The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Moy made Slade go over it a couple of times, but I stopped listening. So much for catching the drop on tape.

  The detective received the news with his usual enthusiasm. He said, “We’ll talk to Mr. Harp,” the way he might’ve said, It’s raining off the coast of Bangladesh. “But while you’re here, you can help with something else.

  “Did Mr. Appelwait have any enemies? Do you know of anyone who might’ve wanted him out of the way?”

  Slade scowled. “Why would he? We’re hotel security. It’s not the kind of job that makes enemies.” Now he sounded bitter, like a man who hadn’t forgiven life for wounding his self-importance. But the detective stared at him nervelessly, and he finally conceded, “Some of the men don’t like him very much.” He may’ve meant, I don’t like him very much. “But we all think he’s OK.” After a moment, he added, “He’s fair with us. And he backs us up when the brass get a twist in their shorts.”

  “Interesting,” Moy observed. He didn’t sounded interested. With a shrug, he dismissed the senior guard.

  As Slade left, a uniform came in and whispered something to Moy, then withdrew when Moy nodded. Casually the detective turned toward me. “Axbrewder,” he inquired numbly, “what’s your connection to Ms. Messenger?”

  He startled me. I almost retorted, What fucking business is it of yours? But I caught myself in time. Instead I kept my mouth shut, looked confused, and waited for an explanation.

  “I’ve just been told,” he said slowly, “that when she heard we wanted to question her, she asked, ‘Has anything happened to Brew?’ I assume that’s you?”

  I did my best to shrug, but it felt like a flinch on my shoulders. I didn’t know what to make of Deborah’s concern.

  “There’s no connection,” I replied as smoothly as I could—which probably meant that I sounded like I wanted to hit him. “I met her for the first time yesterday. We had dinner together. It didn’t go anywhere. End of story.”

  That last assertion was a lie. But the truth had nothing to do with Bernie, or the heavyset man, or my job here. Besides, I didn’t trust her reaction. Or mine.

  “She didn’t find you attractive?” Moy considered the notion. “I can’t imagine why.” Despite his general catatonia, I thought I saw a spark of humor in his eyes.

  Finally the stretcher boys arrived. After Moy signed a couple of forms for the ME, and Bernie was carted out, I was released.

  The urgency of my desire to get away had eased a bit. The chops hadn’t been touched. Instead of rushing back to the tournament, I wanted to follow Bernie’s cart all the way to the ambulance. He deserved at least that much attention. At the same time, I had an impulse to join Moy when he went to question Max.

  But I didn’t do either one. I’d been sequestered for the better part of an hour—plenty of time for reality to shift on its axis, assume an entirely new bearing.

  As I left the men’s room, I saw Ginny.

  There were dozens of people in the lobby now—cops and hotel staff, curious guests, martial artists, plus Deborah and Ned Gage, who’d presumably helped Security lock up the picks—but I hardly noticed them. The lobby itself was the size of an aircraft hangar, and lit like a playing field, but suddenly it seemed to contract around me, concentrating like the focus of a searchlight. Voices and feet scattered echoes off the tile floor, the glass of the high windows, but they meant nothing to me. I had time to wonder—just for a second—how my life had come to this. Then I went for her like a gale-force wind.

  She was here because she cared about me, had to know whether I was all right.

  Or because she thought I couldn’t cope without her.

  Or because she felt guilty—

  Her eyes held the hawk I loved, the raptor avid to strike. Her jaw lifted at a combative angle, tightening to knots at the corners. Glints of light as cutting as serrations caught on the edges of her claw. Her purse hung over her shoulder, in easy reach. She could pull her .357 and fire faster than I could spit.

  She terrified me. Always had. But none of that mattered now.

  With a lifetime’s abandonment in my voice, I demanded softly, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

  She gave me a grin like the arc of a circular saw. “Hello, Brew. It’s nice to see you, too.”

  I was supposed to respond in kind—detached sarcasm, a sardonic bantering tone to blunt the loss. We’d treated each other that way for years, when we didn’t know what else to do. But I no longer had it in me.

