbed me from behind, one arm crossed over my chest, the other locked down onto my right hand, clenching over my fingers and keeping my grip tight on the hatchet. I let out a stunned gasp and Adalius turned around, his look annoyed. "What-" I was tossed around like a doll-like one of those stuffed dance partners used to teach the tango. Whoever was behind me pulled back my hand and with sudden, startling ferocity swung the hatchet into Adalius' skull, the blade smashing down and burying itself up to the hilt in his brain.

He fell with heavy thud and clatter, and whoever held me released me suddenly, pushing me into the doorway on the left with surprising gentleness. I stood in the darkness, stunned, reeling and cradling my right wrist. It was either sprained or broken, but before I could determine which I saw my attacker bend down and drag Adalius' body effortlessly out of the front door and down the porch steps. Staggering back into the hallway shell shocked and petrified with fear, I felt my foot kick something heavy and small, and knew immediately what it was. I reached down with my left hand, picked up Adalius' pistol and weaved my way back outside.

Adalius' killer had pulled his body down to the ground, where it lay in an awkward heap, illuminated by the rental car's headlights. The killer stood over him, silhouetted by the beams, but even by his shadow I could tell that his hand was darting into his jacket. "Don't!" I yelled, the gun firing mostly by accident. I shot wide-right, a puff of dirt jetting up from the ground behind him. Gunsmoke hung in the air between us, and I could see him slowly pull out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. When I shot at him he hadn't flinched at all.

His voice came out in a thick Southern drawl, all deep honey and molasses. "I see you found the hatchet." He lit a match and took a long drag off the cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in the darkness. I was astonished to see that he was old, at least sixty, his face deeply lined and his hair pure white. He wore a rumpled suit and tie, the fresh blood spattering his cuff seeming to glow in the glare of the headlights. "I thought you might. I do want you to know that it was never my intention to injure your wrist. My apologies, son. We are not perfect, much as we wish we were." His smile was somehow mocking and sincere at the same time, and as I tend to relate every real-life experience back to movies and TV, it felt for all intents and purposes like I was being f*cked with by Matlock.

"Why..." I stammered, my voice thick. "Who are you, and why-"

"Mr. Tanaka is waiting for you, Mr. Howland. He has waited quite a while. Would you care to adjourn inside?" He waved toward the house with his cigarette, the gesture both languid and theatrical.

I thought a moment, then nodded, motioning for him to go first. He did, sauntering across the dirt in front of the porch and up the stairs past me. I kept the gun pointed at his back the entire time, careful to keep my finger off the trigger to avoid a repeat of my accidental firing earlier. We walked down the hallway and he turned to the last door on the left, opening it. The light from the room hit him, and I was astounded to see that he was only about five and a half feet tall with a slight build. He strode inside with me right behind him, and I openly gaped when what I saw reminded me of home.

A Japanese man I assumed was Tanaka laid in a bed covered by a brown, stained, thick, paisley-patterned comforter. The walls were covered in ancient, striped wallpaper and there was a cheap, country-craft fair-quality painting of whales spewing water through blow holes opposite the bed. Sitting next to the bed in a wooden chair was a young black woman with wild, frizzy hair wearing a worn, frayed, dark blue dress. On a chair at the foot of the bed sat a young black man wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. Even at a glance it was obvious they were siblings. Both wore the same smile: equal parts amused, amazed and batsh*t crazy. The Japanese man was as terrified as anyone I had ever seen, the black woman's hand clamped over his mouth. As I entered the room, she removed it and he began sobbing and babbling, so terrified he forgot himself and spoke nothing but Japanese. I kept the gun on the old man who stepped next to the black woman, but my eyes were drawn to the beeping machines that surrounded the bed and were attached by various tubes and wires to Mr. Tanaka: they were the same medical equipment required to keep my mother alive.

The old man spoke, raising his voice to be heard. "English, Mr. Tanaka. Remember, sir? English, if you please. That's a good man." Tanaka's eyes locked on to the old man, his crazed yells dying in his throat. The old man motioned for the black woman to rise from her chair, which she did. "Do be a lamb and sit in the corner with your brother, away from Mr. Howland and Mr. Tanaka so they may be allowed to concentrate on their conversation, if you would." The woman and her brother both did as they were told, walking to the far, dusty corner of the bedroom and sitting patiently on the floor, their smiles never wavering. Their eyes stayed on the old man. He sat in the chair at the foot of the bed and leaned back, puffing on his cigarette and inviting me with a cheery wave to sit down next to Tanaka.

