Imposter Page 3

  “How old are you now?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  Bledsoe said, “If this guy’s survived nineteen years with Vic Wright, he’s good.”

  D’Amico said, “So you worked out at the dojo, then what?”

  “I drove to the market and met my mother.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “I called my girlfriend.”

  “Her name?”

  “Trish. It doesn’t matter. She wasn’t in. And we’ve broken up.”

  D’Amico spoke with a soft, relentless pressure. “How do you know if she wasn’t there?”

  “We split up before.”

  “Before.”

  “Yes.”

  D’Amico and his partner exchanged a look. “Are you always this talkative?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything more you can tell us about the time from when you arrived home to when the blast took place?”

  “We got out of the car. We started toward the door. I had the shopping bags and was behind her. The bomb went off. I survived.”

  D’Amico rose to his feet. “I wish I could say this has been helpful.”

  Bledsoe coughed his way across the room. “Tell Vic that Clarence said hello.”

  Matt watched the door sigh shut behind them, enclosing him in memories and guilt. What should he have told the detectives, that he might as well be laid out there beside his mother? That he should have done more to protect her? The nurse returned and lowered his bed and spoke words he could not hear. Matt tried to lose himself in sleep, but the memories were too harsh in their demands. So he lay there with his eyes shut, helpless to do anything but watch his past scroll toward doom and regret.

  The day before the bombing, Matt should have been feasting on success. Ambassador Walton, head of State Department Intel, was due down that afternoon to give the valedictory address and present Matt his top-cadet medal. Instead, Matt was trapped in the headlights of public calamity, trying hard not to tell Trish good-bye.

  Matt stood in the duty room using the only pay phone reserved for cadets. Cell phones did not work on the FLETSE base. This lone pay phone was the cadets’ only connection to the outside world. A dozen other off-duty cadets pretended not to listen as Matt begged Trish not to make a long-distance break.

  According to Trish, Matt Kelly was the handsomest mystery she had ever met. He was a trace over six feet and permanently lean. His dark blond hair was cut to agency guidelines. Even in standard cadet sweats Matt looked buttoned down and serious about stuff like life and career and a future. But Matt’s appeal had faded as far as Trish was concerned, and she was showing little interest in one last chance.

  “What’s the point, Matt? We’ve been through this a dozen times already. Which is silly, since we’ve only been together, what, six months? Less. Most of which—”

  “I’d just like to talk it through together.”

  “You’ve been away training for a job I’ve never understood why you wanted to take in the first place.” She sighed away that particular argument. “Look. We both know it was over before it ever really started. It’s best if we let go now, okay?”

  “Please, Trish.”

  She became impatient. “Matt, I’ve argued with you more than I did in the previous five years with the guy I almost married. Which is insane, because you don’t argue back.” Her voice rose in stages. “You don’t show me anything. I’ve seen you almost every day you’ve been in town, and I don’t know you any better now than I did when we first met! You’re a complete enigma! I didn’t even know what that word meant before I met you, and now I feel like it’s branded to my tongue!”

  The hand holding the receiver was clammy from mashing the phone to his ear, keeping the others from hearing her words. “Graduation ceremonies are this evening. I’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning and drive up. Okay?”

  She might have said, “Whatever.” Or she might have just sighed as she hung up.

  Which was why he coasted through the ceremony and skipped out on the celebrations and finally gave up on sleep at four the next morning. He made the journey back to Baltimore in seven and a half hours. He called her four times from the road, but Trish let the answering machine pick up. Then her office said she was in a meeting until two that afternoon. So Matt admitted temporary defeat and made the next call. The one to Megan Kelly, agreeing to meet her at Lexington Market after she finished some political gig, which left him two hours to kill. So Matt left the interstate at Tenth Ward and headed for Vic Wright’s dojo.

  Full-contact dojos, or karate studios, sprouted from the wretched soil of bad neighborhoods. Tenth Ward wasn’t the worst Baltimore had to offer. But with the state pen six blocks to the west, this area was bad enough. The dojo shared the mall with a Latino grocery store, a bail bondsman, a check-cashing shop, and a bar. Halfway houses occupied several neighboring townhomes.

