Robert gave him a half-wave from waist level. David raised his hands in front, palms up, in a what's-going-on gesture. He had never interrupted a karate class before, but neither had Hollings General ever been racked with a string of murders, and anything or anyone connected to one of the victims could change his routine.
He waited for a natural break in Bruno's discourse and walked through the doorway.
"Excuse me," he said.
"David, you're here," Bruno replied. "Would you like to say a few words to the group?"
"No, no, that's okay. Sorry to interrupt, but I just have a message for Robert Bugles there. Could I see you after you finish?" David knew the beginners' sessions and his own ended at six. Robert nodded yes.
"Good, I'll be at my locker. Thanks, Bruno," David said, ducking out of the room.
As David sparred with his colleagues, he had difficulty focusing on his chop and punch blocks, on counter-attacks and on spin moves. To a degree, his size made up for lack of concentration, and it was not until he was clearly outmaneuvered midway in the session, that he willed himself to defer any distractions before he got hurt. He had particularly wondered about Robert's choice of a beginners' class. And also about what was in store for his brother, Bernie.
At six, David cooled down on the bench before his locker. Robert strolled in, breathing hard, glistening in sweat. He sat on an opposite bench and allowed his arms to plummet toward the floor.
"I guess I'm all right if I can do that out there," he said before taking a deep breath. He removed the dark glasses; his left eye was rimmed in black.
"I was going to say, you sure you're not pushing yourself? Hospitalized one day, a karate workout two days later?"
"Nah, just a little stiff."
David stood and slipped out of his uniform top. He mopped himself with a towel, having decided to delay a shower until after he had finished with Robert. "Mind if I ask you a question or two?" he said. "Nope. You want to take showers first?"
"Let's get this over with; it shouldn't take long. First, what on earth are you doing in with the beginners? I thought you were a `brown.'
"I am. But, see, it's been a long time. I'm going in with the intermediates tomorrow night. Bruno told me I could."
"How long has it been since you've been here? I mean, I remember seeing you back then, but it's kind of a blur. How long ago was it?"
"Two years."
David peered down at him. "You look in good shape. Which brings me to my next question. How can a brown belt like you not fend off an attack by his brother."
Robert wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "He caught me off guard with a sucker punch and I couldn't shake it off."
"And your being here doesn't mean you plan on retaliating, does it?"
"You mean `get even'?"
"Exactly."
"Nah. I'm just taking the advice you gave me in the hospital."
"You heard me, then."
"Yeah, I heard you. I also saw how that nurse broad looked at you." Robert shot a conspiratorial leer. "I thought your eyes were closed."
"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Depends."
David pretended to straighten out the shelf in his locker as he said, "Let's get back to Bernie. Have you seen him since he was released?"
"Nope. Never saw him but we talked on the phone."
"You talked? Hmm … who called who?"
"He called me. He said he was sorry about what he did."
"Are you going to press charges?"
"Nah, he was probably right. I shouldn't of let you into dad's place."
"It would have been easy to get a search warrant, Robert."
"If that means the cops open up the place, then I wouldn't of gotten decked." His smile revealed a split in his swollen lip.
David didn't waste time on Robert's logic. "Do you know Victor Spritz?"
Robert lifted one leg to straddle the bench. "I guess so.
"You guess so?"
"I heard my brother talk about him."
"What did he say?"
"When?
"Any time."
"Oh … that he's a nice guy and all that. He never told me much. You know, he's older than me."
All the way home, David tried to understand his discoveries of the day. It was nightfall and he drove transfixed, never using a directional signal or his horn or his rearview mirror to check for frog's eyes, crawling along as if anticipating that his arrival home might sully his mind's hard drive. He was thus in no hurry and the weather helped: a thin rain had turned the roads to black ice.
That Spritz would pick out a rifle for killing and then return it to his collection bothered David. What was the dynamic there? Just plain hiding it among other guns, or was it the twisted reasoning of a psychotic shunned by the Army but now possessing his own military hardware? And what on earth do CARCAN and CANCAN mean? Screw "staying the course." He decided he would level with Kathy when she came over later. Get her input. Share the gravity of his findings. Hell, she's wondering what's been accomplished, anyway.
As the headlights of his Mercedes fell across his driveway, David cursed Fitzpatrick Snow Removal. Half-assed job. He noticed a faint outline of tire tracks as he pressed on the remote control and entered his attached one-car garage. Probably Fitzy's truck or maybe a delivery truck making a wrong turn. He was not concerned until he reached the breezeway and spotted light shining through the window of the rear bathroom. He whipped out his Minx and streaked to the left side of the door to the den. Hugging the wall, he tried the door; it was locked. He slipped in a key and, shrinking sideways, flicked the door with his fingers and allowed it to drift open. The light thud of the door on the inside wall sounded heavy in the silence-loud enough, he thought, to rouse any intruder occupied in the back of the house.
David clutched the semiautomatic with both hands and waited a few seconds. He tried to breathe only through his nose. He recalled once reading that armed cowboys never peeked around corners from a standing position. He squatted and, ignoring the pain in his knee, eased the Minx into the doorway. His head followed close behind.
He reached around and turned on the light. The first things that caught his eye were his desk and table drawers-every one had been pulled out. Most of them together with his considerable number of removable bookshelves lay on the floor like a pile of bricks and tiles. Scattered papers, slanted pictures, disturbed books, overturned lamps, puckered carpeting.
Infuriated, David dashed from room to room, flipping light switches, ready to shoot at anything that moved. Disarray, but not destruction, was everywhere. He found the bathroom light on. He checked his watch. It read six-forty and he deduced the visitor must have been there within the last two hours.
He ambled about-more leisurely now, but with Minx still drawn-stepping aside as he flung open closet doors. Convinced no one was in the house, he returned the gun to its rig and, circling around in the center of the living room, asked himself, "Who was looking for what?" It was a question he plucked from coals of agitation, because David was, first and foremost, inflamed over the violation of his personal space. He felt blood bubbling at his temples.
He thought of sitting but was too fired up for that. Instead, he hunched over and crossed his arms tightly on his chest like a tourniquet for the adrenaline surge he felt throughout his body. He was even annoyed over the tapping of his foot which seemed herky-jerky. Suddenly he stiffened upright. The basement!
David barreled down the stairs as he yanked out his Minx once again. Despite semidarkness, he knew exactly where to pull on the three light chains. There was no one there and his gun collection appeared intact.
Upstairs, he fixed himself a drink and considered straightening out the mess, but decided he wanted Kathy to see it. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping while he kneaded his left knee. His glass was empty when he reassured himself the intruder had never entered the basement, a pronouncement that helped him tolerate the break-in and subjugate its relevance vis-a-vis the question he had initially asked: "Who was looking for what?"