He pulled the napkin from my hand, dropped it on his seat between his legs, and waved at me. I shut the door and watched him pull away. He was driving very fast. The headache must have been getting unbearable.
So we’d found Heriberto and it had meant nothing to him. We’d also found some kid possibly named Sam who Chris knew, which was weird, especially since old Heri was obviously a dealer. We’d found a house full of people, and if any of them meant anything to Chris, he didn’t have a chance to see them. Maybe the license plate we’d found would be helpful.
13
BRIGHT AND EARLY the next morning, I was at LightningKick, waiting for Gunner before it even opened. He showed up carrying a giant Thermos of green smoothie, and I had to wait what seemed like forever for him to finish it up, the whole time trying to chat with me about crap I didn’t care about.
The four-year-old class was getting canceled. An irate mom had broken one of the lockers when her kid complained about being sore from practice. The sparring dummy had a split in the neck and needed to be replaced and it was probably my fault, ha-ha-ha. The landlord wouldn’t fix the back door. Blah, blah, blah.
I sat on a metal folding chair in my dobok, nervously pumping one leg while chewing on my thumbnail. I’d driven home the evening before with one eye in the rearview mirror the entire way. I’d hardly gotten any sleep; every time Dad moved around downstairs or Hue sighed on the floor next to my bed, I was certain Heriberto was going to pull a Basile brother act on me and bust into my kitchen—only this time I wouldn’t get away with just a few bruises and a cut on my chest.
By the time morning came, practicing with Gunner seemed like the best possible use of my time. Not that I was afraid I was getting rusty or anything; I just needed to expend some of this nervous energy before it made me crazy.
Finally, Gunner rinsed out his cup in the tiny restroom and turned it upside down on a paper towel on the front desk to dry. He disappeared into the locker room, then reappeared in his dobok.
“You ready?” He stepped to one side by the mat and gestured for me to go first.
I stood, walked to the mat, and bowed. “Definitely ready.”
“Want to work on anything in particular?” he asked, following me to the heavy bag. I gave it a few tentative kicks.
Something I could use to defend myself from crazy Hollis wannabes and potential drug dealers. Something that could be used to defend myself from my own father, or any other murderer, for that matter. “Anything,” I said.
Gunner loped over to the equipment box and dug out a kicking pad. He held it in front of him and I worked on my power, gaining steam and momentum with every kick. Snap, snap, snap. Barely stopping to take breaths between, my hands balled up in front of my chin, my focus laser-sharp on the pads. Snap, snap, snap. After a while, Gunner had to change hands, shaking out the one that had been holding the pad.
“You haven’t lost your touch,” he said when I finally took a break. I was sitting on the folding chair again, sucking down a bottle of water as fast as I could. Sweat poured off me. It felt good. I was calming down, anyway. “How are your evasion techniques coming?”
I almost laughed out loud. I thought about running away from the man with white-blond hair at Pear Magic. If there was anything I was good at, it was evasion.
“I could probably work on that,” I said, tossing the empty bottle into recycling and heading back to the mat.
After a bow, Gunner settled into a fighting stance and moved to strike. I stopped him with a high block. He tried again and I used a middle knife hand. He reared back and threw a kick at me. Quick as lightning, I blocked him low. He threw some combinations and I blocked them all, taking the force of his kicks and strikes with my forearms, sending jolty thuds of pain up into my biceps, my chest. I ignored it. I had too much at stake to feel pain.
After a few minutes, he let his stance down. “Your blocks are great, but you need to work on getting out of the way,” he said. “Here, let me show you. Give me a forefist.”
I planted one foot behind me and punched. He ducked out of the way and I punched the air.
“Palm heel,” he said, straightening up again. I thrust my palm at him and he moved to the side. Again, my attack hit air. “Try a combination.”
“Sir?”
“Anything you’d like. Kicks, punches, whatever. Just go for it. You’re going to beat the snot out of me.”
I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and then unleashed two punches into the air, becoming so off balance I couldn’t even finish the combination.
“Yep, see, blocks are fine,” he said, taking my arm and smacking it solidly into his palm. “But it takes a lot of energy away from your next offensive move. Not to mention, it hurts. You evade”—he bent at the knees and moved side to side, like he was ducking under something—“and your opponent is the only one expending energy. You’ve thrown him off by not being where he thinks you’re going to be. He can’t even figure out where to punch next, and he’s off balance. It is almost impossible to beat someone who is evading you. If they’re good at it, that is. Let’s try it again. I’m going to attack you slowly.”
He began throwing slow-motion punches and kicks, and I swerved and bobbed and swiveled and shifted, at first too slow and getting hit anyway, but eventually getting better. Gunner was mostly punching air, even at moderate speed.
But all I could think about was Dad. He had been evading me for over ten years. It was going to be impossible to beat him as long as I kept letting him duck out of the way. He was throwing me off by never being where I thought he would be.
In other words, I’d put it off long enough. I had to listen to those tapes.
I DIDN’T WASTE any time when I got home. I was pretty sure Dad was out for the day, doing some freelance work for a travel magazine, but what I didn’t know was when he’d left or how long exactly he would be gone.
But what Gunner had said had made so much sense. Dad was evading. And I was done letting it throw me off balance.
I went straight up to my room and dug the manila envelope Chris had given me out of my desk drawer. I shook the tapes onto my desk. At first, all I could do was stare at them. I reached out to touch one, but my fingers shook slightly, almost like I was afraid.
No, Nikki. You have been afraid of too many things for too long. Time to step up. They’re tapes. What’s the big deal?
Oh, I could just find out that my dad killed my mom. No big deal there.
Still, I had to know.
I scooped up the tapes and took them to Dad’s room. Last I had seen his recorder, it was on a shelf in his closet. He never used it anymore, but I was pretty sure it would still be there anyway. I was suddenly glad the man was such a hoarder. I flipped on the closet light and stepped inside. It smelled like Dad. Cologne and aftershave and something chemical, like camera oil or lens cleaner or gasoline. And underneath it all, the faint scent of flowers that I associated with my mom. There was nothing left of her in this closet, so there was no way I was actually smelling anything. But the scent was there regardless—always there, always beckoning me, always making me feel hugged from the inside out. If Mom was watching right now, was she sad that I had found out the truth about her, about Peyton? Was she hoping I didn’t bust Dad? Or was she happy that I was finally going to get answers?
Putting the cart a little before the horse there, Nikki. You don’t actually know if he killed anyone, do you? You have to listen to the tapes. Save your judgment.
Yeah, but my judgment was telling me he was definitely lying about something. I’d seen the photos with my own eyes.