  She’d left me for Marshal—

  Clamping a grip onto her left arm above the elbow, I drew her toward the nearest wall. I couldn’t afford to make a public spectacle of myself. I wanted to keep my job.

  For some reason, she didn’t resist, even though she hated being manhandled.

  When we reached the wall, I let her go. “I’m not playing here, Fistoulari.” She was tall, but I had the weight and inches to loom over her. “If I have to, I’ll shout until they can hear me back home. What the—?”

  “Calm down.” She kept her grin. “You don’t have to yell. Marshal told me what happened. The outlines, anyway. I wasn’t far away, so I came to see if you need help.”

  Oh, sure. Like that made sense. She wasn’t far away. So she came to see if I need help. I wouldn’t have believed her if she’d crossed her heart and hoped to die.

  In the back of my head, I knew I wasn’t this angry at her. Not for jerking me around, anyway. Her presence simply gave me an outlet for fury and grief that couldn’t do Bernie any good. But I’d spent too many years holding back, and all at once I’d had enough of it.

  Clenching my teeth, I rasped softly, “You don’t have the right. You don’t have the right to ask me anything, or offer me anything, or fucking tempt me with anything. I’m not your partner anymore, remember? You ditched me.” Somehow I managed not to add, So you could go screw goddamn Marshal Viviter. “You gave up all your rights with me.”

  That reached her somewhere. Her grin fell away. Gradually the smolder in her grey eyes faded to the softness of ash. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then released it. For a moment I could see the marks on her skin.

  Quietly she said, “This isn’t easy for me, either.”

  I jumped in before she could go on, “I don’t want to hear it. You didn’t ask me whether I wanted to be ditched. You just did it. I don’t care whether it’s easy for you or not.”

  Instead of flaring back, she nodded. “You’re right.”

  Which surprised me so much that I took an internal step backward.

  “I’m not being consistent,” she went on. “I know that. It must be making you crazy. But I feel like I’ve abandoned you, and I don’t like it. That’s why I called Marshal. I wanted to know how things were going for you. I guess I was looking for reassurance.” She scowled at the idea. “When he told me you had a killing on your hands—” Discomfort lifted her shoulders. “I didn’t think. I just came here.”

  I flinched. Why was it suddenly so impossible to be furious at her? Somehow she’d raised the stakes on me. Again. Now I had to be careful. No matter how I felt.

  “All right,” I said. “All right.” I didn’t try to sound calm, but I measured every word. “I can deal with that. I probably would’ve done the same.”

  She seemed to appreciate the concession, but I didn’t dwell on it. “It’s still wrong,” I told her flatly.

  Her eyes narrowed. Tension in her forearms flexed the hooks of her claw. “‘Wrong’?”

  I retreated again. Looking for the truth. Attacking her was a luxury I could no longer afford.

  “I mean it’s the wrong way to go about it,” I said more carefully. “You ditched me for a reason. Maybe it was a good reason.” With an effort that twisted my guts, I admitted, “I’m so angry about it because I don’t want to admit that you might be right.” I hated honesty. Being flayed alive would’ve been more fun. Nevertheless I didn’t stop. “But the fact that I happen to be in the middle of a mess doesn’
t cancel what you did. You can’t have it both ways. You’re either in or you’re out.

  “We both are.”

  Recognition darkened her gaze. She looked away to hide her distress.

  “Maybe I need help here,” I went on. “Maybe I don’t. But you can’t decide that for me.” Abruptly a new rush of anger surged through me. Too furious to shout, I finished like the slice of a blade, “You have to wait until I fucking ask.”

  Which I was not going to do. I’d kiss Marshal’s feet before I’d let her have everything her own way again.

  Ginny bit her lower lip so hard that I feared she’d draw blood. Her hand made small broken gestures that didn’t go anywhere.

  Sighing, she murmured, “I understand.”

  Deborah had said that last night. I was getting good at rejecting women.

  But Ginny wasn’t done. In the same tone, she added, “When I want help, I’ll ask for it.”

