Chapter Seventeen

Bells. Chapel windows. Children.

L.

Light. Notebook. Misa.

Kira

Red eyes. Clenched hands.

Notebook.

Kira

L

Light.

Thunder.

The rain claps its tiny little hands, peacefully watering the grass while I wake with sweat, drenched and smelly from head to toe. My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as I see the vision over and over again, L succumbing to sleep as Light's beautiful face disappears into the ugly red demon who made his home inside my friend. Three years. Three years and still, I mourn them both. Unable to go back to sleep, I slip out of bed, my feet resting against the cold wooden floor, cooling me to the point I pick up my shawl and wrap it around my shoulders, but I don't put on slippers or socks. I silently walk to the window, sitting on its large sill, keeping quiet lest I wake the others. Outside, the rain pours like an overdue assignment, washing into the mud and grass like it understands their thirst. The sky lights up with lightning, which flashes loud and clear aside the thunder. I remember, it was on a day like this that three fates were sealed three years ago. Or perhaps it was only two and one was entwined with them both before it became divided and incomplete. My body still responds to it all, the final moments of heat on L's limp body in my hands and the growing cool remnants of the invasion from Light. Their names repeat in my mind, tormenting me with cries night after rainy night. All it took was three years and I cannot say that I've recovered from the scathes that pursued me each of the final days I was in Japan. Tonight proves no different. Only the rhythmic sound of falling rain and thunder, my constant company brought back from Japan, release the pain I carry though not the weight either of the boys left on me. a cold arm snakes its way around my neck, the head lowering on my shoulder. Its tight grasp and the invasive tug I feel on my soul nearly cause a grasp on my breath, before a calm warm hand lightly touches me. the chains of both hands take their grips, neither really winning over the other; the only thing that intensifies is the rain. 'Kira,' I whisper the word for closer and get a cry for help in return. 'Kira.' A soul or two leaves the body unwillingly, a distance grows between justice and vengeance; 'Kira,' justice and pride, 'Kira.'

Normally, the lack of sleep on a person shows by their distraction. No person is recorded to be on the present under the scrutiny of the master or anyone else for that matter. Ironically, it's my focus that gives me away. The preciseness of my knives hitting the targets, the focus on the making and identifications of natural poisons, the alertness of every new information received, food. Perhaps they give me way; the reason for my summoning by the Headmistress along with my best friend Martha, who has endured my ignorance these last three years. Even now, I can't escape her patient face unintentionally seething me with guilt over my behaviour, which, if I know her, she dismisses as grievance. My presence in the same room as her and the Headmistress raises no real effect on me except the growing eagerness at being reassigned. Again. We wait patiently for the Headmistress to finish with her work, her aging fingers in the middle of typing something important on the computer, then moving to retrieve two large brown case folders and setting them quietly at the centre of the table. In all this, not even the familiarity of the room snaps me away from L, or Light, or Kira. The darkness of the room, its large yet simplistic wooden interior, with the large mahogany desk in the centre, and the papers and case folders neatly stacked from one end of the table to the next. The Headmistress retrieves herself from her thoughtful silence, gazing up at us, at me with a look of particular scrutiny. She heaves a heavy sigh and places her hands together before she opens her mouth: 'Frejda, Martha, you have been both chosen.'

We wait in silence.

'You'll have to pack your bags immediately, you're going to the United States to meet with your new superior two days from today.' She picks up two files and hands one each to us: 'Frejda,' she says as she hands mine to me, 'the time has come for you to go back.'

I gaze at her quietly.

'Martha will be joining you for now but how the rest plays out will no longer up to me or you. We will be working with the SPK now, and they will lead the investigation. There's not much more time to discuss this. For now, go pack your bags and if possible, get some sleep. You leave for the airport at midnight.'

I open the file in my room and the first line I read stomps out any melancholy reverie I have left:

Director Takimura Dead: Killed by Kira after kidnapping. New hostage: Sayu Yagami.

