Murders at Hollings General

Razbit looked helpless. 'A pair.'

'A pair was bought?'

'Yes.'

'You can't give names?'

'No.' David knew a fake name had been used, anyway. He gave the old-timer his most piercing stare. 'Can you at least describe the person who bought the pair?'

Razbit rearranged a collection of lockets on the counter.

'She had dark hair-wore dark glasses-had a bandana on-was all bundled up. That's all I can remember.'

'That's all?'

Razbit now looked captured. 'Maybe one other thing.'

'Which is?'

'She had a husky voice.'

'Was she tall? Short?'

'Everyone looks tall to me.'

David decided he'd pumped as much information out of his school chum's father as he could. He assured him the interview never took place, asked him to be remembered to his wife and walked out the door.

At five, David cursed as he climbed three flights to Bruno's Martial Arts Studio. How about an elevator, for Christ's sake? But I suppose we black belts aren't supposed to have trick knees.

He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and waited to hear its laminated glass panel shake, as it always had for nine years. Imprinted in black at each corner of the glass were, in turn, CHINESE-JAPANESE- KOREAN-AMERICAN. In the center was:

MARTIAL ARTS

Bruno Bateman, Grand Master

Inside, it was as if David had crossed a bridge to a land far removed from turmoil, stress or even tedium on given days. One would think it was merely because of the concentration of fending off serious injury in percussive tae kwan do combat: kicking, elbows flying, slashing with hands and feet. But it was more than that. His senses were piqued again: the smell of sweat, the talcum taste, the clash of expiratory grunts, the give of the shiaijo mat under his bare feet.

David had become somewhat of a master himself in bujutsu, a form of Japanese martial arts that stresses combat and willingness to face death as a matter of honor. He had never been required to take it that far since he began the study as a teenager, but he respected the spiritual concepts on which it is based: Zen Buddhism and Shinto. And it was through the pursuit of those teachings that he grew to understand Japanese culture in general.

He peeked in at Bruno who was in a side room and had already begun his class for beginners. He alternated it nightly with a class for intermediates. The middle-aged Grand Master was as tall as David but thinner. Ruddy complexioned, he had cheekbones that appeared inverted and greying hair gathered in a ponytail. When not in combat, his movements were economical, and he kept his hands pressed to his sides like lethal paddles. Even his smile took a full sentence to form-but a period to dissolve.

'Sorry I missed Tuesday,' David said.

'Understandable,' Bruno responded, one eye on David, the other on a student he had in a partial hold. 'See you next week?'

'I sure hope so, but if things get hairier, I might have to skip again.'

'First things first, and I wish you success.'

In deference to his knee, David had recently given thought to limiting his workouts to non-percussive aikido-merely to throwing or locking, and neutralizing his opponent without striking. He couldn't abandon, however, the gusto of what had become second nature to him: the give and take of the inherently lethal; in his mind, the only bona fide karate. Moreover, the pain would come later.

He was one of a handful of members who had been issued lockers. On Thursday nights, he changed into a pajamalike costume of white cotton jacket and pants and a black belt. On Tuesdays, he wore simple gray sweats. This time was no different from other Thursday nights: mats all filled, friendly chatter between yowls, exchanging opponents around the room, his savoring the ambiance of a full hour. He took a shower. There had been nothing unusual up there.

Outside, a fierce, biting wind whipped a drizzle to the side. Newspapers blew around David's legs while, nearby, a Stop and Shop bag was tangled in a tree. Only after winter classes did David have a stocking cap handy to join his scarf and gloves because he had been told in physiology class that thirty per cent of body heat was lost from the head. And that it was probably more if one's pores were open. David had always gone along with the thirty per cent, but he had difficulty picturing pores opening and closing. So suppose they're open now-what difference does it make under two tons of hair? Nonetheless, he took the cap from his pocket and put it on.

He hopscotched over puddles to the parking lot across the street, rehearsing what moves he would use should anyone accost him. About to slide into his car, he noticed a small scrap of paper under a windshield wiper blade. He pried the paper loose and was about to roll it into a wad when, under the stanchion light, he was drawn to two lines smeared in black ink:

SOON AGAIN

MY FRIEND

David pulled out his Beretta Minx.22 and shielded it in the hollow under his left arm as he turned in a circle, casting his gaze at trees and shrubs and along rows of parked cars. Inadvertently, he dropped the scrap of paper. He returned the gun to his shoulder rig and, before speeding off, searched the macadam around him, finally concluding the paper was lost in a gust of wind.

He felt the force of the wind against the side of his car and tightened his grip on the wheel. The trip home was slow and he had time to convince himself he would level with Kathy for a change. David figured this new message could refer to anyone but, for the first time, he included his own life in the deadly scheme that might unfold.

Once home, he called Kathy and told her about the wiper message, only to be admonished that he should have a uniformed police officer nearby at all times. David swore and nixed the idea.

Chapter 8

On Friday morning, the funeral service for Charles J. Bugles was brief. It was also poorly attended, the collection of mourners as sparse as his remains. He had been cremated. Through the thrum of rain on slate at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, David heard not a sob. He wondered whether the organ was on the blink, and then he strained to see if the two black-clad figures alone in the front pew resembled Bugles, but their heads remained stock-still ahead.

The minister recited a brief generic eulogy, the gist of which David thought he had heard before. He decided to leave early, hoping there were more people at the reception. He hated funerals and everything associated with them and was glad there had been no wake.

As he negotiated the turns on a hill overlooking Alton and Nora Foster's estate, David saw cars lined like dominoes on both sides of the circular driveway. At the main gate, he obeyed the homemade sign, its arrow's ink dripping in the rain, and drove along a path beyond the Tudor house, past hedges of arborvitae and a traditional bread oven enclosed by topiary loaves. He swerved into a tight slot and, patting his left shoulder, dismissed the idea of bringing Friday along. He squeezed out of the car and slid through an ice-ridged field toward the house.

David had been there twice before and remembered cursing the salary Foster commanded but, since then, had learned of the gilt-edged securities inherited by his wife.

In the foyer, a silver-haired gentleman in an ascot helped with coats. David handed him his scarf and gloves