The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  I screamed. I couldn’t help it. My left hand hadn’t caught enough of my weight. Most of it dropped onto my right elbow. Dislocated the joint, shattered it, both, neither, I had no idea. After the first instant, the first tearing howl of pain, I couldn’t even feel it. Just hanging there took everything I had.

  Now I knew why he’d wanted me to climb up here. He still intended to make my death look like an accident—killed by a fall from the top floor. If I struck the cage on the way down, the damage to my body would disguise everything he’d done to me.

  He’d positioned me near the fire door, in the middle of the catwalk, so that I’d hit the cage.

  Leave Rasmussen where she was. Kill Parker. Make it look like I did it. Once I fell, he could tell Moy anything he wanted.

  He stood at the railing, lit by floodlamps and triumph—stark as an angel. All he lacked was a flaming sword. His arms relaxed as he grinned down at me. “What a shame. Just when I thought the fight might become interesting, you decided to commit suicide.”

  If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I would’ve wept at my own blindness.

  Casually he lifted his foot, nudged at my right hand.

  Now I was gone, erased. Nothing at all remained except white staring agony and the long plunge to darkness.

  Behind him, the fire door crashed open, slammed back against the wall. Metal rang in protest as Ginny sprang out onto the catwalk.

  He whirled toward her.

  She had her .357 in her hand. Her right hand. He was on her left. And he was too fast, she couldn’t swing the .357 toward him and shoot quickly enough.

  She didn’t try. Without hesitation she slashed her claw across his face.

  Yelling, he fell back a step. Instant blood filled his eyes.

  And still he was too fast. As she brought the .357 to bear, he lashed up a straight kick that caught her under the chin.

  It whacked her head back. Whiplash compressed her brain against her skull so hard that it rebounded, hurt itself again.

  The gun dropped from her hand, clanged against the bars of the catwalk, slipped through and fell. I saw it go like the pinching out of a candle flame, the extinguishing of my life.

  He crouched over her, splashed blood into her face. “Bitch!” A howl of madness. “Whore! Get up! Get up! I’m not finished with you!

  “You cut me!”

  His fists grabbed her shoulders. He jerked her up and down, whipping her head back and forth. He was going to break her neck. If he hadn’t already—

  I couldn’t do anything about it. I was about to fall myself. My elbow wouldn’t hold.

  No.

  Separate from your anger. Wasn’t that what Nakahatchi had said? You will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your anger.

  Not greater than your anger. Or less. Separate.

  The flawless black ice of fury and the detached impersonal calm of concentration. Not combined, but simultaneous.

  Together they canceled the cruel gravity of my helplessness.

  I had to reach Ginny.

  I knew how.

  I could do it.

  Took damn near forever. Nevertheless Sternway didn’t notice me. He’d gone berserk. He dropped Ginny so that he could wipe the blood out of his eyes, but it streamed down his face anyway, his hands couldn’t keep up with it, she must’ve gashed the hell out of him. Once he let her go, she sprawled like death on the catwalk. He stood over her, still yowling insults that made no sense.

  I swung my legs hard, hooked my right heel up onto the catwalk to take some of the weight off my elbow. I couldn’t balance there, but in the small instant of support before my foot slipped I swung my left arm upward, snagged a grip on the top rail. Then I could pull without crucifying my elbow.

  As soon as I got my right foot back onto the catwalk, I lunged up and over the railing.

  Landed like bricks on my right arm.

  Didn’t care.

  He must’ve heard me, felt the vibration of the catwalk, something. He turned before I got my feet all the way under me.

  Blood veiled his face. It throbbed out of him along a ragged tear that crossed his forehead from one temple down into the opposite cheek. The intense white of the floodlamps turned it black and slick. His eyes made gaps of madness in the dark stream. Madness or mortality.

  Roaring my name, he launched another kick like the one that felled Ginny.

  I made him miss by lurching aside and forward. Which enabled me to plant my right foot. Then I straightened up under his kick.

  His leg came down on my left shoulder. I couldn’t do much with my right arm, so I swung my left around his leg and up under his left armpit, shifted my hips forward—

  —strained to rise.