The face of the cute, perky little girl I met my first night in Japan flashes; her innocence and love, her sincerity piercing every emotion in mind. It doesn't matter how Kira is involved with the case: my worry reaches out to Sayu; the plague that keeps me from sleeping that night. The face of that girl only instead of perky and laughing, full of fear and confusion. The case folder doesn't mention the reason behind the kidnapping, which I suspect is deliberately kept confidential. Whoever did this, they cannot get away without paying. I'm just sorry that that's not my job. Yet. The cold arm snakes around me again, this time clenching me tighter than before. Kira. I wonder if I have the same bloodlust in my eyes.

'You're bleeding again.'

Upon hearing Martha's comment, I unclench my fists, feeling the pinching pain and droplets of blood on my skin.

'He means that much to you.'

'They mean that much to me,' I counter.

'You haven't let any one touch you since you came back. Whatever mark they left on you, is it really worth keeping?'

'If you went through it too, I'm sure it would be.'

I feel Martha get closer, but she doesn't put her hand on me comfortingly, which I appreciate.

'You know who it is,' she continues, 'Kira. The Headmistress told you not to tell any of us, even her. But L's death, it's plagued you. Unless you turn it into a weapon to destroy Kira, I wonder what good it does.'

It keeps me close with both of them, I want to say. Instead what comes out is: 'Don't say anything about L's death. You know only us and the SPK know the truth.'

'Outside of Japan, anyway. Look, I know my orders, but I think that the police would be stupid not to suspect that something's off. Whoever's playing L now, he's too—what's the word, shy.'

'Shy?'

'The L I followed was confrontational, persistent, jumped to conclusions before the world could catch up and figure it out. This one is a wuss.'

A wuss, huh?

'Frejda. You're sure you're up for this? To face this again?'

I nod curtly, trying not to clench my fists.

'I'll stand by you all I can. I just need to know you'll do the same for me.'

'I will,' I vow. 'I have a promise to keep.'

A promise I meditate on as we ride to the airport and board the plane. I will not let anything happen to Martha as long as I remain alive. Martha who took me in as a friend and partner the minute I stepped into this place at a young age, who showed my Middle Eastern looks and culture if not religion, who cried with me after my first mission and celebrated with me as I grew better; who sparred with me during practise even if her expertise was in guns and crossbows where mine was knives. No. Kira will not har Martha and he will not harm Sayu. I swear. I swear. Yet not even the oath is enough to sing me to sleep.

The plane lands at Dulles Airport at around 9:30 a.m. By then Martha has had some sleep and a little bit of time to search through the net on any news on the kidnappers. Nothing new or panic worthy develops. On normal circumstances, I probably wouldn't find anything to worry about either, but with how quietly the Task Force kept all the valuable information while I worked with them, I have to wonder if everything is really alright. Most importantly, I wonder if Sayu Yagami is still alive. My thoughts jumble between meeting the new people and the fact that I have to go through this again. Like it was yesterday, I remember how excited I was to join the Task Force, handpicked by L to go after Kira. I remember how I looked at the stakes, the reality that I was jeopardising my own life in favour of apprehending the serial killer, even if I ended up dead doing it. I don't think, I never thought how I would take in the personal relationships I would build. The goal to catch Kira never faltered but the belief in who posed, who Kira was, it was the argument between my two friends, my two souls;

L,

Light,

Kira.

Just thinking about it, having the detective and the murderer in the same room, fighting in reality, befriending in reality, becoming my partners, my equals, my protection, my friends—my innocent. This is what I go back to. There's a belief, where I was raised, that the war's victories are counted only behind the scenes and not on the battlefield. I'd set this belief aside when I first moved to Japan, hoping that a case like this would be like any other; this case was different from the beginning. An unknown, unseen enemy with godlike powers killing criminals in the name of justice. I underestimated our enemy and I was oblivious, falling for each trap he set to protect himself, listening more to faulty evidence than to a voice of reason who died knowing the truth. I refuse to make that mistake again.

A hand on mine snaps me out of contemplation; Martha's gaze caught between concern and a glare: 'Stop that!' she commands.

