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  Remo avoided her at all costs, but it was hard. She roamed from room to room dusting and cleaning and cackling to herself. Chiun claimed she was singing an old Korean love song. To Remo, it sounded like a hen cackling.

  At six o'clock, he checked in with the local news. Since Chiun was busy, that meant Remo could watch the newscaster of his choice. That meant Channel 4. The other two channels both boasted a reporter named Bev Woo. They were not the same person. It was a local oddity that created no end of problems for Remo if they had to watch any Woo. Chiun insisted on watching the dumpy, middle-aged Bev Woo, whom he had dubbed the incomparable Woo. Remo preferred the lithe and chipper Bev Woo, whom Chiun detested. But since he had a real choice, Remo went with the third option, Channel 4, where a new Asian anchorette with the unlikely name of Dee-dee Yee held sway.

  It turned out to be a slow news day. A drunken car crash led the top of the news. A record-sized blue shark had been captured in a Kingsport fisherman's net, and the weather for tomorrow was promised to be "springlike." Since this was New England, that probably meant rain. Maybe even hail. Brimstone was also possible.

  At the end of the broadcast, the anchor said goodbye, and the station immediately cut into a bumper that rehashed the lead stories the station had recapped two seconds earlier, adding, "Tune in at eleven for details."

  "Why do they always do that?" Remo muttered. Increasingly, it seemed that the news had more teasers for the next segment or the next newscast than hard news itself. He wondered if there was some kind of plot afoot by commercial advertisers to hook America into watching what was fast becoming a perpetual, round-the-clock newscast. On second thought, maybe they saved more money teasing than reporting.

  Then he remembered he had a fourth option. The Fox News Network.

  The Fox report started with an update on the is-there-life-on-Mars? controversy and segued into a story about an Iowa corn farmer who claimed a "windless wind had devoured his crop."

  "Are space aliens responsible for these mysterious events?" the reporter intoned. "Stay with Fox News for the other side of the news. The news the other networks dare not tell. Fox is committed to tracking down the stories no others will report. For news, think Fox."

  There was nothing on the killer-bee story or the strange serial coroner deaths on both coasts. And no sign of Tammy Terrill. Remo wondered if maybe she had succumbed to delayed bee-sting shock after all.

  Bored, Remo decided to rattle Chiun's cage.

  "Hey, Chiun. You busy?" asked Remo, knocking on the door.

  Chiun's querulous voice came through the panel. "Go away!"

  "What do you mean, go away?"

  "Go away. I am improving my mind."

  "You're what?"

  "Reading a book," Chiun explained.

  "All right. All right. Sheesh."

  After that, Remo decided to go for a walk.

  He happened upon Grandma Mulberry, who stuck her tongue out at him and said, "Good riddance."

  "Who said I was going out?" growled Remo.

  "You wearing kiss-me-pretty-boy face," she tittered.

  "That's it! I'm getting a room."

  "Better than crouching in bush with other faggots," she taunted.

  "Remind me to string you up in the nearest tree for a scarecrow," Remo snapped.

  Grandma Mulberry then bestowed upon Remo a very respectable Bronx cheer. She sounded like old buzzard with stuttering gas.

  On the way out, Remo noticed a book lying on the kitchen table. It was entitled The Joy of Astral Sex. Curious, he opened it up.

  A quick scan showed it was some kind of New Age self-help book. Most of it concerned instructions on how to achieve an out-of-body experience. The rest focused on finding the proper disembodied sex partner, and how to do it the ectoplasmic way.

  "It's the only way the old bat's going to get any," grumbled Remo, who rolled the book into a tight cylinder and fed it into the garbage disposal with grim glee.

  He found himself walking along Wollaston Beach a few minutes later. The wind was flattening the gentle ripples of Quincy Bay, and in the distance Logan Airport's squat concrete control tower showed clearly.

  There was no getting around it. He would have to move. Strangling the old bat was out of the question. Chiun would make his life even more miserable than she did. There was no way he was going to win. And he still didn't understand why Chiun had hired a housekeeper in the first place. They had gotten along fine, just the two of them, for more years than Remo cared to count.

