She has looked over at him as he has spoken, her eyes studying him, watching as he shows a measure of his own personal investment in the situation. She wonders if this means anything, if he’s perhaps experienced anything directly related to these sorts of crimes.
“I realize it is not as if the human traffickers are deliberately bringing these girls in here as a sacrifice of sorts for the serial killer, but it just … bothers me that people seem so callous to others, so ignorant of the wider damage they cause beyond the focal point of their original crimes.”
He then looks over at her, noticing her intent focus on him.
“Sorry,” he says, smiling thinly, “I’m a little too upset about this.”
“It’s okay,” she says, smiling in return, hers very warm, sympathetic.
“I know we can’t let these sorts of things consume us, then it becomes even worse. I talk about negative feelings, and I am letting that very thing cause more in me right now. Of course, the opposite of that spectrum may lead to trying to be a crusader, which may be equally difficult and unfulfilling.”
“Why do you say that?” she asks.
“Well,” he glances at her, taking a spare moment to collect his thoughts, and she chooses that moment to slip an arm about his waist, and they resolve easily into a close embrace, “How do you right all the world’s wrongs? How do you even know if what you are doing is ‘right’? It’s very complicated, and just having the power to influence or even compel others in very real ways does not mean one should exercise it.”
She nods, thoughtfully, then speaks, “But if you do have the power to make a difference … at least against those things you know to be wrong, why wouldn’t you do something about it?”
He gives her a good snug, nodding slowly, “Yes, you are right, of course.”
She returns the hug, cuddling into him somewhat, then rising up again on her tiptoes, chin forward, and he replies to the obvious request by meeting her kiss. She then gets to tidying up.
“Let me get cleaned up, then how about some lunch?” she pitches.
“Sounds wonderful,” he smiles, watching her, very happy to be with her.
*****
“Maybe she was just some dyke?” the large man suggests, and he brings a flask up, but it pauses, held there, as he notices the look he is receiving from one of the other two with him here at this barbershop.
“Detective Sladky, pardon me for saying, but you are a fool!” the inspector says, the sentence beginning with his characteristic calm only to spike at the end. “The vigilante came to rescue her. She is important to him.”
Alec takes a moment, trying to decide if he will be offended, the decent-sized flask with the dimpled leather covering still held open near his mouth but not used, “The vigilante rescued other girls.”
Duilio rolls his eyes, sighing, causing another pause in the developing difficulty the detective appears to be having in getting his drink to his lips.
“The vigilante arrived and almost had her out by the time I got there. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
Alec looks at the Interpol man, trying to figure this one, now curbing his generally impulsive tongue.
Duilio mutters a short sentence in his mother speech, something that doesn’t seem terribly flattering, then, “She has a way to contact him.”
“What?” Alec’s brow wrinkles further.
“He’s right,” casually quips Quain, still reclining in a chair, receiving a nice, close shave from one of the two older men working in here, the straight razor wielded with calm expertise, the uttering of this single sentence not hindering the barber in any way.
The rotund detective looks toward his partner then back. Duilio gives a slight, apologetic shrug.
“Gnegon has everyone on very high alert, and he has instructed his men to notify of us of anything suspicious,” Duilio proceeds, and Alec gives something of an exasperated nod, for he knows this, but the Inspector presses anyway, his own non-verbal commentary on the other man’s comprehension skills, “So, this ‘dyke’, as you so eloquently call her, was apprehended, and Gnegon was called.”
“I was there,” Alec says, his growing agitation showing itself, the flask’s cap returned without anything from it having been consumed.
“You were there in body, Detective, but were you there in mind?” Duilio asks, tapping his own brow near the temple, narrowing eyes at the man to whom he speaks. “I decided it was worth pursuing, since we all know the vigilante is getting his information somehow, and before I can even get there and question the girl, he has already arrived and set to rescue her … which he did!” he concludes, throwing his hands forward, gesturing with them toward the officer.
“I know all that!” Alec all but huffs.
“Ah, yes, but you think the girl was just some ‘dyke’ who snuck in to look at the strippers,” Duilio fixes a steely glare upon the man.
Alec returns it, his own eyes narrowing, but he stays seated, says nothing.
“Let’s all calm down,” Quain tries, rising up from the chair, looking and smelling very fresh and clean, “Why don’t you try a shave, Alec? It’s very refreshing.”
The portly detective grumbles out an obvious negative to the suggestion. Duilio rises up from his place, though, going to sit in the barber’s chair, a large drape placed around him with the casual flair of a matador’s cape.
“Just a trim,” he says to the barber, gesturing with his right hand toward his hair, content to remain with his salt and pepper goatee.
The white-jacketed man nods once, setting to business.
“She is the link to the vigilante,” Duilio says, and a tenting forms in the fabric about him as he works his arm free, holding up the index finger of his now liberated right hand, “Or a link,” he amends, “but she can be our link, hmm?”