In all my thinking and reminiscing, not only had I nearly succumbed to my now regular habit of clenching my fists until they bled, but I'd missed the fast exodus out of the plane, leaving me and Martha the last ones out. I stand, refusing to respond, and gather my carryon bag pack from the overhead compartment as well as a small suitcase. I let Martha take the lead, her arms full of bags appropriate yet too much for the plane carryon. Then again this is a seven to twelve-hour flight and there's a huge need to stay busy. As we go through the next set of steps with picking up our luggage and setting up our arrival and settling into our new hotel in DC where the SPK headquarters is located. Although we don't officially start working with them until tomorrow, we can go ahead and meet up today, although I doubt Martha would be in the mood to so right now. To be fair, neither do i. with our baggage claimed, a security guard escorts us to the special operatives' section where an FBI agent named Rester waits for us. The man, a broad giant, thought admittedly with a handsome face, appears to not know much about us, aside that we two were handpicked by the new superior, the head of the SPK.

'It's interesting,' Mr Rester comments during the ride to the hotel, 'that he never gave you his identity and you jumped at the chance.'

'That's not how it is with us,' Martha responds, 'Our a—er—Headmistress receives all the need for the assignments and then picks out the agents for the job. As a result, we will step in and meet with our new superior regardless of knowing anything about them or not.'

'I see. So that's how you got the job last time?'

The question's directed at me but I don't think this man knows which one of us was assigned to the Kira case originally. I doubt his superior would have let him know.

'Actually, we had to fight for our spot on the case last time,' Martha explains.

'Why is that?'

'How old do we look to you, Mr Rester?'

It's all he needs to figure out the rest. Given our youth, I expect him, like everyone else, to doubt our experience. Instead, Mr Rester seems almost unfazed by it, considering he may have done the calculation as to how old we'd be when the case began in the first place. I admire his lack of surprise, though part of me wonders why it is that he's unfazed. While Martha continues to discuss our involvement in the case, my gaze turns to the window, where I notice the vast white city that is Washington DC. The Neo-Greek architecture and dominance built into it almost makes me sad if not sick to find, blended with it, the vast support for Kira. Once or twice, we pass by churches dedicated to Kira in worship, a testament to how far he's come in the last three years. Many gods have been named, have had buildings dedicated to them, but no god has granted itself this much support in such a short time. I grieve at the naivete that shows in the ground of these churches and other places of worship or otherwise that show support for Kira. In the world of rationality, where science and evidence dominate any voice of faith, where gods of old are mocked for being too careless, inexistent or both, all this shows is the desire man has, to believe in something more powerful than is seen. The rise of Kira, brings about a vulnerability in humanity, long suppressed by many, that in truth would rather believe in a god, especially one that acts by punishing the evil doers and giving peace to the good. And even if such vulnerabilities are allowed to be expressed in the open, even if the evidence goes to show that Kira has reduced global crime rate by a ridiculously high percentage in such a short time, just by taking action with killing any names and faces revealed, I grieve at the naivete that drowns out the ones who seek the truth. Few remain but the opposing force moves like a rock slide, impossible to stop except at the hand of the supernatural. I can only continue to pray.

Eventually the car stops in front of Sheraton Hotel, where we pull up a trolley to take us to our suite. Despite it being a short stay, I wonder if Mr Rester's superior deliberately set this up. Martha and I settle in, including setting up lab equipment's for the sake of getting together all the information we have on the case from when I was in Japan to the cases involving France in the last three years. 'So long as you're working on that, can I shower?' Martha asks.

'Sure,' I nod, 'So long as you're willing to finish up after I'm done.'

'Rather that than idly wait.'

'Right.'

'By the way, are you suspicious about this new superior of ours as I am?'

'How do you mean?' I turn to catch Martha stripping and instantly look away. Trust her not to be shy about this. Thank goodness Mr Rester left earlier when we told him we needed the day to rest and prepare.

'I mean how unfazed Rester looked about our youth. Most people usually get a little nervous about it.'

'Well, you get used to it. That's kind of what we should be. You especially since you've done more assignments than I have.'

'Exactly,' she says, I hear a door open, 'but Rester seemed almost unimpressed, like he's seen something like this before.'