Warily, I made my way across the room and sat down at Tanaka's bedside, keeping my gun on the old man. "Make a move and I shoot. Understand?"

He nodded, grinning slyly. "Having experienced your marksmanship once tonight, I live in fear for the plaster on the wall behind me." Giving a wink, he added, "But your meaning is heard and understood. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. I have not spent all this time providing instruction to Mr. Tanaka in the English language merely to deny him the opportunity to speak it."

I turned to Tanaka, dumbfounded. "He taught you English? Here?" Tanaka nodded.


TANAKA: I have been held prisoner here for... I do not know how long. A year? Two? Please to keep pointing gun at him.

ME: Last I heard you quit working for Doctor Yoshida. What happened?

TANAKA: Crash. Yoshida-san and I drove, and big truck hit car. Doctor died right away, I have some cuts, blemishes?

OLD MAN: Bruises.

TANAKA: I am pulled from car by... them. They were not the truck driver, he drive away. They bring me back to this place, feed me, bandages. He says, "Need surgery". They bring me to kitchen, put me on table, face down. I tell them no, I am fine, but they take off clothes, hold me down. He... he takes knife, knife but flat on end...

OLD MAN: Chisel.

TANAKA: He puts it on my back, I feel how sharp. I beg him, whatever he is going to do, please no, please do not. Those two in corner and a third hold me down, I struggle, but cannot get loose. He does not use hammer. He pushes only with hand, I scream and scream and he pushes it into my flesh, into my back, deeper and deeper. I feel blood pouring down my sides, blood flowing over my neck and up my chin and he pushes. Then I feel nothing. Nothing ever again below neck. Oh, God, nothing, nothing.

ME: It's alright, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to get you to a hospital.

OLD MAN: Tell him about your work.

ME: Shut the f*ck up.

OLD MAN: Tell him, Mr. Tanaka.

TANAKA: I... I work for Doctor Yoshida, help on Wardang Island with rabbits. Infected. Doctor Yoshida knows, I only assistant.

OLD MAN: You are too modest, sir. Tell him about your work.

TANAKA: It is... is work with rabbits. With the virus.

ME: What was it? You can tell me.

TANAKA: The rabbits were... they were test, dry run. He let rabbits loose on mainland.

ME: Yoshida let the rabbits loose on purpose? He did it? Infected all of Australia with the Calicivirus?

TANAKA: Hai. Yes. He and I. Then to America, to Atlanta for further research at CDC, the headquarters. Mutation of virus, strengthening and... what is word, clothes...

OLD MAN: Tailoring. Heh, clothes, tailoring. Pray, continue.

ME: CDC, that's, what-the Center for Disease Control? That's in Atlanta?

TANAKA: Yes. We worked... we were almost finished. We were to leave back for Japan when there was the crash.

ME: Finished with what? Tailoring what?

TANAKA: You said you would take me. To hospital. To help.

ME: I will. What were you doing?

TANAKA: Adapting Calicivirus for humans. Please do not leave me here. Please, I beg of you-

ME: People? On people? Do you know what that virus does? Are you f*cking crazy? That damn thing has a ninety-five percent death rate in rabbits!

OLD MAN: Ninety-nine plus in people, with the modifications the gentlemen made. A remarkable improvement. Pardon the interruption.

ME: What the hell? What in the hell? You and Yoshida were going to kill almost everyone on the planet? Why in God's name... what were you thinking?


Just then, an absolutely enormous, glistening centipede skittered over the other side of Tanaka's pillow and right over his face. It was as long as a flashlight. He and I screamed at the same time. Before I could even react, it ran down Tanaka's neck and under the covers. Tanaka screeched for me to kill it, his head shaking and gyrating in a useless, panicked attempt to somehow move his paralysed body. Still trying to keep the gun on the old man, I reached down with my sprained right hand and slowly lifted up the blanket in the middle of the bed. He was naked, his flesh pale where he still had skin. The bed underneath the thick comforter was writhing with centipedes, at least fifty of them scuttling over each other. Seeing my face, he asked me if I saw the centipede-begged me to please find it and kill it as he couldn't bear to think of such a thing crawling over him in the night.

