Sake Bomb Read Free Page A

straight black hair. And all were there for the same reasons: A
little boy, and the haunted memories of a then four-year-old
girl.
     
    “Matushka ,” she said in a voice that made
everything a question. “Where are the swings and slides? And nobody
plays on the grass…”
    A copse of trees was to her right, one side
of their bark scarred and emptied out, but the crowns were
gloriously green. She eyed them curiously as she skipped along,
then turned her questioning gaze on an old woman crying nearby.
    “ This is a different kind of park, baby,”
Hiro said, voice husky.
    “ What kind is it?”
    Her matushka squeezed her hand. “A
special kind…”
     
    The cenotaph was the heart of the grounds
and as such drew most of the attention. A small offering platform
fronted the shrine, and it was here that two of these women stood,
shoulder to shoulder, dark heads bowed.
    The platform itself was a rectangular block
practically flush with the railing. Atop it, and bringing its
height nearly eight inches taller than the barrier, sat a simple
structure that resembled two Greek pi s positioned side by
side, horizontal bars touching to make them one. Like a torii , a traditional Japanese gate separating the sacred
from the profane.
    A fitting description.
    The low railing continued on either side of
the platform, guarding the large cenotaph. Through this concrete,
saddle-shaped arch, the tranquil pool, the eternal flame, and
the…building could all be seen in perfect alignment. A powerful
sight, but far more important than what the cenotaph framed was
what it sheltered.
    The box.
    Just a simple stone chest, opened once a
year so the cache could be added to. Not gold or rubies or
diamonds, but a far more precious haul.
    Names.
    Her name: Hiro Ohayashi.
    “…given here reach the departed,” Julie
finished solemnly. She lifted her head, peering through the
open-ended cenotaph to the building at the far end of the park.
“ Privideniye ,” she whispered in Russian, her throat tight
with a mix of anger and overwhelming loss.
    Beside her, Akari’s gaze settled on the
trove beneath the arch, soaking in the epitaph etched into the
stone: Let all the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not
repeat the evil. She grunted low in her throat. “Yeah, right.
If that were the case, they wouldn’t have reset the peace
clock.”
    “And soon they will do it again. Now hush,”
Julie admonished. With great care she pulled the offerings from her
pocket.
    Akari rolled her eyes, groping inside her
purse. She ducked her head and discretely coughed into her
hand.
    At the same moment, 150-meters away, another
woman approached the monument from the southwest. In designer jeans
and an expensive shirt, Fay strut along the concrete walk as though
it were a runway in Milan: chin up, shoulders back, one expensive
stiletto firmly in front of the other. A scarlet leash curled over
her forearm, the tether merging with the color-matched collar of
the tiny dog preceding her, its little tail wagging. Ever the
conversationalist, a phone was in its usual spot at Fay’s ear, this
chat with an obliging ticketing agent: “Please, send it to the
email provided. And thank you so much for your assistance,
especially with this being last minute.”
    A few pleasantries and the call ended.
Without breaking stride, Fay angled the phone a bit to snap a
selfie—a vanity she indulged in more frequently of late, though she
didn’t share the pictures with the world. Her life was one captured
memory after another, crammed onto the whatever-size Gigabyte
storage card of her overpriced cellular.
    Her dog stopped abruptly to sniff at the
grass, making the leash go taunt as Fay went by. She yanked hard
and the dog jerked, stumbled, regained its footing and trotted to
catch up. Head down, she typed Blue without you … into the
body of the text, attached the newest picture, and sent off the
3 rd such portrait of the day.
In stride, she dropped the phone into the oversize