He shrugged. His shoulders conveyed a hint of fever, urgency.

"I'll find the tape after I finish you. The police have no reason to suspect me. And Marshal Viviter has no evidence."

He smiled like the blade of a table saw.

"The tape is in your apartment."

I shook my head speciously.

"That's not a mistake Sue would've let you make. You'll have to do better."

He exploded at me as if I'd lit a fuse by saying her name.

I tried to counter him as Nakahatchi had countered me, gently, without alarm. My right hand still felt stiff, so I held it up, covered my stomach with that elbow. My left hand I used open, striving to slip every high punch aside with my palm.

Some of them I missed. Those ones landed like hammers. Whenever my elbow blocked his foot or his fist, the blow wailed along my nerves.

With enough breath I might've wailed myself.

Nevertheless this was my work, my work, and I didn't back down from it.

He forced me to retreat slowly, a few inches at a time, but the wall and the railing hampered him. He couldn't swing kicks around at my head. For every blow that reached me, I stopped two.

All I needed was a grip on him, one second with my fist closed in his sweatshirt. Then I could kick him, swing the toe of my shoe into his guts with every ounce of my bulk and fury behind it.

When I got the chance.

If I got it.

I didn't. He struck too hard, too fast. Too often.

But the second, no, the third time his fist rocked my head, something changed. Instead of knocking me out, the impact seemed to translate me into a state that resembled Nakahatchi's impregnable tranquility.

Without transition I found myself in a place that held no anger and no fear.

Pain no longer distracted or drove me, and I relaxed.

I could move faster now. My left skidded his attacks away earlier. My elbow adjusted to deflect him more effectively. Fewer strikes made contact. Every breath came a bit more easily.

If only Nakahatchi had given me one more lesson Sternway felt the change. I saw it on his face. A new glee for combat flared in his eyes, ignited by eagerness. He stopped kicking, speeded up his punches. Put less force into each blow.

I thought nothing, felt nothing. The explosive discharge of his fists consumed all of my attention, my whole world. Reality. The instant I allowed anything else to exist, anything at all, he'd break every bone in my face. And he wouldn't stop there, oh, no, he'd go on breaking and breaking me until Shit!

until I woke up enough to realize that I was wrong. He had no intention of breaking me. Not with his fists.

Too late. Always too late.

Suddenly he surged forward, ducking under my defense faster than I could react. In one fluid motion, he braced himself, hooked one arm under my right leg, clenched his other hand in the back of my shirt.

And heaved.

Walls and skylights and flood lamps reeled around me. The catwalk jumped away.

In spite of my size, he tipped me over the railing.

Flailing instinctively, I managed to hook my right elbow over the top rail somehow, catch the lower bar with my left hand. My entire weight snapped along the length of my body like the strike of a scourge.

I screamed. I couldn't help it. My left hand hadn't caught enough of my weight. Most of it dropped onto my right elbow. Dislocated the joint, shattered it, both, neither, I had no idea. After the first instant, the first tearing howl of pain, I couldn't even feel it. Just hanging there took everything I had.

Now I knew why he'd wanted me to climb up here. He still intended to make my death look like an accident killed by a fall from the top floor. If I struck the cage on the way down, the damage to my body would disguise everything he'd done to me.

He'd positioned me near the fire door, in the middle of the catwalk, so that I'd hit the cage.

Leave Rasmussen where she was. Kill Parker. Make it look like I did it. Once I fell, he could tell Moy anything he wanted.

He stood at the railing, lit by flood lamps and triumph stark as an angel. All he lacked was a flaming sword. His arms relaxed as he grinned down at me.

"What a shame. Just when I thought the fight might become interesting, you decided to commit suicide."

If I hadn't been in so much pain, I would've wept at my own blindness.

Casually he lifted his foot, nudged at my right hand.

Now I was gone, erased. Nothing at all remained except white staring agony and the long plunge to darkness.

Behind him, the fire door crashed open, slammed back against the wall.

Metal rang in protest as Ginny sprang out onto the catwalk.

He whirled toward her.

She had her .357 in her hand. Her right hand. He was on her left. And he was too fast, she couldn't swing the .357 toward him and shoot quickly enough.

She didn't try. Without hesitation she slashed her claw across his face.

Yelling, he fell back a step. Instant blood filled his eyes.

And still he was too fast. As she brought the .357 to bear, he lashed up a straight kick that caught her under the chin.

It whacked her head back. Whiplash compressed her brain against her skull so hard that it rebounded, hurt itself again.

The gun dropped from her hand, clanged against the bars of the catwalk, slipped through and fell. I saw it go like the pinching out of a candle flame, the extinguishing of my life.

He crouched over her, splashed blood into her face.

"Bitch!" A howl of madness.

"Whorel Get up! Get up! I'm not finished with you!

"You cut me!"

His fists grabbed her shoulders. He jerked her up and down, whipping her head back and forth. He was going to break her neck. If he hadn't already I couldn't do anything about it. I was about to fall myself.