The long way home h-2

by Andrew Klavan

  "I guess in a way I'm lucky," I told her. "I get to fall in love with you twice."

  "Charlie…" she said, her voice breaking.

  "Don't," I said. "Don't, Beth. God has a plan to bring us back together. I'm sure of it."

  "I'm sure too. I just hope it's one of his really short-term plans…"

  Finally, she had to leave.

  I stood at the top of the stairs as she walked down them. She was just a shadowy figure in the deeper shadows of the house. Then, when she opened the front door, the golden light of the dying afternoon poured in over her. She paused there and looked back over her shoulder, lifting her face to me where I stood on the landing above her. The gold light glistened on her cheeks where the tears were. My heart ached and I knew even then that she would be part of me forever.

  Then the door shut with a thump and she was gone.

  I walked back into the empty parlor. I returned to the window. I looked down at the graveyard below. For one more moment, the sunlight held that tinge of gold, making even the cemetery kind of beautiful in some strange, sad way. Then the gold leaked out of the light. The scene became dull and somber. An aura of blue crept into it- the first hint of evening.

  I stood there a long time, waiting for night to fall. Waiting until I could go out into the darkness and begin searching for some answers.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sensei Mike There was a time, when I was little, when I first started to learn karate, when Sensei Mike's karate studio seemed to me a very impressive place. More than that: it was almost awe-inspiring. There were ceremonial swords hanging on one wall and a large American flag hanging on another. There were rank belts hung in their order, white to black, above the room-length mirror on the third wall. There was a plaster divider that marked the dojo off from the foyer, and on top of the divider there were these little wooden statues of Chinese monks in cool karate postures or wielding cool weapons like battle-axes and maces. Back when I was a kid, all these things struck me as sort of solemn and important, as if they were images of some great ideal I had to live up to, some mighty tradition I was becoming part of. The place seemed almost like a church to me.

  Over time, as I grew older, bigger, I began to see the karate school more the way it really was. It was really just a little storefront place in a local mall. Kind of cramped and ill-equipped and even shabby in a way. But by then, I understood that what was big and important and mysterious about the place didn't come from the building. It came from the ideas and from the teachers-from Sensei Mike especially. It came from what he understood karate to be and what it meant to him. He carried those meanings inside him and, by teaching his students, he planted them inside us. If we had just learned to fight, just learned to punch and kick and so on, then the place would've been as small and shabby as it looked. But what we really learned was how to discipline ourselves, how to keep our minds and bodies under our own control, how to win with grace and lose with courage and keep fighting no matter what.

  And we learned how to pay attention-that was maybe the most important thing of all.

  So I guess what I'm saying is that the karate school really was as big and impressive and awe-inspiring as I thought it was when I was a little kid, only in a different way, a deeper way that I had to learn to understand. I guess there's a lot of stuff that's like that when you come to think about it.

  That night, around nine o'clock, I sat in the Eastfield Mall parking lot and watched the dojo. Through the storefront window, I could see the last students of the day going through their motions.

  I was in Rick's car, a sleek, red Civic. He'd left it for me at the Lake Center Mall-the one near the Ghost Mansion-and driven home with Josh. That way I would have something to drive for the rest of the night.

  I sat in the car, parked not far from the dojo. I peered out through the windshield at the storefront. There were two kids having a lesson in there, both about my age, both brown belts. Mike had them doing maneuvers on each other-sort of programmed defense techniques that teach certain classic moves you can adapt and use later for real fighting. One student would throw a punch at the other and the other would block it or dodge it and then go through the motions that would bring the attacker down to the floor. Then they'd change sides and the other student would throw the punch while the first one did the defense.

  About a million thoughts went through my mind as I watched them. I don't know how many times I'd been in the dojo going through the same motions they were going through now. It was a lot. I wished I was in there with them, using karate as a way to get exercise and learn discipline, instead of having to use it to defend myself. When I was in training at the dojo, I used to have daydreams about getting in fights and beating up bad guys and rescuing girls who were in trouble-you know, the usual daydreams guys have. But now that I'd actually had to fight for real, I wished I was back in the dojo having daydreams. I wished I'd never have to be in a real fight ever again.

  And I was thinking about Mike. I was watching him as he sort of skipped around the two brown-belt students, as he followed their moves and talked to them, correcting their techniques, demonstrating how to do it right. I was too far away to hear his voice for real, but I could hear him in my imagination, saying, "Come on, you chuckleheads, focus, take charge of your own minds. "

  Had Paul Hunt been telling Josh the truth? I wondered. Had Alex really been coming to see Sensei Mike the night he was killed? Why? Why would they be meeting in secret like that? Hunt had said that Alex was doing some kind of business with adults, people in town who seemed decent and respectable but were really running some kind of criminal enterprise. Was he lying? Was he just making stuff up to sound important? Or was it possible Mike wasn't who I thought he was? Was it possible the best, smartest, wisest teacher I ever had was not who I thought he was at all?

  I guess it came down once again to the question that had been buzzing around in my mind all this time: How can you tell who the bad guys and good guys are? How can you even tell whether you're a bad guy or a good guy? I mean, Mike told me the good guys were the people who were moving toward the light. But how did you know if you were moving in the right direction? So many people say so many different things, believe so many different things. How can you tell whether you're on the right side or not?

  I sat in the Civic with all those thoughts running through my mind, kind of racing around and crashing into one another. I guess I kind of drifted off into my own private world. Then, when I came back to myself, I saw through the dojo's storefront that the last lesson of the day was over. The students were giving their quick karate-style bows of respect to the American flag and to Sensei Mike. Then they knelt in the meditation position for a few minutes. Finally, Mike dismissed the class.

  I sat and watched while the students helped Mike clean up the dojo for the day. It was getting close to ten o'clock when they finally finished. Mike watched them carrying their equipment bags out the door, giving each a goodnight punch on the shoulder as they went past. Then the door swung shut and Mike was alone. I watched as he disappeared into the changing room in back to get out of his gi and put on his street clothes.

  I waited in the car a few more minutes. I scanned the parking lot. It was late now. A lot of the mall stores were closed. But there were still plenty of cars parked around. People were still using the supermarket and the restaurants and the Starbucks, all of which stayed open late. That was a good thing from my point of view. As long as there were people in the mall, I could blend in. I doubted anyone would recognize me in the dark. I didn't see any cops patrolling either.

  I faced forward in time to see Mike come out of the back room. He was dressed in jeans now and a gray sweatshirt that said US Army on the front. He came across the dojo to the foyer and then went into his office off to the side.

  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 kn
ow 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 three 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, se
e 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."