The Runaway Bride (8 page)

“There's a big bonfire out back,” George announced.

Mick cleared his throat. “Actually, we—”

“We'd love to see the bonfire,” Nancy cut in.

Mick stared at her, then broke into a grin. “Whatever you say, Nancy.”

The bonfire turned out to be where all the action was. Nancy and her friends found hundreds of people dancing around it. A band consisting of drums, flutes, and several Japanese
instruments Nancy couldn't identify provided the music.

“I think I'll sit this one out,” Gil said apprehensively. “You all go ahead.”

George sighed. “Come on, Gil. It's time you learned how to dance. Really, it's easy.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the circle of dancers, ignoring Gil's protests.

They squeezed into one of the lines of dancers, and Nancy and Mick joined another. Nancy raised her arms and tried to imitate what everyone else was doing.

She discovered quickly that it was difficult to move, much less dance. People were crowded very close together, and somebody was bumping into her almost constantly. She felt like a sardine in a tin.

Then the music started growing louder and faster, and the dancers' movements more frenetic. Nancy felt almost hypnotized by the steady, throbbing beat. The flames of the bonfire cast an eerie glow over the scene.

“This is wild, isn't it?” Nancy cried out breathlessly to Mick. When there was no response, she stopped dancing and glanced around. “Mick?”

Nancy suddenly realized that she had somehow gotten pushed toward the center of the crowded circle, only a few feet from the bonfire. Mick, George, and Gil were nowhere to be seen.

She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, then called out, “Mick?”

Just then she felt a pair of strong hands grab her from behind. Before she could react, she was being shoved toward the bonfire—hard.

Nancy couldn't keep her balance. She fell toward the crackling flames.

“No!” she cried.

N
ANCY FELT A WAVE
of heat wash over her as she stumbled toward the bonfire. The band was playing its frantic, macabre music faster and faster. The flames were inches away.

In the split second before landing in the fire, an image flashed in her mind. It was a move she'd learned in one of her martial arts classes. Without even thinking, she threw her left hand out. Her palm met dirt, and she pushed off it as hard as she could.

Nancy landed in a crumpled heap, a tiny flame singeing the edge of her
yukata
sleeve. She swatted at it, extinguishing it instantly. Then she struggled back to her feet, sweat pouring down her face, her heart thundering in her chest.

Someone just tried to kill me again, she
thought. She had to find her assailant before he—or she—got away.

Scanning the crowd, Nancy spotted a guy in a light blue
yukata
and straw hat. He was trying to squirm through the dancers, and he looked as though he were in a hurry.

That must be him, Nancy thought.

In all the confusion only a few dancers had even noticed Nancy's fall. Now, as she tried to push past them and pursue the guy in the blue
yukata
, they stared at her curiously and asked her if she was all right. None of them seemed to realize that she'd been pushed.

“I'm fine,” Nancy said hastily. “Now, please, I have to get through.”

The guy was fast approaching the outer edge of the circle when Nancy saw an arm reach out from somewhere, accidentally knocking his straw hat off. He had a crew cut, she noted.

The music had reached a fever pitch. Everyone was whirling and clapping wildly. “Oh, please,” Nancy cried out in frustration as her path was blocked by two very energetic dancers.

By the time she made it out of the circle, Nancy's assailant was long gone.

At that moment Mick came rushing up to her. “I've been looking all over for you,” he began, then stopped when he saw the expression on her face and the disheveled state of her clothes and hair. Without another word, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close.

Nancy shut her eyes and allowed herself to sink against his chest. Her knees felt wobbly, and her head was spinning.

“Let's get away from here,” Mick suggested, taking her hand. He led her to a stone bench away from the noise of the band and the crowd. “What happened?” he asked gently.

Nancy told him, trying to keep her voice steady as she recounted the terrifying experience. “Did you get a look at the chap?” Mick asked worriedly.

“He was wearing a light blue
yukata
and a straw hat, and he had a crew cut,” Nancy replied.

“Do any of your suspects have crew cuts?”

“Yes—Mad Dog Hayashi. And also the delivery guy who brought us the poisonous fugu.” Nancy frowned. “Unless, of course, they're one and the same.”

Mick's eyes flashed angrily. “Should we go to Hayashi's studio and confront him?”

“I'll pay him a visit first thing tomorrow,” Nancy told him, brushing some dust off her
yukata.
“Right now all I want is a hot bath and a good night's sleep. Let's find Gil and George and get out of here.”

• • •

It was Monday morning. George was sitting cross-legged on her futon, staring gloomily out at the back courtyard of the Sakura Ryokan. “Looks like our first rainy day, Nan,” she remarked.

Nancy, who was standing at the closet, pulled a pink cotton sweater on over her baggy white T-shirt and joined her friend. The rain was beating steadily against the windowpane. Outside, the lush summer foliage quivered on the trees.

Nancy ran a hand through her reddish blond hair, which was curling ever so slightly from the humidity. “Actually, we've been really lucky so far,” she murmured. “I think this is supposed to be the Japanese rainy season. This time of year it can pour for two weeks straight.”

“Two weeks!” George exclaimed. “I hope that doesn't happen while we're here. We'll die of cabin fever.”

Nancy chuckled. “No way. We're going to be too busy to stay inside. We have a case to solve, remember?”

“Right.” George leaned back on her elbows and frowned. “After what happened to you at the festival, though, I'm beginning to wonder if we shouldn't pack our bags and go home.” She added lightly, “Of course, that would mean leaving behind a certain gorgeous Australian.”

