The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Kicks, punches, throws, yelling and cries, gasps, frantic respiration. Aronson went down with a gash over his eye that hadn’t yet had time to start bleeding. From the floor he kicked his antagonist in the crotch, then clawed his way back to his feet. Komatori cracked heads with his elbows, jammed his palms into ribs. T’ang flashed from opponent to opponent, striking each of them so fast that he was two blows away before they reacted. The giant picked up pajamas and gis indiscriminately, threw them against each other. With every punch and kick he felled someone. A couple of them didn’t get up. They lay still and let themselves be trampled.

  In the middle of the confusion, Soon measured out spinning kicks that staggered everyone they hit.

  Wrenching myself away, I grabbed onto Sternway, shouted, “Do something!”

  He sneered in my face. “Such as?”

  Fuck him. Covering my head with both arms and crouching to protect my torso, I crashed into the melee.

  Somewhere nearby, a scream pierced the storm. I ignored it. Bodies collided with me, fists jolted my arms and ribs. Kicks landed on me, heavy as bags of sand. I ignored all that as well. Single-minded as a bulldozer, I drove my bulk through the battle.

  Toward Pack Hee Cho.

  I didn’t consider him the most dangerous fighter in the room. Not even close. But he was doing the most immediate damage. And I needed to make an example out of someone. Otherwise none of these misguided lunatics would listen to me.

  I got lucky—Cho had his back to me. If he’d seen me coming he would’ve knocked me in half. A blow to the small of my back staggered me, but I shrugged it off, forced my feet back under me. Then I snatched out the .45, reared up, and pounded it at the side of Cho’s head.

  At that moment I didn’t particularly care whether I broke his skull or not.

  Although breaking a skull like his was probably impossible. It could’ve been bone from ear to ear. For the first second or two after I hit him, I actually thought that he wouldn’t fall.

  Finally he did. Instead of toppling, he slumped almost gently to the floor.

  At once fighters stumbled and stomped over him. Bodies slammed into me from one side, then the other. A kick came at my face so fast that I almost didn’t duck in time.

  Racking a round into the chamber, I pointed the .45 at the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

  In that crowded space the shot sounded as lethal as a grenade.

  And like a grenade, shrapnel scything wheat, it cleared a circle around me instantaneously. Reacting on instinct, gis and pajamas and street clothes jumped or blundered or fell away. In moments Cho’s supine form and I had the middle of the room to ourselves.

  Without hesitation I located Soon and aimed the .45 at his stomach.

  Loud enough to abrade my throat, I shouted, “No one moves! No one! You do, and I shoot Master Soon in the gut! You move again, and I start blazing. I don’t give a fuck who I hit!”

  Fury congested Soon’s face, but he stood still.

  Komatori spread his arms to hold his people back. His stare searched me for an explanation I couldn’t give him. Not without exposing the whole place to more violence.

  T’ang Wen looked even angrier than Soon. A yearning for blood poured off him like flame off napalm. Yet he, too, didn’t move. I’d clubbed Cho, not one of his students. I held the .45 on Soon, not him. Apparently that bought me a moment of his restraint.

  He was the one I needed to convince.

  Back against the windows, Sternway appeared to be having fun.

  “This is a setup!” I roared hoarsely. “You’re all being manipulated. This whole disaster was staged! To distract you from what really happened.

  “Do you,” I nearly screamed, “like being puppets?”

  I didn’t even glance at Komatori. Him I trusted. But I watched Soon, saw the passion in his eyes shift toward suspicion. And T’ang’s stance eased slightly as a hint of uncertainty crossed his face, eroding the righteousness he stood on.

  Taking my life in my hands, I uncocked the .45 and tucked it back into its holster. Then I faced T’ang Wen.

  “We need to talk,” I told him quietly. “Here. Now.”

  As soon as I put the .45 away, half the room moved. Anticipated blows flared along my nerves. But no one came toward me. Men and women on the floor got up if they could. Their fellow students went to help those who couldn’t. A couple of pajamas remained unconscious. One of the kids who’d helped Komatori and Aronson with the display case had a crushed knee. Their friends supplied what assistance they could.

