Words With Fiends (22 page)

As Reese headed off, Darla settled down and unzipped her gear bag. Glancing over in the direction Reese had gone, she turned to Robert and said, “So, want to bet the first place he checks out is the T-shirt girls?”

Robert flashed a grin. “That's where I'd go.”

Darla grinned back at him as she tucked her street clothes into the bag. But just as she pulled her hand out again, something sharp inside the bag scratched her.

“Eek!”

With a quick little scream that promptly was lost in the sound of the growing crowd, Darla leaped to her feet and stared at the bag. Robert scuttled a safe distance away and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “What's wrong?”

“Something in the bag scratched me!”

She looked down at her hand, which now sported four tiny red spots. All at once suspicious, she gingerly reached for the duffel's strap and lifted it.

“Ugh, this thing weighs a ton!” Then, remembering how Reese had unexpectedly struggled with it, she gasped and set down the bag again. “Either someone stuck a few bricks in there . . . or else someone stowed away inside it.”

Robert's eyes opened even wider. “You mean—”

Looking around to make sure that no one was watching, Darla carefully unzipped the bag again and gingerly lifted out her clothes. Her towel was piled in there next, and she pulled it out, as well. Now, she spied two wide green eyes staring up at her . . . green eyes that were, of course, attached to a very large black cat curled up in the bottom of her bag.

“Hamlet!”

Gasping, she quickly sat down and zipped the bag shut again. “I don't believe it! What is he doing in there? Is this some sort of a joke?” she asked Robert.

“No way, not me,” Robert exclaimed, raising both hands in protest. “Maybe he, you know, crawled in there after you packed everything up?”

Frowning, Darla thought back to earlier that morning. Her bag
had
been open until Reese came up to the apartment, meaning that the feline had most of the morning to slip inside it without her noticing. But she often left her gear bag open so that it could air out, and he'd never jumped inside before. What had made Hamlet turn kitty stowaway today, of all days?

“I guess it doesn't matter why he's here,” she answered her own question aloud. “But what do we do with him? If I leave him out in the car, who knows what he'll do?”

Actually, she had a pretty good idea of what would happen. Picturing the Mercedes's butter-soft leather liberally raked with cat claw marks—not to mention some even more unpleasant damage—she shook her head. “He can't stay loose in the car, but there's no time to take him home, either. Not without missing my division.”

“So leave him in the bag,” was Robert's prompt response. Then, at Darla's questioning look, he shrugged. “He, you know, seems to like being in it, and there's air holes and stuff so he won't suffocate.”

In fact, the bag did sport a number of grommeted holes designed to keep sweaty gym clothes a bit fresher. Hamlet wasn't in any danger of smothering, she agreed. And he'd made the drive out to the tournament without uttering a single mew. But what if he decided he was tired of the bag and started yowling to get out? Darla glanced around again. The clamor in the gym was even louder now. A screaming panther inside that bag probably wouldn't be heard.

Not any worse than a soft-sided cat carrier
. She gave a firm nod, even as a small voice inside her told her that she was a bad kitty owner. “Okay, he stays in the bag. Look, the tournament is about to start.”

Indeed, a group of black belts—both male and female—was milling about the stage now. A microphone on a tall stand squawked out a bit of earsplitting feedback as someone at ground level wrestled it up onto the stage. The crowd, which Darla estimated to now number several hundred, settled to a murmur. Then everyone hushed as Hank and Hal, both in their usual black gis—though with sleeves per tournament regulations—mounted the stage steps.

But the twins were not alone. They shifted position slightly as they moved toward center stage, and Darla realized that a third, smaller figure, also in a black gi, walked with them. The trio paused at the microphone, and Darla saw two things simultaneously.

The small figure in the center was female, and under one arm she carried a small gray and white hound.

While Hank and Hal looked on, the woman reached with her free arm to adjust the microphone. Then a cool, amplified voice echoed through the gymnasium, saying, “Good morning. I'm Dr. Jan Tomlinson, and I welcome you to the seventeenth annual Tomlinson Academy of the Martial Arts Regional Tournament.”

