I moved quickly. I got out of the car and started walking directly toward the dojo, trying not to look left or right. My heart started beating really hard. I didn’t know how Mike would react when he saw me again. I didn’t know how he’d react when I asked him about Alex.
I could see Mike inside through the slats of the venetian blinds on his office window. He was getting ready to close up shop. He was standing at his desk in the office, bending over his computer, shutting it down. I saw the white light of the monitor on his face for a moment. Then the light went out.
By the time I reached the door, I was so nervous I could hardly breathe. I pushed the door open.
I stepped in quietly, but I guess Mike heard the door swing shut. He called from the office.
“We’re closed.”
Then he stepped into the office doorway.
He didn’t look any different than I remembered. He wasn’t like my friends—teenagers who change so much in a year. He still had the black hair, neatly combed, and the big mustache. He still had that permanent sardonic smile and the sad, secret laughter in his eyes—even now—even when he saw me and froze where he was.
It was really good to see him after all this time. I hoped he wouldn’t turn me away.
There was no big reaction. Mike just gave a quiet snort, that’s all. “Hey, Charlie,” he said.
“Hey, Mike. You don’t look all that surprised to see me.”
He shook his head. “I’m not surprised. The police won’t be surprised either. They figured you might come here. Maybe you’d better move away from the window, let me close the blinds.”
I stepped deeper into the foyer, to the doorway of the dojo. Mike went to the storefront. He peered out briefly into the parking lot—checking for cops, I guess. Then he pulled a string and brought the venetian blinds down over the glass. He turned the rods and the slats shut, so that no one outside could see us. All the while he went on talking to me:
“The police contacted me this morning. After they lost you at the library in Whitney, they figured you were probably on your way to Spring Hill. They asked me to get in touch with them if I saw you.” When he was done with the blinds, he turned around and faced me, standing in front of the door. “You took a big chance coming here, chucklehead.”
My heart hammering, I watched his eyes, tried to read his thoughts. It was impossible. There was just the same look as always—a look that said something like: This is a crazy world full of chuckleheads doing crazy things. Which I think is pretty much how Mike figured it.
“You gonna do it, Mike?” I asked him. “You gonna turn me in?”
He paused before he answered. “I might. Depends on what you have to say for yourself. You did the wrong thing, breaking out of prison like that, Charlie. You had a fair trial and you were convicted. If you’re innocent, you gotta prove it, that’s the law. Now you’re a fugitive. You’re alone. You could get shot by the cops—by anyone who recognizes you and has a gun. Best-case scenario: you get arrested again and thrown back into prison, only now you got penalty time and everyone’s more convinced than ever that you’re guilty. It was a pretty dumb play, Charlie. Not the way I taught you to think at all.”
“Do you think I’m guilty, Mike?”
He gave another snort. “No.” He said it just like that, like he had no doubt.
“How do you know? There was a lot of evidence against me.”
“There was,” he said. “I figure you must’ve been framed. It must’ve been something like that. You’re no murderer, that’s for sure.”
“But how do you know?”
“I just know.”
“But how, Mike?”
He snorted again and I saw his smile flash beneath the black mustache. He shook his head. “What’re you, some kind of doofus? What kind of question is that? We’re not talking about whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat. We’re not even talking about whether you’re right or wrong. We’re talking about whether you’re good or evil. You think people don’t know the difference between good and evil? Even evil people know the difference, Charlie, deep down, where they hide it from themselves. We’re made that way at the factory, pal. It’s how we find our way back.” He cocked his head and eyed me sharply. “Is that why you came here? To ask me that? What’s this all about?”
It was hard to answer him, hard to talk at all. Things always seemed so clear when Mike was explaining them. It made me wish I had him around to explain them to me all the time.
“I don’t remember,” I finally managed to tell him.
He narrowed his eyes. “What? You don’t remember what?”
“Any of it. The murder. Breaking out of prison. I don’t remember anything after the last time I saw Alex. A whole year of my life has gone down some sort of black hole in my mind.”
For the first time, Mike looked genuinely surprised. More than that: he looked shocked.
“It’s, like, I went to bed one night, the night Alex got murdered, and the next morning I woke up captured by a bunch of terrorists. And now they say I was one of them and they’re trying to kill me. And the police are trying to arrest me and . . . I just don’t know anything anymore, Sensei.”
For a long time, Mike just stood there, not saying anything. Then he let out a breath—a long, whistling breath. He turned away. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at the foyer floor, thinking. It was several seconds before he looked at me again.
“Why did you come here tonight?” he asked me then. “It wasn’t just for a philosophical chat about good and evil.”
I shook my head. “I heard something. I heard that Alex was coming to see you. The night he was murdered— I heard you guys had some kind of secret meeting arranged.”
It was the second time I’d surprised him. His eyebrows shot up. “Really? It must’ve been a pretty big secret. Even I didn’t know about it.”
“Well, that’s what I heard.”
“From where?”
“A friend of Alex’s named Paul Hunt.”
“Good guy?”
“No. But I think he was telling the truth.”