  I may’ve screamed again, but I didn’t hear it.

  He did it for me as he went over the railing.

  I never saw him hit. I never saw him again at all. I lasted long enough to kneel beside Ginny, fumble for her pulse, see that she was still breathing. I think I tried to call for help. But of course the fire door had shut itself.

  Then I disappeared into a darkness like the storm outside and the blood on Anson Sternway’s face.

  27

  The hospital let her go late the next afternoon. Concussion, severe whiplash. X-rays ruled out a broken jaw. She needed rest and ibuprofen, regular physical therapy, frequent checkups, but the doctors said she’d be all right.

  Parker Neill spent a few hours in the emergency room, being poked and peered at for signs of internal seepage. But once the shock to his solar plexus eased, he recovered well enough. He called one of his friends to give him a ride, and went home.

  Me they kept for a day and a half. “For observation,” just in case my kidneys started bleeding. They bandaged a few contusions, trapped my hand and arm in a cast to protect my dislocated elbow. No problems. Nothing to worry about. It was their considered medical opinion, however, that I needed a different hobby. Getting beaten half to death wasn’t good for me.

  I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t been so full of morphine. Getting beaten half to death was what I did best.

  That, and getting through it

  Maybe eventually I’d even understand Sihan Nakahatchi. The IVs made his lessons look easy.

  During the day I had a succession of phone calls and visitors. Fortunately most of them came in the afternoon, when the nurses had eased back on my morphine. I hurt more then, but occasionally I could think.

  Most of the calls were from Marshal and Sergeant Moy. With their help, and Ginny’s, I pieced together what had happened behind my back.

  When Deborah reached her, Ginny had decided not to wait until she heard whatever the answering machine might record. Instead she’d called Marshal, told him the little she knew. Then she headed out into the storm for Martial America.

  Once she arrived, however, she wasn’t sure what to do next. I wouldn’t welcome interference, I’d made that clear. And she had no idea what might be going on inside. She only knew that Hong was dead and the chops had disappeared. But she figured that I couldn’t be in too much trouble with all those people around, so she waited in the Olds until the parking lot began to empty.

  Even then she hesitated. Every time she tried my phone, she got a busy signal. But eventually, when most of the other cars had left, she saw two people run for the building. Under the circumstances, she didn’t get a look at them, and wouldn’t have recognized them anyway, but they didn’t go into one of the schools. Instead they entered through the fire exit.

  That was enough for her. She went after them.

  Of course, she couldn’t get in. No key. So she followed the edge of the building to Essential Shotokan. Inside she found herself talking to Hideo Komatori.

  By then the cops had taken Nakahatchi away, and Komatori wasn’t feeling cooperative. Fortunately he adjusted his attitude when he learned that she worked with me. He confirmed that I’d been there recently. Unfortunately he had no idea where I was now.
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br />   After some hesitation, however, he offered to call Traditional Wing Chun, ask if I were still there. T’ang Wen informed him that Sternway and I’d gone into the utility well.

  Now Ginny well and truly didn’t know what to do. She had no reason to consider Sternway dangerous. He’d saved my life at the fight club. And I hadn’t reacted well the last time she’d arrived unexpectedly. If Marshal hadn’t called to tell her what he’d heard on the answering machine, she might not have done anything at all.

  But she still couldn’t be sure that I was in trouble. I might have Sternway under control. After all, I had the .45. On the other hand, the two people who’d entered through the fire exit worried her. Maybe I’d called them to help me, maybe I hadn’t. Finally she decided to go up to the top floor and ease open the fire door. From there she might see or hear something that clarified the situation. If I were OK, she could withdraw without intruding.

  Hideo wanted to go with her. Convincing him to stay behind cost her a minute or two. But she didn’t want to endanger him if I needed her, or to waste his time if I didn’t. Finally she climbed the stairs to Nakahatchi’s private dojo alone.

  She was outside the fire door when I screamed.

  As for Marshal, he hadn’t wanted to be left out. When Ginny told him she was going to Martial America, he braved the storm and jimmied his way into our apartment so that he could listen to any messages I left on the machine. He heard most of my confrontation with Sternway—at least the parts that weren’t covered by background noise.