At this point the old man rose and moved so swiftly that he was out of the room almost before I knew he was gone. I yelled and ran after him, charging down the hallway a few footsteps behind as Tanaka's bellows echoed off the walls. In moments I was leaping off the front porch, aiming my gun at the old man and screaming for him to stop before noticing that he already had. He stood where he had before, casting his shadow over Adalius's corpse.

I was almost out of breath from sprinting from the house, but his voice was as smooth and easy as ever. "Once I had a dream. There were these old slave women down by an old, mammoth, dead tree. As I approached, one of the women held up a little baby, not more than three months old. It slept as she lifted it gently up, and I noticed that hanging down from the branch above was a noose. She placed the baby's head into the noose, tightened it and let it go. The baby's face grew red, then purple-"

"Shut up! Shut up, I am going to shoot you!"

He continued, ignoring me, "-And when I asked her what she was doing, she turned to me and said as matter-of-factly as you please, 'We're hanging the babies'. I looked around and hanging from every branch was a tiny dead body." He lit another cigarette as my pistol shook in his face. "Mr. Tanaka's kind will come around, Mr. Howland. Have no fear. Their kind will be far easier to tolerate in the next world."

I laughed. "An Evangalist and a racist. The old magical combination. Get back inside the house-I'm taking Tanaka to a hospital and I'm not letting you out of my sight, you sick bastard." The old man looked at me and shook his head slowly, smiling. He started humming a tune-some children's song-and from his right sleeve a smaller centipede about two inches in length poked its head out, waved its antennae around testing the air and darted back in. I stared for a long moment, then refocused. "I said march." Again, he shook his head. I pointed the gun at his kneecap and gave him a questioning look. He kept smiling. I fired.

Saying that I shot out his kneecap and he went down would be wrong-it was more that I shot out his kneecap and he just decided to sit down, with all due grace. I started to turn to go back inside, but stopped and asked, "Why tell me that story about the babies and the tree?"

Shrugging, he said, "Only to delay you." From inside, Tanaka's yells had turned to full-on shrieks. I cursed and sprinted up the stairs back inside, tearing down the long hallway and left into Tanaka's room. The room stunk of something, and the black woman was now laying next to a red-faced Tanaka in the bed. Her brother was gone. It took a moment to realize that Tanaka and the girl were soaking wet, and the second she struck the match I recognized the smell: gasoline.

In a split second the bed was engulfed in flames, the whoosh of the fire drowning out Tanaka's agonized wails. Driven from the room by the heat and smoke, I blundered back down the hall and fell down the front steps. Jumping up as fast as I could to keep from being overpowered by the old man in case he had crawled back toward the direction of the house, I was disappointed to find no sign of him at all.

Coughing, my wrist hurting and my mind reeling, I shuffled over to the car, sparing only a quick glance at Adelius, his eyes frozen open in the headlights. Fumbling for the car keys, I had my hand on the door handle before I realized there was someone sitting in the driver's seat with the window rolled up. It was the black girl's brother, his hands on the wheel at ten and two, staring up at me with the same smile as before; the same smile-I realize now-that was on Mrs. Walentowicz's cold, dead face when we found her. As I stared at him, dumbstruck, I jumped when the car's cigarette lighter popped from it's holder in the ashtray next to him. I remember thinking, they still make cars with those? when he pulled it out and held the glowing, red, concentric circles up to his face. "No..." I mumbled. "No, I can't take any more. Don't..." Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the car's molten-hot cigarette lighter into his open left eye, the cornea sizzling with a sound I could hear even through the glass. I felt the bile rise in my throat and began to gag when I noticed that he also was soaking wet, a large, round, red, metal can set on the passenger seat beside him.

Turning to run, my ears were deafened by a thunderous sound and I was blasted away from the car and into the woods, careening off a tree and coming to a charred, smoky rest in the brush. I crawled mindlessly, tearing my clothes and shredding my hands on the thorny undergrowth in my desperate, relentless drive to get away, anywhere, as far as possible and as fast as I could. Finally, after I don't know how long, I finally passed out, curled up into the fetal position and shivering, my teeth chattering. I was almost positive I had suffered a concussion in the explosion, and I remember reading that the one thing you couldn't do with a concussion is fall unconscious, but at that point I really could not have cared less.

I must have been out of it for almost the entire day, because when I woke up I thought it was dawn but when I checked my watch I saw it was already dusk. I scrambled through the undergrowth of the forest until I finally saw an old house with a pickup truck parked in the dirt driveway. I got in, found the keys were in the ignition and took off, heading back to Hollis Crossroads.