'Maybe he's run into one of our own.'

'Yeah, maybe.'

What's really going through my mind is the possibility of Rester meeting someone like L, who for all intents, looked too young to be the trump card and leader of all the police forces. Then again, L had a look about him that screamed 'mad genius' in the literal sense of the phrase. I feel a tug at my chest when the image of his kind but cold dark eyes flash, almost like a little child tugging a mother's hand for attention. my entire body warms at the memory, a blunt hit to the chest all the fighting of the tears that ache to come out. I inhale a deep breath, willing them to stop, the repercussions of the pained heart increasing with each fight. I've had three years to cry, three years to mourn not one, but two deaths. My tears should be dry. They should have drowned in the knives I threw, in the punches and kicks I've thrown, in the countless hours of updated research into the world of forensics and anatomy. There shouldn't be anything left for me to cry for. So what tears dare to fight me now?

How thankful am I, for the sound of rushing water, the serenity of water piecing me back together one soft quilt fabric at a time? I revert to unpacking and making myself at home before I spend time gathering all the information we have on Kira, everything except his identity. I count all information we have on Kira, everything except his identity. I cannot let anyone know, that is the rule I will follow to the bitter end. The worst is yet to come. Deep into my preparations, just before Martha gets out of the shower, I find myself in need of food. I let Martha know that I've stepped out to get something to eat before going into the shower myself, leaving the room. I find the marketplace in the lobby; amongst the many goodies available, I find some ice cream which seems like a good awakening. Buying two cups of them, I pay up at the front and return to the suite, setting both in the freezer. Now that I think about it, a shower sounds friendlier than eating and working a basically completed task. I help myself to a quick and warm refreshing shower and some ice cream while tidying up my work. In all my focus, I don't notice, until too late, Martha sleeping on the couch with a bathrobe and some visible underwear to cover her nakedness. Oy! I really hope that we wake up before the cleaners barge in tomorrow. It won't hurt me to get some sleep either. Shutting off all computers and placing the remainder of my ice cream back in the freezer, I crawl into bed and fall asleep.

The next time I wake up, the entire evening has passed, and I greet the early dawn. I sit up, releasing a yawn, before jumping back into the shower, this time a little longer and cooler. Dressed in a black button-down shirt, my knives secured in their holsters, a pair of black dress pants and a black blazer, I do my hair in a simple ponytail and apply minimal make up: black eyeliner and a dark maroon lipstick. I move to wake Martha in her room but find her still asleep on the couch. She's slept in more uncomfortable positions before, so what I look at now could only be described as weird: her right hand above her head while her left hand lazily hangs on the couch board, swaying a little. Her white robe undone, exposing her pink underwear completely. While her mouth hangs open, a sign that she remains in deep, undisturbed sleep. I can't tell if her sleep is the result of jet leg or sheer tiredness from the rough night we've had traveling. Still, when I shake her while calling out her name, she winces awake, her eyes groggy, as if to let me see into her mind processing where and when she is. She jumps at the realisation, almost knocking me over were it not for my quick reflexes. Her long brown hair, disarrayed by her sleep, fixes at the rough finger-coughing as she mutters: 'Zut, zut, zut!'

'Will you relax?' I beg.

'Sure, as soon as I know our new supervisor isn't going to eat us for practically sleeping on the job.'

'I don't think—'

'Shut up! You don't know anything!'

'Fine,' I nod. 'I'm going to gather everything up and print what I need to downstairs. Meet me there in half an hour?'

'Yeah, yeah.'

