by Nat Burns
I stood and strolled away from his cage and began straightening the cellar. I ignored him a long time until he started to speak.
“You’re not going to let me live, are you?” he whispered.
I turned and looked at him. His hand must be hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, but he wasn’t letting on.
“No, I don’t think so,” I answered. I folded the cloth I’d used earlier and placed it on the worktable. “Mama says you know too much. That you’ve been snooping in the computer. What did you find, anyway?”
He watched me, his eyes glazing over some. I guess he was realizing that he was going to die here in this cellar. I didn’t expect him to answer so I was surprised when he did.
“Your birth certificate.”
“Ahh, that explains a lot,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Making that public sure would stir up a tempest in a teapot.”
He nodded and scooted toward the back of the crate. He pulled his knees to his chest and continued to hold his wounded hand like it was an infant and he its mother.
“I’m sorry I had to hurt you,” I said softly. “Why couldn’t you have just ignored that stupid piece of paper? You think I like being bad?”
With his head down, I had a hard time hearing his response. “Because I am a good person and, unlike you and your mother, I know right from wrong. I just wanted to do the right thing.”
Angered anew, I decided I’d let him stew for a while.
“Enjoy your pain,” I told him as I mounted the wooden steps. I switched off the light and waited a minute. There was no sound from below. He didn’t even cry.
Chapter Nineteen
Two nights later Marya was back at The Way of Hand and Foot. The class worked out for a good hour. Marya worked steadily to coax soreness from each of the muscles she had reawakened during the first class. Dorry was a hard taskmaster, but Marya knew the harsh input was improving her form. Dorry’s first reprimand—“Spaghetti arms, Brock!”—hadn’t set all that well, but, though she had bristled at the correction, Marya had been able to stick to her original promise of subservience in the dojang. Per Master Wood’s direction, she made a concerted effort to sharpen her angles. She did it at first to avoid further embarrassment in front of the class, but soon afterward realized she was doing it because she had come to respect Dorry’s opinion and value her approval.
In time, Marya was able to set aside how daunting she found Dorry’s presence, as well as the feeling that Dorry hated her, and find bliss in the regular workouts and forms that taekwondo offered. The loss of self was the reason she had stayed with the martial art for so many years. It was good to find that again.
As Kim’s betrayal began to fade from her mind, she could feel the real stirrings of a new life. She thought about dating. She would start soon, she decided, but as yet she had not found anyone who sparked her interest. The free tabloids that peppered the sidewalk outside her grocery store often listed a gay and lesbian club in Myrtle Beach. She’d check it out as soon as she was more settled.
Lost in thoughts of attractive, oh-so-welcoming lesbians, she started when she heard her name called by Master Wood. She stopped her repetitive kicks to the leather punching bag and swung wide eyes Master Wood’s way. What had she done now?
Dorry stood next to the mats, hands clasped behind her back, scowling at her.
“Brock!”
Marya gulped and hurried over, panting as much from fear as from exertion.
“Yes, sir!” she postured stiffly in front of Master Wood, heart racing.
She saw one of the twenty-somethings approach, a young man named Rob Tyler. The two of them had developed a nodding acquaintance, and she nodded to him now as he stepped onto the mat. He stood across from her, and they both eyed Dorry expectantly.
She cleared her throat and stepped off the mat. “Tyler attack, Brock, defend. Hapkido, please.”
She handed Rob a protective breastplate as Marya’s mouth fell open in surprise. Hapkido?
“Not linear,” Dorry explained as if reading her thoughts. “Hwa first.”
Ahh, nonresistance. With great effort, Marya relaxed her body, a task made extremely difficult by the fact that she had spent the previous hour pumping her muscles into a state of tension. Next she relaxed her mind, draining the force from it as she watched Rob don his protective gear. She knew from her hapkido training that when practicing the hwa form, the mind must be as relaxed as the body.