Mike went on looking my way, but I could tell he was staring past me, through me, thinking, thinking. Then, slowly, his lips curled and his teeth showed under his mustache as he broke into a smile. His focus shifted and now he was looking at me for real. “Ah, okay. I get it now. You don’t remember anything so you don’t remember whether you killed Alex or not.”
I nodded.
“So what’re you trying to do—you trying to solve Alex’s murder yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“And you asked around and you found out he was coming to see me.”
“That’s right.”
“I get it. You’re so messed up in your head, you don’t even know whether you’re a good guy or not. So how can you know what I am?”
I felt my face get hot. Suddenly I felt ashamed— ashamed for suspecting Mike could be some kind of secret criminal. “Sure I know,” I mumbled to him.
“Sure you do. You just forgot, that’s all.”
I put my hand on my forehead and massaged it, as if I had a headache. Really, I just couldn’t stand to look Mike in the eyes. In a lot of ways I knew Mike better than I knew anyone. I knew Mike was a good guy. I knew it deep down, all the way down. I knew he wasn’t any kind of criminal or terrorist or anything. I wondered if maybe—maybe if I could just clear my head for a little while—maybe I would know that about myself too.
“I didn’t know Alex was coming to see me,” Mike said then. “But if he was, I’m pretty sure I know why.”
“Never mind,” I said, still averting my eyes, still ashamed of doubting him. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know I don’t. But I will.” He moved around me until he was standing in front of the door. He folded his arms across his chest so that it looked like he meant to block my way out, keep me from escaping. He gazed at me and waited—waited until my gaze met his. Then he said, “About two or thre
e weeks before he died, I bumped into Alex at the library. I recognized him because he used to come in with you to take karate lessons— remember that? You were both pretty small back then, but I recognized him all the same. And I remembered you’d mentioned at some point that he was having problems. He didn’t look good, that’s for sure. He looked—I don’t know what the word is. Hunched-up and secretive. Like he was hiding something. Furtive— that’s it. Anyway, I went over to say hello, you know, maybe talk to him, see if there was something I could do to help out. He was working on one of the library computers. When he noticed me coming up behind him, he shut it down really fast, like he didn’t want me to see what he was looking at. But those library computers, you know, they’re kind of slow and I got a look at the page. It had some kind of title like Real True America or something. I tried to find it once, but I couldn’t, so that might not be the exact name. Anyway, I talked to him. He told me about what was going on at his house, all the trouble he was having. He seemed pretty upset, pretty confused. I told him he ought to drop by to see me, talk things out. He said he might—he might just do that—and he sounded like he would too. So I guess maybe that’s why he was in the mall, that’s what he was planning to do.”
“You mean, you think he just needed someone to talk to?” I said. “But why would he want to keep that secret?”
“I don’t know. It’s a good question. Maybe someone didn’t want him to talk to me. Or maybe he was just embarrassed that he needed help. A lot of guys are.”
“Did you tell the cops about this?”
“I told them what I knew. I didn’t know he was planning to come here that night so it didn’t really seem all that important.”
I nodded. It made sense. It made a lot more sense than the idea that Mike was some kind of secret criminal, that’s for sure. I thought back to the night of the murder. When Alex and I had our big argument, he said all kinds of crazy stuff—about how everything he had learned to believe in—his parents, God, his country— was all false. I could see at the time that he was saying stuff he didn’t really think was true. I could see in his eyes that it bothered him. It made sense that he had been on his way to Mike, that he was hoping Mike could set him straight.
“Does that answer your questions?” Mike asked me.
“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “Look, Mike, I didn’t mean to say I thought you were involved in anything bad or anything.”
“I know what you meant to say.”
“It’s just all this stuff—and not being able to remember— it’s confusing.”
“I know it is. And that’s why . . .” He reached up and stroked his mustache as if he was thinking. Then he said, “That’s why I’m going to have to turn you in.”
For a second, I didn’t really hear him, didn’t really understand what he’d said. Then I did. My mouth opened, but I couldn’t answer. I felt sick inside. I felt like my heart was speeding up and falling down at the same time. “Turn me in?”
Mike nodded slowly, sadly.
“Mike . . .” I said. “You can’t. The police . . . they’ll arrest me.”
“Yeah,” said Mike with a kind of laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “I actually figured that out myself. I’m sorry, pal. I have to do it.”
“But why?”
“Because look at you, man. I can’t let you leave here and go wandering off. You’re in a lot of trouble and a lot of danger and you’re not thinking straight. You can’t remember anything. You’re all confused about what’s what. Plus, it sounds like you’ve gotten yourself involved with some pretty-bad-news hombres. If you don’t get off the streets, they could do you some real damage.”
“I know, Mike, but . . . I can handle it.”
“Maybe. But for how long? And for what? So you can live on the run. So you can live as a criminal. Look, I know being in prison is no picnic. But we’ll get you out. You’re innocent. We all know it and we’re gonna prove it. Out here, you’re just going to get yourself killed. Think of your mom, Charlie. Your mom and dad, they’re practically dying with worry about you. They’re terrified every day, every minute, just waiting to hear you’ve been shot by some cop somewhere.”
