My elbow wouldn't hold.

No.

Separate from your anger. Wasn't that what Nakahatchi had said? You will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your anger.

Not greater than your anger. Or less. Separate.

The flawless black ice of fury and the detached impersonal calm of concentration. Not combined, but simultaneous.

Together they canceled the cruel gravity of my helplessness.

I had to reach Ginny.

I knew how.

I could do it.

Took damn near forever. Nevertheless Sternway didn't notice me. He'd gone berserk. He dropped Ginny so that he could wipe the blood out of his eyes, but it streamed down his face anyway, his hands couldn't keep up with it, she must've gashed the hell out of him. Once he let her go, she sprawled like death on the catwalk. He stood over her, still yowling insults that made no sense.

I swung my legs hard, hooked my right heel up onto the catwalk to take some of the weight off my elbow. I couldn't balance there, but in the small instant of support before my foot slipped I swung my left arm upward, snagged a grip on the top rail. Then I could pull without crucifying my elbow.

As soon as I got my right foot back onto the catwalk, I lunged up and over the railing.

Landed like bricks on my right arm.

Didn't care.

He must've heard me, felt the vibration of the catwalk, something. He turned before I got my feet all the way under me.

Blood veiled his face. It throbbed out of him along a ragged tear that crossed his forehead from one temple down into the opposite cheek. The intense white of the flood lamps turned it black and slick. His eyes made gaps of madness in the dark stream. Madness or mortality.

Roaring my name, he launched another kick like the one that felled Ginny.

I made him miss by lurching aside and forward. Which enabled me to plant my right foot. Then I straightened up under his kick.

His leg came down on my left shoulder. I couldn't do much with my right arm, so I swung my left around his leg and up under his left armpit, shifted my hips forward strained to rise.

I may've screamed again, but I didn't hear it.

He did it for me as he went over the railing.

I never saw him hit. I never saw him again at all. I lasted long enough to kneel beside Ginny, fumble for her pulse, see that she was still breathing. I think I tried to call for help. But of course the fire door had shut itself.

Then I disappeared into a darkness like the storm outside and the blood on Anson Sternway's face.

Twenty-Seven.

The hospital let her go late the next afternoon. Concussion, severe whiplash. X-rays ruled out a broken jaw. She needed rest and ibuprofen, regular physical therapy, frequent checkups, but the doctors said she'd be all right.

Parker Neill spent a few hours in the emergency room, being poked and peered at for signs of internal seepage. But once the shock to his solar plexus eased, he recovered well enough. He called one of his friends to give him a ride, and went home.

Me they kept for a day and a half.

"For observation," just in case my kidneys started bleeding. They bandaged a few contusions, trapped my hand and arm in a cast to protect my dislocated elbow. No problems. Nothing to worry about. It was their considered medical opinion, however, that I needed a different hobby. Getting beaten half to death wasn't good for me.

I would've laughed if I hadn't been so full of morphine. Getting beaten half to death was what I did best.

That, and getting through it.

Maybe eventually I'd even understand Sihan Nakahatchi. The IVs made his lessons look easy.

During the day I had a succession of phone calls and visitors.

Fortunately most of them came in the afternoon, when the nurses had eased back on my morphine. I hurt more then, but occasionally I could think.

Most of the calls were from Marshal and Sergeant Moy. With their help, and Ginny's, I pieced together what had happened behind my back.

When Deborah reached her, Ginny had decided not to wait until she heard whatever the answering machine might record. Instead she'd called Marshal, told him the little she knew. Then she headed out into the storm for Martial America.

Once she arrived, however, she wasn't sure what to do next. I wouldn't welcome interference, I'd made that clear. And she had no idea what might be going on inside. She only knew that Hong was dead and the chops had disappeared. But she figured that I couldn't be in too much trouble with all those people around, so she waited in the Olds until the parking lot began to empty.

Even then she hesitated. Every time she tried my phone, she got a busy signal. But eventually, when most of the other cars had left, she saw two people run for the building. Under the circumstances, she didn't get a look at them, and wouldn't have recognized them anyway, but they didn't go into one of the schools. Instead they entered through the fire exit.

That was enough for her. She went after them.

Of course, she couldn't get in. No key. So she followed the edge of the building to Essential Shotokan. Inside she found herself talking to Hideo Komatori.

By then the cops had taken Nakahatchi away, and Komatori wasn't feeling cooperative. Fortunately he adjusted his attitude when he learned that she worked with me. He confirmed that I'd been there recently.

Unfortunately he had no idea where I was now.

After some hesitation, however, he offered to call Traditional Wing Chun, ask if I were still there. T'ang Wen informed him that Sternway and I'd gone into the utility well.

Now Ginny well and truly didn't know what to do. She had no reason to consider Sternway dangerous. He'd saved my life at the fight club. And I hadn't reacted well the last time she'd arrived unexpectedly. If Marshal hadn't called to tell her what he'd heard on the answering machine, she might not have done anything at all.

But she still couldn't be sure that I was in trouble. I might have Sternway under control. After all, I had the .45. On the other hand, the two people who'd entered through the fire exit worried her. Maybe I'd called them to help me, maybe I hadn't. Finally she decided to go up to the top floor and ease open the fire door. From there she might see or hear something that clarified the situation. If I were OK, she could withdraw without intruding.

Hideo wanted to go with her. Convincing him to stay behind cost her a minute or two. But she didn't want to endanger him if I needed her, or to waste his time if I didn't. Finally she climbed the stairs to Nakahatchi's private dojo alone.

She was outside the fire door when I screamed.

As for Marshal, he hadn't wanted to be left out. When Ginny told him she was going to Martial America, he braved the storm and jimmied his way into our apartment so that he could listen to any messages I left on the machine. He heard most of my confrontation with Sternway at least the parts that weren't covered by background noise.

As soon as Sternway started to incriminate himself, Marshal called Ginny. Then he called Moy, caught the detective a mile or so from Martial America. Still dragging Nakahatchi along, Moy turned back.

By the time the detective reached Martial America, Hideo had already found Ginny and me. When she hadn't returned after a few minutes, he'd gone upstairs and opened the fire door. Then he'd called 911, given us some rudimentary first aid. As Moy arrived he and Mitsuku were improvising a makeshift stretcher out of two bos and a blanket so that they could carry us downstairs.

At that point, Moy released Nakahatchi "pending further investigation."

At least Nakahatchi didn't have to spend the night in jail. That was a relief.

Before dawn Moy took a search warrant to Carliss Swilley's place of business. His uniforms found the chops hidden in a storeroom under a pile of "genuine" ratty-looking Oriental rugs. Swilley himself crumbled without much persuasion. Apparently he hated driving in the rain so much that he'd assumed everyone else did too, so he believed that he didn't need to hurry. Instead he preferred to wait until the storm let up before stashing the chops in an anonymous storage locker, as he and Sternway had agreed.