When Rob was ready and moved toward her, Marya felt his energy meet her chest, but she moved back, to one side. With a flick of her right arm, she allowed him to twist until he spun forcibly into the space she had occupied. He tumbled head over heels once, then rested supine on the mat. He raised his head and looked at her from the confines of his padded helmet.
“Again,” barked Dorry, who was watching at the edge of the mat.
Rob rose and rushed her again, but just as he was about to meet Marya, Dorry shouted, “Weon.”
Marya immediately allowed energy and force to rush in and fill her. She shifted to the right and grabbed Rob by shoulder and elbow. She spun him in a circle, using centrifugal force and the momentum of her body to fling him away from her. The force carried him so far that he landed off the mat and slid across the wooden floor, knocking down a trio of students as if they were bowling pins. Amid the ensuing chaos, Dorry’s voice rang out:
“Again! Yu form, fist first.”
Rob leapt to his feet and charged at Marya from across the room. As his feet hit the mat, he uttered a guttural cry and his fist lifted above his head. Marya let loose her own power cry as she engulfed his fist in both her hands and allowed the length of his arm to penetrate between her own outstretched arms. She shifted her body and the threat of bone breakage took him down to the mat where she knelt on his chest even as she held his outstretched arm taut in a stranglehold.
“Sool,” Dorry muttered. “Tyler, try to escape.”
Rob twisted, his movements tightening the grip Marya had on his arm. She eased a bit and allowed him to pull free but dug her fingertips into the soft shoulder tissue beneath his rotator cuff and pinned his other arm to the floor with her forearm. He yelped in pain so she eased off, but he was completely incapacitated by the grapple hold. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his pain as she waited for the release order. Dorry barked it and she fell back onto the mat, releasing Rob completely. He sat up and massaged his shoulder.
“This is true hapkido. It kills if left unchecked and used for ill. Is this the power you wish to have, Tyler?” Dorry asked softly.
“I outweigh her twice over,” he muttered in amazement, looking at Dorry. “Can you really teach this form?”
“Yes,” Dorry nodded, “but I think Miss Brock might be a better teacher for you. Is this what you need to learn?”
Rob looked at her, and Marya could see him weighing options in his mind. She wondered how he would use the art, whether for good or bad.
“I’m being bullied,” he explained to Marya as he pulled up his dobok to show her an old bruise that still glowered along the side of his lower abdomen.
She nodded to him and then nodded to Dorry. “I will teach enough for defense,” she stated firmly.
“See me after class,” Dorry told her. “Dismissed.”
Marya rose and left the mat area to cool down. Letting her mind ramble, she ran through several of the early form poomses. She was amazed that Dorry thought her good enough, and responsible enough, to teach another student the hapkido forms. A small part of her thrilled, but she was also nervous. She didn’t want to let Master Wood down.
***
Later, waiting in Master Wood’s office, dressed in her street clothes, Marya felt at a distinct disadvantage. As Master Wood talked with another student just outside the door, she studied the things Dorry surrounded herself with. The first thing that snared her attention was a large basket just to the right of her desk. It was full of brightly colored stuffed animals, colored pictures and envelopes. She leaned
forward and realized that they were gifts given to Dorry by her students. Many of the animals still had bright cards and banners of gratitude attached.
The wall behind her desk was covered in shelves. On them she saw rank after rank of taekwondo books as well as many books from other disciplines. Most of them appeared well worn. She knew somehow that Dorry knew well the information contained inside them. The shelves were also peppered with metal trophies and photos of a younger, smiling Dorry accepting those trophies and certificates. There was even one of her being presented with a key to the city.
Marya spied a photo of a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Master Wood and another in which this same woman sat next to a younger, smiling Denton Hyde. Curiouser and curiouser. Obviously Dorry and Denton knew one another well.
Spotting an aged photo of a pleasant-looking older couple, she wanted desperately to go over for a closer look. She knew better, though: As soon as she stood, Dorry would come in, catch her snooping and become angry with her anew. But Marya was nosy. Was this a photo of her parents? What had happened to them?
