The Man Who Fought Alone

  He assessed me for a moment, then stated flatly, “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t have anything else to go on. You’re the king of this little world. I would’ve thought that being observant was a requirement of the job.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Axbrewder, this tournament, any tournament, is filled with people I know and people I don’t. I can’t be expected to recognize them all.”

  I didn’t hesitate either. “OK, forget the sweats. How about people you know that aren’t here? Have you met anyone who matches that description?”

  Sternway opened his mouth, then caught himself. His gaze wandered briefly, looking for something. Inspiration? A memory? “Perhaps—” he murmured. “I’m not sure.” He massaged his left forearm. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  When he faced me again, he’d recovered his exasperation. “I hope you aren’t wasting my time with this. Your question doesn’t make sense. None of the people I know here fit your description. If I know a man who does, he isn’t here. So he—”

  I had no more idea than Sternway did what my question meant, but I didn’t worry about it. Intuition is like that. Making sense was someone else’s job—usually Ginny’s. Before he could finish, I countered like I knew what I was doing, “Or you didn’t notice him.”

  That stopped him. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded. “I’ll think about it. That’s the best I can offer.”

  If I hadn’t disliked his manner so much, I might’ve said thanks. But I didn’t. Instead I changed the subject.

  “So how did you hurt your arm?”

  I wanted to catch him off balance, but I must’ve been dreaming. He was HRH Anson Sternway, Mr. Shorin-Ryu 8th-dan on his own turf, and he didn’t so much as blink.

  “A stupid accident.” He glanced at his forearm. “I was walking behind the dais”—he indicated the floor below us—“and tripped on one of the wires.” A tangle of leads and power cords for the microphones and laptops sprawled in plain sight. “When I fell, I hit my arm on the edge where we’re standing.”

  I didn’t have any reason to doubt him, so I replied piously, “I hope you didn’t tear your blazer.”

  He showed me the fabric. “Apparently not.”

  I might’ve responded with some empty remark about expensive blazers being worth what they cost, but he distracted me by staring abruptly into my eyes. “Why do you care?”

  I smiled insincerely. “I don’t. I was just curious.” Since I couldn’t threaten his balance, I tried to keep him on his toes instead. “Part of my job. I get paid to notice things.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “You seem to be good at it.”

  Well, shit. If that constituted keeping him on his toes, I needed to find some other line of work. Nevertheless I still felt strangely lucid, defended by a sense of intuition that I didn’t try to explain.

  “Some days,” I admitted. In a more confidential tone, I added, “I sure noticed that look Sue gave me.”

  A chink in his armor at last. He actually frowned, and a suggestion of darkness gathered in his eyes. “What look?”

  Mentally I thanked Ned Gage for the hint. Grinning all over my face, I shrugged. “I think she likes me.”

  For a second I thought HRH might go so far as to insult me. Put the commoner in his place. He stopped himself, however, before he revealed anything as human as indignation.

  “I didn’t see it,” he told me coldly. Then he turned back toward Lacone.

  Still grinning, I headed in the opposite direction—and nearly collided with Sammy Posten. So much for being paid to notice things. He must’ve been hovering there for several minutes, waiting to pounce, but I hadn’t registered his presence.

  “Mr. Posten.” Instead of groaning, I gave him a look of malicious good humor. “It’s your turn to congratulate me. Looks like I just saved you a few bucks.”

  I didn’t expect him to care about that, and for once I was right. “Chump change,” he snorted. “I have bigger concerns.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Nakahatchi sensei’s chops. They’re vulnerable. Even you have to admit that now.”

  I frowned. “Excuse me? I must’ve missed something.” Actually I agreed with him, but I didn’t want to show it. “I just caught a small team of petty thieves. And I’ve seen dozens of clowns just like them. You can take it to the bank that none of them gives a shit about that display.”

  Watchdog’s Senior Security Adviser bristled like a porcupine. “You aren’t paying attention, Axbrewder.” His problem was, he didn’t have a quill to his name. “You’re doing your job, I’ll give you that. But you don’t see the implications.