  No one approached Pack Hee Cho. I still stood over him.

  T’ang glared back at me. “My master treated you honorably when I would not have done so. Now I have seen how you repay such courtesy. I say again what I have already said. You have no word to speak that I will hear.”

  “You’re right,” I retorted, too angry myself to pretend otherwise. “You said that already. And I did fail your master. But I didn’t kill him. I was miles away when it happened. And Nakahatchi sensei didn’t kill him. He was asleep in bed with his wife. If the two of them weren’t being so damn dignified and insulted about it, they would’ve told the cops that already.”

  When I saw that I’d shaken his confidence just a bit, I announced harshly, “Mr. T’ang, you have a word that I need to hear.”

  The doubt in his eyes didn’t last long. He clenched his teeth, said nothing.

  “I think I know why your master was killed.” My tone spat like overheated cooking oil. “But I can’t be sure until you answer a question for me.”

  Through the room’s quiet I could hear rain thrash the windows, despite the hard breathing of the fighters and the choked moans of the injured.

  “Sifu Hong looked at the chops yesterday.” I ignored everything else, concentrated exclusively on T’ang. “But he didn’t tell any of us what he thought of them. Maybe he told you.”

  I paused to gather my courage. Then I demanded, “What about it, Mr. T’ang? Are the chops genuine?”

  He straightened his shoulders. “They are not.”

  He was willing to go that far, if no farther.

  I felt rather than heard Komatori’s surprise behind me. His students raised a low murmur of protest. Even Soon’s black belts objected.

  “How could he be sure?” I had to know. Too much depended on it. “A professional appraiser declared them genuine. He sounded convincing enough. What made your master think he’s wrong?”

  T’ang snorted his contempt. “My master did not ‘think’ your appraiser was wrong. He was certain of it.”

  “But how? What made him certain?”

  T’ang shook his head. “No.” His jaw knotted angrily. “This is not a matter for outsiders. It is private, secret to Wing Chun. Only the greatest masters know of it. I myself did not know until my master entrusted it to me yesterday.” The admission cost him a visible effort. “I will not speak of it, not to you, not to these”—he gestured around him—“intruders. I will not betray my master’s confidence.”

  Confidence. Secrets. I wanted to throttle him, squeeze the truth out of his narrow-minded throat.

  “Oh, stop,” I snarled. “Not even to catch your master’s killer? Are you so content with his death that you’re willing to let the man who broke his neck go free?” Not to mention Bernie’s murderer. “If you insist on keeping your precious secret, I won’t be responsible for what comes next. Maybe Sifu Hong’s killer will kill you, too. He’ll sure as hell try.”

  As long as Hong’s secret died with T’ang, the bastard might still come out on top.

  There T’ang hung fire. I could see his internal struggle as clearly as if he’d drawn me a schematic. Pride in his master and his style, an almost genetic instinct for secrets, ingrained combativeness, a sore ego, grief, and a kind of transcendental rage warred with the insult I’d thrown in his face. He wanted revenge on Hong’s killer, he wanted to crush me for putting this kind of pressure on him, he wanted to make Soon eat his air of superiority a
nd his interference. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to prove that he could match Hideo Komatori’s self-possession.

  Through the veiled threats of the storm, I seemed to feel the dojo lean in on me, concentrating three schools worth of “face” and pain on my vulnerable shoulders. At my feet Cho groaned, shifted his shoulders. I stepped aside just in case he’d regained enough consciousness to grab at me.

  By slow degrees, T’ang Wen sagged. He had to surrender something, that was obvious. I hadn’t left him any choice. He couldn’t preserve his master’s secrets without refusing to help me identify his master’s killer.

  But he didn’t let himself sound beaten. His tone was defiant when he finally said, “I spoke to you of Ng Mui, the Buddhist nun who escaped the destruction of the Northern Shaolin Temple, and who taught her secrets to Yim Wing Chun.” At the tournament on Saturday. Before Bernie died. “That tale is a legend spread to protect Ming adherents from the Manchurian Qing dynasty. In truth, Wing Chun was developed in the south, with the aid of certain masters from the north. They sought to supply Ming supporters with an effective fighting style after the burning of the Southern Shaolin Temple.