The door opened and Dorry entered. She sat at the desk across from her and fiddled with a stack of folders that rested to one side. The chair squeaked as she sat back and regarded Marya.
“You’re doing well,” she said, with no preamble. “I believe Rob will do well under your tutelage. How do you feel about it?”
Marya cleared her throat and clenched the light jacket resting across her lap even tighter. “As I said, I have no problem teaching him defense only.”
Master Wood nodded and studied the hand she had resting on the desk. “I think if he thwarts one attack powerfully, there will be no more.”
She looked up questioningly at Marya.
“I agree,” she said, looking away, wanting the discussion to end.
“So shall we say six weeks of training?”
Marya looked back at Dorry, questions and doubts bumper-car-ing within her mind. “Yes,” she answered finally.
“Good,” she replied, reaching into a desk drawer and drawing forth a business-sized checkbook. “The fee for specialty classes is one hundred twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five goes to the dojang and one hundred comes to you. Do you find that satisfactory?”
Marya sat as if shell-shocked. Was Dorry offering her a job? Working here, with her? She glanced up and realized she had fallen silent. She could see the flickers of irritation beginning to crease Dorry’s forehead.
“Yes, yes,” she answered hastily. “More than generous.”
Dorry scribbled in the checkbook and handed her a check for the hundred. Marya held it in her hands, her feelings and mind numb.
Master Wood rummaged around and found a small piece of paper that she also handed to Marya. “This is his contact information. Please get in touch with him and set up your own scheduling.”
She fell silent, and Marya studied the words written on the note. They were in block letters, and the strokes forming the letters reminded Marya of elegant Japanese calligraphy. Realizing the silence had stretched on too long, Marya glanced up to find Dorry holding a single key strung on a The Way of Hand and Foot logoed keychain. Dorry was looking down at it, frowning doubtfully. Sensing Marya’s interest, she placed the key gently atop the desk and, using one finger, pushed it toward her.
“This is to the side door. Rob knows to come in that way for sessions after hours. Please keep the front doors closed when you are teaching and lock the side door securely when you leave.”
Marya understood Master Wood’s concern, above and beyond mere business concerns. Though Marstown was a low-crime area, there were no doubt those who would deliberately seek to harm Dorry and/or her livelihood.
“I will,” Marya told her. “I promise.”
Dorry looked up at her and their gazes locked briefly. “Dismissed,” she said quietly.
Marya stood and moved to the door but felt Master Wood’s eyes on her back. The gaze was tangible, as powerful as a caress, and her breath hitched in her throat. She paused, knowing she had to speak to break that intense moment of connection.
“Dorry,” she began slowly. “Thank you.”
Marya could sense that Dorry understood why she was really thanking her—for trusting her. Dorry’s voice, when it came to Marya, was low and rich and almost seductive in tone. “You’re welcome.”
Marya made her way out finally, afraid to look back.
Chapter Twenty
“Still no Denton,” Ed stated the next morning. He frowned at her as though she were personally responsible for keeping Denton from his work.
“Well,” she began helplessly, adding nondairy creamer to temper the bitter office coffee. “Has anyone gone by his house to check on him? Maybe he’s hurt and needs help.”
He frowned even harder, if such a thing were possible. “Of course. I’ve been by there three times and he’s never home. His car isn’t there either. I even looked through the garage window. No car.”
Marya was unsure how to respond, but a nibble of fear started rumbling in her solar plexus. “Seriously, do you think he’s having a midlife crisis or something? Did he go away?”
Ed poured coffee into a huge tumbler and added copious amounts of sugar. “I don’t know, but he’d better have a damn good excuse for being gone this long is all I have to say.”
“Has he done this before?” She sipped the tepid coffee and ingested a globule of undissolved creamer. Ugh.
He shook his head and leaned his upper body across the break room counter, his weight supported on his forearms, one hand cradling his mug. “No, only when his wife died, which, of course, was understandable enough. I told him to take all the time he needed then. He was gone three days then, and it’s been more than that now.”
