The Man Who Fought Alone

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “One step at a time.” I could hardly recognize myself. “Is there ID in any of the wallets?”

  “Just a minute.” I heard her shuffle through the contents of the bag. “Here’s one. Woman’s clutch purse, red, with a driver’s license. Kerri Lee Fuller.” She read the address. Then she demanded through her teeth, “What the fuck is this shit doing here? What does Mai have to do with Bernie Appelwait ?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe I did. Almost. But it felt false somehow, misleading, like an intuitive leap in the wrong direction that lands, impossibly, on solid ground. “I’ve got a theory, but I don’t like it. I’m not sure it makes sense.”

  “Spit it out, Brew.” Without transition, her voice changed. She’d recovered her poise. “I know we’re not partners any more. But this is my business too, now. Mai Sternway is my client. We need to work together.”

  And she knew how to do that. She’d had years of practice.

  A day or two ago—in a previous reality—I might’ve retorted, Fuck that. But not today. Not after Nakahatchi had jolted me out of myself, and Marshal had answered my questions. Not when Ginny had made it clear that she wanted to heal the breach between us.

  “One step at a time,” I repeated. For my sake this time, not hers. “Marshal asked me to give you a message. He’s traced that phone number, the ID-blocked one.” I recited it for her. “But he doesn’t know who it belongs to yet.”

  “Got it,” she muttered. Then she waited.

  “You need to do two things,” I went on carefully. “Get that bag to Marshal. Without letting Mai know you found it. Tell Marshal it’s for Sergeant Edgar Moy. And try out that phone number on Mai. Look for any hint that she recognizes it.”

  Before Ginny could react, I went on, “I’m going to track down this Kerri Lee Fuller, ask her if she was at the tournament. Then I’ll give that phone number to Moy. He’ll identify it faster than Marshal can.”

  Ginny accepted that as if she routinely let me tell her what to do. “And your theory is?” she inquired when I was done.

  “It doesn’t feel right,” I insisted. “I don’t trust it.” Then I took a deep breath and told her, “But I’d bet my left ventricle I know whose number that is. ‘Turf’ Hardshorn, James M. The goon who tried to kill me last night.”

  By rights, that should’ve confused the hell out of her. She knew how my mind worked, however. She couldn’t leap blind the way I did—but she could catch up in a hurry.

  “So your theory,” she replied slowly, putting it together as she talked, “is that he’s the thug Mai hired to frame her husband. You think the same bozo who ripped off the tournament also made those threatening phone calls, slashed her tires, did everything else.” She paused. “That part makes sense. He sounds like the kind of bastard you’d want to hire if you were trying to frame your husband for stalking you.

  “But the bag—” I could imagine the predator’s concentration in her eyes, the sharp lines of her mouth, the unconscious flexing of her fingers and claw. She might as well have been standing in front of me. “What’s it doing here?”

  She answered her own question. “Maybe he stashed his haul at her house as a kind of insurance, to implicate her if she ratted him out.” Again she paused. “Or they had some other idea, like planting it at Sternway’s, only Hardshorn got killed before they could do it. He might’ve planned to leave the club as soon as he saw Sternway there, so he could get to Sternway’s apartment while it was empty. But you ruined that by recognizing him. Or Sternway did by defending you.”

  Quietly she added, “Of course, none of that helps your theory that Hardshorn didn’t kill Appelwait.”

  Listening to her, I felt my blast of clarity recede toward the horizons. The shock still resonated, but I wasn’t translucent anymore. In another minute I’d be as blank as a stone.

  And there was still too much I hadn’t grasped.

  I’d been positive that Hardshorn wasn’t alone with Bernie in the men’s room.

  “That’ll be Moy’s interpretation,” I admitted. “Unless I can come up with something better.” Otherwise he’d close the case, and I’d be left like a fool with my brain hanging out.

  Ginny didn’t argue. “As a theory,” she mused, “it sounds plausible enough. What’s wrong with it? I already told you I don’t think her husband is harassing her. The pieces don’t fit.