There's not much I have to worry about here, in truth, but I do have a lot to print. Packing up what I need for the day, namely my laptop and some proofs of pictures of the Notebook, I walk downstairs. Even if the breakfast bar has yet to pen, the computer café should be and thank goodness the printer can connect to a private laptop wirelessly. I set to print out some important data information, separating them in their assigned files. I feel like a student with a due date, the pressure of it worsening when I realise my professor is someone I've yet to meet. Still, doing all this finalising and organising helps calm me down. A good breakfast will do just better. With my files tucked away in a separate part of my laptop bag, I retreat to the breakfast bar, which opens just as I pick a seat, a booth next to the window. Setting my things down, I pick out my breakfast, which is composed of fruits, two waffles and a couple of spreads with hot chocolate to drink. Eating on my own, back facing the television (which, last I checked, was playing some entertainment talk show featuring some celebrity), I settle for relaxing a little longer with a book to read. Pulling my new Kindle Fire out, I continue reading a book by Ayoko Sono, a story about the relations between a religious woman and a rapist/murderer. Even after leaving Japan, I kept in touch with it through literature, starting with the first novel of the world: The Tale of Genji. It's amazing, that once one familiarises herself with cultures so vividly, even a description of something or someone meant to be foreign can feel like it's a native place. Tokyo had become home in all that time I spent searching for Kira, a familiar place, even I fi was mainly locked up with the boys and Misa at L's police hotel. The name references, the language transliteration, all had become more than a tourist's recognition to me.

Eventually, Martha comes to join me, her laptop bag looking a little heavy. 'I took the liberty of calling Rester,' she tells me as she sets down her things opposite me, 'he'll be here in twenty minutes. I see you don't have to worry about eating.'

'Neither do you, with what's available,' I point out.

'Oh please,' she says, 'I'm not like you.'

'Right.'

Martha walks to the buffet, helping herself to two pieces of bread and a spread with some coffee. I continue reading while nibbling on my food, more engrossed in the book.

'It's a sin you know, to play with food.'

'Yeah, yeah.'

'So, how do you feel about today?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, how do you feel getting back to all this?'

I bite my lip in response.

'I see,' she nods, sipping her coffee. 'They still haunt you.'

Silence.

'Can I ask—'

'What?'

'What did it feel like?'

I glare at her.

'It might help to talk about it.'

'There's nothing to talk about.'

'Frejda—'

'This isn't the time for therapy!'

'Maybe, not, but it might help make sense of it.'

'Make sense of what exactly?'

'Why you're here again? Especially after everything you went through. The trauma on you scared the rest of us.'

'Must you remind me?'

'As long as the image remains in my brain, yeah.'

I can't imagine how doubtful they were about winning the case based on my condition alone. I was conscious though to look into the mirror and see the grief spreading over my body. My eyes puffed and red, my stomach disappearing, my face shrinking, it took almost two months before I was able to pick up a knife, never mind throw it with perfect aim. Remnants of that remain visible today. No matter my eating habits, I haven't been able to gain the weight I lost.

'So?' Martha persists, 'what did it feel like?'

'It felt like it always does,' I say in a matter of fact tone. 'Like a dream.'

'A dream?'

'The way that dreams are nothing more than a series of pictures set up together, like puzzle pieces. Only, your mind combines them into a series of coherent images, therefore, creating the story you tell another person in awe.'

I pause.

Martha silently waits.

'L's last memory, the images and sounds were like that. The difference, my mind didn't wake with some explanation for the fragmented images. They were just that. And the bells, loud and insistent, almost out of a horror movie.'

'Church bells?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh.'

'It left me no clue about him. Just one clue he knew I needed to know.'

'I've never—it's never happened like that before, has it?'

'I don't know. I don't think so.'

'I'm trying to see if there's an omen or a clue.'

'I don't think there's any point.'

'Yeah, no. Don't think that.'

I drink my hot chocolate absently.

'Ladies?'

Mr Rester appears, standing above us in a manner that wants to hide his lack of sleep, even if his attire looks prim and clean. His blond hair, as it was yesterday, remains gelled back. His black suit looks more or less ironed although I can tell it's rushed.

'Commander Rester,' Martha greets. 'Good morning.'

'Don't you two look refreshed.'

'A good night's sleep will do that to you.'

'So, are we ready to go?'

'Perhaps we should let Frejda finish her plate,' Martha almost grunts at me.

I glance at my plate, which I realise I've been pondering rather than digging through, and my appetite closes. It looks too much, suddenly. Even the unfinished hot chocolate disturbs my stomach by sigh alone.

'Care to take it away?' Martha suggests through clenched teeth.