“Right,” Quain nods, signifying his own travels into thought, then he blinks, looking over at Duilio, “But you said she had no ID, and her cell phone was locked. Our guys lost the data when they tried to get in.”
“Yes, yessss,” Duilio contemplates, the finger of that right hand brought to his own lip, “To have a protection like that, she must be someone who is smart with electronics and computers. I wonder …” his voice trails off.
“Hmm?” Quain pitches into the growing silence, still watching the inspector.
“Well, we put out some requests of our own into that ‘hacker’ community,” he says the word as if it is foreign, “And we know the vigilante is a hacker or has people of such proclivities helping him. It is possible that someone who works for him saw our requests.”
“Right, but then wouldn’t they be warning the vigilante, not out at one of Gnegon’s places?”
“Yes, that does seem to make more sense, regardless, this girl is a link. Our link,” Duilio repeats himself, “We have to find her.”
“How?” Alec throws out, his voice simmering with pain from the earlier exchange.
“This is your city, Detectives,” Duilio says, “I am sure you can find her, and imagine how pleased Gnegon will be when you do, hmm?”
And so said, he quiets, content to now just enjoy his haircut. He has his own thoughts on the situation, despite seeming open to sharing most of what crosses his mind. He got a good look at the vigilante before he was shocked, and now he feels he better understands. It is all still suspicion, supposition, but this new information may make things clearer for him. He feels a resolution is much more in their potential grasp than it ever has been before.
*****
The group is gathered at this area of the otherwise empty gymnasium, the time into the early evening this weekday, and this smaller arena chosen due to its not being used as much by others. Some of those in this small collection are students, some are not, but the college had agreed to offer this instruction for free. Still, the attendance of this woman’s only self-defense class does not generally prove to be that abundant.
Lilja has already completed her warm-up, and she mostly look
s over her students, observing as they get themselves ready, offering any advice or pointers as she sees fit. There will only be eight of them today, only one new face, the others comprised of semi-regulars and a core group of four who manage to attend nearly every session.
She tries to keep these somewhat relaxed, more about practical combat than martial proficiency, also in effort to attract students, and so she wears a black t-shirt over black gi pants, her feet bare. The shirt shows an insignia of wadoryu emblazoned on the back - a stylized dove, its small oval head in profile, as the bold wings go up and around, forming a circle, in which is held the front view of a fist. Those who attend show mostly garbed in sweat pants and t-shirts, also barefooted. Lilja walks over, greeting the new person with a warm smile, introducing herself, obviously making the woman feel more comfortable about being here.
She is just about to gather the group’s attention and begin the class, walking to a place she likes to use for just such a purpose, when she sees another student rushing over, trying to get in before being tardy. The woman is obviously very young, her dyed black hair mostly just brushed back, held in place with an obvious sheen of styling gel, too short to be tied, and the chaotic juttings of some portions indicate her possible usual style, the top holding most of the length while the sides are shorter.
She wears a black t-shirt over black track pants, and though it has been some time, she has been here before, some months ago, as memory serves. She had started then, wanting of learning and had attended several classes for a length of time before suddenly failing to show up anymore. As she recalls, something had happened to the young woman to compel her to want to take up self-defense.
“It’s Therese, ma’am,” she reminds, “Sorry for being late. I used to take the class.”
“I remember,” she replies with a very light, polite curl to her lips, “And please just call me Lilja.”
“Right,” she nods, and the look on her face seems to indicate she is ready to get started.
“Alright, everyone,” Lilja says, looking out to the others, and those that have not already begun to, move in closer, “Please gather to a half circle, so you can all see me.” She watches them, patient, as they do so.
The group warm-up is then begun, going through some jogging in place, jumping jacks, sit-ups, and stretches. Once this is done, she addresses them.
“There is one new person here, and a returnee from some time ago, and some of you are pretty regular, so you may have heard this, but I am not teaching this to teach you to fight but to teach you so you don't have to fight, and that the main key to self-defense is not to get into the risky situation, and the best defense is running away and diplomacy.
“This is about risk management. 'Risk' is something manageable and avoidable. You have to somehow deal with the risk before it becomes a threat. 'Threat' is something you can't avoid and is immediate and you need to eliminate such threat. Keep up your situational awareness; don’t make yourself an easy target. Be aware of your surroundings, sometimes just making eye contact with a potential assailant can get them to change their mind and move onto different prey,” she continues, letting her own eyes move from person to person, fully meeting their gaze. “Practicing against pads or a bag is great, but when someone is coming at you, trying to hit you, trying to throw something at you, that’s different, so what we do in training has to be relevant to a real, potential situation.”
This, of course, brings up some questions from them, all of which are fielded for a short time until going on to some self-defense techniques, basics about body language and positioning along with a few pair exercises. After a time of this, she calls out for the next task.
“Okay, let's move on. Miranda, step forward,” and the so-named woman, one of the core regulars and a decent-sized, healthy specimen at that, moves over to Lilja. “Let's assume that Miranda is some guy who grabs my wrist and I don't want that, what should I do to stop her from doing that or how can I get free?
