After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Again somewhere
, Aomame 
repeated to herself. But she knew she would probably never see Tamaru again. 
Aomame scoured the morning paper but found nothing on Ayumi’s murder. This 
probably meant that the investigation had turned up nothing new. No doubt all the 
weekly magazines would be mining the case for every weird angle they could find. A 
young, active-duty policewoman engages in sex games with handcuffs in a Shibuya 
love hotel and is strangled, stark naked. Aomame didn’t want to read any 
sensationalistic reports. She had avoided turning on the television ever since it 
happened, not wanting to hear some female news announcer reporting on Ayumi’s 
death in the usual artificial high-pitched tones. 
Of course, she wanted the perpetrator to be caught. He had to be punished, no 
matter what. But would it make any difference if he were arrested, tried, and all the 
details of the murder came out? It wouldn’t bring Ayumi back, that much was certain. 
In any case, the sentence would be a light one. It would probably be judged to have 
been not a homicide but involuntary manslaughter—an accident. Of course, not even 
a death penalty could make up for what had happened. Aomame closed the paper, 
rested her elbows on the table, and covered her face with her hands for a while. She 
thought about Ayumi, but the tears no longer came. Now she was just angry. 
She still had a lot of time until seven o’clock in the evening but nothing to do in the 
meantime, no work at the sports club. Following Tamaru’s instructions, she had 
already deposited her small travel bag and shoulder bag in a coin locker at Shinjuku 
Station. The travel bag contained a sheaf of bills and enough clothing (including 
underwear and stockings) for several days. She had been going to Shinjuku once 
every three days to deposit more coins in the slot and double-check on the contents. 
She had no need to clean her apartment, and even if she wanted to cook, the 
refrigerator was nearly empty. Aside from the rubber plant, there was almost nothing 
left in the room that still had the smell of life. She had gotten rid of everything 
connected to her personal information. All the drawers were empty. 
And as of 
tomorrow, I won’t be here, either. Not a trace of me will be left
. 
The clothes she would wear that evening were nicely folded and stacked on the 
bed. Next to them she had placed a blue gym bag. Inside was a complete set of 
stretching equipment. She checked the contents of the bag once more for safety’s 
sake: jersey top and bottom, yoga mat, large and small towels, and small hard case 
containing the fine-pointed ice pick. Everything was there. She took the ice pick out 
of the case, pulled off the cork, and touched the point to make sure it was still plenty 
sharp. To make doubly sure, she gave it a light sharpening with her finest whetstone. 
She pictured the needle sinking soundlessly into that special point on the back of the 

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man’s neck, as if being sucked inside. As usual, everything should end in an instant—
no screaming, no bleeding, just a momentary spasm. Aomame thrust the needle back 
into the cork and carefully returned the ice pick to its case. 
Next she pulled the T-shirt-wrapped Heckler & Koch from its shoe box and, with 
practiced movements, loaded seven 9mm bullets into the magazine. With a dry sound, 
she sent a cartridge into the chamber. She released the safety catch and set it again. 
She wrapped the pistol in a white handkerchief and put it in a vinyl pouch. This she 
hid in a change of underwear. 
Now, was there anything else I had to do?
She couldn’t think of anything. Standing in the kitchen, Aomame made coffee with 
the boiled water. Then she sat at the table, drinking it with a croissant.