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  And then none of that mattered. Before Smith could jump forward or leap back, before he could even utter a single word of protest, the police officer pulled the trigger.

  There was a very bright, very mortal flash of yellow. He felt himself being punched in the chest. With a look of shock, Harold W. Smith lurched back, hitting hard the cold stairwell door.

  Chapter 33

  For a split second of slow-motion time, Smith thought he had been shot. Then the world clicked back to normal speed and the director of CURE saw a living shadow.

  In the instant Davic pulled the trigger, another man had darted between Smith and the detective. Smith saw the look of terrified urgency on Mark Howard's flushed face.

  Howard had shoved Smith out of the way, at the same time grabbing the gunman's wrist, forcing Davic to fire wide.

  The two men tumbled away from Smith. There was a rolling fight in the pile of snow next to the door. A single muffled gunshot and the struggle ended.

  Mark Howard pushed himself to his feet. When he turned, his hands were red with blood. He held them out before him, a look of dull shock on his face.

  "Are you all right, Dr. Smith?" Mark panted. The young man's face had grown pale. His breath came in frightened bursts of warm gray fog. Smith could see his assistant's hands were shaking.

  "I'm fine," Smith said tightly. He put down his briefcase and hustled over to the detective.

  "I was upstairs," Mark said. Shock drained the life from his broad face. "I saw him from the bathroom window. He was parking in the visitors' lot." He shook his head. "It was the way he walked. It didn't seem right. I forgot to tell you I talked with him yesterday. He said they were closing out the Folcroft end of the investigation." The young man's face was sick. "Is he okay?" he asked weakly.

  Smith was stooping next to Davic. He looked up, his face pinched in concern. "He's dead."

  "Oh." Mark's voice was small. His hands stopped shaking. The warm blood was growing cold.

  Smith glanced around. Gusting wind howled loud off Long Island Sound. The wind would have obscured the gunshots. It was late at night. This wing of the sanitarium was empty. No one was around to see or hear what had just transpired on the ivy-covered sanitarium's lonely side steps.

  "Clean your hands off in the snow," Smith commanded. "I'll melt it in the Sound. I don't want you tracking blood inside the building or back home."

  Mark did as he was told. "What should I do now?" he asked once his hands were clean.

  "Go home," Smith ordered. He looked down at the dead man lying facedown next to the short path to Folcroft's employee parking lot. "I will dispose of the body."

  Mark said not a word. Turning woodenly, he started to trudge to the parking lot.

  "Mark," Smith called after him.

  The young man turned. The shock was fading. A look of revulsion was slowly creeping across his broad face.

  "This was going to happen sooner or later," Smith said. "This is a war we're fighting." His dispassionate voice was as cold as the icy wind that racked their frail bodies. "You realize that, now more than ever. I know, because I have been through what you are about to go through. To wage that war we must oftentimes do things that go against our nature. There will be casualties. But for America to survive, men must be willing to do everything necessary in order to safeguard her." His face tightened. "Always remember, Mark, America is worth a life. Whether it's mine, yours or his." He nodded to the dead man in the snow.

  Smith hoped some of the words had registered. At the moment the event was playing too large in his brain for Howard to comprehend them all. They would just be words. Deeper understanding would only come in time.

  "Go," Smith ordered. "Drive carefully."

  Mark nodded. He said not another word. Turning, he walked down the path to the parking lot, past an old light post that was draped in faded plastic Christmas holly.

  As Mark got in his car, Smith was already dragging the body of Detective Davic to his battered old station wagon.

  Chapter 34

  Two days later Remo and Chiun were back at Folcroft Sanitarium. Even though it was Christmas morning, Harold Smith was at his usual post. He met the two Sinanju Masters in their basement quarters.

  "Wollongong appears to be the only Vox facility in the entire News Company family equipped with the subliminal technology," the CURE director was saying. "There is no indication that it was deployed anywhere else."

  Smith was sitting on the sofa in the living-room area. Remo sat on the floor. Across the room, the Master of Sinanju was ignoring them both. The tiny Asian was in the process of packing his trunks.

  "That's good," Remo said absently, one eye on his teacher. "Wouldn't want the general viewing public turned into mind-numbed zombies."

  "BCN has announced that it plans to sue Vox for the attempted takeover," Smith continued. "There are federal investigations into charges that Robbie MacGulry used the cryptosubliminal technology to unfairly influence the FCC."

  "I guess it's easier to slap handcuffs on a corpse than on a microchip," Remo said dryly.

  "About Friend," Smith said seriously. "That was an isolated system he was backed into at MacGulry's home. If that was the only version of himself in existence, we should not encounter him again."

  "What do you mean only version?"

  "It's possible he could have copied his program while en route to MacGulry's computer system and sent the backup file elsewhere. We can never know for sure."

  "Swell," Remo grumbled. "And I didn't get you anything for Christmas. If that's everything, why don't you get out of here, Smitty? Even Ebenezer Scrooge took Christmas Day off. Speaking of which, where is CURE's answer to Bob Cratchit?"

  "If you are referring to Mark, he flew back home to be with his family for the holidays," Smith explained.

  "You gave him a whole week off?" Remo asked, surprised. "Wow. He must be in rougher shape than I thought."