  Oh, sure. If she’d given me a chance, I might’ve said something bitter and hurtful—and completely beside the point. She was Ginny by-God Fistoulari, and she loathed herself when she needed help. But she turned her back on me and walked away before I fell victim to my usual charm. Her stride as she crossed the lobby had the harsh precision of a machine press, forcing a new shape on metal too hot to resist. When The Luxury’s automatic doors slid shut after her, I felt more alone than I’d ever been in my life.

  Sam Drayton had told me that I was stronger than I realized. At the moment I thought he was crazy.

  I didn’t regret anything I’d said. But I hated it. I hated being the kind of man and having the kind of life that made so much anger necessary.

  11

  Eventually I started to register my surroundings again. That was a plus. Bernie was still dead. Life didn’t stop just because I’d chased Ginny away, amputated the only part of myself I really understood. Presumably Moy would finish asking his questions and leave. He didn’t need me for that. But someone ought to help Slade reorganize Security’s duty rotation, at least until the night-shift chief arrived to take over. The chops still needed protection. And Sammy Posten would be in a sweat, whether or not Bernie’s death caused any insurance problems.

  First things first, I told myself. Posten could dither without me. However, Slade might appreciate a show of support.

  I scanned the lobby, but didn’t find him. No doubt he’d accompanied Moy to question Max. Sternway and Deborah Messenger were gone. I still hadn’t spotted Song Duk Soon. Of the people I knew, only Gage remained.

  He might’ve been waiting for me. When I finally noticed him, he ambled in my direction.

  “Well, that was exciting.” He adjusted his mustache with a grin. “I’ve been to a lot of tournaments. A few of them were ripped off while I was there. But I’ve never helped catch a thief before. In fact,” he admitted cheerfully, “I didn’t know they ever got caught.” Behind his good humor, he studied me like I’d taken him by surprise. “How did you do it, spot them like that?”

  I didn’t want to hang around the lobby. If I did, Posten was sure to corner me. Then I’d probably have to stand there while he explained that it’d be my fault if some hypothetical dependent or relative of Bernie’s sued Watchdog for “wrongful death.” Gesturing for Ned to join me, I headed toward the convention facilities.

  “When you judge events here,” I countered, “how do you decide who wins? As far as I can tell, all the competitors ever do is yell and wave.”

  “I can see differences.” He chuckled. “I’ve watched these events a lot. And of course,” he added nonchalantly, “I’ve had a certain amount of training.”

  I nodded. “One way or another, I’ve caught a lot of people.” That was the best answer I could offer him.

  Ned accepted it. “Fair enough.”

  The corridor outside the tournament hall was no more crowded than usual. I felt a small touch of relief when I saw guards still covering the doors. Security hadn’t come unglued without Bernie. His men knew their jobs.

  I was about to go inside, but Ned stopped me.

  “I fly home Monday morning,” he said in a confidential tone. “It’s likely I won’t be out here again until next year. But if you’re ever in LA, look me up. Especially if you want work. I’ve always got room for a man who knows how to catch people.”

  I might’ve assumed that he was making fun of me—from my perspective, LA wasn’t much closer than Mars—but the business card he pushed into my hand was serious enough to short-circuit my defensiveness. Once I decided to believe him, I said thanks like a good boy.

  As I pulled the door open and reentered the tournament, I took an obscure comfort from the fact that Security still functioned. In my bereft state, it gave me an odd sense of kinship.

  Once inside, however, I froze for a minute, stunned by the egregious unreality of everything around me. Bernie’s murder hadn’t changed a thing. Hell, I hadn’t changed anything myself. Ranks of spectators still watched or applauded whenever they felt like it. From the rings, karate-ka bayed and thrashed at the air while their teammates, teachers, relatives, and antagonists milled around the walls. The dignitaries of this hermetic world sat or talked, taught or passed judgment or negotiated, according to their perceived duties, focused on violence—and oblivious to it. I wanted to scream.

  First things first, I reminded myself. Keep doing the job. If Security could go on with no one in charge, so could I.