Marya was perplexed. She didn’t know Denton that well, but she recognized his attention to detail and sense of duty, common to most journalists. Being irresponsibly absent just didn’t seem part of his nature.
“He’ll be back soon,” she said with conviction. “I’m sure of it.”
“Who are you trying to convince?” Ed said, eyeing her with a sideways glance. “You or me?”
She sighed and shrugged. “Both of us, I’m thinking.”
“I’m not convinced,” he answered with his own heavy sigh as he straightened his back. “If I don’t hear from him by the end of today, I am calling the police in the morning. I don’t care how much trouble it causes him.”
She nodded in accord. “I agree. Listen, I finished his proofreading on the A-front and I’ll jet it over to you as soon as I boot up.”
“Thanks, Marya. I don’t think we’d make a single deadline if not for your help.”
“No problem, Ed. Like you, I just want him back here.”
She left Ed and moseyed to Denton’s desk as she sipped her coffee and tried to dull her offended taste buds. If not for the caffeine content, she wouldn’t touch the stuff. She had dropped her backpack by the desk earlier. Now she switched on Denton’s work station. The computer desktop waited, blinking at her as if impatient. She was reminded of the robot, Number Five, in the film Short Circuit. The comical one who was always saying, “Need input!” Smiling to herself, she sat down and gave this machine input, typing in the generic Schuyler Times login.
She dug down into her bag and pulled out the bright blue thumb drive on which she had stored Denton’s proofreading files. Deluged at work, she had taken the A-front home last night to make sure she made deadline today. She plugged it in and waited for the machine to recognize it, then dragged the A-front file folder to the desktop. When no replacement window popped up, she leaned forward and examined the desktop. The original file was gone. What the hell?
Everything else seemed to be there, even the silly folder of plant catalog orders she had brought over the day before. She used the search function to find the A-front, thinking she had erroneously placed it into another folder. Nope. The folder was gone.
A sudden chill rushed through her. She kne
w she had had the folder on the desktop when she left work yesterday. She distinctly remembered checking for it after copying it to the thumb drive. Very weird. Had someone been in Denton’s computer?
She glanced around to see if anyone was watching. She keenly remembered the Dorry interview episode and knew her co-workers weren’t beyond a good practical joke. Was she being punked again? No one seemed to be giving her undue attention.
Had there been some sort of server failure? She checked other files and folders again, making sure all the regular desktop shortcuts were still directing properly.
Everything seemed to be okay, but worried, she tapped the waste bin icon and scrolled through the items there by date. A folder called “Private” was the next to last one deleted, just before the A-front folder. Following a hunch, she dragged the “Private”folder back to the desktop and then onto the thumb drive. She also copied it to her personal file that was kept on the Schuyler Times’s server before deleting it again. There was no real reason she could cite for feeling like it was important to do this, rather she was following her gut—something that had helped her before in her journalism career.
Putting the folder from her mind, she put the final touches on the A-front files and then sent them over to Ed via interoffice e-mail. She stretched, leaned back in her chair and glanced around the office. Marvin had come in and was talking on his phone, one hand idly twirling a pencil as he studied the loafer-clad feet he had propped up on his desk. Dallas was at her desk as well, scribbling on a yellow legal pad, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Connie stood at the layout table at the back of the pasteup room, visible through the wide doorway. She was laying out ads, a ruler and X-Acto knife protruding through the fingers of her left hand as her right sought the perfect placement. Marya could hear the faint soul music that Wallace and Craig often played.
Looking to the front, she saw Carol dutifully working on some filing at the reception desk. Over to her left Ed was studying his computer screen, peering like an owl through his glasses, and Emily was filing her nails with keen attention as she talked on her phone. Everything seemed so normal. Yet someone—one of these people, the ones with access to Denton’s computer—had taken a folder and then tried to sabotage the paper by deleting the A-front files. A bad feeling began to churn in the back of Marya’s mind.