  “And I can tell you this. Mai hasn’t had any more threats since last night.”

  Since Hardshorn was killed.

  I couldn’t contradict her. I had too many strands, all tangled, and no way to sort them out. Besides, they were pure instinct—about as tangible as that flicker you sometimes get at the corner of your vision, the one that feels like a fading glimpse into another dimension.

  Mr. Sternway lets his wife treat him like dirt.

  I made Sifu Hong aware that his school was being watched.

  So the pieces didn’t fit. What were the alternatives? Say Mai hadn’t arranged to harass herself. And Anson wasn’t responsible. Then who?

  Sue Rasmussen? The man was a saint with her. To protect her boyfriend?

  Don’t say anything about the club.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  Sternway knew Hardshorn from the fight club. Why hadn’t Anson spotted him at the tournament?

  You will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your anger.

  Meanwhile the chops were worth an appalling amount of money to anyone with the expertise to recognize their value.

  How about my fear? Was that supposed to be separate too?

  I stifled a groan. “What’s wrong with it,” I said finally because I couldn’t imagine where else to begin, “is that it doesn’t explain why asking Hong to evaluate those chops scares me so much.”

  “Damn it, Brew, you’ve lost me again.” Ginny wasn’t angry now. She was just trying to shake me out of my confusion. “Is Hong in danger? Did he look at the chops? Did he say something strange about them?”

  I shook my head uselessly. “Shit, Ginny. I’ve lost myself. A couple of minutes ago I was so close—”

  I simply hadn’t been quick enough. The back of my brain had offered me a chance, and I’d let it get away.

  As far as I knew, Hong hadn’t said anything at all about the chops.

  “But,” she stated flatly, “it was too much to take in all at once. Cut yourself some slack, Brew. You’ve been here before. You know how to cope. Just give yourself a little time. You’ll get it back when you’re ready for it.”

  Sure, I muttered to myself. What’s a few hours among friends? Or a few deaths?

  Nevertheless she was right. I had been here before, trying to see things that I already knew clearly enough to understand them. And my brain never worked worth shit when I tried to force it.

  But I couldn’t shake the conviction that Hong’s death was already on my conscience, and it hadn’t even happened yet.

  “Probably,” I sighed. “But it never feels like it’s going to come back.”

  “Then stop thinking about it.” Ginny was ready to get off the phone. “Go do something. Find Fuller. Talk to Moy. Warn Hong. Give yourself a chance. I need to figure out how I can get this bag to Marshal before Mai calls.”

  “Sure,” I conceded wanly. The aftermath of missed opportunities left me desolate, as ruined as a wasteland. But before she could hang up I added, “Ginny,” with the fervor of a prayer, “thanks.”

  She chuckled grimly. “Thanks yourself. I would never have thought of searching this house.”

  And I wouldn’t have thought of asking Hong to evaluate the chops if she hadn’t suggested it. If she hadn’t wanted to close the rift we’d driven between us.

  When she hung up, I didn’t know whether to smile or weep.

  23

  A nap was out of the question now. I couldn’t have slept with a quart of Seconal in my veins. But I needed a shower badly. In fact, I might not survive without one. I felt too grimy to function, so dirt-streake
d and bespattered that it reminded me of my drinking days. Back then Ginny sometimes had to roust me out of the trash before she could put me to work.

  A shower could wait, however. I had time. First things first.

  The phone sat in my lap like one of those black boxes that would tell you why an airplane crashed if you could just figure out how to access it. Personally I loathed phones. I was spending way too much time talking to people I couldn’t see.

  Maybe Nakahatchi was right. Maybe you couldn’t trust what people said over the phone because they weren’t present to take responsibility for it.

  Unfortunately I had to make calls anyway.

  After a couple of minutes, I sank my teeth into myself—in a manner of speaking—and dialed again.

  Finding Kerri Lee Fuller turned out to be easy. Directory assistance gave me her number. She answered on the third ring.

  Yes, she was a karate-ka, although I’d never heard of her school. Yes, she’d competed in the tournament. Yes, she’d lost a red clutch purse there. It held her driver’s license and all her credit cards. She was in trouble without it. Her relief was evident when I told her that it’d been recovered.