  Matt had first come here at age twelve. This had been the closest dojo to Matt’s home. Biking through Tenth Ward at age twelve had been a trip. Matt had come once by bus, but only once. He had been too pretty for the bus. Whenever his father moved the family back to Baltimore from wherever his latest project had taken them, Matt returned to the dojo. While away, he practiced on his own. He practiced very hard.

  Matt switched off the engine and sat waiting for the world to stop moving at eighty-five miles an hour. Autumn had distilled Baltimore’s cloying summer heat to a pristine blue-sky wrap. In Tenth Ward, however, few people looked up long enough to notice.

  “Hey, hey, watcha know.” A bearded man in leather vest and tattoos leaned against the dojo’s front window. He nudged his buddy. “Somebody’s brought us lunch.”

  Vic Wright appeared in the studio’s doorway. He was a former Lejeune drill sergeant and D.C. cop. Black and big. “Leave it alone, Calvin.”

  “What, I’m supposed to let this cupcake just waltz in here?”

  “He’s gonna own you, you don’t watch out.” Vic offered Matt his hand. “How’re you doing, kid?”

  “So-so.”

  Calvin demanded, “You telling me you know this guy?”

  “Better than I want to know you.” Vic motioned for Matt to follow him inside. “Back off, Calvin.”

  But the bearded guy followed Matt into the dojo making kissy sounds. “Hey, cupcake. I’m talking to you.”

  Matt nodded hello to several of the older students as he crossed the front room. He needed to focus on the man tracking him. But he could not get the battle after this one out of his head—the one with Trish. The one he was bound to lose.

  The studio comprised two derelict stores connected by a broad hall. The front had been split into a shop for karate gear and a changing area. The changing area had lockers and bathrooms and a wall of mirrors where students could practice while waiting their turn on the mats. The entrance area and the changing room were packed with kids. The practice room took up the entire second store. A small viewing area was nestled against the east wall. Square sawdust cushions lined the other three walls, where students sat or knelt during instruction.

  Vic looked up from where he led a morning class through their first routine. “Calvin, I’m telling you to let it go.”

  “What, a guy comes in, I’m not allowed to challenge?” Calvin had taken his styling tips from inside the pen. Shaved head on top, full beard covering a tree trunk of a neck. Shoulder tats. Three silver-and-turquoise rings on each hand. Matt saw in the side mirror how the rings formed a solid metal wall when the man formed a fist. The rings’ outer surfaces were pitted and scarred. He tapped Matt in the back. Probing. “That’s what you’re here for, right? A challenge?”

  Matt kept his face toward the practice room as he slipped off his shoes. The students waiting their turn clustered well back and watched the confrontation with knowing eyes.

  Vic asked, “How long do you have?”

  Matt straightened. “Couple of hours.”

  Calvin tapped his shoulder again. Harder. “What, he’l
l talk to you and not to me?”

  Vic wore what he always did, black sweats with the sleeves cut out of the shirt. His face and shoulders were pockmarked, like he had met a barrage of hot metal, little gray pinpricks all over his dark skin. Matt had wondered about the scars but had never asked. Vic said, “Calvin, go grab a tamale from next door. Tell Carlos it’s on me. Save yourself some pain.”

  But everybody was watching them now. Calvin’s pride was on the line. “You know the rules. What am I saying? You wrote them.”

  The rules were simple. Anyone who stepped onto the tatami mats was open to challenge. Vic protected his younger charges. And he did not permit the advanced to prey upon beginners. His tactics were simple. If an unfair challenge was made, the contender first had to fight Vic. Otherwise, the studio ran by street rules: Be strong; be wise; survive.

  There were mirrors in the studio as well, two of them. They flanked the small area for observers on the far wall and were easy to miss. One, however, offered a sideways warning to anyone stepping through the entrance. Matt had learned early to glance that way without moving his head. Which was how he saw Calvin’s strike.