  As soon as Sternway started to incriminate himself, Marshal called Ginny. Then he called Moy, caught the detective a mile or so from Martial America. Still dragging Nakahatchi along, Moy turned back.

  By the time the detective reached Martial America, Hideo had already found Ginny and me. When she hadn’t returned after a few minutes, he’d gone upstairs and opened the fire door. Then he’d called 911, given us some rudimentary first aid. As Moy arrived he and Mitsuku were improvising a makeshift stretcher out of two bos and a blanket so that they could carry us downstairs.

  At that point, Moy released Nakahatchi—“pending further investigation.” At least Nakahatchi didn’t have to spend the night in jail. That was a relief.

  Before dawn Moy took a search warrant to Carliss Swilley’s place of business. His uniforms found the chops hidden in a storeroom under a pile of “genuine” ratty-looking Oriental rugs. Swilley himself crumbled without much persuasion. Apparently he hated driving in the rain so much that he’d assumed everyone else did too, so he believed that he didn’t need to hurry. Instead he preferred to wait until the storm let up before stashing the chops in an anonymous storage locker, as he and Sternway had agreed.

  Within a few more hours, the cops had searched Sternway’s apartment. They found his IAMA blazer. Its left forearm showed subtle signs that it might’ve been struck with an object like a flik. Moy would know more when the lab boys compared the fibers.

  By midafternoon a forensics team in the IAMA offices had appropriated the organization’s financial records. The cops weren’t ready to make a statement yet, but a quick analysis of the books and Sternway’s personal accounts suggested that he’d been skimming for years. Nevertheless he was practically broke.

  Naturally this infuriated Mai Sternway. As his widow, she’d inherit everything he had left—which was mostly karate gear and unpaid bills. Poor woman. She’d have to get a job.

  For his part, Parker Neill hadn’t heard anything that tied Sternway to Hong or the chops. But he told Moy in no uncertain terms that Sternway and Sue Rasmussen meant to kill me. Which effectively protected me from any kind of “wrongful death” charge.

  When Marshal told me his side of the story, he sounded almost envious, like he wished that he could’ve traded places with me. I spared him the benefit of my usual poor grace. I was just grateful that he’d taken me seriously enough to get involved.

  Moy was more businesslike, but that didn’t stop him from chewing me out. Where did I get off, he wondered, facing Sternway alone when I could’ve had half a dozen uniforms with me if I’d just bothered to tell him what I suspected? Didn’t I trust the police? Well-meaning loose cannons like me did more harm in Carner than almost any number of plain criminals. And so on. He enjoyed his Stem Officer of the Law shtick so much that he nearly ruined it by laughing.

  I thanked him anyway. Mainly for letting Nakahatchi go.

  Alex Lacone also called—by proxy. I actually spoke to his personal assistant, the enduring Cassandra Hightower. In a quavering voice, she advised me that Mr. Lacone was pleased with my work. He considered my assignment completed. Naturally he would pay me in full. In addition, he and Watchdog had put together an attractive bonus which would more than cover my medical expenses.

  Later Deborah Messenger revealed that most of the bonus money came from Watchdog. In lieu of a “recovery fee.”

  She saw me several times. The first time—she said it was the second, but I didn’t remember one earlier—I had too many drugs in my system to concentrate. But that afternoon we talked for quite a while. I gave her a bowdlerized version of events, with all the parts where I screamed and felt sorry for myself edited out. Even that upset her more than I expected. Her eyes spilled tears until I thought she might break down. Then she got mad.

  “You arrogant, inconsiderate—” Her voice rose. “All you men! You charge off into the night without explanation. You leave me alone to panic, you risk your life stupidly against a man you’ve seen kill. Everybody who glances at TV knows you need backup. A so-called professional ought to know that better than anybody.

  “Did you ever stop to think I might not like it if you got yourself murdered?”

  I grinned at her, I couldn’t help it. She looked so delectable that I wanted to pull her clothes off on the spot. And her anger touched me—

  She warmed me in ways I hadn’t felt for years. Lots of them.

