“I fear that it could be worse than that.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, dread ratcheting up through his senses.
“Masuyo does not take a second seat to anyone. To. . .anyone. I know of this, believe me.”
“But she’s old and probably not in the best of health after all those years in prison.”
She shook her head. “Masuyo will outlive us all. . .unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
She shook her head again. “I cannot speak of it, Dillon-san. It is not for your ears. It is perhaps for no one’s ears. Surely old Hiroko speaks of dreams, even of fantasies. But when one is old, one thinks of things that others cannot or will not.”
And despite his attempts to draw her out, Hiroko had said nothing else.
* * *
Now, as Nash stood there, he suddenly heard a whimper filter through the hall, followed by a low moan, and then a stark cry for help.
He raced down the hall to Hiroko’s room and tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Hiroko-san? Hiroko-san, are you all right?”
The cries grew louder, but they were unintelligible. And then he heard her thrashing around.
“Hiroko-san?” Nash cried out.
A voice behind him exclaimed, “What is going on? What is wrong?”
He turned to see Steers standing there in her nightdress.
“It’s Hiroko-san. She sounds. . .ill. The door’s locked.”
She pushed past him and beat on the door. “Hiroko-san? Hiroko-san!”
When there was no response Nash pulled Steers out of the way. He backed up a few steps and then hurled his body against the door. The doorjamb broke off with the force of the collision and the door flew open.
Nash’s momentum carried him into the room, and he staggered against some furniture, knocked over a table, and fell to the floor. By the time he regained his footing, Steers had come into the room and was staring over at a chair.
Nash looked, too, and he felt his skin turn cold.
Hiroko was in the chair. Her eyes looked at them but were clearly seeing nothing. Her head was angled to the right and rested on her shoulder, and her soft white hair hung limply in her face. Her body was still, her mouth open.
Steers checked the woman’s pulse and then stepped back, her body trembling.
“My Hiroko-san. . .is. . .gone,” she said in a voice that contained more anguish than Nash had ever heard carried in words before.
CHAPTER
59
NASH BENT DOWN IN FRONTof Hiroko. He looked at the foam on her lips and next observed the cherry-red color of her face. Then he glanced at the cup of tea on the table beside her. He lifted it and sniffed the contents. He detected an odor that should not have been there.
He stood and turned to Steers, who was still looking down in disbelief at the dead woman.
“I think. . .I suspect she was poisoned.”
Steers glanced at him, and then at the cup and then at Hiroko’s face. “I do not suspect that.”
“But—”
