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been a subtle increase in the intensity of training. Not that things weren't normally pretty intense. But there was a pattern, a flow to the logic of what my teacher did. The years with him ingrain the pattern in you. And what we were doing lately seemed somehow out of synch. You could sense it in the nature of his comments to his students, in the stiff set of his back as he stalked the dojo floor. I wondered what Yamashita was up to.
    Any sensei is a bit mercurial at times they do it to keep you guessing. Part of the mystery of a really good martial arts teacher is the way in which you're perpetually surprised by things, kept just slightly off balance. I had a karate teacher years ago, and every time I thought, OK this guy has shown me just about everything he's got, he would waltz in and do something I had never seen before. Then he would look at me like he could read my mind.
    Yamashita was a master of this type, but even more so. You could glean clues of the inner workings of the man from the comments he would make after training. The students sit, row after row of sweaty swordsmen in dark blue, slowing their breathing and listening to the master. When he was pleased, Yamashita would offer parables that reinforced an important lesson. At that point in the training session, you're so used up that the mind is extremely open. As a result, the stories and advice are imprinted in your memory in a tremendously vivid way.
    But there was none of that lately, just gruff admonitions to train harder. In response, each of us came back for more training even though its purpose was a mystery.
    I slogged on in the rhythm of the run, mulling the situation over. There was nothing to be done. My teacher would reveal his purpose in time. Or not. It was his choice. He was the master. I thought about something else.
    I had finished up Bobby Kay's project. It was not exactly a brain teaser. I e-mailed the file and mailed a disk and a hard copy to him just in case. Now I was waiting for the check. The school semester was ending. It was the beginning of the lean season for all part-time college teachers like me, and Bobby's payment loomed large in my imagination. So I made up a little chant that kept my mind off the sheer boredom of running: Bobby Kay. Yau must pay.
    I was on the hundredth repetition of my little mantra: Bob-by Kay. You Must Pay. It went well with the in and out of my breath. People were passing, going the other way, runners or people on mountain bikes, and I noticed after a while that I was getting some funny looks. Couldn't have been the sneakers; they were as high tech as everyone else's. I was also pretty sure that I hadn't been actually chanting Bobby's name out loud. Then I started to pick up the crunch of car tires slowly approaching me.
    The unmarked cop car came grinding up behind me with its light flashing and gave me a quick bloop on the siren just for kicks. I was glad for the breather.
    There were two of them, and they had that cop look about them: faces that told you everyone is guilty of something, everyone lies. The driver was sandy haired with a clipped, military-style mustache. The other guy had a shock of dark reddish brown hair with a two-inch white streak to one side of his widow's peak. They were in shirts and ties, which told me they were detectives, "You could eye their shoulder harnesses and hardware (gun belts being a pain in a car). I peeked m the back. Their sports jackets were neatly folded in the backseat, and the floors were cluttered with paper wrappers and empty coffee cups. I didn't look too hard, though. Cops get nervous when you appear too focused.
    The drivers window geared down. I took one look and tried the time-honored civilian opener.
    "What seems to be the problem, Officer?"
    The driver eyed me silently, then looked at his partner. "How original."
    "You don't get conversation like this just anywhere," the guy with the white streak commented.
    Mustache continued. "Burke." It was a