  “Perhaps Leung Len Kwai carved the chops,” he finished roughly, “but he knew nothing of Wing Chun.”

  In other words, if Swilley hadn’t certified the chops as historically valuable artifacts instead of mere antiques, Watchdog could’ve measured its risk in tens of thousands of dollars instead of millions. Artistically the chops may’ve been as beautiful as Seraphim, but they lacked authority. Their value as a martial record of Wing Chun was nonexistent.

  Now I had everything I needed.

  Anson Sternway, bless his little heart, didn’t look like he was having fun anymore.

  26

  Cupping my left hand over my right first, I bowed to T’ang Wen. “Thank you.” I was too scared and angry to sound as fervent as I felt, but I gave it my best shot. “You humble me. Sifu Hong must truly have been a great master to teach a student like you.

  “He was killed because he knew that the chops weren’t genuine.” I made sure everyone in the room could hear me. “If the bastard who did it had realized your master shared the secret with you, he would’ve killed you, too. But now we all know. There’s no point in killing any more of us, unless he kills us all.”

  I’d accomplished that much, whatever happened. No one remained in the line of fire—except me.

  Unfortunately I’d also raised the stakes. Greed drives some people hard—but survival drives them harder.

  I had everything I needed, but I didn’t stop. One more question cried out for an answer. “Help me understand something,” I said to T’ang. “Knowing the truth, why didn’t your master tell Nakahatchi sensei about the chops?”

  T’ang’s hostility had collapsed when he surrendered. He swallowed at the distress in his throat.

  “How could my master speak? Nakahatchi sensei showed him respect.” Presumably by welcoming his evaluation of the chops. By inviting him to tea. “And your appraiser proclaimed his superior knowledge. To contradict that gwailo would deny face to my master’s host, into whose care the chops had been entrusted.

  “My master could not foresee what followed.” T’ang’s tone hardened. “He would have shown his own respect in deeds if he had perceived the danger.”

  I believed him. Once Hong had accepted Nakahatchi’s hospitality, he would’ve gone to war to square the debt.

  Leaving the window, Sternway came toward me, a fixed expression on his face, his hands relaxed at his sides. I had to get moving.

  “Care for your students,” I told T’ang more quietly. “Protect your dojo. I’ll resolve this tonight.”

  If I had the strength. Or the brains.

  Before Sternway reached me, I turned to Song Duk Soon.

  He was helping Cho stand. The big man looked dazed, vaguely bewildered. Maybe he still didn’t know who’d hit him. But Soon met me with a glare hot enough to sizzle bacon.

  “Master Soon,” I said so softly that I almost whispered, “I need your help.”

  Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Nevertheless I had to soothe his aggrieved pride somehow. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to turn my back on him. And I owed at least that much to Alex Lacone’s dream for Martial America.

  Soon’s angry stare didn’t waver. However, he raised the palm of his hand toward Sternway.

  The IAMA director stopped obediently just out of earshot, calm as a man with all his questions answered.

  In a low voice, I told Soon, “This isn’t done.” I indicated the dojo. “There’s going to be more trouble. I need you, or one of your black belts, to keep watch on the empty school,” the unoccupied fourth side of the building. “If anyone goes in, find out who it is. If anyone comes out, stop them. Then call the police.”

  He appraised me indignantly. After all, I’d threatened him once—and insulted him at least that often. But apparently he didn’t like the idea that he’d been manipulated any more than T’ang and Komatori did. After a moment he nodded.

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Despite the alarm that scraped the lining of my stomach, the visceral desire to break and run, I took the time to offer him a bow as well. Then I stepped past Cho toward Hideo.

  At once Soon gathered his people to leave.

  Sternway came to join me. But now I didn’t care what he heard. At this point I only wanted to keep Komatori and his students out of harm’s way. Like T’ang Wen and his students.

