The Long Way Home (20 page)

“I know, Mike, but . . . I can handle it.”

“Maybe. But for how long? And for what? So you can live on the run. So you can live as a criminal. Look, I know being in prison is no picnic. But we’ll get you out. You’re innocent. We all know it and we’re gonna prove it. Out here, you’re just going to get yourself killed. Think of your mom, Charlie. Your mom and dad, they’re practically dying with worry about you. They’re terrified every day, every minute, just waiting to hear you’ve been shot by some cop somewhere.”

“But Mike, listen . . .”

“It’s for your own good, Charlie, your own protection. You’re in over your head. I’ve got to hand you over.”

I took a step toward him, toward the door. He held out his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. Our eyes met. I could see just by looking at him that he didn’t want to do this. But I could also see that he would do it because he thought it was right.

“Look . . .” I said. “You’ve got to let me go. I’ve got to prove I didn’t kill Alex.”

“Charlie, you don’t know what you sound like. You’re outnumbered, you’re outgunned. You can’t remember anything. What can you do that we can’t do for you? I mean, you escaped so soon after the trial, your folks didn’t even have time to file an appeal. You gotta give the system a chance to work, man. It’s the best way. Better than this.”

“Mike, I just need some time . . .”

He hesitated. I don’t think I’d ever seen Mike look so indecisive before. He wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, but he felt he had no choice. If I could just convince him . . .

“Sorry, chucklehead,” he said now. “Don’t make this harder on me than it already is.”

He stepped away from the door. He started walking toward his office, toward his phone.

I seized the moment. I leapt for the door.

But Mike was too fast. The next moment, he had me. He grabbed me by my belt and the back of my collar. He hurled me backward so that I went stumbling across the foyer, through the doorway into the dojo. I tripped on the threshold and went down, my butt hitting the carpeted floor with a thud.

Mike, meanwhile, went back to his office door. But he didn’t go in. There was a plastic box on the wall there. It had a little flap. He pulled it open. I could see what it was: the alarm system.

Mike pressed a button. A bell began ringing, not in the dojo but out in the mall where any passing cop could hear it.

“The police won’t show up right away,” he told me. “The alarm company will call here first. Then, when I don’t answer, they’ll call the cops. It usually takes about five, ten minutes before they get here.”

I scrambled to my feet just inside the dojo. “Please, Mike, don’t do it; let me go.”

“No can do, my friend. This is for the best.”

He was still standing by the office door, by the alarm box. There was still a path open between him and the door. I knew there was no rear exit. I didn’t see what else I could do.

I rushed for the door again.

Mike grabbed me by the arm. I swung my arm around, breaking his grip—just as he taught me to do.

But as I swung my arm, he struck me in the nerve center in the armpit—not hard, but hard enough to stun me with the pain. I cried out. Mike got in front of me. He lifted his foot and planted a kick in my midsection—it was more of a push than a kick—not trying to hurt me, just trying to knock me back.

Which it did. Once again, I stumbled back into the dojo.

This time, Mike followed me in, blocking my way.

“What’re you gonna do, Charlie. Fight me?” he asked.

I staggered until I could regain my balance. Then I faced him. I saw the glint of humor in his eyes—humor and sadness both.

I couldn’t believe what I was saying—even though I knew I had to say it.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna fight you, Mike. I’m not going back to prison without a fight.”

Mike shrugged. “It’s a fight you can’t win,” he told me.

But he didn’t have to tell me that. I already knew.

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 . . .”