Ignoring her, I take my plate and cup and dump it in the trash, saying a prayer of apology before following Mr Rester and Martha to the car. It becomes increasingly hard to ignore Martha's glares, and this time giving her a glare of my own doesn't drop the situation. Thankfully, it doesn't tense up the silence and Mr Rester seems too preoccupied with his phone to care. To avoid Martha's gaze, I ease back into the long seat at the back in hope's of losing myself in the parts of the city that seem brand new. But my mind turns back to their faces, his final face.

We reach the headquarters of the SPK just before eight a.m. The ride became less intimidating with the ghosts' faces the closer we got; but I find it hard to be grateful. Mr Rester leads us to the top floor, explaining the importance of anonymity in the job. As much as he talks, he talks little of the man who leads the SPK, making me worry more if not wonder about the mystery. Even more so, I wonder how much of the team really knows. But it's not up to me or Martha to say. Furthermore, I worry that I'll be interrogated about my previous position with the Japanese Task Force, something I've deliberately claimed as classified information. The secrecy of both sides of the law should, I think, give me an advantage I intend to use when the opportunity arises. For now, I'll aid the SPK on the kidnapping of Sayu Yagami. Sayu…

I can't imagine…

What the Hell kind of advantage would these kidnappers have with her? Looking into the file again, I wonder if I missed any crucial evidence, or a coincidence. If the director was in fact killed by Kira and not the kidnappers, are they using Sayu as a personal picket against the police? That could be it! The common denominator! Takimura and Sayu have some relation to the Task Force. This is not just some ordinary demand for ransom. There's a high chance that the kidnappers have found out about the Notebook somehow and are using these connections to the Japanese Police to get it. But…how on earth would they even know of the existence of the Notebook? And Kira's involvement, killing Takimura to protect the Notebook if not himself…

Wow.

He's sure relaxed some since our last encounter.

'Alright we're here,' Mr Rester says, breaking through my reverie.

The lift doors open, entering us into a dark blue room filled with computer monitors large and small alike, a set of three plus desktops attached to the larger monitors. On one side, the largest monitor in the room displays some charts and graphs, studying the statistics of Kira's kills, which since Japan, have escalated by a lot, including 'accidental' deaths of trouble makers whose names and faces have been posted online. Thus far has gone the worship of Kira. Death holds as the final punisher, and still there are far more people out there afraid of Death than any other judgement. But this goes to show that there are people who fear something perhaps worse than the punishment, the fear of the presence who will execute the judgement itself. An unknown enemy who has access to the information that determines a person's life or death, with no mercy. It almost makes me laugh, all these complaints that the gods of other religions get and here is 'one' that meets that fear for real. The other side of the monitor displays recordings of specific areas that cameras directly linked to the office make, from any corner of the world. Aside from an overwhelming number of monitors and computers with countless hard drives set up as untraceable by the members of the SPK, are the hosts themselves. A large group consistent of American men and women, or woman, who pause their work to acknowledge our presence. Among them, a large bald man, with quite a thick grey moustache, dressed in a brown suit approaches us. 'Commander Rester,' he nods, 'Ladies. I'm Steve Mason, the director of the FBI,' he holds up his badge and then his hand to shake ours.

'Hello,' Martha greets verbally, though we both shake his hand. 'Nice to meet you, I'm Martha Abdul. This is Frejda Sofer.'

'Welcome to the SPK. I trust Rester's taken care of the both of you.'

'We've been in good hands,' Martha approves.

'I'm glad. Let me introduce you to our superior.'

'Thank you.'

The crowd disperses to their separate tasks, suddenly making the room emptier than we thought it to be. At the centre, a desk, atop which a building entirely made of dice stands, with one person occupying the space. Crouched in heavy concentration, there's a child, with white familiarly messy hair, a pale face with large bags under his intense brown eyes; one hand holds a die while the other rests on the crouched knee. His dress, a simple white button-down shirt, clearly not ironed (if taken off to be washed at all) and pair of simple boyish blue jeans.

'Ladies, this is Near, our superior and leader of the SPK.'