Maybe he wanted me to leave so that I'd crucify myself.

I could scarcely breathe. Instead of thanking him, I headed for the entryway. When I'd retrieved the phone, the .45, and my jacket, I went back into the small dojo. That was my quickest route to the fire exit.

As I passed him, Moy cleared his throat.

"In case you're still interested. That phone number. It's Hard-shorn's home number. He may not have had any friends, but he sure made a lot of calls."

That stopped me momentarily. Like Marshal and Deborah and quite a few other people Ginny included Moy was treating me better than I deserved.

Better than I'd treated him.

"Thanks, Sergeant," I said with a hoarse shiver.

"I'll remember you in my will."

Part of me itched to take him along. To keep me alive. And repay his trust. But if I did I'd never get the proof I needed.

From the back of the dojo I crossed the dressing room to the fire door and punched it open with the heel of my palm.

Twenty-Five.

The fire door let me out onto the ground floor of the building's utility well. Wet and damn near frozen as I was, entering the well felt like walking face first into a space heater. The boiler, furnace, and AC units put out enough BTUs to liquefy Styrofoam.

I went straight to the equipment cage, spread out my arms, and pressed my shivering against the grate. I couldn't afford the time to hang there like a heat sink, soaking warmth while my clothes dried.

Nevertheless I stayed motionless for twenty or thirty seconds long enough to restore blood to at least some of my muscles.

Duct and conduit insulation gave the air a faint sulfurous tinge I hadn't noticed the other day. Floodlamps in the walls filled the well with a glaring shadowless artificial illumination. The whole place resembled the atrium of an inferno.

Fortunately it was quieter than I'd expected. Or feared. Despite the thrashing fury outside, only a muffled sibilance penetrated the well.

The skylights overhead must've been just about bulletproof.

As soon as I could move without quivering, I shoved the .45 back into its damp holster, hid the cell phone in a jacket pocket, and tugged the jacket up my arms. I wasn't much concerned with concealing the .45, but I needed to keep my phone hidden and accessible without risking it in my sodden pants.

Wrestling out my keys, I hurried around the equipment cage to Traditional Wing Chun's fire door. If I got in there before the lab boys, paramedics, and uniforms left, I might be able to prevent this disaster from getting any worse.

My key released the lock. I pulled open the door and went in.

The dressing room was dark. Likewise the small dojo beyond it. But enough light leaked in from the entryway to let me see where I put my feet. In any case, I didn't need light to hear that I was already too late. Again.

The confusion of angry voices sounded like thirty or forty people primed to tear each other's throats out. A hell of a crowd must've gathered in the main dojo. The consequences of Hong's death multiplied faster than I could imagine them.

Trying not to run, I crossed the dressing room and the dojo to the entryway.

Ahead of me the front door swung open, letting a slash of rain carry a man and a woman inside. They wore canvas gis with their belts purple and brown respectively cinched tight. Neither of them paid any attention to me. Tossing their umbrellas to the carpet, they hurried into the main dojo.

I followed on their heels.

Instead of thirty or more people, I saw only twenty or so. Maybe half of them wore street clothes. Three or four still had on raincoats. The rest had donned their martial uniforms silk pajamas, canvas gis. I was tall enough to see over most of them.

They crowded around a clear space in the middle of the floor, shouting furiously at each other. The gis were mostly to my right, opposite the pajamas. I didn't know any of the pajamas, or the men and women in street clothes. Among the gis, however, I recognized one of Nakahatchi's students, Aronson, and the two kids who'd helped him and Komatori move the display case to Martial America.

Words like "murder" and "revenge,"

"unforgivable," and "stolen" raged back and forth, but I didn't try to sort them out.

In the center of the crowd stood Hideo Komatori and T'ang Wen. Hideo's wet gi dripped on the hardwood. Water cast a sheen along his scar. He must've taken the fire escape route out of Essential Shotokan, then run through the rain unprotected to Traditional Wing Chun. Unlike their supporters, he and T'ang didn't yell. It wasn't necessary. They faced each other with the deceptive menace of martial artists, self-contained and calm, ready to detonate. From where I stood, I couldn't see T'ang's face, but Komatori's eyes held a killing intensity that made my guts ache.

I couldn't locate Parker Neill.

His absence hit me like a club. I'd been hoping fervently that he'd arrived ahead of me. That Deborah had reached him, and he'd agreed to do what I asked.

Without him Oh, fuck.

Then some of the shouts penetrated my alarm. Stolen? Moy had told me that T'ang Wen didn't know the chops were gone. What in God's name was Hideo doing? Had he come over here to accuse Hong of stealing ?

Using my bulk, I plowed through the crowd into the clear space around Komatori and T'ang. My presence struck the dojo silent, at least for a moment. Suddenly all the hostility in the room refocused on me. When Komatori and T'ang noticed me, I stepped between them.

Quietly I demanded, "What the hell's the matter with you two?" If I kept my voice down, the crowd might stay quiet to hear me.

"You don't think we already have enough trouble? Now you want your students to beat each other up?"

Hideo didn't hesitate.

"Brew-san, this affront to my master is intolerable. You know that I can't " "No!" T'ang put in hotly.

"My master has been slainl I did not insult that Japanese. I said to the police only what I know to be true, that I can think of no one else who might wish my master ill. Yet he comes here to accuse my master of the theft of the chops. It is indeed intolerable, and we will not suffer it!"

"He lies, Brew-san," Komatori retorted.

"I haven't mentioned the chops. I haven't accused Sifu Hong in any way. I came because I won't endure the claim that my master has any desire for Sifu Hong's death. My master's esteem for Sifu Hong is boundless. His death is an affront to all martial artists. I will not allow it to be placed on my master's shoulders."

I believed him. Hell, I believed both of them.

But if Hideo hadn't said anything about the chops "He's right, Axbrewder," a hard voice put in.

"It is an affront to all martial artists. But who else took the chops?

Who else wanted them as badly as Hong did? And if you don't think Nakahatchi killed him, tell us who did. Who else had a reason?"

Turning sharply, I faced Anson Sternway. He stood with his back to the windows like he'd just materialized out of the storm.

Reflected lightning strobed behind him, emphasizing him against the dark glass.

He wore virtually the same clothes he'd had on last night, a grey sweatshirt and warmup pants over canvas deck shoes.

Between one heartbeat and the next, my pulse rate about tripled. Maybe he'd been there all along. Somehow I hadn't spotted him. Too busy praying that Parker would show up, probably.

"Mr. Sternway," I gritted through my teeth.

"What the fuck are you doing? This'll be great for Martial America's reputation. Just great. I need help here. You're stirring these people up. We should be calming them down."