  “Everyone I talk to seems to think no one is stupid enough to try to steal from ‘martial artists.’ The chops are safe because they’re surrounded by fighters who can cut down trees with their bare hands.”

  He was surrounded by them himself, but he didn’t seem aware of the fact.

  “That’s bullshit,” he informed me hotly. “You’ve just demonstrated it. These ‘martial artists’ couldn’t spot a thief with a telescope. What’s wrong with them? If you can do it, why can’t they?”

  Before I could attempt a reply, he finished, “How safe do you think those chops will be when Nakahatchi sensei takes them home?”

  The poor deluded man looked positively triumphant, like he’d just scored in my face. Apparently he didn’t remember that I’d made the same point myself earlier.

  This was getting out of hand. Even I couldn’t imagine what he gained by insulting every karate-ka within earshot. No wonder Bernie had liked him so much.

  “Mr. Posten”—I meant Postal—“let me explain something. How shall I put this?” I wrapped one hand around his biceps and dug in a bit to emphasize my advantages. “I don’t care. It’s not my job.

  “I was hired by The Luxury and the IAMA for this tournament. If those chops are endangered while they’re here,” I said sententiously, “I’ll die defending them.” Like that was going to happen. “But if you’re worried about after the tournament, tell someone else.” I had Lacone in mind, but I wasn’t about to say so. “It’s not my problem.”

  Just for a second, I tightened my grip—giving him something to remember me by. Then I turned away. I didn’t particularly want to watch his reaction.

  But he surprised me. Instead of swearing abuse at me, he demanded, “What would it take to make it your problem?”

  I took another step or two while I fought down an impulse to wheel on him and shout, Tell me why Bernie was killed! Tell me what it has to do with those damn chops! Don’t let that poor old man be dead just because he made the mistake of cornering a moron.

  When I had myself under control, I looked at Posten over my shoulder and grinned again. “A paycheck,” I answered succinctly.

  Three more strides took me to the edge of the dais. From there I went down the steps and back into the crowd.

  My hands were trembling again.

  Why was Bernie dead? I couldn’t get my mind around the idea of an experienced drop so brain-dead that he killed a security guard to escape a petty larceny rap—and then took the flik so that no sane cop would suspect him of killing in self-defense.

  I knew the answer. I just didn’t know it. On some intuitive level, I already had a picture of what must’ve happened. Unfortunately that level didn’t deign to communicate with the rest of my brain.

  Bernie must’ve been killed by a man with something more to hide than a gear-bag full of evidence.

  He’d been killed because—

  I couldn’t get it. It remained out of sight, teasing me like the first phosphene hints of a migraine.

  Well, damn. I wanted to club my forehead with my fists, but I knew from long experience that you can’t make intuition work by pounding on it. I had to leave it alone, relax if I could, and just wait for it.

  The tremors in my hands made the bare idea laughable.

  Since I wasn’t likely to
relax, I did the next thing. I went looking for Deborah Messenger.

  I didn’t find her, of course. She must’ve left after the cops questioned her. I had to make do without her.

  And Ginny.

  It wasn’t easy, but eventually I found a little calm. My hands still shook, but I stopped sweating despite the steadily rising heat. The yelling and effort in the rings seemed to pass over my head. Karate-ka celebrated victory or trudged away in defeat without requiring my attention. My sense of impending disaster had already come to fruition, and I didn’t expect more. Not immediately. Meanwhile I was just marking time, waiting for intuition or events to give me what I needed.

  The sound of my phone almost surprised me.

  I put my back to the wall to block out at least some of the background noise. “Yes?”

  Slade’s voice asked, “Axbrewder? You wanted to talk to me?”

  The connection’s lousy acoustics made him sound wrung out, squeezed dry by self-pity.

  I snapped back into focus. First things first. “What’s been going on?” I countered. “Did Max tell Moy anything? Is there anything on the tapes?”