“IT'S ROMA!” ROBERT EXCLAIMED, REFERRING, OF COURSE,
to the small hound in Dr. Tomlinson's arms. Clutching Darla's gi sleeve, he persisted, “Look, it's her.”

“She,” Darla corrected automatically; then, as he took a step forward, she added, “and remember, Roma is Dr. Tomlinson's dog now. If you're thinking about running up to see her, don't. It will only confuse the poor little thing. Really, Robert, it's best if you let her go.”

He set his jaw and nodded. “I know. I just wish I could say good-bye. I didn't do that before. I-I thought she'd be coming back.”

She barely heard this last, however, for all around them, people were rising to their feet and applauding. Not for Dr. Tomlinson, but in memory of the sensei. And so, along with Robert, Darla got to her feet and began applauding, too. Now was not the time to take a moral stand, she told herself. She was there at the tournament as Hank and Hal's guest. She'd not disrespect their father's memory, no matter what less than gracious things she might suspect about the man or his wife.

As the applause finally faded, everyone sat again, and Darla took the opportunity to glance about for Reese. He wasn't with the T-shirt girls, so he had to have settled in the bleachers somewhere.

“Thank you, everyone,” Dr. Tomlinson said, her smooth voice washing over the crowd. “Thank you for coming today. My late husband would be humbled to see such a show of love. And now, if you will indulge us, my sons and I, with the help of a few friends”—she paused and gracefully gestured at the black belts standing beside the stage—“have put together a small tribute to Tom.”

At those words, the sound of a familiar trumpet fanfare began:
da-DA-da-da-DA-da-da-DA-DA-DA.
The audience started to cheer as the overhead lights dimmed, and a projector flashed the image of the TAMA fist onto the large screen behind the stage. Then the fist dissolved into the familiar face of a young Master Tomlinson while the gymnasium was filled with the pulsing horns and screaming strings of the
Rocky
theme song.

As the music played on, pictures flashed by on the screen. Some, Darla recognized from the sensei's studio wall; most, however, were new to her. Some of the shots were taken during one competition or another, others were with various celebrities, while still more photos were of him and his family. The images flipped past like a time line, with the sensei a bit older in each, but still flashing his familiar warm smile.

It was cliché.

It was corny.

But by the time the final trumpet blare had died way, Darla found herself again on her feet, cheering and applauding with the rest of the roaring crowd.

“That was, like, awesome!” Robert shouted beside her as the lights came up again. Looking up toward the gymnasium ceiling, he added, “I can't wait for him to see me out there.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Darla admitted, discreetly wiping away a few tears.

And then, as the roar began to die and the crowd resumed their seats, Jan spoke again.

“Thank you for your warm outpouring of love for Tom. So you know, all proceeds from today's event will be going to the Pretty Faces Foundation. That's a small charity that Tom and I founded to assist underprivileged children whose families cannot afford plastic surgery to repair the physical damages from birth defects, accidents, or abuse. We have a jar at the T-shirt stand should you care to make additional donations. And now, I will turn the tournament over to my son.”

Hal took the microphone from his mother and yelled, “Thank you, everyone. And now, let the competition begin!”

He handed off the mike to one of the officials standing in front of the stage, who began calling off the beginner divisions. Tiny competitors, some appearing no older than six years old, began pouring onto the tournament floor.

Darla, however, was still staring in the direction of Jan Tomlinson. The doctor did charity surgery on little kids? Could this be the same wicked witch who'd snatched Toto—or, rather, Roma—from Robert's arms a few days earlier? The same woman whom she suspected had murdered her husband in cold blood? Giving herself a mental shake, she turned to Robert.

“We're up soon,” she told him. “Better get your gear out.”

He nodded and reached into his bag for his sparring gear: dipped foam gloves, boots, and headgear, along with one of those molded mouth guards. He pulled on the first items, leaving the headgear unfastened, and then tucked the mouth guard in his belt.