  I gave her Moy’s number, informed her that her purse was evidence and Moy would want to talk to her, and assured her that she’d get everything back in a few days. Then I hung up.

  Calling Moy myself didn’t work out so well.

  After the phone rang three or four thousand times, I was connected to a voice messaging system. Press “1” to leave a message, press “2” to speak to another detective, that sort of thing. I didn’t have the heart to repeat everything for Moy, so I left the important stuff to Marshal. Instead I just said that I’d come across a phone number and wanted Moy to identify it for me. When I’d given him that one as well as my cell phone number, I replaced the handset and put the phone back on the end table.

  Then—finally—I went to take a shower.

  I still intended to call Hong. But I put it off. I had no idea what to say to him.

  Sifu Hong, your life is in danger.

  Why?

  You got a good look at the chops.

  Yeah, right. Pull the other one, I need it stretched.

  Sternway had assured me that Hong could turn me into dog food with both hands tied. And now I thought he was in danger because he’d seen the chops up close?

  I had to have a shower.

  Some days just peeling off dirty clothes was like molting. Removing encrusted sweat and inadequacy from contact with my skin made me feel like I’d become new. But not today. Today my befouled sensation ran a whole lot deeper.

  Where was I when I needed myself most? How had my intuitive instincts, my unconscious impulse to make patterns out of hints, become so conflicted? The back of my head already had all the information I needed. And yet I couldn’t see the truth.

  You will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your anger.

  I didn’t trust myself enough to see it.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  Sternway had referred to Tae Kwon Do as a “toy.” And he was Parker Neill’s sensei. Yet Parker had informed me flatly, Any teacher who doesn’t train his students to honor all the martial arts doesn’t deserve to have students.

  Ginny had found Bernie’s flik and Hardshorn’s loot in Mai Sternway’s house.

  Almost desperately I climbed into the shower and turned the volume up to “brain jelly,” hoping that enough pressure and heat would blast the confusion out of my skull.

  Eventually the heat started to sink in. Hot spray worked at my muscles like fingers. Steam baked the grime from my pores. And the muffled roar and splash of the water deafened me to my own clamor. Then at last I could think again.

  Still dripping from the shower, I went back to the phone and dialed the number for Traditional Wing Chun.

  A voice I didn’t know answered. Having recovered a degree of cerebral function, I asked for T’ang Wen instead of Hong Fei-Tung.

  When he finally came to the phone, I told him straight out, “Mr. T’ang, I’m worried about Sifu Hong. I think he might be in danger.”

  “‘Danger,’ Mr. Axbrewder? What manner of danger?” He sounded suspicious.

  “Call it a hunch. I can’t explain it. I wish I could.” God, I wished I could. “But ever since he went to look at the chops, my instincts have been trying to warn me about something.

  “When I invited him the situation looked harmless. It still ought to be. But I can’t afford to ignore my instincts. They’re right too often. And they picked up some kind of threat.”

  I couldn’t say things like that to Hong. His stature as a martial artist—his “face”—precluded them.

  T’ang was silent for a moment. Then he pronounced, “You distrust Nakahatchi sensei.”

  “No,” I retorted at once. “That’s not it.” I was sure. “But it has something to do with the chops.”

  On impulse or inspiration, I asked, “Did Sifu Hong tell you if he considers them authentic?”

  “If you wish to speak of such matters,” Tang informed me severely, “you must address them to my master. It is not my place to share his thoughts.”

  That might’ve been a hint. Or another warning. But I couldn’t challenge T’ang Wen about it. “Face” again.

  Cursing the exigencies of Oriental manners, I dropped the subject.

  “All right. I respect that. But please tell Sifu Hong that I’m worried. Tell him”—I was in no mood for restraint—“I’m on my knees here, begging him to be particularly careful.”

  If something happened to him—

  Tang’s tone softened. “I will tell him, Mr. Axbrewder.” Apparently I’d gotten his attention. “And I will be careful for him. We will all do so.”