Nancy felt her cheeks growing warm at the mention of Mick. He'd come so close to kissing her under the magnolia trees the night before.

What's wrong with you, Drew, she chided herself. You've got a fantastic boyfriend back home. And you told Mick that you just wanted to be friends.

There was a soft knock on the door. George went to get it. It was Mrs. Ito with the girls' breakfast.

“Good morning,” she called out, setting the tray down on the table. “Have you found the young man who brought you the bad fugu yet?”

“Not yet,” Nancy replied. “But we're working on it.”

Mrs. Ito lifted the cover off one of the dishes. On it was a perfectly shaped golden omelet garnished with a sprig of parsley. “I thought you girls might be homesick for American food,” she said.

George sat up eagerly. “Thank you, Mrs. Ito!”

After Mrs. Ito had left, George and Nancy sat down at the table and started to dig in. Smiling happily, George picked up a fork and took a bite of the omelet. Then her smile faded.

“Nan?” she said slowly. “This omelet is cold.”

Nancy took a bite of hers and made a face. “You're right,” she agreed. “I wonder if Mrs. Ito did that on purpose? Maybe she thinks omelets are supposed to be that way.”

“Kind of makes me miss the grilled fish, rice, and miso soup we've been having every morning,” George said.

The phone rang. Nancy went over to the dresser and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Nancy? It's me, Mari. Any news?”

“George and I had a pretty busy day yesterday,” Nancy replied. Then she told Mari about
Harajuku, Mad Dog, and the Bon Matsuri festival.

Mari gasped when Nancy got to the part about the bonfire. “Nancy, this is getting crazy!”

“Someone does want me off this case,” Nancy commented grimly. “The question is, who?”

“What are you going to do next?” Mari paused, then added, “Or maybe you should stop investigating, and we should just turn this whole mess over to the police. It's getting too dangerous—”

“Not yet,” Nancy cut in. “I feel as if I'm getting close. George and I are going to pay Mad Dog another visit this morning. I have a strong hunch he may turn out to be the guy with the crew cut who's responsible for the fugu and the bonfire attack.”

• • •

An hour later Nancy and George walked briskly across the vacant dirt lot toward Mad Dog's building, stepping carefully to avoid the puddles. The rain was coming down in sheets now, with occasional bursts of lightning and thunder.

They got to the front security door. But just as Nancy was about to open it, she heard footsteps inside. Somebody was coming down the stairs.

Could it be Mad Dog, Nancy wondered, then got an idea.

“Quick, George!” Nancy tugged at her friend's sleeve and dragged her toward the corner of the building. “We've got to hide!”

George obeyed instantly. A second later the security door was flung open and Mad Dog came stomping out. He was dressed in jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. He glared at the rain, pulled his hood over his head, then started across the lot on foot.

“I want you to follow him,” Nancy whispered to George. “I'm going to search his studio. So keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn't come back right away. If he does, you'll have to distract him long enough for me to get out. Okay?”

“Okay, boss,” George said, and set off across the lot.

Nancy set her umbrella down, then got her credit card out of her purse and started working on the lock. The door clicked open and she walked in.

Inside was a dimly lit concrete hallway. Off to the right was a red door, and to the left was a metal staircase. Nancy figured that Mad Dog's studio was on the second floor, since she'd heard him coming down the stairs.

She proceeded quietly to the second floor. At the top of the stairs was another hallway, and halfway down it, another red door. Nancy went up to it and tried the knob. Not surprisingly, it was locked—and with a complicated bolt lock to boot.

She reached into her purse for her lockpicking kit, glancing around nervously as she did. She
noted that the hall was a dingy tan color with badly peeling paint. A few bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, bathing everything in a sickly yellow light. What a depressing place, she thought.

Nancy started to work on the lock. She hadn't gotten very far when she heard a strange noise coming from inside the studio. She froze and listened. There was a long silence—then, a few seconds later, the noise started again. It was a faint tapping sound, like that of fingers drumming against a tabletop.

Nancy moved closer to the door and pressed her ear against it, pushing her rain-drenched hair away from her face as she did. Then, before she knew what was happening, two powerful hands seized her shoulders, wrenched her away from the door, and flung her against the wall.

Pain shot through Nancy's back as it met the hard concrete. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to recover from the impact, then glanced up quickly. She found herself staring into Mad Dog's blazing eyes. His black hooded sweatshirt was soaking wet and clinging to his bulging chest and arms. George was nowhere in sight.

Mad Dog grabbed her shoulders again and pinned her tightly against the wall. “What do you think you're doing breaking into my studio?” he growled in a low, menacing voice.

“Let go of me,” Nancy said in as calm a voice as possible.

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Tell me what you're up to—now!”

Nancy's mind raced frantically, trying to find a way out of her predicament. And where was George? “I was coming to see you, to talk to you about Midori—” she began.

Mad Dog cut in angrily, “You were coming to see me with a lockpicking kit. Well, you're not the only one who carries useful tools.” He pulled a Swiss army knife out of his jeans pocket and flicked open a small, sharp blade in one swift motion. He held the blade to Nancy's throat. “You tell me what you're up to right now, or I'll—”

“Stop it!” someone shouted.

Mad Dog's knife fell away from Nancy's throat. Nancy turned her head to see who had spoken. Mad Dog's door was open and a familiar figure was standing there.

It was Midori.