John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories Read Online Free PDF Page A

was going for okuri-eri-jime —he tried to turtle his head in, and managed to get a hand to his own lapel to contest my grip. But too late. I crossed my left hand over and took hold of his right lapel, dragged it down, and ratcheted my right arm back, turning the collar of his gi into a guillotine. Soundlessly, he thrashed left, then right, but he was secure within my legs and there was nowhere for him to go. I arched back and cranked on his collar so hard I might have decapitated him. In extremis, he started frantically tapping my thigh, as though I was going to release him after what he’d tried to do to me. He clawed at my hands for a moment and then began to convulse. I realized he was vomiting, but with the strangle, the vomit couldn’t pass. He was choking on it.
    I looked up into the stands. Pig Eyes’s buddy was there, gripping the railing, his face frozen in shock. I smiled at him, the smile no more than a grimace from the exertion I was putting into the strangle. He was watching his friend die in my hands and I was glad. I wanted him to see what I would be coming to do to him.
    Then his paralysis broke, and he turned and ran. I saw no resolution in his expression or his posture, only panic, and I understood he wasn’t coming to the aid of his friend, only trying to save himself. I had to choose—finish Pig Eyes, or pursue the one I sensed was the principal?
    And suddenly I realized it was no choice at all. I couldn’t kill this guy, not right in the great hall of the Kodokan in front of two hundred witnesses. Of course I’d be able to claim it was an accident, but a successful prosecution wasn’t even my main concern. It was the investigation itself, the inevitable attention, that I couldn’t afford. I’d seen dozens of people choked out on the tatami, two concussions, and one horrifically broken leg. Judo is a contact sport and accidents happen. But a death? That would be headline news.
    Hating that I had to do it, I released the strangle and shoved Pig Eyes off me. His back heaved and a remarkable quantity of pressurized puke shot from his mouth and nose. I supposed that meant he would live. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the stairs. The great hall tilted in my vision and I threw an arm out to balance myself, still unsteady from the effects of lack of oxygen. People were watching me, maybe wondering if I was going to be sick and trying to get clear of the tatami before doing so. I blasted through the exit doors and took the stairs to the stands three at a time, one hand on the bannister because I didn’t trust my balance yet. I yanked open the doors, but the chinpira was gone. There were two sets of stairs—he must have taken the other.
    Maybe there was still a chance. I turned and bolted down the stairs, bursting into the lobby at the bottom and looking wildly right and left. No one, just the wrinkled oba-san behind the concession stand. “Did someone just run out of here?” I said. “From down the steps?”
    She didn’t answer, instead simply raising her eyebrows and tilting her head toward the main doors. I dashed out to the sidewalk and looked left and right. A few passersby, mostly salaryman types in suits heading home after a long day at the office, glancing in curiosity at a sweating judoka standing barefoot and wild-eyed on the sidewalk. There was no sign of the chinpira .
    Damn. But maybe I could learn something from the other guy. I headed back inside and raced up the stairs. I paused outside the doors to the daidōjō, and saw a small crowd gathered around Pig Eyes. They were helping him to his feet, while giving wide berth to the area on the tatami newly decorated with his vomit. This wasn’t going to work. I had to go.
    I headed down to the locker room, quickly changed into my street clothes, and packed up my gear. No time to shower. I didn’t want to answer any questions and I didn’t want to linger another minute now that these people, whoever they were, knew they could find