“Ready,” he said. Then, with a glance over at Darla's bag, he asked, “Is you-know-who okay?'

Darla put an ear to her bag, listening. “I think he's purring,” she said after a moment, smiling. “Maybe he'll be a good cat, after all. Let's wait until you and I have finished, and then I'll take him out to the car for a bit and give him some water, maybe stretch his legs. Speaking of which, I probably should warm up a little.”

Leaving Robert to keep protective watch over the bag, she moved down toward the main floor and picked a spot to one side where a few other competitors had gathered. She did a few jumping jacks and a bit of running in place to warm up, and then finished with a couple of abbreviated rounds of the stretching routine they normally did in class.

As she finished the final stretch, managing almost to bring her head to her knees, she looked up to see Mark again. He was standing near the T-shirt table this time, apparently waiting for someone. Darla promptly bent for another stretch while praying he wouldn't notice her and feel obliged to explain how she was doing her warm-up wrong.

When she straightened again, however, he was gone. Satisfied the coast was clear, she made her way up to the bleachers again. There, she spent the next several minutes with Robert, watching the junior group performing their katas.

Darla took special note of the way they bowed onto the mat, and how they addressed the judges by shouting their names and their schools, and asking permission before beginning their routines. Would she remember to do all that, on top of remembering her forms? Once again, the butterflies in her stomach began their dance, and she reminded herself of what Reese had said.

You got the guts to go out there and compete, you're not a loser, no matter where you place.

And then, all too soon, she heard the announcer call her division.

“That's me,” she told Robert, aware that suddenly her hands were shaking. Glancing around, she added, “Since Reese is still MIA, you want to come down and give me a little moral support?”

“Sure, Ms. P! Let's go.”

She pulled her wallet and phone from the outside pocket of her duffel—even with her secret feline weapon guarding her gear, she wasn't going to tempt fate—and handed both items to Robert. Then she hurried down the bleacher steps to the floor toward the sign marked
Two
.

Some of her fellow competitors were there already, though as Hal and Reese had both pointed out, at her age and rank it would likely be a limited field, restricted as well to females. In fact, by the time she'd bowed onto the mat and lined up with the others, there were only three other women besides her.

The next few minutes went by in a blur as the other competitors performed the designated kata. By the luck of the draw, Darla found herself in the final slot; good, in that she could watch and learn from the others, and bad, in that her butterflies had time to organize and perform complicated routines of their own. Finally, the third woman finished her form with a dramatic
kiai
, and it was Darla's turn to step up.

As she moved to the center of the mat, she shot a fleeting glance toward the spectators. Robert was there, giving her a thumbs-up, and Reese had reappeared and was standing beside him. The sight of the two gave her a small boost of confidence. She made her bow to the judges and then assumed her stance, her weight balanced on both feet and her fisted hands in approved position before her. Taking a deep breath, she called out, “Judges, my name is Darla Pettistone.”

The rest of the words seemed to pour from her reflexively. She waited for the head judge's nod to begin, and then she made the preliminary block. Swiftly and surely, she completed the next move, and then the next. It was going to be okay, she told herself. Her childhood teacher, Mrs. Morgan, wouldn't be disappointed in her.

And then, all at once, she heard an unmistakable burst of laughter from the spectators.

What had she done? Panic shot through her, but she remembered Reese's advice and forged on, making each move crisper. And still the laughter grew, so that she frantically wondered what had gone wrong. Spinach in her teeth? Maybe a big grease spot on her rear end where she'd accidentally sat in someone's discarded French fries? It made no difference. What mattered was that this competition had become a repeat of her third grade
Evangeline
fiasco, only a hundred times worse! She never should have signed up!

In a fog, she continued her kata until, with a final punch and kick, the nightmare was thankfully over.

Snapping to attention again, Darla made her bow to the judges only to hear cheers and more laughter, along with a round of applause from the spectators that none of the other competitors had earned. Now, her confusion turned to outright anger.

