Episodul 33 · White Tape

By seven that evening, Soles had decided to ask Ivo about his father. The confession had supplied a motive. It had supplied no one who could tell him whether Kale had actually known about the fraud.

Maxim had taken the truck back to the depot and was not home yet. Soles left him a message saying where he meant to go. He was still waiting for an answer when Varren arrived with food.

— Tonight? Varren asked.

— Before Ivo decides he’s forgotten me.

— I’ll drive.

Soles told him about the lawyer’s car on the way, and about the knife in Ivo’s yard. Varren listened, then asked what Soles would do if Ivo refused again.

— Leave, Soles said.

He wanted that to be true.

They parked beside the boat ramp and walked down to the shed. Beyond it, the footbridge crossed the old riverbed. A low row of stone blocks separated the upper path from the gravel beside the water; mud filled the gaps between them.

Ivo’s shutters were closed. Soles knocked and waited. No answer.

They were turning toward the bridge when someone moved behind the nearest block.

— Ivo?

Soles went down onto the gravel. Varren stayed on the path above him.

The blow caught Soles beneath the ribs before he saw a hand. His old chest wound pulled tight as he folded, and all the air left him. He caught himself on his good palm, gravel cutting into the skin.

A white fist passed his face. He recoiled against the block and the next punch struck stone beside his ear.

The woman stepped back, shaking out her hand.

Her hood framed a square, narrow face, with a heavy brow and a nose that had been broken before. She was shorter than Soles, compact through the shoulders, her weight shifting lightly between her feet. White tape covered both hands.

Between her and the water, the gravel was firm. Behind him was the gap in the blocks. Above it, the path led back to Varren and the car. He needed room to turn without giving her his back.

— Wait, he said.

She came in again.

He raised his arms. Her fist drove them into his cheek, then the other struck his side before he could lower an elbow. He hit the block hard enough to lose the breath he had just recovered.

She was smaller than Maxim. That was the stupidest thing his mind could offer him, but it kept offering it. Those punches should not have carried so much weight.

A familiar certainty rose through the pain: close the distance, get her down.

He lunged for her legs.

She stepped aside. His shoulder missed her hip, his injured hand failed to catch her coat, and she struck his upper back as he passed. He landed on his knees with the footbridge farther away than before.

The certainty was gone. His ribs were not.

He got up against the block, trying to keep his face covered. She could have hit him again. Instead she backed off and let out a long breath, arms hanging loose.

— A nice little wave this morning, she said. The lawyer. Very touching.

— You were at the station.

— You keep turning up where he does.

— He’s Kerr’s lawyer.

— I know whose lawyer he is.

She watched him wipe his mouth.

— Did he send you here? To tell Ivo everyone can stop asking?

— I came about my father.

Her eyes narrowed, but she was already rolling her shoulders. She knocked her wrapped wrists together, lowered her chin and drew a deep breath.

Soles looked up toward Varren. He was still on the upper path, hands clasped in front of him.

— Tell her, Soles said.

The woman moved before Varren answered.

This time Soles retreated beside the block. He kept his right arm over his face and the bandaged left one against his side. A punch caught the raised arm; he turned with it and his heel sank into the mud between the stones.

She stopped at the gravel’s edge.

Her next step would have reached him. She did not take it. Her fists stayed up while she waited for him to come out.

Soles could hear his own breathing, too shallow, too quick. Something else in him remained calm enough to notice where her feet were. The same detached attention that had followed the king’s council table began setting things apart: the firm ground, the breath, the pause.

It offered no way to stop hurting.

He shifted along the block, trying to reach the path above it. His boot slipped in the gap. She followed on the gravel, cutting off the way to the bridge, but would not step into the mud.

Twice now.

— I don’t know that man, he said. He came up to me.

— And you came to Ivo. Busy day.

She struck at his face. Soles ducked too late; the punch clipped his cheek and turned him toward the block. His good hand found the top. He held on, swallowing against the taste of blood.

Then she backed away again. Her shoulders dropped with the breath she released, and she shook her arms loose.

Soles watched rather than rush her.

She had drawn breath before each attack. She stayed on firm ground while she struck, stepping around him instead of following into the gap. When she let the breath out, she broke off.

He did not know what it meant. He knew he could not withstand another attack while he worked it out.

The path above the blocks was only a little higher than his shoulder. He could see Varren’s shoes. No steps had come down toward him.

— Varren!

His friend looked at him. Soles had expected alarm, an order to stop, anything. Varren’s left thumb moved across the knuckles of his other hand. His face held an attention so complete that, for an instant, Soles felt he had interrupted something.

The woman brought her fists together again.

Soles pulled his right hand from the block. His palm was bleeding. The bandaged one was useless for gripping, and a deep breath hurt too much to take.

She could stand there all night, breathing and coming at him. He could not.

He kept his heel in the mud and watched her shoulders rise.