Paul Levine - Night vision

Then I did it again with the left foot. Why not? He's the one who taught me the Tom Cat Stalk.

My second step was perfect. Even I didn't hear it.

Pam was facing him, the blade of the knife inches from her chest. "Surely you can't go on with your bloodletting, oblivious to the consequences."

Then she saw me. Her eyes widened.

No, Pam, no! Look away.

I hurried the next step. I didn't snap a twig or step on a squirrel's tail. But he heard me. It could have been his woodsman's ears. More likely it was the crash of ceramic bowl on tile. Moving too quickly, I had swung the gaff to one side where it clipped the bowl, sending it to the floor. So there I stood, one knee tucked under my chin, broken pottery covering my socks.

Tom Carruthers pivoted and glared at me. "You!"

"Me."

He smiled ruefully. "Of course. I should have recognized those foolish sneakers out front."

"Okay, Carruthers. It's all over. I'm going to take you in. Now either drop that knife, or I'm going to jam this-"

"Jake," Pam interrupted. "Perhaps-"

"Why not try it?" Carruthers offered, gesturing with the knife. In the light of a Japanese lantern, the blade shone red.

I circled to my right, keeping the knife in view. He circled to his right. He had the sharper weapon; I had the longer. I raised the gaff as if it were a foil. I got into the classic fencing position, feet at right angles, right foot and knee pointed at my enemy, and shouted, "On guard," as if I were Errol Flynn. Then I advanced, my feet skimming the floor in the two-count tempo.

"Jake, he's-"

"Not to worry," I called out.

Carruthers raised the knife in the saber grip, thumb on top, four fingers below. He stood with left foot forward, shoulders square, left hand extended to block any blows, right hand back, protecting the knife, out of my reach.

"I'll gut you, lawyer," he said through clenched teeth.

"No!" Pam shouted.

I skimmed forward some more, then lunged, aiming at his heart, the prime quarte. If he'd been a tarpon, I'd have nailed him. But Carruthers parried with his free arm, taking a glancing shot. He flexed his knees and came forward, going for the throat. I leaned to the right, lengthening the distance he had to go to reach me with his right hand. When his knife shot forward, I sidestepped, letting the blade go by my neck, and at the same time I swung the gaff up and bounced one off his right hip, quinte septime. Carruthers brushed it off and said something impolite, accusing me of intimate relations with a close family member.

He squared up again, and I resumed the fencing position, right foot forward. He slashed downward, going for my front leg. Unsporting. I skimmed backward, then, as he advanced, brought the gaff up hard, slapping the steel blade of the knife. The screech of metal on metal. He didn't lose his grip, but I did, the gaff skittering across the floor.

Oh shit.

He had a knife and I had two hands and a gimpy knee. There are ways to disable someone with a punch. A good shot to the ear can burst an eardrum, cause nerve shock or a concussion. A solid punch to the weak bone of the temple can cause unconsciousness and even death if a hemorrhage results. A blow to the throat can sever the windpipe. But you have to get close enough, and if the other guy has a survival knife with sawteeth, you have to avoid spilling your guts on the floor.

He shifted the knife to an icepick grip, took two steps forward, slashed left, slashed right, then went overhead and brought it down from the top. I could have tried a fancy move to either side, but there comes a time when you stand your ground. There is a concept in martial arts known as harmony. Don't oppose the force of your opponent. Harmonize with it. Where your opponent is strong, yield to him, and as he overextends or goes off balance use your strength against his weakness. It is the yin. Then, where your opponent is weak, overpower him with your strength. The yang.

In the gym you practice the harmony and study diagrams of stick figures using motion and misdirection and leverage to throw opponents around. Here, staring at the glinting blade coming down, I didn't know yin from yang. I just shot two hands up on either side of the descending arm and caught his wrist in a figure-four armlock. He was pushing down, using all his triceps, taking advantage of the angle, but I was bigger and stronger and had two hands against his one and was pushing the knife back toward his ear. Which meant his left hand was free. Just when I was wondering where it was, he plowed a short hook into my rib cage. I heard a crack and felt the pain, and the knife came two inches closer until I steadied myself and pushed right back. He was winding up for a bigger punch, so I just tucked my chin onto my chest and exploded straight up with a burst from the legs, my skull smashing him under the jaw. He yelped and staggered back, his mouth spurting blood where he had bitten cleanly through his lip. My head was ringing, Pam was screaming something at me, and little black flashes were lighting up my eyes. The knife was somewhere on the floor.

As he tumbled backward I came at him, shoulders square, legs pumping, head up, a decent linebacker making a tackle. My legs were a little shaky and I didn't have enough drive. I hit him too high, and he refused to fall, but I drove him backward until we both hit a wall, Japanese prints clattering to the floor. I had him wrapped up, and we danced that way a moment, his blood smearing my face. Then he brought a boot up high and crashed it down into my left instep where my hundred-percent-wool sweat sock did little to cushion the blow. I tottered backward, hopping on one foot, cursing, the pain closing my eyes. I lost my balance just before I hit the tearoom wall. If you're going to crash through a wall, ass over elbows, a paper wall is best. It didn't hurt a bit, my foot and head and ribs hogging all the headlines in the pain department.

I was lying on the low-slung tea table amid rice cakes and bamboo mats when Carruthers appeared, poking his head through the hole I had carved in the wall. I didn't know if I could stand up. He just looked at me.

"Milk or lemon?" I asked.

He growled like one of his large, furry forest friends and stepped through the wall toward me. I rolled off the table into a crouching position and told myself I was just getting warmed up. I wanted to hit him on the side of the neck just below and slightly to the front of the ear. If I could smash the jugular vein, the carotid artery, or the vagus nerve, I could put him into shock. But I couldn't put any weight on my left foot and didn't know how I'd get anything behind the punch.

He just stood there bleeding onto his buckskin, bent at the waist with hands on hips, sucking great gulps of air. "Hunters have rights," he said.

"What?"

"And trappers too."

I thought about it. "Man is the hunter. Right, Carruthers?"

"Right."

"You hunt them for the beauty of their skins."

"That, and for food."

"Food?"

"You animal-rights nuts have gone too far," he said, still huffing. "First furs, then what, beef and chicken?"

"What are you-"

A gunshot inside a small apartment makes a terrible racket. Especially when the bullet connects with a large Oriental vase. Carruthers hustled out of the tearoom. I limped to the opening. "If you two boys have finished your macho game, perhaps we could have a little talk," said Lady Chattery, her two hands gripping my blue steel revolver, a perfectly furious look on her beautiful face.

There was no use putting the sneakers back on. Galoshes wouldn't fit over my swollen left foot. My ribs were throbbing, my head was on fire, and my ego was under siege.

"Apologize? Apologize for what?" I asked.