At once fighters stumbled and stomped over him. Bodies slammed into me from one side, then the other. A kick came at my face so fast that I almost didn't duck in time.

Racking a round into the chamber, I pointed the .45 at the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

In that crowded space the shot sounded as lethal as a grenade.

And like a grenade, shrapnel scything wheat, it cleared a circle around me instantaneously. Reacting on instinct, gis and pajamas and street clothes jumped or blundered or fell away. In moments Cho's supine form and I had the middle of the room to ourselves.

Without hesitation I located Soon and aimed the .45 at his stomach.

Loud enough to abrade my throat, I shouted, "No one moves! No one! You do, and I shoot Master Soon in the gut! You move again, and I start blazing. I don't give a fuck who I hit!"

Fury congested Soon's face, but he stood still.

Komatori spread his arms to hold his people back. His stare searched me for an explanation I couldn't give him. Not without exposing the whole place to more violence.

T'ang Wen looked even angrier than Soon. A yearning for blood poured off him like flame off napalm. Yet he, too, didn't move. I'd clubbed Cho, not one of his students. I held the .45 on Soon, not him.

Apparently that bought me a moment of his restraint.

He was the one I needed to convince.

Back against the windows, Sternway appeared to be having fun.

"This is a setup!" I roared hoarsely.

"You're all being manipulated. This whole disaster was staged! To distract you from what really happened.

"Do you," I nearly screamed, "like being puppets?"

I didn't even glance at Komatori. Him I trusted. But I watched Soon, saw the passion in his eyes shift toward suspicion. And T'ang's stance eased slightly as a hint of uncertainty crossed his face, eroding the righteousness he stood on.

Taking my life in my hands, I uncocked the .45 and tucked it back into its holster. Then I faced T'ang Wen.

"We need to talk," I told him quietly.

"Here. Now."

As soon as I put the .45 away, half the room moved. Anticipated blows flared along my nerves. But no one came toward me. Men and women on the floor got up if they could. Their fellow students went to help those who couldn't. A couple of pajamas remained unconscious. One of the kids who'd helped Komatori and Aronson with the display case had a crushed knee. Their friends supplied what assistance they could.

No one approached Pack Hee Cho. I still stood over him.

T'ang glared back at me.

"My master treated you honorably when I would not have done so. Now I have seen how you repay such courtesy. I say again what I have already said. You have no word to speak that I will hear."

"You're right," I retorted, too angry myself to pretend otherwise.

"You said that already. And I did fail your master. But I didn't kill him. I was miles away when it happened. And Naka-hat chi sensei didn't kill him. He was asleep in bed with his wife. If the two of them weren't being so damn dignified and insulted about it, they would've told the cops that already."

When I saw that I'd shaken his confidence just a bit, I announced harshly, "Mr. T'ang, you have a word that I need to hear."

The doubt in his eyes didn't last long. He clenched his teeth, said nothing.

"I think I know why your master was killed." My tone spat like overheated cooking oil.

"But I can't be sure until you answer a question for me."

Through the room's quiet I could hear rain thrash the windows, despite the hard breathing of the fighters and the choked moans of the injured.

"Sifu Hong looked at the chops yesterday." I ignored everything else, concentrated exclusively on T'ang.

"But he didn't tell any of us what he thought of them. Maybe he told you."

I paused to gather my courage. Then I demanded, "What about it, Mr.

T'ang? Are the chops genuine?"

He straightened his shoulders.

"They are not."

He was willing to go that far, if no farther.

I felt rather than heard Komatori's surprise behind me. His students raised a low murmur of protest. Even Soon's black belts objected.

"How could he be sure?" I had to know. Too much depended on it.

"A professional appraiser declared them genuine. He sounded convincing enough. What made your master think he's wrong?"

T'ang snorted his contempt.

"My master did not 'think' your appraiser was wrong. He was certain of it."

"But how? What made him certain?"

T'ang shook his head.

"No." His jaw knotted angrily.

"This is not a matter for outsiders. It is private, secret to Wing Chun. Only the greatest masters know of it. I myself did not know until my master entrusted it to me yesterday." The admission cost him a visible effort.

"I will not speak of it, not to you, not to these" he gestured around him "intruders. I will not betray my master's confidence."

Confidence. Secrets. I wanted to throttle him, squeeze the truth out of his narrow-minded throat.

"Oh, stop," I snarled.

"Not even to catch your master's killer? Are you so content with his death that you're willing to let the man who broke his neck go free?"

Not to mention Bernie's murderer.

"If you insist on keeping your precious secret, I won't be responsible for what comes next. Maybe Sifu Hong's killer will kill you, too.