I can't expect any of you to believe what I've told you. Now, sitting here in this plush hotel room it all seems nightmarish, hazy and unreal, but I know what happened. I know what I saw. You might believe me, but the police never will. The security company was already suspicious of me when they assigned Adalius to the job, and my fingerprints are all over that hatchet-the old man never touched it. That's why I stole the pickup truck and ran. When they figure out that I wasn't the corpse in the rental car I'm going to be hunted down by every cop in the state.

I wish I had some conclusions or insight... some final thought to tie it all up. I don't. The only things I know is that Mary has way more of a temper and potty mouth than I thought, Yoshida won't be asked to give my eulogy when I actually do croak someday, and the second I finish this sentence I'm going to lay back on the bed, close my eyes and sleep for a month.

Cynthia: Pecunia

As I had commented in one of my previous missives, my husband and I entered into our union each with considerable wealth. As such, we collectively made the decision early on to maintain our finances separately as it was simply not necessary to pool them for the sake of our lifestyle. Therefore, at no point was I privy to Scott's expenditures nor was he to mine.

Locating my husband's bank-book took some doing on Jeffrey's part as I had neglected to have Scott's possessions properly organized since his passing, but after a somewhat arduous search the item was discovered.

The check you mentioned is made out to Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida for the amount of three million dollars. There is no further notation.

Mary: Picking Up The Pieces

October 28th, 2008: I called Detective Ward back in Milwaukee and informed him of what's gone on in Atlanta, including Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's murder. It's not surprising that the police hadn't put the crimes together given that the attack on the Howlands had been classified as a simple hit-and-run. Now that there are two separate cases stretching across state lines, the F.B.I. will officially get involved. It appears we were right to wait on formally inviting Detective Ward aboard as he'll no longer be in charge of the case. Mrs. Howland, I would prepare yourself to be contacted by a federal agent sometime today.

Also, I have a question on a matter that happened sometime before your attack. Whenever you feel up to answering, simply let me know. I do apologize for so totally losing my temper with Yoshida as well.

Josh: I Need A Kevin Costner-Type From "The Bodyguard". Actually, Considering How His Career Is Going, I Could Probably Just Hire Kevin Costner

I woke up and yelled a word that would have been partially censored had I posted it when I saw that the time was 4:00 in the damn afternoon. I was so tired this morning that I fell asleep without setting an alarm. Mary, it's too late for you to fly down here in time for it to still be "today". I mapquested Hollis Crossroads, and it'll take me at least an hour and a half to drive there.

I've made up my mind to go to the meet, obviously. I took your advice about not going alone, though, and contacted a security firm I looked up here in Atlanta. It's obviously about as rush a job as you can get, and I shudder to imagine the bill that my Mom's going to get, but there is no way I'm going to some random spot in the middle of nowhere alone. I'll be picking up the bodyguard on my way out of town. (Below: the cat is the evil foe, the dog is my bodyguard and I'm the tiny, terrified, pampered, pathetic mouse in the baby carriage. Wait, this isn't helping me...)

Mary, your comment about the mystery man's accent possibly being Japanese made me finally recognize what the accent actually was. It wasn't Japanese- in fact, that suggestion worked for me because the accent sounded essentially like the exact opposite of Japanese. It was Australian. Guess that rules out it being the lab assistant Tanaka, unless he learned to speak English while working with your father on Wardang Island, Kisho. Did he?

I'm out of time. Just in case, I'm storing the entire file box in the hotel safe. I don't want to take a chance on taking it with me and losing it. I'll give you an update on the Blackberry when I get to this place, assuming I get any reception there. It looks pretty rural and remote. Wish me luck.

Mary: Not Solo

October 27th, 2008

Tanaka was my father's assistant. He left his employ shortly before the crash. I have not heard from him since.

Doctor Yoshida, that is the sort of information we could have used before this. Is there anything else you can think of that might be relevant?

Josh, firstly, do not go to that address, at least not alone. I can make reservations and hopefully be on a plane by tonight if you intend on going.

I don't know who it was that left that note on your car, but I would think that they somehow managed a way to be alerted when Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's security code was entered. It would seem to me that the only people still living who might know that code are Doctor Kisho Yoshida and Tanaka. Assuming that, it's possible that your encounter at the storage unit was with Tanaka himself, Josh. You said he had an accent, but that it wasn't Southern. Was it Japanese?