What in the heck is going on?

Catching Reese's gaze, she saw him mouth something and point behind her. Forgetting competition protocol, she spun around.

“Hamlet!”

The black feline sat at the edge of the mat, green eyes blinking innocently up at her. Somehow, he'd made his way out of the bag and had wandered out onto the floor. But that didn't explain the laughter. She glared at her three competitors. Minutes earlier, the women had been holding themselves in rigid silence. Now, however, they were guffawing so hard they were crying. She swung back around again to see that even the judges were grinning.

Well, at least, two of them were.

The head judge, with a sour expression, gestured her to rejoin the other competitors on the sidelines. She did as requested, only to have Hamlet pad over and take a seat beside her, which drew still more laughter from the crowd. The judges conferred for a few moments before motioning Darla and the rest back onto the mat.

“We've made our decision,” the head judge announced. “Darla Pettistone, step forward. Unfortunately, Ms. Pettistone, you are hereby disqualified from the competition for bringing an unauthorized animal onto the mat.”

The announcement drew a chorus of boos, but the judge ignored the disturbance. “Step back, please. The remaining competitors rank as follows. First place, Thompson; second place, Selinger; third place, Merrill.”

Disbelief swept Darla as the other names were called. Now, her outrage was directed at Hamlet.
This
was what the cat had come all the way to the competition to do? Bowing her way off the mat, she snatched him up, grunting only a little under the burden, and stalked over to where Reese and Robert waited.

“Tough break, Red,” Reese said with a shake of his head, appearing sincerely disappointed on her behalf. “But you looked really good out there.”

“Ms. P, it was great!” Robert crowed. “I mean, I'm real sorry that Hamlet, you know, got you kicked out and stuff, but you should have seen him.”

He held up her cell phone, which he'd been holding onto for her. Pressing the camera app, he scrolled to a video clip and hit the “Play” button. “I got it all on video. I thought you'd want to see how you did. Look, Hamlet was doing the kata right along with you.”

As Darla watched, her initial reaction of horror morphed into resigned amusement. There she was, looking like a serious student of the martial arts, while behind her—and most definitely unbeknownst to her!—Hamlet wandered onto the edge of the mat, weaving and bobbing and putting out the occasional paw. The contrast of her determined moves and Hamlet's shadow routine was priceless, she had to admit. Had the same thing happened to anyone else, she probably would have been rolling on the floor laughing with the rest of them.

“All right, it's funny,” she conceded. She took back her phone and wallet, reaching beneath her loose jacket to tuck both items into the broad elastic band of her gi trousers for safekeeping. “But, Robert, if you post this on YouTube, I'll kill you!”

Then, hefting the cat's weight so that she could hold him more comfortably, she turned to Reese and said, “At least we solved the mystery of why my bag was so heavy.”

“Yeah, Robert told me how you found him in there,” Reese said. “Smart cat. I guess he was able to unzip himself from the inside and crawl out. Sorry he got you disqualified, but you're lucky he didn't go wandering off in the gymnasium, instead. We might never have found him in a place this size.”

“You're right.” Torn between relief and frustration, Darla sighed and hugged the feline a little tighter. “Okay, let me get him back into the bag, and maybe I can find something to tie the zipper pulls together so he can't do it again.”

But barely had she said that when another announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Beginning sparring, ages sixteen and up, report to mat three.”

“Hey, that's me,” Robert exclaimed in excitement. “I gotta go fight now.”

“Reese, go ahead with him,” Darla told him. “I'll take care of Hamlet, and be down there in a minute.”

While the two men made their way to the designated spot, Darla started back up the bleacher steps, wishing Hamlet had thought to stow his harness in the bag with him. That way, maybe she could have walked him around the gym pretending he was a service animal. The feline didn't seem at all distressed by the noise and the crowd, she realized in surprise. To the contrary, he seemed quite content to lounge in her arms and watch the goings-on. With any luck, maybe he would snooze in the bag until they were ready to return home.