“But Mike, listen . . .”
“It’s for your own good, Charlie, your own protection. You’re in over your head. I’ve got to hand you over.”
I took a step toward him, toward the door. He held out his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. Our eyes met. I could see just by looking at him that he didn’t want to do this. But I could also see that he would do it because he thought it was right.
“Look . . .” I said. “You’ve got to let me go. I’ve got to prove I didn’t kill Alex.”
“Charlie, you don’t know what you sound like. You’re outnumbered, you’re outgunned. You can’t remember anything. What can you do that we can’t do for you? I mean, you escaped so soon after the trial, your folks didn’t even have time to file an appeal. You gotta give the system a chance to work, man. It’s the best way. Better than this.”
“Mike, I just need some time . . .”
He hesitated. I don’t think I’d ever seen Mike look so indecisive before. He wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, but he felt he had no choice. If I could just convince him . . .
“Sorry, chucklehead,” he said now. “Don’t make this harder on me than it already is.”
He stepped away from the door. He started walking toward his office, toward his phone.
I seized the moment. I leapt for the door.
But Mike was too fast. The next moment, he had me. He grabbed me by my belt and the back of my collar. He hurled me backward so that I went stumbling across the foyer, through the doorway into the dojo. I tripped on the threshold and went down, my butt hitting the carpeted floor with a thud.
Mike, meanwhile, went back to his office door. But he didn’t go in. There was a plastic box on the wall there. It had a little flap. He pulled it open. I could see what it was: the alarm system.
Mike pressed a button. A bell began ringing, not in the dojo but out in the mall where any passing cop could hear it.
“The police won’t show up right away,” he told me. “The alarm company will call here first. Then, when I don’t answer, they’ll call the cops. It usually takes about five, ten minutes before they get here.”
I scrambled to my feet just inside the dojo. “Please, Mike, don’t do it; let me go.”
“No can do, my friend. This is for the best.”
He was still standing by the office door, by the alarm box. There was still a path open between him and the door. I knew there was no rear exit. I didn’t see what else I could do.
I rushed for the door again.
Mike grabbed me by the arm. I swung my arm around, breaking his grip—just as he taught me to do.
But as I swung my arm, he struck me in the nerve center in the armpit—not hard, but hard enough to stun me with the pain. I cried out. Mike got in front of me. He lifted his foot and planted a kick in my midsection—it was more of a push than a kick—not trying to hurt me, just trying to knock me back.
Which it did. Once again, I stumbled back into the dojo.
This time, Mike followed me in, blocking my way.
“What’re you gonna do, Charlie. Fight me?” he asked.
I staggered until I could regain my balance. Then I faced him. I saw the glint of humor in his eyes—humor and sadness both.
I couldn’t believe what I was saying—even though I knew I had to say it.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna fight you, Mike. I’m not going back to prison without a fight.”
Mike shrugged. “It’s a fight you can’t win,” he told me.
But he didn’t have to tell me that. I already knew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Fight I Couldn’t Win
Mike took another step into the dojo. I took another step back away from him. I had to find a way past him—and quick—before the alarm company called the police, before the police arrived. Five minu
tes. Ten at most.
But how? Whatever fighting tricks I knew, Mike had taught me. However long and hard I’d practiced, he’d practiced more. Plus, he’d been in the army, in real battles in Iraq and Afghanistan. How could I neutralize him even long enough to get to the door?
The ringing of the alarm went on outside, a steady bell.
And I thought: the phone. The alarm company was about to call to make sure the alarm hadn’t gone off by accident. That meant the phone in the office was about to ring. Maybe that would draw Mike’s attention, distract him just for a second. If I could use that second to knock him out of the way . . .
Then the phone rang—and I struck.
It was the strangest feeling. To attack my own teacher. To attack the guy who’d been such a help and a guide to me all the time I was growing up. It wasn’t just karate either. Sometimes there had been things I wanted to talk about that I somehow couldn’t say to my mom or dad. I could always say them to Mike. Sometimes there were things Mom and Dad just didn’t understand. Mike always did. He was what I guess you’d call a mentor. He was the last person in the world I wanted to attack.
But I had to do it. I had to get past him. I had to prove I didn’t kill Alex—even if I could only prove it to myself.
So when the phone rang—when Mike’s eyes shifted toward it reflexively—just a little, just for a second—I was ready. I shot a swift high kick straight for Mike’s chest, hoping to knock him back and out of the way.
I actually managed to take him by surprise. I don’t think he really believed I’d try it. He didn’t have time to dodge—the best defense against a kick. But he was so good, it didn’t matter. He curled himself up, pulling his chest away from the kick so that my foot struck without any real power. Then he crossed his arms, trapping my foot between them.
I knew that move—Mike had taught it to me. I knew he would twist my leg next and throw me over to the side.
But Mike had taught me the defense against that, too, so I used it. I hopped in close on one leg and tried to hit him in the mouth with the heel of my palm.
Of course, he knew I was going to do that. He turned aside and tossed me away so that my blow flew right past him—and so did I.
The Long Way Home Page 15
