Ice Blue by Emma Jameson Page B

want to
show you something.”
    When the bell dinged, Hetheridge pulled aside
the cage-door, gesturing for her to exit first. He led her through
a pair of double doors into a bright, airy room with high ceilings
and a wide skylight. The walls were mirrored, and the heart-of-pine
floors were bare except for exercise equipment – an elliptical
trainer, a set of stainless steel weights, a treadmill, and a large
mat in the center of the room. The white padded mat was about two
meters wide and fourteen meters long, with an electric cord running
from one end to a wall socket.
    “The electric piste,” Hetheridge said. “For
fencing with electrified swords. Less traditional but more
fun.”
    “Will it zap me if I step on it?”
    “Not at all. It would be fine for practicing
hand-to-hand, if I had any aptitude for such things these days.
Been many years since I was the hapless runt, getting bullied at
school.”
    “Were you really bullied?” The worry returned
to Kate’s eyes, but interest flared there, too, as if she were
relieved to return to the subject.
    “I was indeed. My older brother was my
protector until I was ten. Then he died in a boating accident. I
was left alone at school, smaller than most of the boys in my year,
and sad over the loss of my brother. Every day was a beating, or a
long day of avoiding a beating. Finally someone suggested I take
lessons in sport, after school and on weekends. I took to fencing.
Needless to say, I couldn’t take my epee to class, though heaven
knows I would have. But as I learned to fence, I learned how to
take hits, and give hits, and how to fall, and how to act brave
when I really wasn’t,” Hetheridge said, wondering if he’d ever
spoken to anyone in quite this way before. “By the next year, I had
no more problems with bullies.”
    “That bears thinking about,” Kate said,
stepping onto the piste and bouncing lightly in her blue-striped
trainers. “All right. You’ve cleverly maneuvered me into position.
Come on. Attack me. Take me down.”
    Hetheridge glanced at his Sunday attire –
crisp white shirt, tie, and razor-creased slacks. “I’m hardly
dressed for it.”
    “Come on. You mentioned my standing for a
reason. Top of the women detectives, but sixteenth among both males
and females. You want to prove you’d be listed higher than me, if
you weren’t exempt from the ranking.”
    “Very well.” Hetheridge studied Kate,
evaluating her size and posture. Then he went for her center mass,
intending to pin her arms and bring her to the mat. They collided,
but before he could process what was happening, his arms were
behind his back, his right shoulder was on fire, and he faced the
opposite wall. Kate’s breath was hot against his ear.
    “Oi! You’re nicked,” she said.
    Hetheridge went still, his right shoulder
still aching, as if further aggression on her part would separate
tendon from bone. He shuddered, trying to shake her off. Then he
began to tremble all over, his breath coming in quick, ragged
gasps.
    “All you all right?” Kate diminished the
strength of her grip. “I was going to make you say something like
uncle, but – seriously, are you all right? Is it your heart? I –
oh!”
    The mat came up fast, letting out its own
gasp of air as they struck, Kate first, Hetheridge on top of her.
The moment her hold had lessened, he’d abandoned the heart attack
routine, kicked her feet out from under her, and used her own
weight to spin her around and throw her down. The impact was hard,
her chin striking his chest, but he stifled a grunt of pain.
    “You cheating bastard!”
    “Old age and treachery will always overcome
youth and skill.” His hands were tight on her forearms, pinning her
into place; his knees were on her thighs, his greater weight
holding her down. Hetheridge meant to say more – something dry and
witty had come to him as they pitched to the mat – but the words
vanished, the cerebral replaced by the visceral. Her skin was