  Smith considered telling Remo of Friend's final victim, but decided against it. Mark seemed to be coping with what he had been forced to do. Luckily for CURE, Detective Davic had been working on a drug-related case at the same time as his investigation at Folcroft. Since he had closed out the Folcroft aspect of the Purcell case, when his body was found on Christmas Eve in a warehouse in New York City, his death was linked to the other case. For his assistant's sake, Smith decided it would be best to let this particular aspect of the matter die quietly.

  "Actually, Mark is doing quite well," Smith said. "I believe now that Purcell had been attempting to manipulate him on some psychic level for months. I blame myself for not seeing the signs of trouble sooner. And my briefing on CURE matters could have been more thorough. Mark didn't know much about Purcell beyond the fact that he was a CURE patient in the special ward. Had I been more forthcoming with him about Purcell's mental abilities, perhaps he would have recognized what was happening to him. As it was, Purcell was forcing exhaustion and confusion on Mark. The more fatigued he became, the more Purcell was able to force his will on him."

  "He's been down there for years," Remo said. "I still don't know why he picked Howard and not somebody else."

  It was the Master of Sinanju who replied.

  "Are you blind?" Chiun said with an impatient hiss. "The prince is possessed of the Sight."

  Remo frowned. "You saying Howard's like the Dutchman?"

  "I am saying what I am saying," Chiun said.

  Smith had grown visibly uncomfortable. "Mark does seem to have certain abilities," he admitted guardedly. "I believe that's what made him more susceptible to Purcell's mental advances." Before Remo could question further, he forged ahead. "It seems as if Purcell left some vestiges of himself with Mark. Mark is still trying to sift through it all. I'm hoping we can use the knowledge to locate Purcell. Understandably, Sinanju appears to play a large role in Purcell's thoughts. Mark said he seemed to be particularly distressed over his relationship with Nuihc." At this there came an angry grunt across the room. Remo pitched his vo
ice low. "Smitty, that's a name we could do without hearing around here on Christmas Day."

  "Oh," Smith said, nodding. "I understand." He checked his watch. "I should be going," he added, climbing tiredly to his feet. "My daughter and her husband are in Connecticut for the week. My wife invited them to my house with their children for Christmas dinner."

  "Hold the phone," Remo said as he followed the CURE director to the door. "You've got grandkids?"

  "Three," Smith replied.

  "Huhn," Remo grunted. "I suppose it shouldn't surprise me. Half the time I forget you even have a daughter. Lately, I've been thinking of Howard as your only child."

  Out in the hallway now, Smith frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "You're a bright guy," Remo said. "You figure it out. "

  He shut the door in the CURE director's puzzled face. Remo turned his attention back into the room. The Master of Sinanju was still fussing to pack his things. Most of his fourteen lacquered steamer trunks were already packed and stacked against the wall. For Remo it was a sad image.

  Back in Chiun's house in the village of Sinanju were piles of gold and silver and jewels. Much of the tribute there had been collected by Chiun. But those bits of metal and shiny glass didn't really belong to any one Master. They were Sinanju's. No, a lifetime's worth of Chiun's worldly possessions were here. In those fourteen trunks.

  Remo wondered how many more times at this stage of his life his teacher could pack and unpack them. "I've been trying to figure out what happened back at MacGulry's house," Remo announced all at once. His voice was soft. "Why you didn't get hypnotized there like you did at his office. I know why now. It's because you didn't get hypnotized back in his office, did you?"

  "I told you I did not," Chiun said annoyed. He didn't lift his head.

  "So when you attacked me at his office you were-what, trying to teach me a lesson about age discrimination? Peeved? You weren't gonna hurt me. You were just venting."

  Chiun said not a word.

  Sadness suffused Remo. He understood.

  "I'm sorry I was quicker, Little Father," he said. At this the old Korean looked up, a dark scowl on his leathery face. Without a word he returned to his luggage. His packing became more violent. Stolen ashtrays and stale packets of restaurant saltines slammed into trunks.

  Remo knew he had insulted his teacher. But he had told the truth. He was sorry. Sorry that time had moved on for both of them. Sorry that they weren't as young as they once were. Sorry that things couldn't stay the same forever.

  Chiun had been going on about age because he finally knew he was getting old. And he was right. Remo had been treating him differently lately because of it.

  For a moment, the younger Sinanju Master wasn't sure what to do to alleviate his own guilt and the hurt he had caused his teacher. All at once it came to him.

  "No," Remo announced. "Wait a second. I'm not sorry. I'm better than you."

  The room stilled. The Master of Sinanju's head rose on his craning neck. His hazel eyes were cold slits.

  "That's right," Remo said. "I'm better. I'm the Transitional Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju and I'm better than you are. And why wouldn't I be? I was trained by the best. Who else could have taken the pale piece of a pig's ear that was me and turned it into something better than himself? No one but you, Little Father, that's who. You did the impossible. The only reason I'm better than you is because you're better than the best."

  Chiun let his pupil's words hang in the basement air for a long moment. At long last, he began nodding. The gossamer tufts of hair above his ears whispered in the air.

  "Do not get a swelled head, Remo Williams," he advised. "On most days I am still your equal."

  Remo felt his heart swell. "Like I said. That's because you're the best, Little Father."

  The Reigning Master of Sinanju offered a puckered smile to the Master who would succeed him.

  "And don't you forget it, white man."

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