  It would be hard to live apart from the old reprobate, but it was either that or put up with snide insults for the rest of his days.

  Remo was so intent on his thoughts he didn't notice the auburn-haired woman until she practically stood in his path.

  He looked up. She had long shimmering hair and wore a look that would make a Boston cop flinch. She was pretty. No, wait. Make that gorgeous. Her eyes were warm and brown, and she was wearing a blue spring dress that hugged her body like fresh linen. She looked young yet mature. Fresh but seasoned. Her face was radiant, but without that dewy look very young girls possessed.

  "Excuse me," Remo said. "I didn't see you." He started to walk around her.

  Shifting, she got in his way again. "You look bored," she said.

  "That's me," admitted Remo.

  She looked him dead in the eye. "Fine. Marry me. "

  Remo said, "What?"

  She waved a ticket. "Look, I just won the lottery. Mass Millions."

  "Good for you."

  "And I quit my job."

  "Congratulations."

  "But I'm bored."

  "It's a long line," said Remo, "and I was ahead of you."

  She got in his way and fixed him with her striking eyes, which were growing steely. "Did you hear anything I just said?" she demanded.

  "I have stuff on my mind."

  "I just won seven million dollars and I'm free as a bird." She smiled. "And you look like my kind of bird."

  "Sorry. I fly alone."

  "Don't tell me I'm not your type. I know different."

  Remo decided she was crazy and turned on his heel, walking the other way. She followed along, growing more insistent. She had the slightly husky voice of a former smoker. That was a strike against her in Remo's eyes. He didn't care for smokers.

  "I don't have a type," said Remo, wondering if the shark effect was wearing off. He found if he ate shark every other day, it quenched his powerful pheromones.

  "Look, I'm not kidding about winning the lottery. It happened last week. See, this is the winning ticket. I'm afraid to turn it in. So I come here and try to think. Aren't you even slightly impressed?"

  "I have my own problems," said Remo.

  "Look, if you won't marry me, how about a date?"

  Remo blinked. He stopped in his tracks. A cunning gleam grew in his deep-set dark eyes.

  "I gotta take you home to meet someone first," he said quickly.

  Her voice took on an edge. "If it's your wife, I withdraw the offer."

  "No. Come on."

  They walked back to Castle Sinanju. She told Remo her name was Jean and she had six kids and one grandson. "No two alike," she added.

  "You don't look that old," he said.

  "I'm not. I was just testing your nerve. How is it?"

  "Holding up."

  "You're doing better than most guys I meet. For some reason, guys are intimidated by me. Puts a big damper on my love life." Her smile turned sly. "By the way, how's yours?"

  "Ever hear of astral sex?"

  Her eyes bloomed. "You can do astral sex? I thought I was the only one who knew that stuff."

  "I just read about it," Remo lied. "What's it like?"

  "You lie in separate beds, sometimes separate homes. You never touch in the physical sense. But your souls mate."

  "Is it good?"

  "It's transcendent. Did I ask you your name?"

  "Remo."

  "I'm half-Italian, so we should get along just f
ine. Assuming you believe in prenuptial agreements."

  "I wouldn't ask the woman I was going to marry to sign one," said Remo.

  "You got it backward. I'm the one who hit Mass Millions."

  "Oh. Right."

  "Anyone ever tell you that you're a little slow sometimes, Remo?"

  Remo nodded. "You'll meet him."

  Grandma Mulberry met them at the door, took one look at Jean and said, "Do not fall for his act. He is a faggot."

  Jean burst out laughing. "She's cute."

  "She's not the one I want you to meet," Remo growled.

  "Oh, I think she was."

  They found Chiun in the bell-tower meditation room. The Master of Sinanju looked rested and bright of eye on his reed mat. Without skipping a beat, he said to Jean, "You are very beautiful."

  "Thank you."

  Remo broke in. "That's Chiun. Chiun, this is Jean. We're talking about getting married."

  "If you marry for money, love cannot fail to follow."

  Remo blinked. "I know this is kinda sudden but-"

  Chiun lifted a long-nailed hand. "You have my permission to wed. I bless this union."