Also, aside from anything obviously of interest in the Doctor's files, is there a ledger of some kind in the box? Some general financial record in addition to the scientific data?

Josh: The ATL

Typing on the Blackberry while waiting an eternity for my rental car at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson Airport...

Did flying always suck? I mean, you see those posters from back in the halcyon days of the 50's and 60's of people actually smiling on airplanes, and there's a sexy stewardess handing them trays full of edible food, and it doesn't appear, looking out the tiny window that they've been taxiing around a runway for five hours. Was it actually like that, or was that just highly effective propaganda? Is the past just a lie? I see the same type of advertisements like that now for airlines, with grinning passengers and sunshine beaming through the windows, and let's just say that's not an entirely accurate picture of reality. At this point, a more timely, comfortable and customer service-conscious mode of transportation would be hitchhiking.

Speaking of propaganda and preconceptions, I'm not all that wild about traveling to the South. It's my first time here, and as a Northerner who bases his entire worldview on the movies I've seen, the South gives me the creeps. Southern people think (generalizing? mmmaybe) that Yankees like me are so jealous of their quaint, gentrified, countrified way of life. That we pine for the lovely southern belles like Scarlett O'Hara (played by Vivian Leigh, a Brit, by the way) and yearn to stroll down by the old crick under the weeping willows while our slaves mournfully belt out some classic Blues as we sip gimlets and chain-smoke tobacceee cigarettes we grew and rolled ourselves.

Northerners do not think the South is or ever was like this. That's not the Hollywood myth we bought into. For the most part, we think the South is crawling with toothless, shirtless, illiterate, Waffle House-patronizing, hopelessly-inbred rapists. Sorry to burst your bubble, any Southerners who happen to have someone to help you translate what these little squiggles on the computer screen mean.

I know this preconception probably won't last long and I certainly hope it won't. Actually, so far Atlanta (okay, the airport) looks just like any other American city, with the exception that the security guards are wearing possum-fur hats.

No, really, so far it's been-

Car is here. Finally. Damn it, I didn't order a pickup truck with a drooling bloodhound riding shotgun and a wooden rocking chair for a back seat!

More as I go...


...At the stoplight... McDonald's... Starbucks... same buildings you'd see anywhere else...

A Waffle House! Aha!


...Now at the hotel, totally exhausted. I'm glad I waited to send this post. Please forgive all the previous jackassery and Confederacy-bashing and understand that I'm running on absolutely no sleep. Despite this, I'm dying to see what's in the storage locker. I'm going to grab my tenth cup of coffee and drive over to it. It's only a few blocks away anyway.


...And I'm back once more at the hotel after my trip to the storage area. To recap:

I was amazed at how bright all the lights of Atlanta were even late into the night, and was considering heading downtown to check out all the action before realizing that all the light was actually dawn. Crap. Overall, Atlanta looks like everywhere else in America. Everyone has been friendly, helpful and sporting an acceptable number of teeth. I'm not sure why I'm disappointed.

You had to enter a security code to get in the gate, a nice setup that must have set back the Doctors Yoshida a fair amount of Yen. Once inside the gate, I drove the rental car up to the storage garage, parked, and used the same code to get into the individual storage area, which was about the size of a walk-in closet.

Once inside, I found a grand total of one box containing file folders. Again, disappointed. I admit I was kind've hoping for racks of beakers containing weird liquids, cages filled with bunny skeletons, and/or the Ark of the Covenant. A box of file folders. Whoop-de damn doo.

As I began to rifle through the box, I heard a car engine outside. Peeking out, I saw a black sedan driving up to the security gate out in front, a spotlight attached to the driver's side window sweeping over the storage area. I had every right to be where I was, but for whatever reason I started freaking out a little. Then the front gate began to slide open and the car crept forward, the spotlight darting back and forth over the asphalt in front of it. Maybe it was because I was so short on sleep and in a "foreign land", so to speak, or perhaps it was something about the car, the way it rolled up so very slowly, but acting on instinct I lowered the garage-style door to Doctor Yoshida's storage area and knelt down inside, my ear to the metal door.

I could hear the rubber on the tires squeak as the car pulled up in front of my door and stoped, the transmission shifting into Park. I held my breath as it idled for a long moment, then the car door opened. My breathing was rapid and shallow as I heard footsteps coming closer and closer until whoever it was was standing right outside the metal door on the other side of me.

