“Roundhouse kicks, side kicks, back kicks, four times each way. Two-knuckle punches from horse stance until I say stop.”
I wound up into a kick and made my way across the mirrored room. I’d gotten used to Sam’s brusque style, had even grown to like it. Sam didn’t coddle me. Back in Manhattan, my karate classes had been social affairs, a dozen adults of varying ranks practicing their pinans and katas, blocks and counterstrikes. My time was spent memorizing combinations, but there was just as much palling around. Sometimes we’d go for drinks afterward at the bar around the corner. The private class I was taking in Watertown couldn’t have been more different. Here, I was entirely focused on advancement. Readying myself for what was to come.
“Faster,” said Sam, as I faced the mirrored wall and punched the air with quick, sharp thrusts. Against the peachy skin of his neck and forearms, Sam’s gi was extraordinarily black. I’d asked him once how he came to be a Shaolin Kempo master rather than, say, a professional caber-tosser. He told me he used to watch karate movies with his father before the man died of cancer. His rank, the culmination of a decade and a half of hard work, was a tribute to his dad. I hadn’t pried into his personal life since.
“Soon, huh?” he said, assessing my form. “You sound confident you’ll be cleared.”
I tried not to let him see me grimace. It was the second time today someone had brought up my psych evaluation, and all the meddling was starting to grate on me. Sam knew little about my situation, just enough to understand why I was here. Abduction. Trauma. Recovery. That last part was a work in progress, but he’d already given me some solid instruction. In some ways, I was getting more value out of my karate classes than the meetings with my state-appointed therapist.
“Gasko is . . . hard to . . . read,” I panted as I punched. “But he seems happy with my progress.”
Silently, Sam crossed the room to the padded targets piled in the corner. My eyes followed him in the mirror as he selected a kick shield and retraced his steps. When he got back to where I was, he peered down at me. “What about you?”
I swiveled to face him and shook out my arms. I could feel my pulse in the tips of my fingers, and what remained of my burn throbbed. “It’s not like I have an actual problem. The flashbacks are gone. I’m back to normal. As normal as I ever was.”
Sam grunted noncommittally and instructed me to kick the pad.
My first few kicks were strong, but the pad didn’t budge. “Gasko’s acting like I’m going to start hallucinating the second I’m on a new case. According to him, if it’s a kidnapping or a homicide, I’m screwed.”
“Kick through the bag.”
I pivoted on the ball of my foot and channeled all the power I could muster into my right leg. Sam didn’t even wobble. “Apparently women are at greater risk of PTSD after a traumatic event, so Gasko’s convinced I’m still a mess. But I’m not checking those boxes, not anymore. I know the signs.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Bring that leg back to chamber every time.” He arched an auburn eyebrow. “So no problems sleeping, then.”
Kick. “I’m sleeping fine.”
“No bad memories you can’t control.”
Kick. “Not a one.”
“You don’t avoid conversations that force you to think about your trauma. You’re not suspicious of strangers. No anxiety or amplified startle response.”
“Jesus, Sam.” I kicked the bag three times in quick succession, and this time Sam momentarily lost his balance. My thighs were on fire—and what the hell was this? I hadn’t confided in him about my attack so he could throw it back in my face. I didn’t mention the mandatory therapy sessions so he could mock me. The last thing I needed was another person psychoanalyzing me. When I told him as much, Sam only shrugged.
“I’m asking,” he said, “because it’s relevant to what we’re doing here. It matters, Shana. You can’t train your body to be alert without also training your mind.”
It happened fast. The padded shield hit the floor with a muffled thud, and Sensei Sam went from a pillar of stone to a cyclone. I had just enough time to plant my feet before he was behind me, his right arm wrapped tight around my neck. The muscles in his forearm strained against my sternum and the soft underside of my chin. His left hand clasped his wrist to lock the hold into place. I could feel his breath in my ear and his sweat on my cheek as he pressed the length of his body against my back.
Instantly, I saw it for what it was: a test. I know this one, I thought. Seize his forearm and twist my head toward his hands to escape the hold. Side kick to the gut, hammer strike to the head, and run. We’d practiced the drill dozens of times—and yet, my body refused to respond. Suspicion of strangers. Anxiety. Startle response. The room was suddenly stifling. Under my ponytailed hair my scalp was aflame and my pulse pounded in my ears, all dense noise and blood-whoosh. I fought against Sam’s grip like a squirming child, every action driven not by intent but desperation. Throw it against the wall. Thrash and writhe. See what sticks.
I caught a glimpse of Sam in the mirror, confusion and pity writ large on his face. That’s when I gave up. I let my body crumple, and Sam let me go. When I spun away from him and looked down at my hands, they were shaking.
“Shana.” He tried to put his hand on my shoulder, an innocent act meant to comfort. It made me flinch. “Look, you’re not the first woman to come here. Not the first cop, either. I wish I could say my students did this as a precaution, but for a lot of them, it’s about retaliation. Making sure there won’t be a next time, because the first time around was real bad. You’re stronger than most. But that’s not going to help unless you can get this guy out of your head.”
I pivoted away from him so he wouldn’t see my mouth harden. You don’t understand, I wanted to say. I was held hostage by a serial killer who murdered three women and a rookie police officer. But I knew that Sam was right. I had to get Blake Bram out of my head.
“Hey. You okay?”
“Fine.” I held back tears of anger and shame. The room was uncomfortably quiet. I swiped my hands across my clammy forehead and turned to face him once more. Rolled out my wrists and stood tall. “Yes, Sensei,” I said. “Let’s do it again.”
THREE
Some might say I was asking for trouble, driving aimlessly on the outskirts of town where the only sign of life was the tumbledown farmhouses that dotted the flat horizon. Walking alone for hours by the river’s edge as the blustery wind buffeted my hair and stung my eyes. It had become a routine I enjoyed, a way to cope with my empty, endless days. I forced my muscles to relax as I studied the way the sky and river blended into a seamless canvas of pearly gray, and occupied my chattering mind by trying to name as many islands as I could.