  Remo blinked more rapidly. Jean laughed out loud, a happy, infectious sound.

  "May you bear my adopted son many squawling infants," Chiun said expansively.

  "Don't you at least want to know her heritage?" Remo asked.

  "A good thought," said Chiun. "Child, what is your father's last name?"

  "Rice. My name is Jean Rice."

  Chiun brought his deceptively delicate hands together, and his face assumed a rapturous expression. "You will be an excellent influence upon my wayward son, who has sowed his wild oats for too long now. It is time he settled down to a steady diet of rice. Even if it is white rice."

  "We haven't set a date yet," Remo said quickly.

  Chiun arose from his mat. "There is no need. I am prepared to marry you now."

  Remo stepped back with nervous speed. "Wait a minute! What's the rush?"

  "You have made the decision. It is done. As head of the House, it is my duty to join you in matrimony."

  Remo started backing out of the room.

  "But first you must know certain things about my adopted son, Remo," added Chiun.

  "Shoot," said Jean, folding her arms.

  "He is a fearsome killer."

  Jean cocked an eyebrow. "Him?"

  "Yes. Second only to myself. Many enemies of this country he has slain in cruel and merciless ways. For we secretly work for no less than the emperor of America."

  Jean eyed Remo. "He's funny. I like him."

  "He's a pain in the butt," returned Remo.

  "He's using reverse psychology, you know."

  "I am not," Chiun flared. "If no one objects to this union, I pronounce you assassin and consort."

  "Wait a minute. I object," Remo said.

  Jean wrapped one arm around Remo and said, "Too late. We're wed."

  "I hardly know you. And this is just a date."

  "Don't sweat it. I'm rich. I'll support you."

  Chiun's eyes narrowed sharply to conceal their growing merriment.

  "Look," Remo sputtered. "I just met her. I thought I'd use her to get that old bat off my back. I can't walk by her and she makes a crack about my masculinity."

  Face reddening, Jean released Remo and stepped away.

  "You were just using me!" she said, her voice squeezing down in shock.

  Remo caught himself. "I didn't mean 'using' like that."

  She grabbed his arm again. "So we can get married, after all."

  "You are married," said Chiun.

  "No!" said Remo.

  "If you jilt this woman who loves you, Remo, it will bring shame to the House," Chiun scolded.

  Remo grabbed Jean by the hand and dragged her down the stairs. Her laugh bounced off the walls. Remo, visibly annoyed, fumed until they were out of the building.

  Once outside, Jean looked up at the fieldstone monstrosity and said, "If we end up living here, I want some changes."

  "Don't get ahead of yourself," Remo growled.

  She looked up at him, her eyes appealing. "You weren't really using me?"

  "I need to get that iron-haired scold off my back."

  "Uh-huh. Let's go back to the beach. You look like you could use a good smooch."

  "I'm a little rusty in the romance department," Remo admitted.

  She took his hand. "I have just the cure for that ...."

  Chapter 23

  The first psychological profile came by e-mail.

  Smith's system beeped to alert him of the incoming transmission from the FBI Chicago office. Smith hadn't expected a report this soon, although he knew the Bureau profilers were very good at this sort of task.

  The text report was succinct to the point of ridiculous:

  UNSUB is antisocial type. White male, age about thirty-five, intelligent, detail oriented and keeps bees. Probably had an ant farm as a child and fell into fantasy world inhabited by insects. Lives in isolation. Minimum to no social life. Drives Volkswagen Beetle. Follows the Charlotte Hornets.

  Smith input the text into his own profile generator and commanded the program to generate a rough artist's representation of the UNSUB.

  Moments later-the speed of modern computers still sometimes astonished Smith, who had cut his analytic teeth in the halcyon days of Univac-a color image appeared.

  It showed a nearly featureless white man, bearded, but wearing dense wraparound sunglasses and a deerstalker cap.

  Smith blinked. The system had generated a face that was a cross between Sherlock Holmes and the Unabomber.

  Obviously, he was working with insufficient data.