  “Shit,” Slade muttered. “I told him it wouldn’t do any good, but of course he didn’t listen to me. We had to go over those tapes frame by frame. That damn detective thinks he’s being careful, but I say he just didn’t want to go do any real work.”

  Apparently Slade didn’t care why I wanted to know.

  “But you didn’t find anything?”

  He snorted, “No. The camera sweeps only cover that part of the lobby every forty-five seconds. And when they do, they don’t show anybody who looks like your description.”

  “I understand,” I said, mostly because I thought it might give him a sense of accomplishment. Then I asked, “Did Moy take the tapes?” He could get Carner Police Department’s lab to bring up better resolution than Max’s monitors. If he wanted to go to that much trouble.

  “Yeah.” Slade didn’t try to hide his scorn. “For all the good it’s going to do him.”

  I didn’t pursue it. Instead I put on my best Uncle Axbrewder tone. “Thanks, Slade. You have a lot to deal with. Is there any way I can help?”

  He swore. “I wish you could keep fucking Postal from chewing on my ass. But I don’t think you can.” Then he sighed. “Just watch those chops. We’re shorthanded. On top of everything else, they expect me to do Bernie’s paperwork.”

  “Count on it.” I gave him a sour grin he couldn’t see. “If some asshole tries to get at the display, I’ll make him eat it.”

  “You do that.”

  Before he hung up, I explained that I had to go look at mug shots tomorrow. Sourly he gave his consent.

  I put the phone away.

  The tournament sounded louder than I remembered. Sue Rasmussen must’ve made an exciting announcement.

  I couldn’t call Marshall again. I hadn’t given him enough time. And I didn’t want him to think I was hysterical.

  Grimly I went back to marking time.

  By degrees the ranks of trophies dwindled. I still hadn’t seen any of the hard and soft stylists go head-to-head. Presumably that would happen on Sunday, when the “grand championships” would be decided in each category of age and rank regardless of style. In the vaguest possible way, I looked forward to it. After what T’ang Wen had told me, I wanted to see whether the soft styles were really as useless as they appeared.

  Ginny was gone. I had no leverage with Moy. I’d already refused Deborah Messenger. And I was stuck here. I needed this job.

  Fortunately by midafternoon the ebb and flow of the tournament gave me another shot at Parker Neill. I found him near the display, apparently watching events while he waited for something that might require his attention. By way of greeting, he took a turn bronzing my laurels, so I decided to risk a question that might interest Marshal.

  “Got a minute?” All this courtesy made me sound positively unctuous.

  Against the weight of his habitual sag, he lifted his vague nose to smile at me. “Sure. For all I know, I’ve got twenty.”

  I smiled back to disguise what I had in mind. “Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity. There’s a rumor going around”—I flapped a hand at the hall to indicate no particular source—“that Anson Sternway and Sue Rasmussen are in bed together.”

  Suddenly I couldn’t remember where I’d gotten the impression that Parker was plump. His flesh seemed to lift and tighten until it fit him like Spandex. Unexpected lightness almost raised him off the ground.

  “Listen to me, Axbrewder.” A curdling glare filled his face with threats.

  With the index finger of his right hand, he reached out and touched me lightly over my heart.

  Or it should’ve been lightly. He didn’t put any force into it that I could see. But when he tapped me I felt a jab of pain as if he’d hammered an awl between my ribs. For an instant I couldn’t breathe.

  No one touches me. Not like that.

  Reacting on instinct, I flung a punch at his head.

  I’d always thought I was fast, but my fist didn’t get anywhere near him. He slapped it aside effortlessly.

  And he didn’t give me a second chance. All at once he stood right in front of me, too close for blows. If I wanted a fight, I’d have to grapple with him.

  What was left of my lucidity yelled at me to stop. Somehow I did.

  Spectators and contestants sifted past us, but they seemed insubstantial, beyond notice. No one looked at the chops.

  While I hunted for breath, Neill said coldly, “Anson Sternway is my sensei. Do you have any idea what that means? I respect him. Absolutely. Unconditionally. He taught me—he made me who I am. I don’t listen to rumors about him.”