I heard a voice. I was surprised to hear that it didn't sound Southern, but instead had a completely different accent I couldn't place. His speech had a professional, even military cadence. I pressed my ear harder to the door and could barely make out what he said: "Red raw to blower. Bongo, advise." A pause, then, "Acknowledged. Knock at the door need to know only. There's-" I couldn't make out anything else as he started walking away, back to his car. The car door shut, and I could hear it slowly drive off. Just in case, I waited in silence inside the storage area until I thought I could distantly hear the front security gate open and close.

It occurred to me at this point that my rental car was parked right where he was just standing, and I hoped that he hadn't slashed the tires or something. I gently opened the storage door, sighing with relief that I actually could open it from inside, something I hadn't considered when I panicked and shut myself in.

Giving my car the once-over and deciding that everything looked normal, I tossed the file box in the backseat and threw it into drive before noticing a slip of paper stuck underneath the windshield. Without getting out, I rolled down the window, reached out and grabbed it. I turned on the dome light and read it. It was an address in someplace called "Hollis Crossroads", followed by the words, "Tanaka. Today."

Now back at the hotel, the adrenaline rush has given way to utter exhaustion. Before I pass out, Doctor Yoshida, does the name Tanaka mean anything to you? My eyes are closing even as I'm sitting here. Too tired to process what happened. Please advise.

Mary: Doctor Yoshida

Upon waking this morning to some much-needed sunshine, I spent the first few hours of my day touching base with various clients and contacts back in Madison, assuring them that I was still alive and still in business. I spent most of my time giving referrals, as it seemed clear that the case here in Milwaukee was just getting started.

I had hoped that Mrs. Howland would be feeling better today, but once again I saw that her room was decorated with opened, leather-bound books. Jeff was holding a book up for her to read, and when I shot him a quizzical look he just shook his head, silently indicating that no progress had been made.

Retreating to the office, I once again settled in and dialed, hoping Doctor Yoshida would be more helpful than Doctor Liddel had suggested. After eight rings I had just about given up hope, but finally a young-sounding male voice said, "Konichiwa."

"Uh, hello. Pardon me, do you speak English?"

His voice came back with only a slight accent. "Yes. Continue."

"Is this Doctor Yoshida?" I asked, skeptical based on his apparent youth.

"This is Doctor Yoshida. Who are you and what do you want?" he snapped, his patience evidently having reached its limits early.

"My name is Mary Stroud, and I'm calling from the United States of America. I would like some assistance in seeing if you can identify where a rabbit infected with Rabbit Calcivirus Disease is from. Just roughly, even if it could be narrowed down to a continent, it would help-"

His response was equal parts bored and annoyed. "I believe I understand. You are trying to reach Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida. I am Kisho Yoshida, his son."

"I see. Could you please tell me how to get in touch with your-"

His voice was cold and flat. "He died last year. Is that all?"

I took a deep breath, not wanting to continue the conversation but knowing that we needed some way to get the rabbit's foot tested. "I am so sorry. My condolences. I don't want to keep you, but is there anyone you could recommend who could identify-"

"No."

Wondering if I was going to get to finish a single sentence during the telephone call, I hastily added, "My client is wealthy and would pay well. It is very important."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and after a few seconds I wondered if he had hung up and I just didn't hear the click. Finally he asked, "How much?"

I invented a number and hoped Mrs. Howland would back me on it. "Ten thousand American dollars."

He came right back. "Fifty."

"Twenty."

"Forty firm. Plus expenses. If that isn't suitable then simply hang up and stop wasting my time."

He sounded like he meant it, and based on what Mrs. Howland was paying on this case already I didn't think a difference of twenty thousand dollars would stop her. "I have to clear it with my employer, but I think she will agree. If I can overnight the sample to you, how long until you could identify a strain?"

There was another, longer pause. "I cannot give a time estimate. I will say that I will work on nothing else, and that if I cannot determine where the sample is from then you owe me nothing beyond expenses. Do we have a deal?"

"That sounds fair." I was dying to pry into what his father had been doing since the end of his time on Wardang Island. As a private investigator, I knew well that there was a thin line between professional curiosity and just plain nosiness, but since I was about to hand him forty thousand dollars, I decided to cross it. "Pardon my asking, but did your father continue his research into RCD after his time with the Wardang Island Project?"

