The door to the dojang was open, releasing the humid workout air into the stairwell. Casey stood for a moment just outside, breathing in the smells and sounds that instantly found a home in her body. Apparently you could take the woman out of the dojang, but couldn’t take the dojang out of the woman. Wasn’t that how the saying went?
Casey went left in the hall, toward the workout room, away from the lockers. A class was in session, and she could hear someone calling out instructions. Not Master Custer. Someone younger, most likely one of the current black belts. It was what she used to do, back when she was the highest-ranking belt, other than the master.
She checked in the small room that served as the office—windowless and damp—but no one was there except the very out-dated computer, so she made her way to the open door of the workout room. An array of students stood barefooted on the mats, ranging in age from young teens to thirty-somethings, men and women. A black belt stood at the front of the classroom facing the students, who displayed every color belt, with the lower belts in the far back corner. Two other black belts worked out in the front row, one a dark-skinned woman about Casey’s age, the other a white guy younger than Casey, and the thirty-year-old at the front.
Casey’s teacher stood only a few feet from the doorway, his back to her, arms crossed as he surveyed his class. His gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his posture was straight, but relaxed. His feet were bare, and his own black belt had been tied around his waist. The gold bars on the edge of the belt, indicating his rank, gleamed against the black fabric. Three on each end, showing he was a sixth-degree black belt. As always, Casey felt a little in awe just to be in his presence.
She watched from the doorway as the class finished the kata and the black belt resumed his place in the front row.
“Casey,” her teacher said without turning around. “Sword Form Number Two. Everyone else clear the mat.”
Of course he knew she was there. Of course he knew she was already warm from jogging over.
She slipped off her shoes and socks, bowed to the mat, bowed to the Korean flag, bowed to him. The black belt who had been calling orders brought her a sword and handed it over with a bow to her. She didn’t know him, but somehow he knew her. Her teacher said nothing else, just stood there with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable, his eyes the only thing moving as they followed her to her beginning position.
Casey focused on the far wall and breathed deeply, centering herself. For one moment she allowed herself to be thankful she had kept up with her training as she’d traveled, making use of hotel rooms, empty fields, deserted roads, and the occasional athletic facility. She was in shape physically. Now she just had to prove she could also perform mentally.
Casey bent her knees, held the sword straight in front of her body, and began. She stabbed, blocked, swung, kicked, circled, knelt, and did a one-handed cartwheel. It felt good. Her speed was fast and consistent, her feet were grounded, and her center held rock-steady. She thought of nothing but the movement. Nothing but the slap of her feet on the mat, the twirling of the sword in her hands, and her breath coming full and even. She finished with a complex series of swordplay, crouched in a defensive stance. After a few beats she straightened, put her feet together and the sword down, and bowed.
“Critique,” her teacher said. “You.” He pointed at a blue belt who was probably about sixteen.
The kid’s jaw shook, but he replied, “Her speed was steady, Master, and she seemed focused.”
The Master’s lips twitched. “Correct. But I meant for her to critique you. On the mat. Hapkido Third Form.”
The kid swallowed and his eyes flicked to Casey, then back to Master Custer. “Yes, Master.”
Casey bowed to her teacher and left the mat, turning to watch the young man as he went through the form. Part of her felt sorry for him for being singled out, but that was the type of thing that made a strong, confident fighter out of a spindly teenager. So Casey kept her feelings in check. When he was finished and had bowed to both her and the master, her teacher, still not looking at her, said, “Critique.”
Casey looked directly at the boy, but he kept his eyes on her belt. His clenched fists pushed against his legs. “His movements were sharp, with good form. He over-rotated on the kicks, and his center of gravity often seemed to shift forward. Focus was split between his movements and the room, but he kept his shoulders straight, and he used the space well.”
“Do you hear the critique of your better?” Master Custer said to the kid.
“Yes, Master.”
The teacher nodded. “Good work. Much improvement from last time.”
“Thank you, Master.” The boy bowed again, and strode from the mat to join the others.
Custer nodded at the female black belt. “Lead the class in cool down. When you are satisfied, class is dismissed.”
“Yes, Master.”
When she was in front and the others had lined up and begun their stretching, the master turned to Casey. “Come.”
She followed him not to the dingy office, but down the hall and up another flight of stairs, which led to the roof. They stood, facing west, toward the mountains. He didn’t speak. Casey didn’t feel like talking, either, so they stood in companionable silence for quite a while, until they heard footsteps behind them.
The oldest black belt stood there, his face reflecting his discomfort at interrupting. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Master, but there is a phone call for Ms. Maldonado.”
Custer’s eyebrows rose, but he remained facing the mountains. “I guess someone knows how to find you, after all.”
Casey excused herself and followed the black belt down the stairs to the little office. He handed her the receiver and left her alone.
