The Colour of Death Read Online Free Page A

Tchaikovsky to U2.  After all these years she still closely resembled the memory he had of his petite mother.  Fox had inherited his height from his father, along with two other legacies he had stubbornly retained from his childhood:  his surname and his English accent.  With her penchant for kaftans and bright colors, Professor Samantha Quail betrayed her roots as a fully paid-up member of the hippy, flower-power generation.  Not for her the cashmere cardigans and tweed skirts of conventional academia.
    Deciding not to disturb her, Fox moved on to the next study.  Although it had been unused in the years since Alzheimer’s had claimed her husband, Samantha had left it unchanged.  Fox could still smell his uncle’s Virginia pipe tobacco and feel his presence in the room.  You could guess Howard Quail had been a professor of ancient history and archaeology from the artifacts in the display cases and the textbooks and periodicals on the groaning shelves, many written by him.  Howard’s controversial and outspoken theories had not only affected his career but also that of his brilliant wife.  If Howard had been less of a maverick, Samantha would almost certainly be teaching quantum physics at some Ivy League school rather than at Portland State.  Fox suspected, however, that even if Harvard or MIT had come calling she would have stayed where she was — a big fish in a small pond.  As Fox studied Howard’s books about the ancient past, the irony wasn’t lost on him that in the months preceding their author’s death Howard had been unable to recall anything of the present, least of all his own name.
    Fox picked up a flat stone paperweight from the desk.  The size of a hardback book, it was polished smooth and dyed a deep ruddy brown.  His uncle had once told him that it was part of a Mayan sacrificial stone, upon which victims were held down and their hearts cut out to appease some ancient god.  He replaced the stone and picked up a silver-framed photograph displayed prominently beside it.  A small boy in a white uniform held a trophy almost as big as he was, flanked by a younger Howard and Samantha Quail who were smiling like proud parents.  The boy was staring directly at the camera, blue eyes fierce.  As Fox stared back at the boy his focus shifted and he saw his adult face reflected in the glass.  The fire in his eyes was more controlled now, but its glowing embers remained.  He remembered the time — about six months after the orphaned Fox had moved to America to live with Howard and Samantha — when his uncle had promised the principal of his new school that he would handle his nephew’s constant fighting.
    Resigned to punishment or at least a long lecture, a sullen Fox was surprised when his uncle drove him to a nearby department store, told him to stay in the car, returned with a wrapped package and then drove to a strange-looking building on the outskirts of town.  Inside, Howard had set Fox in the lobby and returned with a small, stern-faced Japanese man.  “You’re angry, Nathan, and I don’t blame you,” his uncle had said.  “After what happened to your parents and sister, I can only imagine what you’re going through, but you’ve got to harness and control your anger.”  He had pointed to the Japanese.  “Sensei Daichi has agreed to help you.”
    Daichi had bowed his head.  “Welcome to my dojo, Nathan- kun .”  Then had gently touched Fox’s black eye.  “If you’re going to fight, Nathan- kun , I suggest you learn to do it properly.  Karate is self-defense, not self-destruction; it’s about protecting and developing the mind and body, not destroying them.  I’ve been your uncle’s sensei for five years and, if you wish, I will be yours.”  Fox’s uncle had then opened the package, pulled out a white karate uniform and told him to put it on.
    Fox replaced the photo on the desk.  If he closed his eyes he could hear his sensei’s constant refrain:  ‘Never