  The IAMA director watched with an expression that might’ve indicated bemusement while I told Hideo essentially what I’d said to T’ang. I thanked him for his restraint earlier, urged him to call an ambulance for the kid with the ruined knee, promised I’d clear Nakahatchi’s name by morning, and asked him to take his supporters back to Essential Shotokan. Now, however, Sternway’s threatening presence marred my sincerity. Sending Komatori away left me alone, unarmed apart from the .45, my cell phone, and an anger so deep that I could’ve drowned in it.

  Exertion had dried Komatori’s face, but his gi remained damp. “If you have your key,” I added, “you can go out the back here and let yourself into your dojo by the fire door.” That way he and his students wouldn’t have to carry the kid through the rain.

  He’d regained his self-containment, but I saw shadows in his eyes, suggestions of turmoil, and his scar had darkened. “We’ll go, Brew-san,” he answered quietly. “But I don’t understand what’s happening. You’ve taken too much onto yourself.”

  Dishonestly I tried to reassure him. “It’s not as much as you think.” I wanted him safe. Innocent men were already dead. Not to mention Turf Hardshorn. My conscience couldn’t bear any more victims. “As long as no one except Sifu Hong knew the truth, a man could get rich stealing the chops. But now—” I faltered, shrugged. “There’s no money in it. We’ll get them back. And prove your master’s innocence.”

  Glancing at Sternway to avoid Hideo’s scrutiny, I finished, “I’m not alone. Between us, Anson and I’ll work everything out.”

  Sternway’s thin smile reminded me of his eagerness in the fight club, where he’d killed Hardshorn.

  I still had no evidence. None at all.

  Finally Hideo nodded. He made a point of crossing the room so that he could bow to T’ang Wen. When T’ang responded, Komatori collected his students. Carefully they carried the moaning kid out if the dojo. A moment later I heard the fire door clash open. The sound was barely audible against the background of the storm.

  “Now what, Axbrewder?” Sternway asked flatly. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  Instead of answering, I returned to T’ang.

  He knelt beside one of his students now, checking the extent of the man’s injuries. He looked up as Sternway and I approached.

  “Mr. T’ang, Mr. Sternway and I have a lot to discuss.” Fear and the aftereffects of shouting left my voice rough. “We’ll need privacy. But I don’t want to intrude on you. We’ll let ourselves out the b
ack.”

  T’ang nodded a dismissal. I’d already taken more from him than he thought he could afford.

  When I’d given Hideo enough time to get his people back where they belonged, Sternway and I followed him. At the fire door, I gestured Sternway ahead of me. He shrugged incuriously and complied. He’d seen me club Cho, but apparently he wasn’t concerned that I might do the same to him.

  While he had his back to me, I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket, touched the cell phone preset to bring up the number for my apartment, and pushed the dial button.

  Praying that the answering machine wouldn’t fail me, I stepped out into the heat of the utility well and let the fire door shut itself behind me.

  Sternway went as far as the equipment cage. Light glared down from the floodlamps, casting accusative shadows across us from the catwalks overhead. His features appeared to slip in and out of existence as he shifted through the shadows. For some reason, the smell of brimstone seemed stronger. After the comparative quiet inside Traditional Wing Chun, the rain rattled in the air like distressed sheet metal. Whenever thunder struck nearby, it raised a muffled vibration like keening from the grills and catwalks.

  Too late, I realized that the answering machine might not hear anything except rain and faint metallic woe.

  Ah, shit.

  At the cage, Sternway turned to face me. His arms hung expectantly at his sides. “Well?” he demanded. “Spit it out, Axbrewder.”

  I could hardly hear him myself.

  I didn’t have any choice. If the answering machine couldn’t pick up our voices, I’d just have to survive. Somehow.

  Staying at least three long strides away from him, I moved until the fire-escape corridor was at my back. Now he couldn’t escape unless he got past me first. There I straightened my spine, let him see my teeth in a harsh grin.

  “Tell me something, Anson.” I raised my voice to carry through the muffled downpour. “I think I have the rest of it figured out.” The parts that mattered, anyway. “But how did you know you were going to need that rope and grapple?”