The long way home

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A Fight I Couldn't Win Mike took another step into the dojo. I took another step back away from him. I had to find a way past him-and quick-before the alarm company called the police, before the police arrived. Five minutes. Ten at most.

But how? Whatever fighting tricks I knew, Mike had taught me. However long and hard I'd practiced, he'd practiced more. Plus, he'd been in the army, in real battles in Iraq and Afghanistan. How could I neutralize him even long enough to get to the door?

The ringing of the alarm went on outside, a steady bell.

And I thought: the phone. The alarm company was about to call to make sure the alarm hadn't gone off by accident. That meant the phone in the office was about to ring. Maybe that would draw Mike's attention, distract him just for a second. If I could use that second to knock him out of the way…

Then the phone rang-and I struck.

It was the strangest feeling. To attack my own teacher. To attack the guy who'd been such a help and a guide to me all the time I was growing up. It wasn't just karate either. Sometimes there had been things I wanted to talk about that I somehow couldn't say to my mom or dad. I could always say them to Mike. Sometimes there were things Mom and Dad just didn't understand. Mike always did. He was what I guess you'd call a mentor. He was the last person in the world I wanted to attack.

But I had to do it. I had to get past him. I had to prove I didn't kill Alex-even if I could only prove it to myself.

So when the phone rang-when Mike's eyes shifted toward it reflexively-just a little, just for a second-I was ready. I shot a swift high kick straight for Mike's chest, hoping to knock him back and out of the way.

I actually managed to take him by surprise. I don't think he really believed I'd try it. He didn't have time to dodge-the best defense against a kick. But he was so good, it didn't matter. He curled himself up, pulling his chest away from the kick so that my foot struck without any real power. Then he crossed his arms, trapping my foot between them.

I knew that move-Mike had taught it to me. I knew he would twist my leg next and throw me over to the side.

But Mike had taught me the defense against that, too, so I used it. I hopped in close on one leg and tried to hit him in the mouth with the heel of my palm.

Of course, he knew I was going to do that. He turned aside and tossed me away so that my blow flew right past him-and so did I.

And now he was to the side of me and came in on the attack. He tried to wrap his arm around my throat in a choke hold. He'd be able to knock me out in about three seconds like that.

I couldn't let it happen. Quickly, I slipped underneath his arm just the way he'd always shown me. Then I tried to push him to the side so I could make an escape route to the door.

Before I could, he snapped his elbow back into my chest and then snapped a backhanded fist into my face. He could've broken my nose with that, but he hit me in the cheek instead because he was trying not to hurt me too badly. It stung plenty, though-and he followed it up with a left-handed blow to the belly that knocked the wind out of me.

All the same, I tried to fight back, tried to throw a right over his punch into the side of his head.

Mike ducked the punch so fast it was as if he'd disappeared from in front of me. Another punch hit me in the belly-a right this time, much harder. I gasped out air and nearly doubled over. Then Mike was behind me.

He chopped me in the back of the neck. He could've killed me with a blow like that, but his control was pinpoint perfect. He hit me just hard enough to send a burst of pain shooting through my head and white sparks exploded in front of my eyes.

My knees buckled and I went down. I had just enough sense left to drop to my shoulder and roll. I leapt to my feet again, throwing my hands on guard just the way Mike had taught me. But to be honest, I was dazed. If Mike had come after me then, he probably could've finished me off pretty easily.

But he didn't attack. He just stood where he was in the middle of the dojo. He shook his head and stroked his mustache in that way he did when he wanted to hide a smile.

"That was pretty good, chucklehead," he said. "I guess I taught you well. You almost had me for…"

I broke for the door. Mike should've known better than to start talking. It's always the best time to make a move-he taught me that.

I was out of the dojo and through the foyer. I was at the door, reaching for it, grabbing it-when Mike caught up to me.

But I was waiting for that, ready for it. The second I felt his hand on my collar, I changed direction as suddenly as I could. I braked on the balls of my feet and spun around. I knocked his hand off me with my left forearm. I shot my open hand at his chest, just trying to push him back. I could've aimed for his throat, but I didn't want to hurt him any more than he wanted to hurt me.

I shouldn't have worried about it. The blow never landed anyway. Mike knocked it away with a left cross-body block and whacked me on the side of the head with his right. It was another blow that could've been a lot worse, but Mike kept his hand open so it was more of a slap than anything else. Still, it rattled me, stunned me-and the next moment Mike had my arm twisted behind me and forced me away from the door, back into the dojo.

He let me go, giving me an extra shove so I went stumbling a few steps away from him. I turned around, breathing hard. Mike just stood there, blocking the way out of the dojo, waiting to see if I would try to get past him again.

I didn't. What was the point? I knew I couldn't beat him. He knew every move I knew and some I didn't. And he knew them all a lot better than I did, maybe better than I ever would.

He stroked his mustache again. "I'll tell you something, Charlie," he said. "You're the best student I ever had." I was glad to see he was breathing kind of hard himself, though nowhere near as hard as I was. "In fact, you're one of the best fighters I've ever seen and I've seen some good ones. Another five years, a little more real-life, maybe some military training, you might even be able to take me. But not today."

I nodded. I knew he was right. I bent forward, resting my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath, trying to shake off the pain in my gut and the daze in my head.

The phone had stopped ringing now. I noticed the alarm bell had stopped ringing too. The alarm company must've turned it off on their end. They were probably calling the police now. Another two or three minutes and I'd hear the sirens again, see the flashing lights again. I'd have no way to escape this time.