“It’s me.” Eric.
“What is it?”
“We struck out.”
“What? None of them?”
“I’m sorry.”
Casey sat in the desk chair and stared at the trophies crammed on a shelf above the computer. There were others in the big room, the locker room, and on stands in the hallway that had been won by the dojang. But these were the master’s personal stash. “We can’t be done.”
“I have an idea.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll just start calling Manns in Texas and see if I find anything. Because think about it. She came here during the summer, but this might not have been the first place she ran to. She may have been on the run for years. So she wouldn’t even have—”
“—a home phone number in Texas.”
“Exactly. But we had to call around to all of these Elizabeths to make sure.”
“So you’re just going to start calling. That will take forever.”
“What else am I going to do with my time? I’ll see you later.”
“Eric…”
But he’d hung up. Casey sat there for several seconds, then stepped out of the office. The black belts were in the workout room, preparing for the next class, which was apparently for kids. One had already arrived, and was fitted out in a helmet. More were coming up the stairs. Casey escaped to the roof.
The master was standing in the same place as when she’d left. He said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Casey finally said.
He didn’t respond.
“I should have called. I should have written. Something.”
He looked out at the mountains. “You mistake my silence for criticism. Or anger. I feel the need for neither one.”
Casey waited, and her teacher finally turned toward her and studied her face. “I feel nothing but sadness for what you have been through. Nothing but concern, and the desire to help. But I believe what you need must come from inside you.”
It was Casey’s turn to gaze at the mountains. “I don’t recognize what’s in there anymore. Who I even am. Who I’m supposed to be.”
“I know. It is a journey, and you alone are able to find your destination. Your way may twist and turn, but e
ventually you will find what you are looking for.”
The same thing she’d been told by a sensei in Florida only days before. These centered, disciplined, wise people were all the same.
“I’ve been trying to follow the path,” she said. “But I have no idea if I’ve made any progress. It’s all so pointless.”
“I understand,” he said. “Life has changed your course, and it’s hard to find your way.”
They were quiet again, while Casey stewed about her teacher’s idealistic philosophy. Easy to say “follow the path” when you weren’t the one trying to beat back the brush to find it.
“You say you have been following the path, and I believe you,” the master said. “But there is one thing I learned long ago that helped me find peace along my own journey.”
“Oh, did you lose your entire family in an explosion, too?”
“There are other journeys, Casey. Other ways pain forces itself into a life. Yours is not the only story. Your brother is living in a rather sordid story of his own right now.”
Casey’s face burned. “Of course. I’m sorry, Master.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to hear what I say.”
He waited for Casey to tear her eyes from the mountains and fix them on his face.
“You must make this journey, and you alone can discover exactly what it is you need. But that doesn’t mean you must be alone.”
Casey heard his words, but they didn’t sink in. Not until he said it again.
“Casey, my friend. There comes a time when you need to realize that a journey is not a solitary experience. You must allow others to aid you along the way. The grief is yours, and the heartache, but it is something that only lessens when you share it.” He smiled gently. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“That I need to let someone else travel with me.” She gave a little laugh. “But who else wants to spend life on the road?”
He shook his head so subtly Casey almost missed it.
“What?”
“You’re listening to my words, Casey, but you’re not hearing what I’m saying.”
“I am. I hear you. You’re saying I need to let someone else travel with me.”
He watched her for a few more moments with his piercing blue eyes, then went down the stairs to join his class.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Any progress?”
Eric was still in the kitchen when Casey returned. Papers with scribbled notes lay scattered on the kitchen table, and his eyes were bloodshot and watery.
“My ear is numb, and I’ve lost the ability to explain who I’m looking for, and I think I might have forgotten why I’m making all these calls in the first place.”
“Maybe you’re confused because you’re hungry.”
His jaw dropped. “I forgot all about lunch.”
“Which is why I got some.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I do have the ability to walk and carry a bag at the same time.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” She pushed some of Eric’s papers aside and distributed two large salads, two carry-out containers of chicken noodle soup, and a loaf of French bread.
“This can’t possibly be from the gas station.”
She laughed. “Not a chance. But grocery store delis, now, they are a wonderful thing. Do you want to eat here, or should we take it outside?”
“Definitely outside. I think I’m suffering from cooped-up-ness. And yes, that is an actual medical term.”
They sat on the back steps and ate, only inches from each other. Casey was aware of the heat of Eric’s leg, even though they weren’t touching, and the brush of his arm against her sleeve. She ordered herself to remain where she was, and to act like a grown up about it.
“So, how was the dojo?” Eric said.
“Dojang. Dojo is Japanese.”
“And dojang is…”
“Korean. I study hapkido, which is a Korean martial art. If I studied aikido or judo, or if I wanted to be a ninja—” she grinned “—I’d go to a dojo.”