“The weak point of the grab is here where the thumb meets the fingers,” she informs, pointing out that very spot where Miranda has a hold of her left wrist, “So we rotate the wrist in the direction so the palm is facing down, keeping the elbow low and bent and then apply pressure away from the grip. That’s it,” she says, slipping her arm free. “Then you take a step back to get some distance, raise your hands up to show your arms are empty, this also creates a barrier between you and your attacker, then firmly tell them to stop and leave you alone. Use power in your voice, speak from within your chest. Intimidate them, not the other way around.” And so instructed, she steps back, raising her arms and speaks, “Stop! Leave me alone!” The words are uttered with such force that several of the woman start, eyes going wide as they exchange looks, grins, even smattering of somewhat embarrassed chuckles.
“Of course, if they will not stop, then we can follow up with a controlled strike to any number of vital areas, such as a quick and powerful step forward and arm straight with your palm on their face,” she relays, demonstrating the very move toward Miranda, “That forces them to stop or even back away, tilts their head back and prevents them from seeing properly, even confusing them. There you can follow with a knee, punch, elbow, or kick if needed.” In quick, controlled succession, she demonstrates all of these, coming very close to but not touching the taller woman. “And then just run away.”
She looks out at the others, holding her hands out a bit, looking to see how they may be absorbing the lesson.
“Strike locations are eyes, nose, throat, diaphragm, and groin. The priority in that order,” she carries on. “Alright, let’s pair up and try that.”
Therese has been paying close attention, feeling quite interested based on her recent ‘adventure’. She’s come back after her long absence due to the change in her life and her decision to try to get more information in hopes of helping the vigilante. She now realizes how risky that is, and after she got over cursing herself for her naïveté, she remembered the self-defense classes and decided to come learn how to better protect herself.
Her recent foray and resultant rescue has been running through her mind quite a lot. She noticed the vigilante’s small size, hanging on and having that motorcycle ride to get somewhere safe. She’s come to a startling conclusion – she thinks the vigilante may be a woman.
It baffles her, though, for how could a woman compete with a crime ring, much less the large, experienced men that would make up those ranks? Wouldn’t it make more sense for the vigilante to just be a small man? Bruce Lee was a very trim, very skilled, and powerful guy in a smaller than average package. Still, though, he had been five foot seven, and the vigilante looked her own height, and she is barely five foot three. It had been dark, everything happening very fast, but there is some gnawing feeling in her that says this person is female. Perhaps it is just because she wants the vigilante to be a woman.
But now, as she watches, Lilja, a very petite lady, shows them moves and practices with a sure confidence and skill. Therese begins to realize what a trained, self-assured woman could do. Still, stopping and escaping an attacker is quite different than taking on an organized crime ring. Of course, so is taking and teaching a self-defense class.
Once the class is ended, Therese sits on the bench in the changing room, just holding place there, having had a quick shower after the other ladies have left, her hair dripping. She’s deep in her own thoughts, eyes focused on nothing as the droplets of water gather at the tips of her hair, then fall into small, splattering puddles on the floor. She finally shakes herself free from her reverie, eyes blinking, and she quickly gets her clothes on, packing up her small bag and preparing to head out.
She pauses once she’s back in the gym, turning to the dull sounds of thudding and the accompanying grunts. She pulls back to instinctively hide herself, and there, across the way, is Lilja punishing a punching bag.
Therese silently observes for a while, noting the wobbling and movement on the part of the heavy thing, da
ngling from its thick chains. It is obvious Lilja is possessed of strength and force of focus as well as speed. The hacker begins to imagine if that punching bag were instead an armed guard and how quickly and effectively Lilja might disable him. Just at that moment, she delivers a loud cry and a powerful kick, pushing the bag away more than anytime yet, and Therese starts, blinking as she tenses.
She’s seen enough for now, deciding she’d rather not risk being caught spying on the teacher, so she puts her head down and walks out as fast as she is able without seeming to be fleeing.
*****
There is a knock on the door.
After a rather short wait, another, more insistent knock arises.
He blinks, rousing from whatever place he had been journeying in his mind. He cranes his head over in the direction of the portal, moving slowly, as though his silent, still repose has caused him to become something of a statue, and he must now break free from that solidification. No one knocks on his door, ever.
And then there is another knock, again loud, insistent.
His rent is paid. He has no friends. His family does not know he is here. No one ever knocks on his door.
The two detectives outside in the hall wonder if they should loudly identify themselves. They know there is a window leading to a fire escape. They also feel very confident in the information they received from the desk clerk that the guy is inside. They don’t want him to think the arrival of the police ought to be responded to as a fire.
They managed to gather a good deal of information on one Ernst van Zyl, hailing from Port Elizabeth, South Africa, promising student of mathematics and the arts, having been accepted to the University of Zürich, only for his grades and attendance to suddenly slip, and then he had been expelled and disappeared from the grid until his passport was used for his travel to this city. He certainly was not trying to hide himself that much.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 27