I had only one chance left. If I couldn't find the right strike to knock Mike out of the way, then I had to find the right words, the right argument, that would make him see why he had to let me go. I had to convince him. And I had to do it now.

"Mike," I said, thinking even as I spoke, searching desperately for the words and the reasoning. "Listen, okay? Just listen to me."

"I'm listening. You have until the police get here."

"You said you figured I was framed, right?"

He nodded. "That's right. You must've been. There was so much evidence against you, there were only two possibilities. Either you were framed or you were guilty. And I know you weren't guilty."

To be honest, I didn't know whether he was right or not, whether I was framed or guilty or whether there was some other explanation altogether. But I did remember what Beth had told me. How she'd described the day I was arrested and what the evidence against me was and so on.

"Some of the traces of blood they found were on my clothes, remember?" I said. "The clothes I was wearing the last time I saw Alex."

"Yeah, I remember. So?"

"So I gave those clothes to the police myself. I had them at home and I turned them over as soon as they asked for them. No one touched them except for me and the police."

Mike made an impatient gesture with his hand. "So what?"

"Well, how'd the evidence get on my clothes, Mike? How'd the blood get on them?"

"So what're you saying? That you're guilty?"

"Maybe. Like you said: guilty or framed. And if I was framed, then it must've been the police who framed me."

Mike's eyes went wide. "What? Oh, come on!"

"No, listen. Listen. They were the only people who had the clothes, right? Them and me. Who else could've put Alex's blood on them?"

He gave a wave of his hand, made a dismissive noise. "Nice try, Charlie, but that's nuts. That doesn't make any sense at all. I know a lot of the cops in this town. They're straight-arrow, every one of them."

"You can't know them all."

"No. But enough. It's a good department."

"Then I must be guilty," I said. "You said it yourself. Either I was framed or I'm guilty. If I was framed, it had to be someone on the police force who did it. Or at least it had to be someone who could get to the evidence while it was in police custody. Maybe it was the prosecutor or someone in his office. I don't know. But it had to be someone like that. Someone in authority."

For a moment Mike didn't answer, and a little flutter of hope went through me. I could see the logic of it working on him. It was working on me too. I hadn't really thought it through before, but now that I'd said it, it did make a certain amount of sense, didn't it? If I wasn't guilty, then where did the evidence come from? Blood on my clothing. Fingerprints and DN A on the knife. If I wasn't guilty, how could it all get there?

"I never even owned a combat knife, Mike," I said, thinking out loud. "How could it have my fingerprints on it and my DN A? If I was framed, it had to be by someone in power, someone who could get at the evidence and at me."

When I stopped speaking, we were both silent again. And in the silence, I heard them: the sirens. Off at a distance somewhere, but coming fast. Mike heard them too. We both glanced in the direction of the door.

"Mike, listen," I said. "Either I'm guilty or you may be giving me over to the very people who set me up in the first place."

"I'm telling you," Mike said, "the police wouldn't do that. I know them…"

But he didn't sound as sure as he did before. I kept pressing.

"You don't know all of them. It would only take one. Or the prosecutor. Or someone like that. And that means I'm dangerous to someone, someone in authority, someone who knows the truth. If you let them put me back in prison, you may be putting me just where they want me, just where they can get at me."

"You don't know that," Mike said-but again, he didn't sound so sure.

"You said I broke out of prison before my lawyers could even appeal," I pressed on. "I don't remember, but maybe I did it because I had to. Maybe I knew that if I stayed in prison, I wouldn't live long enough for an appeal."

He looked at me and I looked back. We were both thinking it through. We were both realizing it made sense.

And all the while, the sirens were growing louder. That sound like baying dogs getting close to their prey. It made me sick inside. The police would be here any minute now.

"Mike, please," I said. "Just think about it. If you let me go, at least you know I'll be free to defend myself. If you send me back to prison, you might make me a sitting duck; you may be putting me right where they want me." Mike actually nodded slightly. I couldn't fight him, but my words were getting through. "If you think I'm guilty, turn me over," I said. "But if you think I was framed, you gotta let me go. You gotta let me try to prove it. Someone- someone on the inside-is my enemy. If you think I'm innocent, you've got to let me go."

Mike just went on standing there, went on looking at me. Another second went by and then another. The sirens were much louder now. I thought the cops must be almost at the mall. There was no more time…

"You're innocent," said Mike then-now he was the one who was thinking out loud. "There's no question you're innocent, not to me. Some things you know because you can prove them. But another man's heart-that's something you have to take on faith. I have faith in you, Charlie. I know you're no killer. And if you really think you have to keep running in order to stay alive"-he turned aside, leaving a path to the door-"then go."

There was no time to say all the things I wanted to say to him, to give him all the thanks he deserved, not just for this, but for everything, all through the years. There was no time to say any of it. Choked up, I gripped his shoulder once as I went past him.

Then I was out of the dojo. Through the foyer. At the door.

"Godspeed, chucklehead," I heard Mike say behind me.

I braced myself and stepped out into the night.

The sirens came closer and closer. At last, I saw the flashing lights of the police cruisers converging on the mall. I saw two cars come screeching to a halt in the parking lot in front of the dojo. I saw a uniformed officer step from each of the cars and I saw the two of them go running to the dojo door.

I saw it all in the rearview mirror of Rick's red Civic. Because by then, I was driving away.