  Presumably he meant everyone at Traditional Wing Chun.

  That was probably more reassurance than I had any right to expect, so I thanked him and got off the phone.

  By then I’d stopped dripping. After checking the time to be sure that I wasn’t late, I went into my bedroom and paralyzed myself wondering what I ought to wear.

  My only suit was too rank to put on. And after today the jacket was worse. But I didn’t have time to locate a one-hour cleaner, so I tossed the jacket and a sheet of fabric softener into the dryer and let it run while I tackled the Augean Labor of choosing a shirt and slacks.

  Light blue with khaki? Khaki with dark blue? Civilization as we know it hung in the balance.

  When I’d achieved a state of perfect silliness, I applied the Fuck-It Principle. Whatever happened between Deborah and me tonight didn’t depend on my clothes. Or my assumptions. It rested squarely and solely on how clearly we saw each other. So fuck it.

  On that basis, I got dressed, shaved, trimmed my fingernails, then strapped on my shoulder holster and clicked the .45 through its chambers. While the dryer finished groaning over my jacket, I unfolded my map of Carner on the kitchen table and figured out how to follow Deborah’s directions to the restaurant.

  When I retrieved my jacket it wasn’t clean, but at least it didn’t stink anymore. Shrugging my arms into it, I tucked my cell phone into one of the pockets and left the apartment.

  As the sun retracted its fierceness toward evening, I saw a surprise in the distance. Dark clouds massive as thunder piled around the setting sun like storms ready to boil. If they kept coming, they’d block the light before long, shed premature night across the city. The air bore hints that I’d learned to identify in Puerta del Sol, suggestions of moisture and violence, a deluge of change. Back home clouds like that brought rain which flattened pedestrians, drowned headlights until you couldn’t see to drive, ripped down tree limbs and TV antennae like rubble from the broken heavens. Grandfather storms, tireless and full of malice.

  But maybe I was wrong. This was Carner, not Puerta del Sol. As far as I knew, they didn’t have weather here. The city fathers didn’t permit it.

  Nevertheless the sight of those clouds tightened my
nerves, singing shrill harmonies across the neurons. Sensible people stayed home when they saw clouds like that, but I was aimed right into them.

  As I wheeled the van away from the curb, I had the disturbed sensation that I was leaving the rest of my life behind—that I was about to cross a threshold, an event horizon, which only allowed passage in one direction, and which would definitively alter all my landscapes. Or maybe Nakahatchi had already pushed me past the boundary, and I simply hadn’t recognized the change until now.

  This was terra incognita. The kind of terrain that scared me spitless.

  At the moment, it was the only kind that mattered.

  Fortunately I’d allowed myself over an hour for what appeared on the map to be a forty-five minute drive. Before I was halfway to the restaurant, I hit preliminary spatters of rain. At first they smeared weeks or months of accumulated oils over the windshield, and I could hardly see. But that didn’t last long. As the wipers rubbed the streaks away, the rain gathered force. Lashed from side to side by the wind, the soft drizzle thickened into a downpour. Within a couple of miles it’d become what Puerta del Sol called a “gully-washer,” a rain so hard that it caused flash floods in arroyos which hadn’t held streams for years. And then the rain turned torrential. It plunged out of the sky like cataracts from a shattered dam, releasing lakes of stored water as hard and fast as its weight and the wind could drive it.

  Blackness and scourging rain shut off every vestige of evening. In fact, they nearly effaced Carner’s unremitting electric illumination. I lost sight of each street lamp before I crept into reach of the next. The traffic signals appeared in front of me as suddenly as enchantments. Half the time I only knew that I hadn’t lost the road because I was following taillights. Carner’s systemic commitment to artificial daylight was all that enabled me to make out the occasional street sign.

  The roar of the storm cut out every other sound. I drove in a bubble of reality, a space of isolation created by the pitiless hammering of rain and wind on metal.

  The possibility that Deborah might decide not to come at all under these conditions didn’t cross my mind until I finally located the restaurant—half an hour late.