Not Ms. Fistoulari? You used to be partners." Her gaze fell away from mine.

"She wouldn't have come here if she didn't want to help."

I damn near fell over. Without thinking, I said, "She wasn't here to help. She came because she thought I needed rescue " Abruptly I bit myself off. Last night I'd refused Deborah. Now she sounded like she might be giving me a second chance. If I wanted to take advantage of it, I couldn't very well hold Ginny responsible.

"Deborah " My voice shook like my hands. I had to whisper to control it.

"Last night I said I needed things with her to be clear. Now they are.

That makes it my turn."

My turn to risk "I don't know you very well. But I really like you." I couldn't help quoting her. I didn't know what else to do.

"I'd like you to spend the night with me." Then I added, "If you still want to."

After that I held my breath.

When Deborah raised her eyes again, they were full of caution.

"Don't jerk me around, Brew," she murmured softly.

"I can take care of myself, but I still feel things. I didn't enjoy being turned down."

I knew how she felt. And I was in no position to make promises.

"I don't have a crystal ball." I stopped trying to steady my voice.

"I don't know whether you'll get jerked around or not. But my situation is different now. That's what Ginny and I were fighting about. We agreed to go our separate ways.

"And I'm glad." Which was true, as far as it went.

"All those grey areas were driving me crazy.

"I don't want to jerk you around," I finished.

"I want you to say yes."

Deborah didn't hesitate. Or speak. Instead she gave me a smile that made the whole inside of my chest ring like a gong.

Twelve.

The tournament ran until nearly midnight, but I hardly noticed what happened. Winners and losers, trophies, grievances, triumphs, even Benny "the Jet" Urquidez's sparring demonstration none of it made the remotest impression on me. I didn't forget Bernie, not for a second.

But the rest of my attention was fixed elsewhere.

Deborah and I may've slept that night, I wasn't sure. I couldn't pretend that I understood her. Her presence mystified me entirely. But she'd told me the truth about one thing, at least. She definitely enjoyed sex. That night we did things I'd never imagined. She found responses in me that I didn't know I had.

Yet when my wake-up call came I positively bounced out of bed. While we made ready to face the day, I wore a loony grin I couldn't get rid of. I would've felt like a complete idiot if she hadn't looked as pleased and satisfied as I was.

Faking discretion, we said a businesslike goodbye after breakfast. I promised I'd call her on Monday, and finally tore myself away to head for the tournament hall. But she ran after me, caught my arm, and put her mouth to my ear.

In a quick whisper, she told me, "I think you're going to get good news today."

Then she left like she knew exactly what effect she had on me.

I ached to go after her, but I had a job to do. Somehow I made myself return to it.

In the back of my head, a tune repeated itself like a litany of pleasure, although I couldn't remember the name of the song or any of the words.

The routine of the tournament hadn't changed. When we'd retrieved the display from the manager's safe room, IAMA blazers opened the doors for registration and spectators. Today, however, the audience significantly outnumbered the competitors. Originally only "championships" or "grand chamoionshiDs" had been scheduled which obviously drew the biggest crowds but a revised listing indicated a backlog of unfinished events from the previous day. I'd probably be stuck here until midnight. Again.

Sighing, I proceeded to ignore the problem. All I had to do was keep an eye on the chops, watch for more picks, and wait out the day. By tomorrow I'd be able to collect my paycheck. Then I could get serious about hunting for Bernie's killer.

Marshal would've been proud of me. With that tune on its endless loop in my head, I was actively polite to everyone I encountered. I even watched some of the events like I enjoyed them. And today the gradually building heat didn't bother me. I was uncharacteristically immune to petty vexations.

Ginny wouldn't have recognized me.

Sometime around noon, the "Masters' Kata" got underway. Since Sue Rasmussen had advised me not to miss it, I observed it from the vantage of the dais.

Along the edge of a ring nearby, seven so-called masters knelt while an eighth bowed to the judges. At this level, apparently, the IAMA no longer distinguished between hard and soft styles. Two men and a woman wore silk pajamas, the rest canvas. The man going first was Song Duk Soon. Among the others I recognized Hong Fei-Tung, Soke Bob Gravel, whom I'd met briefly on Friday, Nelson Brick, and to my surprise Parker Neill.

Brick I thought I understood. He'd suffered a blow to his ego earlier, so he wanted to recoup. But why was Parker there? I'd assumed that the dignitaries didn't compete, if only to avoid any appearance of favoritism. Certainly there were no official blazers among the judges.

In fact, I only recognized one of them.

Nakahatchi.

I wondered why he chose to judge instead of competing.

Glancing around for someone to ask, I spotted Ned Gage. He saw me beckon and joined me on the dais as Master Soon sprang into motion.

Soon knew how to put on a show, I had to give him that. From a cold start, he practically exploded into dramatic blows, leaping spins, and kicks so high they might've been aimed at the ceiling. The fury of his yells tugged at my guts. Some of his kicks seemed to leave streaks of flame across my vision, as if they'd ignited the air for an instant.

At the end, he passed without transition from violent exertion to stillness. He wasn't sweating as far as I could tell, he wasn't even breathing hard. Smoothly he bowed to the judges, then retreated from the ring, bowed to his fellow masters, and knelt alone opposite them.

I applauded dutifully. Like the rest of the audience, Ned showed more enthusiasm. For a second there, he looked like he might cheer.

The woman in silk was already on her way into the ring, so I asked Ned quickly, "Why is Parker competing?"

Ned grinned.

"I think you upset him yesterday," he whispered.

"He wants to prove something. Maybe he needs to remind himself he's still alive.

"Of course" humor gleamed in Ned's eyes "he won't win. None of the judges want to look like they're sucking up to the IAMA."

"Surely he knows that," I objected.

"What's he going to prove?"