As for the name Lone, it depended on context. Fred Lone was Fred Lone. Livia Lone was just her. She could always change the name someday, if she wanted to. But she began to think she probably wouldn’t.
She kept training in judo. Kawamoto-sensei promoted her to second dan and asked if she would be interested in a job at the dojo—teaching a women’s self-defense class. Livia was so surprised, honored, and overwhelmed at the notion that she could help teach other women to fight, that for a moment the old emotions welled up, and she had to pause before she could answer.
“Yes,” she told him, her eyes glistening. “Please that.”
So two nights a week, she taught women a blend of judo, wrestling, and jiu-jitsu, focusing on techniques and tactics geared to bigger, stronger opponents. She tried to make clear that technique was actually just a small part of it, that will and attitude were much more important. She knew in retrospect that, physically, she could have stopped Mr. Lone much earlier. So what had prevented her? Only her mind. Without the right mind, the body was useless. But conversely, when the mind was right, the body would find a way. So her philosophy was to teach technique to train the mind.
Her classes were small at first, and composed mostly of elementary and middle school girls. But word got around, and soon the classes included high school girls, too, and then the mothers who were bringing their girls to train. Livia went from two nights a week to three, and then added Saturdays, too. The Lincoln wrestling coach tried again to get her to join the team, but she demurred. Teaching girls to protect themselves was more important to her. Besides, she liked having a job. She wanted to make money so she wouldn’t have to depend on anyone, not even Rick.
Kawamoto-sensei was thrilled by her popularity. In addition to her hourly pay, he started giving her a bonus based on the new members signing up for Livia’s class. He told her most women’s self-defense courses were taught by big, muscular men who might not understand what it meant to have to fight a heavier, stronger opponent, so having a class taught by a girl who weighed maybe 125 pounds was smart and special. That made sense to Livia. And even though the class was focused on women, she encouraged boys from the dojo to come, too, because in her mind, a woman learning to fight but not training against men wasn’t preparing for the real world.
That fall, the dojo had a visitor: a teacher named Devin Asano from Kawamoto-sensei’s previous school in Hawaii, who had won a silver medal at the 1988 Seoul Olympics. Livia had never seen judo as powerful, elegant, and focused as his, and trained with him whenever she could during the month he was staying with Kawamoto-sensei. Luckily, Asano-sensei seemed to enjoy training with her as much as she did with him, and told her he had rarely encountered someone with her talent.
Before he returned to Hawaii, Asano-sensei told Livia he had contacts at San Jose State University in California. SJSU was Asano-sensei’s alma mater, and it had one of the best judo programs in America. They were going to call her.
Livia was reluctant because she wanted to start being a cop right away. And she didn’t want to leave Portland, which felt like where she might find Nason, even though she knew the feeling made no real sense. But it turned out SJSU had a great criminology program—called “justice studies”—which intrigued her. She thought it would be useful to learn more about criminals. And of course the chance to train in judo with some of the best talent in the world was attractive. Rick and Gavin told her they thought SJSU would be a smart move—college would give her a wider range of opportunities no matter what career she ultimately decided on. So when the school offered her a scholarship, she accepted. She would go to SJSU. Train hardcore in judo. And learn everything about criminals.
And then she was going to be a cop. And somehow, find Nason.
44—NOW
Two weeks after her conversation with Masnick, Livia was riding the Ninja east on Highway 20. She would have preferred the Ducati, and the Jeep would have been more practical, but depending on how things went, she might need anonymity—not to mention the full leathers she was wearing.
The air grew colder as the elevation increased, the surroundings changing from fields to pine forests to craggy, snow-topped peaks brilliant under a clear blue sky. She’d never been out this way, and if the occasion had been different, she would have stopped repeatedly to appreciate the primal beauty of the lakes and rivers; the end-of-the-earth remoteness of the North Cascades Highway; the strangeness of tiny towns with names like Corkindale and Marblemount and Diablo, nestled in the mountains like diorama depictions of the Old West.