Doctor Yoshida sighed, clearly displeased that he was being forced to continue the conversation. "No. After the project ended he had no interest. Send the sample to this address." He gave me the necessary information, then received my e-mail address and phone number in return. There was another pause, then he said a touch awkwardly, "I may need some notes... from my father. They are there in America. One of the expenses will be to have them shipped from a storage locker there to my home in Japan."

"Not a problem." I thought a moment, then asked, "Your father... he died in America?"

"Yes. Last year. The car he was driving was blindsided by a semi-truck. Will there be anything else?"

All the blood drained from my face, and I distantly felt my phone drop down on my lap. I fumbled for the receiver and placed it back to my ear with a hand that shook slightly. My voice came out in a husky whisper. "What did you say?"

"Hit-and-run. I believe that is the term for it in English. He was killed instantly." His voice took on a harder edge, saying, "Now if that is all, I have some studies to return-"

"No. No, that is definitely not all." It felt good to interrupt him for a change. "We need to talk. I have a story to tell you about the woman I'm working for, and what happened to her. Get comfortable, Doctor, you're going to want to hear this."

Mary: Wardang Island

Josh, based on where you left off, I assumed you would want me to call Wardang Island and look into it further. After settling back in at the house this evening (Josh is right, by the way. The time-stamps at the bottom of the posts are way off. It is still the same day as when I posted last) and finding Mrs. Howland's doctor tending to her, I brewed a cup of coffee and began making telephone calls from the office-area I've been using.

Port Victoria is seventeen hours ahead of us, so it was actually a perfect time for me to call, as it would be one in the afternoon there. I knew that getting through to someone with the information we needed was going to be difficult, especially cold-calling like this, but I was prepared to spend the night on the phone.

(Wardang Island-aerial view. Just two miles across and four or so miles top to bottom.)

It was a good thing that I steeled myself for a long ordeal in advance, because even acquiring a telephone number on Wardang Island itself was a chore. Finally, after three hours of sifting through Internet records and numerous, confusing, accent and dialect-riddled anecdotes (of which I'll spare you), I finally got through to Professor Sandra Liddel, the last person in charge of the Rabbit Calcivirus Project. Though now retired, Sandra was extremely generous and forthcoming, albeit less than thrilled at how the Wardang Island experiment concluded.

"We used every precaution you can think of, believe me. The official reports that came out after the fact were all over the map with explanations. One said that we underestimated the wind-borne radius of the disease, which was utter bunk. Another had the virus transmitted via insect, which I suppose was the most probable hypothesis, though we protected against that, too. A third report even had a rabbit escaping and swimming all the way to the mainland. Swimming!" she snorted. She continued more solemnly, "We took the quarantine seriously. Anyone who says we were overconfident simply didn't see the care we took over our work. Fact is, no one knows how the virus got out to this day."

Getting to my main question, I asked, "Is there any way to tell where a rabbit that's been infected is from? Are there different strains and such?"

"For the most part, the virus is fairly consistent. There is a new strain of RHDV called RHDVa. There was an outbreak of that in Italy, two in France, one in Hungary in 2003-"

"No, it's definitely not RHDVa," I said, ruffling through the autopsy copies. "Any way to tell beyond that?"

I could hear Sandra give a deep sigh, then say, "I'm out of the game, Mary. I would have neither the lab access nor the expertise to investigate sub-strains in that fashion. You could always try to go through the Australian government proper, but you'd better be prepared for a long, long, bureaucratic wait." After telling her that we have a definite time-crunch, she sighed again and said, "With Wardang Island... I was only the director after the virus had escaped. I ran clean-up, that's all. The director-the architect of the entire project was Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida. He might be able to take a sample, name you a sub-strain and point you in the direction of a region." She gave me his telephone number in Japan and said, "Last I heard, he was heading up a private research firm out of Kyoto. He would still have access to the equipment he would need to run tests."

After thanking Professor Liddel profusely, she said with more than a touch of bitterness, "Good luck, dearie. Frankly, if I were you I would go through the government and just be patient. I doubt much of anything will convince Yoshida to help you, though a good deal of money might."

I hung up and shuffled tiredly up the staircase to bed. I was relieved to see that the light was off in Mrs. Howland's room as I was sure she badly needed the rest. As Japan is twenty-one hours ahead, I would wait until tomorrow afternoon to call Doctor Yoshida.