"I honor your courage. And I will teach you. But first you must learn this. Pain is a means to an end, but it must never become the end.

Today you believe you are ready because your pain has become greater than your anger, yet you are not defeated by it. That is important, Axbrewder-san. It is necessary. But you will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your anger."

Again he bowed.

This time I did the same. I didn't think I had much choice. And he'd called me "Axbrewder-san." That counted for something.

Now he smiled. For a moment the old sorrow on his face lost its immediacy.

"I will leave you," he said quietly.

"You may remain or depart, as you wish. Return tomorrow at the same time."

With the kind of dignity you can only get from real mastery, he walked to the edge of the floor, bowed to the dojo and his shrine, then crossed the library and disappeared down the stairs.

Apparently he trusted me alone in his sanctum.

Separate from your anger.

I almost understood him.

Twenty-Two.

Briefly I considered defacing his shrine. Not that I had the slightest desire to do so. In fact, I would've fought to protect it. But such lunacy helped distract me so that I could move. Become separate.

Otherwise I might've remained stuck where I stood for hours, trapped between bruises and immanence.

Sure, deface the shrine. The world was full of spare excrement. I could probably find some if I put my mind to it.

Whee.

Then some of the tension in my chest released itself, and I began to breathe a bit more easily.

I let my shoulders slump, took a couple of tentative steps toward my shoes and jacket. At first everything in me seemed to hurt, and I felt damn near crippled. But as I breathed the pain receded to more realistic proportions.

Nakahatchi hadn't actually done me much damage. Apart from one throbbing bicep, one strung hamstring, a sore finger, and a lump of pain at the base of my throat which made swallowing difficult, I'd mostly hurt myself by falling a lot. And he'd softened that for me as much as he could. Hardshorn had hit me harder.

I finally concluded that Nakahatchi's lessons felt so dangerous because he'd disoriented me completely. I'd never been eluded and tossed around like that before. Everyone else who'd ever beaten me up including Muy Estobal had done it like Hard-shorn, straight and brutal, in ways I understood.

Vaguely I noticed that my shirt looked like I'd used it to polish the floor. That disoriented me as well. I felt filthy and transformed.

Torqued into a new shape. No wonder I wasn't entirely sure which way was up.

I paused to rub my bicep for a moment, then shambled over to the edge of the hardwood. My heels weren't happy with me, but they didn't bitch too much when I pulled on my socks and stepped gingerly into my shoes.

With that challenge behind me, I had an easier time slipping my arms into the straps of the shoulder holster and the sleeves of my jacket.

Now what? I had no idea. I'd recovered some small measure of mobility, but I still couldn't think effectively. The chops were genuine. Bernie was dead. Surely I was supposed to do something?

At last I got it. Take a shower. And a nap. Put on clean clothes.

For my date with Deborah Messenger.

That seemed inadequate somehow. Insufficiently arduous. Us manly-type private investigators were born to suffer. That's why God put us on this earth. But what alternatives did I have? Figure out why Hong was in danger? Grasp the connection between Bernie's murder and Nakahatchi's antiques? Make everything right with Ginny? In my condition? Ha.

A shower and a nap sounded like Heaven. And I was getting just a bit tired of all this divinely inspired angst.

I decided to go back to the apartment.

Fortunately I didn't encounter anyone on my way out of the dojo.

Unhindered, I stumbled out into the sun's glare like I'd just escaped a shipwreck.

The Plymouth seemed ridiculously far away, but under cover of sunglasses I managed to cross the blazing concrete, unlock the van, and climb in. God, I hoped I wasn't still here when summer came. Garner would be a furnace. Some people considered Puerta del Sol hot, but there the drier air and the elevation blunted the sunlight's cruelty. I didn't feel so belittled by it.

Still in a state resembling stupefaction, I coaxed the Plymouth to life, engaged the AC, and began to retrace the route I'd used to come here just a few hours ago, in a previous life.

Become separate from your anger.

I probably could've driven all the way to the apartment without actually thinking about anything. As it happened, however, my phone rang while I still had a couple of miles to go.

For a moment or two I couldn't figure out what that insistent electronic chirp meant. On automatic pilot, I fumbled around in my pockets until I found the phone. By the time I tugged it out, I'd remembered what it was for.

The possibilities gave me a little rush. I sounded almost awake as I announced, "Axbrewder."

"Brew, are you all right?" Deborah's voice answered.

"You seem blurry. Or do we have a bad connection?"

Suddenly I was awake all the way.

"No," I assured her quickly, without quite making sense. Then I pulled myself together.

"I mean, no, we don't have a bad connection. I'm fine."

As fine as I needed to be, anyway.

"That's good" her tone conveyed a grin "because you have a date with me tonight, and I have no intention of letting you tell me you've got a headache."

I grinned back.

"Don't worry. I could have the absolute apocalypse of all headaches, and I'd forget it existed the minute I laid eyes on you."

Deborah laughed. Even the cell phone's deficiencies couldn't disguise her warmth.

"Ah, such gallantry. I do love the way you talk." Then she turned serious.

"Especially since I'm afraid I'm about to give you a headache myself."

"Don't worry," I repeated.

"What's one more?"

"In that case " She may've nodded to herself.