The van started with a roar because I'd already shoved down on the gas too hard. Wheeling backward out of my parking space, I pointed the van at the exit ramp and plowed like a battering ram up into the storm.

A battering ram way too small for the gate it aimed to shatter.

Right through the cudgeling torrents. Right again almost immediately.

From the bottom of my heart, I prayed that Deborah would do what I'd asked. That Parker and Ginny would come through for me.

Count three blocks wasn't easy. I gave it my best guess, then hauled the Plymouth left into the wrong lane of a street that appeared to be my only option.

I couldn't see buildings or street signs except at unpredictable intervals when lightning cracked open the night. Most of the time I could barely locate curbs.

Keep going to the freeway.

I wasn't worried that Moy would finish in Martial America and leave before I got there. He needed backup, his lab boys, an ambulance and all of them faced the same obstacles I did. And Nakahatchi lived right there. He and Komatori both had too much self-possession to do anything stupid. His arrest might go down as one of the most leisurely collars in history. Hell, if I were Edgar Moy I might just keep Nakahatchi confined to his apartment until the storm let up.

The deluge had wiped out the world, smothered any sensation that I was actually going somewhere. The speedometer indicated more speed than sanity, but the impregnable rain contradicted it.

I'd started to believe that the freeway didn't exist, that the whole concept of freeways was mythological, when a ragged glare exposed massive concrete supports with a louring darkness above them. The after-flash on my retinas left the image of a sign that said east.

In that direction another ramp opened onto a wider surface than the ones I'd driven so far.

At intervals the windscreen fogged over. The Plymouth's vents blew cold into my face, but when I added even a touch of heat the condensation thickened. I had to accept the chill.

Pushing the speedometer higher ludicrously, moronically higher I resumed my prayers.

As I saw it, my biggest problem was to keep the cell phone dry. I meant, my biggest problem apart from extracting all the information and evidence I needed. And staying alive If the phone shorted out, I might as well just shoot myself in the head and go home.

I tried to test it by calling a number at random, but I couldn't

hear anything. The sledge hammering rain covered everything. I felt like the inside of a gong.

Since my life depended on my driving anyway, and I was already going at a berserk rate, I wedged off my shoes, picked them up, and set them upside down on the passenger seat to drain.

In the real world, however the sane world my biggest problem was finding the right exit off the freeway.

Somehow I did it. Pure luck. So far, the gods of storm and violence were on my side. Approximating caution, I gushed down off the freeway and headed for Martial America.

Hong Fei-Tung was dead.

Looks like somebody broke his neck in his sleep.

How fucking likely was that?

Rain lashed at me from all sides. Between splitting bursts of lightning, thunder boomed like denunciation.

As I finally shouldered the Plymouth into Martial America's parking lot, my headlights picked out way too many cars. CPD cruisers I expected, four or five of them, lights winking frenetically against the dark. An ambulance. A Crime Lab van. But where had all these other cars come from? I'd never seen the lot this full.

My stomach squirmed. Bile crowded against the anger and sorrow in my throat. I'd taken too long to get here. The disaster had already expanded into new dimensions, grown to proportions I hadn't anticipated. Someone had kicked over something a whole lot worse than an anthill.

Sweet Jesus, just let one of these cars belong to Parker.

Through the blurring downpour, I saw that Essential Shotokan had all its lights on with the exception of the top floor. The same was true in Master Soon's Tae Kwon Do Academy. The bulk of the building hid Traditional Wing Chun.

But Malaysian Fighting Arts remained completely dark. Apparently Bob Gravel and his students had more sense.

Swearing to myself, I searched the parking lot until I found a space near the intersection of the two buildings. After that I didn't hesitate. I'd used about a decade's worth of spare time just getting here. Now I had to go or give up.

Retrieving my shoes, I tucked the cell phone into one of them and clamped them against my chest, heels up, soles out. That was the best I could do. With my free hand, I flung open the door and plunged barefoot into the torrents.

At least the lot didn't hold water. The rain rive red elsewhere as soon as it fell. On the other hand, the concrete felt cruel on my unprotected feet, bitter as ice. Already drenched, I jogged for the entrance to Essential Shotokan.

Maybe I should've headed for Traditional Wing Chun. The lab boys were probably still there. I might get a look at Hong's bedroom and even his body before they carted it away. If they let me in. But Moy had had plenty of time to finish there.

Heaving the ornamental door open, I lunged into Nakahatchi's dojo.

The sudden cessation of the rain nearly knocked me off balance. I hadn't realized how hard I'd braced myself against it. The comparative warmth of the entry hall stung my skin to gooseflesh. I was soaked to the marrow of my bones.

"Hold it!" a CPD uniform barked. He guarded the foot of the stairs with his partner, a woman who would've looked slim without the bulletproof vest and all that cop gear.

"No farther!"

I lurched to a halt, sluicing water in all directions.

"This is a crime scene," the man announced.

"You shouldn't be here. I'd chase you out if it weren't raining so damn hard. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Apparently Moy hadn't warned his underlings to expect me.

Now I didn't hurry. I didn't need to I knew why the uniforms were here. When I'd scrubbed the rain out of my eyes, I bent down to place my shoes on the floor.

That gave the uniforms a glimpse of the .45 under my arm.

They both shouted, "Freeze!" Faster than her partner, the woman had her automatic out first. From my angle, it looked like a Clock.

I didn't freeze, but I lifted the .45 out of its holster with two fingers and tossed it to the carpet a few feet away. When I'd taken out the cell phone and set it down, I worked my numb feet back into my shoes.

"My name is Axbrewder," I told the uniforms.

"I'm a security consultant for this building. Detective Moy called me here. He wants to talk to me." I tried to smile, but I couldn't do it.

"If I promise to be a good boy, can I take off my jacket?"

Slowly they lowered their weapons.

"He's upstairs," the man muttered.

I wanted to ask who was with him, but I'd find out soon enough.