  Saving the image as a file, Smith returned to the task at hand. Perhaps one of the other profilers would do better. After all, profiling was not an exact science ....

  Chapter 24

  Midway through dinner-Remo had ordered mako shark out of habit-he realized the merry look in Jean's eyes wasn't there because she had won seven million dollars courtesy of the state of Massachusetts, but because she was in love with him.

  Not lust like most women, but love. It had been a gleam in her eye from the first, but now it was open and unconcealed.

  "So," Remo said, putting down his fork, "what's the attraction? It can't be my pheromones. They've been pretty quiet lately."

  She smiled. Her lips were very red. They went with her eyes somehow.

  "Last summer, I had my Tarot cards read," she said, leaning forward. "Guess what the woman said."

  "Search me."

  "'You're coming into money.'"

  "They all say that."

  "It came true, didn't it? Now shut up and listen. Then she flipped a couple of cards over and said, 'I see you on a beach. There's a man walking the beach with his head down. Dark hair and dark eyes. He has unusual energy.'"

  "That could be anyone."

  "'And wrists like two-by-fours.'"

  Remo's knife and fork froze in midair. "She said that?"

  Jean nodded. "Her exact words. So when I saw you, I knew exactly who you were."

  Her smile lit up her crinkling eyes.

  "Who am I?"

  "Let's just say this-there's still time to run."

  "I don't run from anything," said Remo. But his dark eyes were worried.

  They drove to the beach and walked its entire length and back again. A cold moon came up and washed them in its pristine light.

  They were still there when the sun rose.

  Chapter 25

  If Mearl Streep hadn't had the misfortune to be christened Mearl Streep, a lot of things might have been different.

  For one thing, he wouldn't get all those annoying telephone calls at all hours asking for an autographed picture of himself in drag.

  For another, he'd still be teaching the fifth grade.

  Mearl Streep's rise to fame changed all that. Between the calls at night and the scrawls on the blackboard of James L. Reid
Grammar School in the daytime, Mearl Streep had been practically drummed out of polite Iowa society.

  In the beginning, it was only miserable. Then his brother passed on, and Mearl inherited the family farm. That made it bearable. Nobody cared what a simple corn farmer called himself.

  But Mearl's heart wasn't in corn. It was in being somebody, and being Mearl Streep was a plain losing proposition.

  "How the hell do I get me some respect?" he asked his dog, the only companion he had who didn't snicker behind his back.

  Old Blue barked a time or two and lay down and began snoring.

  "Life is against me. That's all there is to it," he muttered.

  Old Blue rolled over and passed gas.

  "And if it's against me, then by damn, I'm going to be against it," Mearl said firmly, fanning the air with his seed cap.

  It was one thing to blow off steam on a farm in the middle of the Corn State where no one cared. It was another to keep doing it. Mearl got tired of listening to his own complaints and took to listening to the radio.

  There were some pretty interesting new personalities on the radio during the good days before the Great Flood. First there was Thrush Limburger. He really got the blood coursing. But after a while, he started sounding more and more like an eastern windbag, shifting with the changing political winds.

  Others came. They went, too. Louder, more feisty than the ones before. After a while, all the sound and fury died down and there was nothing good on. Nothing for a hardworking but bored corn farmer to listen to.

  Then interesting things started happening. Ruby Ridge. Waco. Folks were talking about how Washington was going to be moving against the people pretty soon, and some of the loudest voices in radio started disappearing. Folks blamed bad ratings, but Mearl wondered. It sounded vaguely sinister. So Mearl bought himself a shortwave set and took up listening to Mark from Minnesota, a program devoted to warning folks about the coming insurrections with the black helicopters and the New World Order and suchlike.

  Not four months after Waco, came the Great Flood of 1993. The hundred-year flood, they called it.

  It wiped out Mearl Streep. He barely escaped the moving wall of black puddinglike mud that rolled over his farm after the Raccoon and Des Moines rivers overflowed in the wake of a four-hour goosedrowner of a rainstorm. Eight dirtdrumming inches fell. A crest of water twenty-seven feet high rolled off the Raccoon and ran smack into the swollen Des Moines.