Fee: Paid in advance by the State Federation.
Instructor of Record: G. Archer.
Underneath that line was a box he had never looked at. Inside the box, in small type, was one sentence. Martin put the page down, stood up, and walked to the window. He came back and read it again.
Then he called the federation's district office and asked to speak to somebody about a clinic he had hosted on Sunday. He was put on hold. He was put on hold again. On the third transfer, a woman asked him to spell the academy's name. Then she went very quiet. Then she said somebody would come out in the morning.
At four minutes past nine on Tuesday, a gray sedan pulled into the Rockbridge lot and parked facing the glass wall. The man who got out was about sixty, in a plain jacket with reading glasses pushed up on his head. He did not look at the six-foot photograph of Mason Clark when he came through the door. He walked straight to the front desk and set down a folder. It was the same folder Martin Keenan had signed on Friday.
"My name is Vincent Kramer," he said. "I'd like to speak with whoever signed this, and I'd like the room."
They held it on the floor itself because there was nowhere else in the building big enough. Vincent Kramer had the blinds pulled all the way up and every ceiling light switched on. Tuesday morning came through the glass wall in flat white sheets and lay across the red mats. Everything showed: the dust, and the four-inch tear in a folded white jacket still sitting on the corner of the mat where its owner had set it down.
"I'll say this once," Kramer said. "I'm not here because of the internet. A complaint was filed on Monday against an instructor under federation contract. When that happens, I am required to come out and review it. I don't get to skip it. Neither does anybody in this room."
There were eleven people on the folding chairs: Martin Keenan; Mason Clark in a clean shirt with Kyle Morrison beside him; Chloe Parker; Tanya Burke and four of the clinic women; a deputy with a notebook; Jake Dawson, who had come on his own and sat at the end of the row with his hands between his knees. Gianna Archer sat by the door in a gray sweatshirt with her mother next to her.
Kramer opened the folder and took out one page. "This is the host agreement Mr. Keenan signed on Friday. Event: Women's Self-Defense Clinic, Sunday 10:00. Instructor of record..." He looked up over his glasses. "G. Archer."
"That's a coincidence," Kyle said.
"It isn't." Kramer set the page down. "Gianna Archer is the instructor this federation sent you. She was certified this past spring. She is the youngest name on the state instructor list. She is a two-time national champion in her division, and she is the only student Leon Archer ever registered with us in thirty-one years of teaching."
The sound that went around the room was not a word; it was air.