Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,55
warm from jogging over.
She slipped off her shoes and socks, bowed to the mat, bowed to the Korean flag, bowed to him. The black belt who had been calling orders brought her a sword and handed it over with a bow to her. She didn’t know him, but somehow he knew her. Her teacher said nothing else, just stood there with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable, his eyes the only thing moving as they followed her to her beginning position.
Casey focused on the far wall and breathed deeply, centering herself. For one moment she allowed herself to be thankful she had kept up with her training as she’d traveled, making use of hotel rooms, empty fields, deserted roads, and the occasional athletic facility. She was in shape physically. Now she just had to prove she could also perform mentally.
Casey bent her knees, held the sword straight in front of her body, and began. She stabbed, blocked, swung, kicked, circled, knelt, and did a one-handed cartwheel. It felt good. Her speed was fast and consistent, her feet were grounded, and her center held rock-steady. She thought of nothing but the movement. Nothing but the slap of her feet on the mat, the twirling of the sword in her hands, and her breath coming full and even. She finished with a complex series of swordplay, crouched in a defensive stance. After a few beats she straightened, put her feet together and the sword down, and bowed.
“Critique,” her teacher said. “You.” He pointed at a blue belt who was probably about sixteen.
The kid’s jaw shook, but he replied, “Her speed was steady, Master, and she seemed focused.”
The Master’s lips twitched. “Correct. But I meant for her to critique you. On the mat. Hapkido Third Form.”
The kid swallowed and his eyes flicked to Casey, then back to Master Custer. “Yes, Master.”
Casey bowed to her teacher and left the mat, turning to watch the young man as he went through the form. Part of her felt sorry for him for being singled out, but that was the type of thing that made a strong, confident fighter out of a spindly teenager. So Casey kept her feelings in check. When he was finished and had bowed to both her and the master, her teacher, still not looking at her, said, “Critique.”
Casey looked directly at the boy, but he kept his eyes on her belt. His clenched fists pushed against his legs. “His movements were sharp, with good form. He over-rotated on the kicks, and his center of gravity often seemed to shift forward. Focus was split between his movements and the room, but he kept his shoulders straight, and he used the space well.”
“Do you hear the critique of your better?” Master Custer said to the kid.
“Yes, Master.”
The teacher nodded. “Good work. Much improvement from last time.”
“Thank you, Master.” The boy bowed again, and strode from the mat to join the others.
Custer nodded at the female black belt. “Lead the class in cool down. When you are satisfied, class is dismissed.”
“Yes, Master.”
When she was in front and the others had lined up and begun their stretching, the master turned to Casey. “Come.”
She followed him not to the dingy office, but down the hall and up another flight of stairs, which led to the roof. They stood, facing west, toward the mountains. He didn’t speak. Casey didn’t feel like talking, either, so they stood in companionable silence for quite a while, until they heard footsteps behind them.
The oldest black belt stood there, his face reflecting his discomfort at interrupting. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Master, but there is a phone call for Ms. Maldonado.”
Custer’s eyebrows rose, but he remained facing the mountains. “I guess someone knows how to find you, after all.”
Casey excused herself and followed the black belt down the stairs to the little office. He handed her the receiver and left her alone.
“It’s me.” Eric.
“What is it?”
“We struck out.”
“What? None of them?”
“I’m sorry.”
Casey sat in the desk chair and stared at the trophies crammed on a shelf above the computer. There were others in the big room, the locker room, and on stands in the hallway that had been won by the dojang. But these were the master’s personal stash. “We can’t be done.”
“I have an idea.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll just start calling Manns in Texas and see if I find anything. Because think about it. She came here during the summer, but this might not have been the first place she ran to. She