  Calvin attacked the instant Matt’s foot touched the woven tatami mat. He came in high, a jab for the point where Matt’s skull met his spine. With the rings reinforcing Calvin’s fist, the punch would have temporarily paralyzed Matt. But Matt responded as Vic had taught. Strike first, strike hard.

  He spun and deflected the strike with his left forearm, and put his entire body into a single punch. Straight into the ribs over the guy’s heart. The muscles and the flab were enough to keep Calvin’s ribs from cracking. But his breath whooshed out in a fetid cloud. Calvin’s eyes went unfocused as his heartbeat faltered.

  “Here, let me help.” Matt grabbed Calvin by his greasy beard. He kicked the guy behind his knees and flipped him down. Calvin landed hard on the nearest sawdust-filled cushion.

  Matt held the guy’s head down on the tatami for a minute, just staring him in the eye. Showing him there was more if he wanted it. “Comfy?”

  Vic remained leaning against the doorway. “We all done here?”

  Matt did not turn away until he was certain the fight was out of the guy. “I sure am.”

  “Right.” Vic kicked off his sandals and stepped into the center of the room. “Give me a hand with the real cupcakes, why don’t you.”

  Matt changed into rumpled sweats and took over the newbies. They were still wide-eyed over what they had just seen, and almost too eager. Matt walked them slowly through a stylized fighting routine called a kata, talking them down to relative calm.

  Class over, Matt stepped into the changing area and toweled off. The bearded guy still sat where Matt had planted him, tracking Matt’s every move. Matt took note and let it go. Tenth Ward attackers came in two sizes. Once they were bested, either they accepted him as one of their own, or they turned feral. This guy could go either way.

  Vic obviously felt the same. Instead of ordering the current students off the floor and the next group on, he said, “Everybody find places around the wall.”

  Matt stood before the mirror and waited out the crush. He knew what was coming. Ordinarily he would have been thrilled. Today, however, he just marked time on fate’s inescapable clock.

  Vic continued, “This is Matt Kelly. Graduated yesterday from FLETSE, the new training school in Georgia for folks aimed at the high-octane world of ops. As in field operatives.”

  “A fed?” The bearded guy punched the cushion beside him in disgust. “You let a fed in here?”

  “And before that he graduated from Tenth Ward. Just like you guys.” Vic faced Matt and bowed. And attacked.

  Some of the kids gasped. No wonder. Vic was a very beefy man and showing his age. But when Vic let loose, his fluidity was a wonder to behold. He feinted and kicked and jumped and kicked twice more before landing. Any of his moves could have been a killing stroke.

  Vic allowed himself to unleash because he trusted Matt. Matt responded as Vic required, with equal ferocity.

  When Matt had first started coming to the dojo, Vic’s sparring partner had been a guy who had served in Vietnam with Vic. Matt had never seen a borderline maniac before then. The vet never said his name. If asked, Vic had always replied, “He’s just an old buddy.” The vet never spoke. Not a word. His silent glare totally freaked the uptown kids. But they all looked forward to his sporadic visits. This was why a lot of them came, so they could pretend that one day they’d wake up and possess that fanatic ferocity.

  Matt had no idea what they said about him when he was away. He liked to pretend the sessions were no big thing, just a way to keep his timing. But he knew what it was like to sit on the sidelines and watch round-eyed as two guys went head-to-head. Like the movies had come to life.

  Vic’s synapses and muscles were aging. Matt adapted, slowing his own strikes a fraction, redirecting the explosive force of his kicks.

  Until Vic hammered him. A kick out of nowhere. Smack on the chest where he had struck the bearded guy. Matt landed hard on the tatami.

  When his eyes cleared, Vic was leaning over him. Vic did not ask if Matt was okay. Vic never asked that. Just, “You think maybe playtime is over now?”

  Matt lay there until his heart returned to normal. The bearded guy chuckled softly, loving the sight of his foe laid out. But easing up as well. Vic’s gaze flickered over to him, a glance that nobody in the room noticed except Matt. Matt, however, understood. The risk that Calvin would be waiting for him in the parking lot with a Sig on full automatic was gone.

