Remo still sat before him. Baby Karen's crucifix jutted from the hooked knuckle of his index finger. He absently stroked the medal with his thumb.
"My family's got dough," Brad offered weakly. He tried to blink away the aftereffects of his weird vision. He could still hear the old woman's fading laughter.
Remo seemed in his own world.
"For more years than I care to remember, it's been my job to protect America from creeps like you. I was supposed to make a difference. But I haven't. You're proof. You grew up rich and spoiled in the wealthiest nation on Earth. You had everything, except a soul. That's the country I kill to preserve. A country with a dead national soul."
On the bed, Brad gulped. "Uh, kill?"
"In a minute," Remo promised. "And even if by some miracle you got caught," he continued, "the best you'd get'd be a slap on the wrist. And there are more like you. A lot more than when I started. Back then I thought I could make a difference. I was wrong. You grew up in the new improved Great Remo Williams Society. The America where the killers got killed, justice was served and in the end everyone was safe to walk the streets. But that's a crock. You're a direct product of the country I was supposed to be pulling back from the brink. And you put more value in a crumpled Kleenex than in your own daughter's life."
His bitterness was as thick as the clumps of moist dust that skulked in the corners of the dingy bedroom.
This was all too unbelievable to Brad. With an entire town-an entire country--looking for him, this nutcase somehow managed to track him down. He had gotten inside silently, had prevented Brad from escaping and was now talking some psycho talk about killing to save America.
But, for a spoiled rich kid like Brad Miller, this lunatic's last words were a godsend. Brad had lived a life of blaming others for everything bad he'd ever done, and he'd just been served a way out of this mess on a silver platter.
"Yeah, this is your fault," Miller agreed, his eyes flashing cunning. He sat up in the bed, swinging his legs over the side. "You're the reason I did what I did. You didn't fix stuff like you were supposed to."
It was crazy talk, of course. But this guy had some kind of delusions about personally righting the world's wrongs.
"Maybe." Remo nodded thoughtfully. His deepset eyes-now grown sad-glanced down at the crucifix in his open palm.
"You bet your ass," Brad enthused, standing. His legs wobbled. "It's your fault my baby's dead. You didn't do enough. Maybe if you'd tried a little harder, things would have even worked out between Ellen and me."
Carefully, cautious not to make any sudden moves, Brad inched his way past Remo. For his part, Remo remained seated. Almost as if he were pondering Miller's words.
"I had to do it," Brad offered over his shoulder. "Society made me. You were supposed to fix society. Somebody really dropped the ball here, and I think we all know who that somebody is."
Brad was halfway to the door by now. It was clear sailing. He took off like a rabbit. Running full-out, he ate up the remaining distance between himself and the bowed old door. When he fumbled for the knob, however, Brad felt a brush of warm air against his ear.
Remo's voice was frighteningly close.
"Just because I've failed, it doesn't mean you're my fault," Remo said coldly.
With that, Brad felt himself being lifted off the floor. As before, he rocketed back across the room. But this time, he did not land on his lumpy bed.
The window through which he had viewed much of the past six days flew up fast. It cracked into a thousand sparkling shards as Brad Miller soared through it into empty space. For one brief instant, his horrified face was illuminated by a streak of yellow lightning. As the light vanished, so did Brad. He plummeted four stories to the street.
The driving rain obscured the wet splat of Brad Miller on the pavement.
The storm was loud through the open window, the rain close. Thunder and lightning trailed off across the city toward Peoria Lake. Droplets struck the sill, splattering the grimy floor.
Near the window, Remo slipped the small crucifix back into his pocket.
He felt dirty. As if Miller were a communicable disease that could be caught through touch. No rainwater was enough to clean the grime from his soul this night.
Remo left the rain to wash away Brad Miller's sins. Feeling deeply troubled, he left the empty apartment.
Chapter 3
Fourteen lacquered steamer trunks had been carefully arranged around the tidy bedroom. The wizened figure in the red silk kimono clucked and chirped as he fussed between them.
Chiun, Master of the House of Sinanju, the most awesome and feared assassins in all of recorded time, was packing. It was an awe-inspiring task.
Hurrying around the small back room in the Massachusetts condominium complex, the old Korean carried to the trunks the ornately decorated kimonos he had retrieved from his closets. Still more robes were lying folded on his unused dresser and on a low taboret.
Many of the kimonos were older than he was, having been handed down from previous Masters of Sinanju. Yet despite their age, they seemed like new. The same could not be said for their owner.
Chiun was old. His almond-hued skin was the thinnest vellum. Above each shell-like ear, a wisp of white hair protruded, each as insubstantial as a cough of fine dust. A thin thread of fine hair extended from his bony chin.
He was five feet tail and had never weighed over one hundred pounds. His diminutive stature and advanced years combined to create an outward image of a creature of infinite frailty. Graveyards the world over were filled with those who had leaped to that unwise conclusion.
The tiny Korean with the youthful hazel eyes was one of the two most dangerous beings on the face of the planet. The only other man who could match his awesome skills had just entered the building.
Chiun had heard Remo's car park in the lot next to Castle Sinanju, the converted church that was their shared home. A few seconds later, the front door clicked shut.
As he worked in his room, Chiun cocked an absent ear. Yet, though he listened, he heard not another sound.
It was unusual for Remo not to bray his arrival whenever he returned home. Briefly, Chiun thought that his pupil might have forgotten something in his vehicle and gone back outside. He realized this wasn't the case when he heard Remo's voice at his open doorway.
"What are you doing?"
Though he did not show it, Chiun was surprised that he had heard neither Remo's rhythmic heartbeat nor a single sound from his pupil as he climbed the stairs. When he looked up, the old Korean's parchment face was bland.
"Packing," he replied simply. He collected a fiery orange kimono from atop the dresser and placed it in the azure trunk.
Framed in the doorway, his hands jammed in his pockets, Remo frowned. "I can see that," he replied.
"Then why did you ask?"
The green silk kimono with the red-and-gold piping went on top of the orange one.
"Did Smitty give us an assignment while I was gone?" Remo asked as the Master of Sinanju shut the blue trunk.
"The emperor telephoned," Chiun admitted. "He wishes for you to call. Beyond that I do not know." With a flourish, he latched the lid of the steamer trunk.
"Then why are you packing?"
"Why does one generally pack?" the old man countered. He stooped to collect his sleeping mat.
"I don't know," Remo said wearily, his shoulders sinking. "You're going somewhere, I take it?"
"Yes," Chiun replied as he rolled the reed mat tight.
"Does Smith know?"