They ate quietly for another minute.
“So, how was the dojang?” Eric said.
Casey stirred her soup. “Humbling.”
“Forgotten how to do things?”
“Apparently.”
“You look in shape.”
“I am. Physically. It’s the mental part the master seems to be worried about.”
Eric nodded. “I can see that. But did you tell him you were committed to being nicer now? Maybe that would help.”
Casey sipped her soup. “Didn’t get around to that. Guess I should have, since he’s convinced I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“About what? Ricky?”
“Life.”
“Ah.”
Casey tossed a bread crumb to a squirrel, who took it and scampered away, like Casey was going to change her mind and try to steal it back. “You would get along with him well.”
“How come?”
“You both think I’m hard to be around.”
“Maybe he and I should get together and talk. Except I’d be afraid of him.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t he the one who taught you to…do what you did?”
“In Ohio? You mean, kill people?” Eric had been there. He’d seen her fight, had seen the man die.
Eric looked deeply into his soup. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“Of course it is.” She gazed up into the trees, where the rusty leaves let patches of sunlight through in moving patterns. “I wish you hadn’t seen that. I wish it hadn’t happened. But it did, and we probably ought to talk about it sometime.”
“I don’t need to. It’s over. I told the police it was self-defense because I really believed it was.”
“You were right. It definitely was. I never…I didn’t want to kill anyone. Ever.”
“Then why the hapkido? Isn’t that basically training you to…well, kill people? Or at least fight them?”
“No, it’s a defensive art, not an offensive one. And seriously, how many people—Americans, especially—do you see going around using it in bars or whatever? And I don’t mean in the movies. It’s more an art form—or an exercise. It’s great for getting in shape, and for your frame of mind.”
“Then why not just do aerobics? That’s exercise. That should release the seratonin—isn’t that what’s supposed to be released?—and make you a mentally healthy person.”
Casey shuddered. A week earlier she had been the aerobics instructor at an exclusive club, and the seratonin definitely hadn’t been flowing there. “Hapkido isn’t just an exercise. It’s a way of life. A way of looking at things. Awareness. The ability to see the whole of something and not just a small part. Stability. Self-assurance.”
“You have all those things?”
“I used to. That’s why today was so humbling. As soon as I stepped on the mat I felt focused, but the moment I was off and it became about life I lost it all.” She shook her head. “I’ve failed my master and hapkido as a whole. Or hapkido has failed me.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you would be a complete loss if you hadn’t had your training. Maybe hapkido really did save you, after all. Did your teacher tell you to stay away?”
Casey remembered Master Custer’s back as he left her on the roof. “No. But he didn’t encourage me to return anytime soon, either.”
Eric put his empty dishes aside and stretched out his legs. “Looks like you’re stuck with just me, then.”
“Yeah, looks like it.” Casey stabbed some lettuce with her fork and took a bite because she felt like she might laugh just a little. Or maybe cry.
Eric’s phone rang in his pocket and he took it out, looking at the screen. “Texas area code. Hello?” He listened for several seconds, then said, “And how long ago was this?” He made a motion like he needed a pencil. Casey hopped up and ran into the kitchen, returning with paper and pen. He scrib
bled madly, saying, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. And what was his name?”
Casey tried to read over his shoulder, but she couldn’t see around his arm, and he waved her out of his space.
“And you were his what? Cousin? Niece. Her cousin. All right.”
Casey stuck her nose over the paper and he shoved her aside.
“I’m just trying to find her family. No, I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you for now—”
He listened for a bit, biting his lips together.
“I’m in Colorado, and a woman with that name died and we’re trying to find out about her family. Actually, the woman was using another name entirely, but there seemed to be a connection with an Elizabeth Mann.”
He listened some more.
“I know. It could easily be someone entirely different. No, no, I don’t think you should come up. At least not yet. I’ll send you a photo.”
She squawked on the phone.
“No, no,” Eric said, “I have a nice picture from before her death, so it will be….Good. Do you have an email account or something where I could send it? Right. Got it. I’ll be in touch when I find out more. You have my number. And I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
He hung up and took a shuddering breath. He’d gone pale.
“What is it?” Casey said. “What’s wrong?” She grabbed the paper, but couldn’t make sense of his handwriting.
He took the paper back and laid it on his thigh, smoothing his hand over it. “ At least one Elizabeth Mann grew up in a little town called Marshland, Texas. This woman—Betsy Lackey—was her cousin.”
“Lackey? How did you know to call her if her last name’s not Mann?”
“I didn’t. I left a message on her father’s phone, and he gave her the message.”
“Did she know why Alic—Elizabeth came here?”
“She didn’t know she was even in Colorado. Had no idea where she was. If this really is her. We have to remember that. We could be talking about someone completely unrelated to Alicia.”
Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series) Page 15