"Doesn't it bother you," I wheezed, "that he's only in it for the money?"

Then I froze, too furious to restrain myself in any other way if he decided to poke me again.

But he surprised me by dropping his gaze. The way he sagged back into himself told me that I'd hurt him.

"You don't understand," he said in a low mumble.

"He and his wife are separated. He wants a divorce, but she's fighting him. He needs money."

Before I could come up with a flashy retort, he wandered away like he'd forgotten what he was doing. For a moment he looked like he'd never moved lightly in his life. Then a swirl of the crowd came between us, and I couldn't watch him anymore.

Glowering, I rubbed my chest. How had he done that? With just one finger? I felt like I'd been impaled on a piece of re bar

Sternway was Sue Rasmussen's sensei as well. Maybe that explained the look of hate she'd given me. Maybe in karate the students were supposed to be so loyal that they went crazy.

"You all right?" Ned inquired. Somehow he'd arrived beside me without attracting my attention.

I cleared my lungs.

"I think so."

He laughed quietly.

"That's good. If you'd taken another swing at him, we'd have to scrape you up with a shovel."

I was mad enough to argue the point. Parker had caught me by surprise.

That wouldn't happen again. But I'd lived with myself long enough to recognize my own chagrin when it masqueraded as anger. Swallowing a lump of bile, I asked ruefully, "Was it that obvious?"

Ned dismissed my ego with a grin.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure I'm not the only one who noticed. But being as how this is a karate tournament and all, everybody else probably thinks you were playing."

Then he added, "You want to tell me about it?"

I was still too angry to let it go.

"You're wrong about him," I pronounced distinctly.

Ned raised his eyebrows.

"Who? Parker?"

I nodded.

"He doesn't sag like that because he isn't competing. His disappointment runs a whole lot deeper."

In an obscure way, I knew how Neill felt. My own disappointment had been downright abysmal for years.

Gage considered the idea for a moment.

"You may be right. But I'm not even going to ask. I've said it before, he's a true believer. True believers have that problem. They get disappointed.

"Don't lose my card," he ordered as he moved away. He may've said it to reassure me.

It didn't help. Everyone here seemed to know too much about me. From Sam Drayton I expected it. From relative strangers like Ned and Parker and maybe even Sue Rasmussen, it made me squirm.

Sourly I wondered how far a true believer would go for a sensei who needed money.

I also wondered how much money Sternway actually needed.

While my back was turned, the tournament had continued piling on volume. And the heat had grown worse. I felt it leaning down on me from the high ceiling despite the AC, spreading a sheen of sweat across my ribs until my shirt stuck to my skin under my jacket. Still the people in my vicinity seemed like shadows, denatured of substance by their detachment from Bernie's death. The yelling in the rings and the applause from the stands sounded like the feverish hunger of ghosts.

Haunted by unreality, I tried to recover my lost lucidity. But it was gone now. The lingering ache in my chest seemed to block it somehow.

Between my stomach and my heart, I had too many vulnerable spots.

I couldn't imagine how Security endured this kind of work. The Luxury's guards must've spent most of their lives asleep.

Which explained why Bernie had insisted on chasing down the drop himself. He'd simply wanted to inject a little meaning into his job.

It wasn't my fault that he was dead. He'd taken the risk because he'd needed it more than he needed backup.

Somehow that notion failed to improve my morale.

Around me the tournament trudged along with no end in sight, mechanically grinding losers away and leaving winners behind. As far as I could tell, the whole process was nothing more than an exercise in self-congratulation. Every trophy that Sternway and his retinue handed out increased the lAMA's importance. The size and number of the trophies conferred validation, and publicity was all that separated martial artists from ordinary thugs.

The only flaw in this caustic view was that Neill had nearly broken a rib for me with one light touch, thereby forcing me to recognize that I tended to underestimate the people here.

At the rate I was going, I'd make a great candidate for the Council on Depression's annual poster child.

When someone laid a hand on my shoulder, I wheeled around as if that were the last straw, and if I didn't start savaging people who touched me I'd never be myself again. Full of ire and self-disgust, I came this close to splashing napalm all over Deborah Messenger.

She flinched, her eyes wide with fright.

"I startled you," she said quickly.

"I'm sorry."

Suddenly being myself again didn't seem like such a plus.

She must've gone home to change after her discussion with Sternway and Lacone. Now she wore a casual white cotton shirt, tight beige shorts that showed off her long legs, and a pair of cute sneakers. She looked like a dream the kind I used to have before alcohol and loathing soaked them out of me.

Stumbling over my consternation, I tried to apologize.

"No, please," I assured her, "it's my fault." I held up my hands like I thought that might placate her.

"I shouldn't have turned on you like that. You just caught me in a particularly rotten mood."

She smiled tentatively.

"Are you all right? It must've been terrible, finding Mr. Appelwait's body like that. You looked so upset." Residual fright made her talk in a rush.