  I sneaked a little air into my lungs. “Doesn’t it bother you,” I wheezed, “that he’s only in it for the money?”

  Then I froze, too furious to restrain myself in any other way if he decided to poke me again.

  But he surprised me by dropping his gaze. The way he sagged back into himself told me that I’d hurt him. “You don’t understand,” he said in a low mumble. “He and his wife are separated. He wants a divorce, but she’s fighting him. He needs money.”

  Before I could come up with a flashy retort, he wandered away like he’d forgotten what he was doing. For a moment he looked like he’d never moved lightly in his life. Then a swirl of the crowd came between us, and I couldn’t watch him anymore.

  Glowering, I rubbed my chest. How had he done that? With just one finger? I felt like I’d been impaled on a piece of rebar.

  Sternway was Sue Rasmussen’s sensei as well. Maybe that explained the look of hate she’d given me. Maybe in karate the students were supposed to be so loyal that they went crazy.

  “You all right?” Ned inquired. Somehow he’d arrived beside me without attracting my attention.

  I cleared my lungs. “I think so.”

  He laughed quietly. “That’s good. If you’d taken another swing at him, we’d have to scrape you up with a shovel.”

  I was mad enough to argue the point. Parker had caught me by surprise. That wouldn’t happen again. But I’d lived with myself long enough to recognize my own chagrin when it masqueraded as anger. Swallowing a lump of bile, I asked ruefully, “Was it that obvious?”

  Ned dismissed my ego with a grin. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’m not the only one who noticed. But being as how this is a karate tournament and all, everybody else probably thinks you were playing.”

  Then he added, “You want to tell me about it?”

  I was still too angry to let it go. “You’re wrong about him,” I pronounced distinctly.

  Ned raised his eyebrows. “Who? Parker?”

  I nodded. “He doesn’t sag like that because he isn’t competing. His disappointment runs a whole lot deeper.”

  In an obscure way, I knew how Neill felt. My own disappointment had been downright abysmal for years.

  Gage considered the idea for a moment. “You may b
e right. But I’m not even going to ask. I’ve said it before, he’s a true believer. True believers have that problem. They get disappointed.

  “Don’t lose my card,” he ordered as he moved away. He may’ve said it to reassure me.

  It didn’t help. Everyone here seemed to know too much about me. From Sam Drayton I expected it. From relative strangers like Ned and Parker and maybe even Sue Rasmussen, it made me squirm.

  Sourly I wondered how far a true believer would go for a sensei who needed money.

  I also wondered how much money Sternway actually needed.

  While my back was turned, the tournament had continued piling on volume. And the heat had grown worse. I felt it leaning down on me from the high ceiling despite the AC, spreading a sheen of sweat across my ribs until my shirt stuck to my skin under my jacket. Still the people in my vicinity seemed like shadows, denatured of substance by their detachment from Bernie’s death. The yelling in the rings and the applause from the stands sounded like the feverish hunger of ghosts.

  Haunted by unreality, I tried to recover my lost lucidity. But it was gone now. The lingering ache in my chest seemed to block it somehow. Between my stomach and my heart, I had too many vulnerable spots.

  I couldn’t imagine how Security endured this kind of work. The Luxury’s guards must’ve spent most of their lives asleep.

  Which explained why Bernie had insisted on chasing down the drop himself. He’d simply wanted to inject a little meaning into his job. It wasn’t my fault that he was dead. He’d taken the risk because he’d needed it more than he needed backup.

  Somehow that notion failed to improve my morale.

  Around me the tournament trudged along with no end in sight, mechanically grinding losers away and leaving winners behind. As far as I could tell, the whole process was nothing more than an exercise in self-congratulation. Every trophy that Sternway and his retinue handed out increased the IAMA’s importance. The size and number of the trophies conferred validation, and publicity was all that separated martial artists from ordinary thugs.

  The only flaw in this caustic view was that Neill had nearly broken a rib for me with one light touch, thereby forcing me to recognize that I tended to underestimate the people here.