  When I got my legs moving again, I shouldered through the crowd toward Nakahatchi’s artifacts, forcing myself to ignore everything else until I’d confirmed that the chops hadn’t been disturbed.

  Which naturally they hadn’t. Posten’s paranoia notwithstanding, no one really cared about them.

  So why was Bernie dead?

  The guard on the display wanted to know more about what had happened. I told him as much as I could without yelling. Then I asked him to pass along a message for me, let Slade know I wanted to talk to him. When he nodded, I faced the tournament again.

  Parker Neill and another IAMA blazer awarded trophies in a nearby ring. Kata events occupied most of the others. From the head table, Sue Rasmussen blared the names of the winners as Parker presented their trophies. Obviously she didn’t care what effect she might have on the concentration of other competitors. Sternway and Alex Lacone stood near her, pretending to bestow benisons on all and sundry. Sternway rubbed absently at his left forearm while he talked.

  A glance around the hall didn’t locate Deborah for me. Instead I caught sight of Posten. He was heading in my direction with a look of determined hysteria on his unfortunate face.

  Hoping to avoid him, I climbed the steps to the dais.

  I wasn’t much interested in Lacone at the moment, but he spotted me right away and bustled over to shake my hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Axbrewder.” While he pumped my arm, he broadcast 50,000 watts of bonhomie in my face—enough radiant energy to slag sheet metal. “By all reports, you were pretty impressive. Mr. Gage painted a glowing picture. Theft has been a problem at these events for years. Maybe now crooks will steer clear of us.”

  Trying not to sound bitter, I retorted, “I guess Bernie made the right choice when he hired me.” Or it would’ve been, if he’d wanted to end up dead. “Too bad I can’t ask him for a reference.”

  Lacone ignored my tone. His grin left no room on his face for anything else. “Don’t worry about that,” he advised me in an avuncular way. “We’re all aware of your contribution. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if Detective Moy put in a good word for you himself.”

  “That’s gratifying.” If I’d felt any more gratified, I would’ve puked on Lacone’s shoes.

  Sternway decided to add his congratulations. “Mr. Lacone is right, Brew. You’ve done well.”

  “Just my job,” I told him through my teeth.

  Lacone responded with a few more fulsome remarks, but I decided not to encourage him by paying attention. As soon as he paused, I asked Sternway, “Can I talk to you for a minut
e?”

  His expression didn’t shift. “Certainly.” He turned to Lacone. “Will you excuse us?”

  Lacone smiled us on our way, and Sternway gestured me to the back of the dais.

  While I followed, Sue Rasmussen looked in our direction. When I met her gaze, she treated me to a glare of cold fury.

  It shocked me like a douse of cold water. Without transition the inside of my head seemed to shift. Suddenly I didn’t have any trouble restraining my bitterness. I didn’t need it.

  From the rear of the dais, we weren’t really out of earshot. However, the tournament had enough volume to cover us if we kept our voices down.

  Sternway faced me with his usual lack of expression. Riding a wave of pure intuition, I plunged right in.

  “Mr. Sternway, you were in the lobby when I went by, but you told Detective Moy that you didn’t see anyone head for the men’s room. Are you sure?” Playing at helplessness, I added, “I don’t know who else to ask.”

  The IAMA director kept his face closed. “I was talking with Mr. Lacone and Ms. Messenger. It never occurred to me to watch who went to the men’s room.”

  Which was essentially what he’d said to Moy.

  “But are you sure?” I asked, still playing. “I would’ve said that the guy who killed Bernie was pretty easy to spot.”

  A hint of exasperation tightened Sternway’s brows, but I hurried on before he could interrupt. “Heavyset, a bit shorter than me. Dingy sweats—the kind of dingy you get when you don’t do much laundry. Light on his feet, hard forehead, fat jowls. Eyes the color of his sweats,” and almost that clean.

  He was getting tired of me. “As I told Moy—”

  I cut in, “I heard you.” I wasn’t playing now. “But this guy’s obviously a fighter. I thought all you martial artists knew each other.”