Chapter 43: Dream and Reality
Hasebe Koichi remained elusive. Still, Kagehara Tetsuya felt compelled to continue his vigil. It was Thursday; he’d commit until Sunday. If nothing transpired by then, he’d concede defeat.
To stave off the inevitable fatigue of his stakeout, he’d stocked his bag with several cans of strong coffee. Masked and wearing a nondescript cap, he walked to Hasebe’s residence and slipped into his parked car, a shadow melting into another.
The time was 9:47 a.m. The morning was mild, and local elderly residents were already out for their customary strolls. Many were becoming familiar to Kagehara, some he’d observed upwards of five times. The familiarity, of course, was entirely one-sided, a silent observer’s perspective.
With nothing else to occupy him, his gaze drifted over the houses surrounding Hasebe’s, finally settling on one across the street. It was a picture of neglect, a dilapidated structure with a broken front door hanging askew, barely clinging to its hinges.
“Abandoned for some time, it seems,” he murmured to himself. “The yard’s a jungle, and the stench of stray cats hangs heavy in the air…”
This wasn’t the only vacant house in the immediate vicinity. Several others had remained stubbornly dark and lifeless throughout his three days of surveillance. Not a single soul had been seen entering or leaving, and the local residents, in their daily routines, seemed to actively avoid even glancing in their direction, as if the houses were simply not there.
“If anyone lived there, they wouldn’t be right in the head,” he mused. “The lack of lights likely means the utilities have been cut off—electricity, water, the lot.”
A thought flickered through his mind. “Still, it’s better than nothing. A roof over your head, at least, even if it’s a leaky one. Better than a park bench when the wind and rain come.”
A new idea took root. Could Hasebe be holed up in a place like that?
Japan, with its rapidly aging population, was littered with vacant properties, and this city was no exception. These houses were often left to rot, a burden to owners who couldn’t sell them and had long since moved on. The government, constrained by privacy laws, was largely powerless to intervene.
Even without those constraints, Kagehara suspected officialdom wouldn’t bother. Unless squatters caused a significant disturbance, the police rarely intervened. It was a grey area, a societal blind spot.
“Perhaps a nighttime visit is in order.”
Kagehara stretched, a yawn escaping his lips. It was barely past four, yet he’d already battled waves of drowsiness, the coffee offering only temporary respite.
He glanced at the sky, a frown creasing his brow. A vast, pale blanket of cloud was drifting inland, obscuring the sun. It wasn’t the ominous darkness of a storm, but a diffuse, grey light, neither day nor night, promising no rain but offering no sunshine either.
He ate a dry piece of bread and chased it with another can of coffee. By five-thirty, the fatigue was almost overwhelming. To fight it, he shifted his seat to an awkward angle, but even that offered little resistance against the encroaching weariness.
His eyelids grew heavy, his vision blurring. He rubbed his eyes, realizing with a start that it wasn’t his vision that was the problem, but the world outside.
A thick fog had rolled in, blanketing the street.
He pushed open the car door, startled to see Tanaka Erika emerging from the house next door. She was pushing her bicycle, dressed in her school uniform. Was she going to school?
He glanced down at himself and saw he was wearing his old middle school uniform. Then it all came flooding back: his plan to emulate the Makeup Hunter, to kill the irritating Tanaka.
To successfully frame the serial killer, meticulous preparation and a flawless plan were paramount. But how to begin?
First, a suitable weapon: a sharp, reliable knife, and the skill to perform the gruesome work of facial removal, convincing enough to deceive even the most experienced forensic pathologist.
Then there were the cosmetics and the makeup techniques. He understood the basics of makeup application, but applying it to skin, especially in this context, required practice.
And the knife? A scalpel would be ideal. He possessed some of his own, but it would be far better to acquire one elsewhere, perhaps from Kagehara Kenta’s hospital…
A chilling sense of déjà vu washed over him. Why did these actions feel so familiar, as if he’d already carried them out?
No, that couldn’t be. Tanaka Erika was still alive. He couldn’t have already done these things. It must be a trick of the mind.
Or was she? Wasn’t she dead?
He looked up again and saw Tanaka Erika lying on the concrete floor of a derelict warehouse. A dark, contusion ringed her neck, and a brutal gash marred her jawline, dark blood oozing from the wound.
Beside her lay an open makeup case, its contents neatly arranged: brushes, powders, lipsticks, and a scalpel, its blade stained crimson.
“Someone beat me to it,” he thought, a cold dread settling in his stomach.
It was him—the Makeup Hunter. No one else would use cosmetics at a murder scene.
“Damn it! He stole my kill. All that planning, all that practice…for nothing!” A wave of frustrated anger surged through him. Of all the potential victims in Japan, why had the killer chosen the same one? Was it a deliberate act of mockery?
And how had he known? How had the Makeup Hunter known he was planning to strike today?
It was impossible. Even if the killer knew of him, he couldn’t possibly know his thoughts.
He pushed the unsettling questions aside.
“Still…such a waste,” he murmured, a perverse fascination taking hold. “Let me at least put my practice to good use.” A dark thrill, both repulsive and compelling, coursed through him.
He approached Tanaka Erika’s lifeless form, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, his fingers closing around the cold steel of the scalpel.
The next instant, the dream dissolved.
Reality crashed back, sharp and disorienting. Kagehara gasped, his right hand clenched tightly around the steering wheel, the rough texture of the plastic jarring him awake.
Outside, the world was cloaked in an oppressive darkness. The fog had thickened, a spectral blanket engulfing the streets. A gust of wind stirred the mist, swirling it upwards into the pale moonlight, transforming it into ghostly wisps of smoke, a scene of desolate beauty.
Before he could even register the time, Kagehara’s eyes narrowed. At the end of the street, a figure had materialized from the fog, emerging from the swirling grey like a phantom, hurrying towards him through the night.
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