  Matt rose in stages. Letting his strength fully return. No way could he take a second one of those.

  Their dance became edgier. The rage almost real.

  Matt let Vic dominate the air. He stayed firmly planted on the ground. His chest ached with each breath. He held to defensive movements, gradually slowing, as though the chest punch was draining him. Which it was. His heart felt on fire.

  Vic went up for a second chest kick. Matt made a double block with left knee and elbow, overprotecting his vulnerable point. And exposing himself to another attack in the process, which Vic had obviously expected because the kick was a feint. Vic pivoted and swung his other heel in a rotating kick aimed to take Matt out.

  Only Matt’s block was a feint as well.

  He dropped to one hand and knee and swept Vic’s other leg out from under him.

  Vic tried to flip and roll from his fall. But Matt was there to pin him to the floor. He bladed his hand and chopped the exposed carotid artery. Stopping only when he made contact with sweaty skin.

  Vic hammered the tatami with the flat of his hand. Set and match.

  They stood. Bowed. Vic turned to the class. “He bettered me. How? Anybody?”

  The kids were too shell-shocked to respond.

  “Matt’s greatest strength is his ability to hide everything about himself. He keeps everything deep down and reads the smallest signals and gestures. He uses them. But only when he’s ready. Only when he’s fully charged. Then he attacks, just lets the secret power rage up. Then it’s over, and he goes back to being the bland little cupcake that is all the world ever sees.”

  Vic paused to breathe hard. His back was to Matt, and he did not see the impact his words were having. This was not praise. Not with Trish waiting. This was a conviction.

  Vic went on, “Matt hides his force better than anybody I’ve ever met. He is like water. He flows around life, but there’s nothing to see, nothing to notice, nothing to tell you what you’re up against. You think you know him, but you only see the lie, the exterior. Which makes him impossible to read. A perfect opponent. Almost like he has no center at all.”

  The hospital released Matt for the funeral. Dr. Krishnamurti was reluctant to let Matt go. The doctor was the hospital’s spokesperson and had enjoyed a lifetime’s publicity in eleven days. Matt had seen him daily on the evening news. Dr. Krishnamurti had talked about Matt as if they were chums. Yes, Matt was doing as
well as could be expected. Yes, of course, grief over the loss of his mother slowed the healing process. But Matt’s concussion was completely gone. The burn on his temple was healing well and no grafts were planned. And the splinter driven into his thigh like a brick bullet had not severed tendons as first feared. Matt was attending twice-daily physical therapy sessions. Dr. Krishnamurti loved using Matt’s first name. As long as the television lights stayed on, the guy yapped.

  Dr. Krishnamurti wasn’t much older than Matt and was still learning to hide his ego. His need to talk down to the world turned his every word and motion into bad theatrics. The nurses all played mute in his presence. Matt did not cross him until the doctor insisted on personally pushing his wheelchair to the front entrance. Midway across the front hall, Matt braked hard with his good leg and announced, “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Sir, hospital regulations require—”

  “Save it.” Paul Kelly wore a dark suit and sunglasses and had not uttered a word since embracing his son upstairs. “If my son wants to walk, then he’s walking.”

  The cameras were there beyond the entrance. Their lights turned the glass doors into polished shields. Matt could see nothing save the blinding illumination. He hesitated, but not because of the public attention. Moving through those doors meant accepting the challenge.

  “You all right, boy?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “I can call back the pest with his chair.”

  “No. I’m good to go.”

  They passed through the entrance and met the barrage of sound. Police kept the journalists back, but not even the day’s purpose could silence them here. The limo driver stood with the rear door open. Matt eased himself in, then slipped over so his father would not need to go around.

  Sol Greene, his father’s campaign manager and best friend, reached across the front seat and offered his hand. “Can’t tell you how sorry I am, Matt.”

  They had seen one another almost every day. But this particular morning required a stiff formality. “Thanks, Sol.”

  “How are you feeling?”