  Still fuming, she started to sputter, “If you ever—”

  There she stopped herself. For a moment she looked away. When she faced me again, her tears were gone.

  “I’m sorry. I get emotional sometimes. This is what you do. It’s right for you. I’ll get used to it.”

  Then she asked anxiously, “Every case isn’t like this? Is it?”

  “No,” I admitted, “every case isn’t like this.”

  Just the important ones.

  We held hands until she had to go back to work.

  Nakahatchi sensei surprised me with a visit. His wife and Hideo accompanied him. None of them said much. They were too dignified. But they brought gifts—which they presented formally, like promises of friendship.

  Nakahatchi gave me a scroll which unrolled to reveal a beautifully indecipherable hand-painted inscription. It was, he informed me, a quotation from Gichin Funakoshi. “The ultimate aim of the art of karate lies not in victory or defeat, but in the perfection of the character of its participants.” We would resume my lessons when I was fully recovered.

  Mitsuku proffered a self-contained ornamental fountain the size of a mailbox. Add water, plug in the pump, and listen to the soothing trickle of water over polished black stones. Unexpectedly modem of her, I thought. Maybe it would help me relax.

  And Komatori presented me with a white canvas gi, including what he called an “honorary” black belt. I wasn’t supposed to actually wear it Nevertheless I’d earned it, he said, by defeating such a renowned fighter.

  They left me feeling better than I had in years.

  T’ang Wen also put in an appearance. And gave me a present, a pair of polished fire-hardened rattan sticks, maybe twenty inches long, which he called “Kali sticks.” They weren’t traditional Wing Chun weapons, apparently, but he’d studied them in another dojo on his master’s urging. If I granted him the honor of letting him teach me, he’d show me how to use them.

  I hardly knew what to say except, “Sure,” and, “Thanks.” Hong Fei-Tung was dead because I hadn’t trusted my instincts. I
nstead of reproaching me, however, T’ang covered my bewildered guilt by giving me “face”—by telling me more about the origins of Wing Chun and the chops.

  According to Hong, the Joi Si, the ‘first leader,’ of Wing Chun wasn’t either Ng Mui or her disciple, Yim Wing Chun. Rather, he was a Ming military officer who studied in the Southern Shaolin Temple. He called himself Da Jung, although that wasn’t his name. After the Manchurian Qings burned the Temple, his style was developed and preserved by Yat Chum Dai Si, twenty-second in a continuous lineage of Shaolin grandmasters, and by his disciple Cheung Ng, who spread Wing Chun under the guise of performances by the Red Boat Opera Company.

  The true chops were carved under the direction of Cheung Ng as part of his efforts to expand Wing Chun against the Qings. Those by Leung Len Kwai may’ve had great value as examples of his art, and as antiques. But to Wing Chun they were fakes.

  Later Watchdog’s New York expert said they weren’t even that. In some obscure way, he determined that the ivory was too recent for Leung Len Kwai’s work. The chops were forgeries of fakes.

  Sammy Posten about had a seizure. Deborah Messenger just threw up her hands and laughed at him.

  For some reason, being entrusted with a piece of Wing Chun lore which T’ang hadn’t known himself until a day ago helped me accept his gift. In his oblique courteous fashion, he seemed to be offering me forgiveness.

  Parker Neill stopped by as well, unhappiness dragging at the flesh of his face, but once he’d asked me how I felt he couldn’t think of anything to say. Trapped misery closed his throat.

  I couldn’t bear to lie still and watch him ache. “You saved my life,” I informed him hoarsely. “Maybe you don’t realize that. When you jumped in, I couldn’t have defended myself against an autistic Girl Scout You gave me time to pick up my gun.”

  He didn’t look at me. “He taught me everything I know,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t enough. If you hadn’t stopped him—”

  “Bullshit.” I might’ve been gentle with him, I suppose, but I didn’t think that would work. “He didn’t teach you everything you know. You’re the one who told me, Any teacher who doesn’t train his students to honor all the martial arts doesn’t deserve to have students. You sure as hell didn’t learn that from Anson Sternway,” the man who’d tried to undermine every school in Martial America. “And you have scruples—”