"Uh-uh. What about you?" Remo looked sharply at the old Korean.
"I have said all I know of the matter," Chiun replied leadingly.
Remo asked, "You think I know something about this that you don't?"
"Naturally not. I have been with you over the past twelve hours. All you have learned, so I have learned."
"So what are you fishing around for, Chiun?"
"I am not fishing:" The bony hands appeared from within the kimono sleeves and waved airily. "I was merely guessing you had some sort of pronouncement to make to the Emperor."
"I don't think I've ever made a pronouncement in my life."
"Fine," Smith said with weary impatience. "What about the bikers' behavior?"
"It was atrocious," Remo stated.
"Compared to the addicts you encountered in the condemned building," Smith added.
"Well, they did a lot less screaming and they weren't as jittery," Remo recalled. "They were more clearheaded than the crack heads, but that's not saying much. What about the drugs I took from the crack house?"
"The analysis shows nothing out of the ordinary," Mark reported.
"I think it is still reasonable to assume that these killers were drugged," Smith added. "The man in Bunsen, Mississippi, Arby Maple, was reported to have shared a drink with a stranger just prior to embarking on his murder spree. That's the same as with the Nashville bikers and the crowd at the Big Stomp. I think it's safe to say it was probably something similar with the addicts."
"What's the difference between the screamers and the nonscreamers?" Remo asked. "Think it was the drugs?"
Smith nodded. "Makes sense. Whatever was used to bring about these fits of violence could have reacted with the crack cocaine the addicts ingested."
"That does not account for the aftereffects, though," Mark said. "The killers in each case seem to have different long-term reactions to the drug," he explained to Remo and Chiun. "Arby Maple claims to remember nothing-otherwise he seems healthy. The addicts who were taken into custody by the police after the killings have gone from paranoid and uncooperative to uncontrollably demented and violent. Some of them are starting to drop into semiconsciousness. None of them seem to have the power of speech any longer. The customers at the Big Stomp have also started experiencing decreased metabolism and slowing brain function. A few have slipped into comas. The medical teams are trying to come up with a treatment to keep them alive."
"Doesn't add up," Remo said.
"You're right," Smith agreed. "None of it does. Yet."
HE KNEW HIS PLOY would never work, but Remo went through the motions anyway. First he waited for the snores like fingernails on slate to fill the confines of the suite that was their Folcroft home-away-from-home, then Remo slipped into the hall. The cadence of the snoring in Chiun's room never changed, but he hadn't gone far before he knew he was being stalked through the Folcroft corridors.
He ignored it and entered an office on the upper floor. The room was so tiny there was barely room for the desk and the single guest chair, and yet the man sitting at the desk never sensed he was not alone until Remo closed the door and said, "Knock knock."
Mark Howard launched himself out of his seat and started to say something, only to find a very solid hand clamped firmly against his face.
"Shh. Keep it down:"
"What's going on, Remo?" Mark demanded when he was released.
"I need a little help."
"What kind of help?"
"I think I've got a line on what's behind the weirdness in the heart of Dixie."
"Why all the sneaking around? Let's go see Dr. Smith."
"No. Uh-uh."
"This is not the time for playing games."
"I'm not playing games, Junior."
"Then why-"
"Last warning, loudmouth. Keep your voice down." Remo nodded at the big oak desk, which dominated the room like a coffin in a closet. "Start typing."
Howard sat and raised the screen from the desktop, hands poised above the keyboard. "I need to know-"
"Get into the air travel records and flight plans. The airlines, the charters, private aircraft."
"You have to know we've done a search already," Howard said. "Want to tell me what I'm looking for?"
"A delegation from Union Island."
"You must be kidding me."
"Do it."
Mark shrugged, and his fingers started flying over the keyboard. Remo leaned over and stared at the screen for a moment. The electronic windows were hogwash. Howard could be checking the balance in his checking account for all Remo knew.
"Huh," Mark said.
"What huh?" Remo asked.
"The delegation was in Boston at the time of the drug distribution. Hold on. They were in Nashville. The entire itinerary matches up."
"I thought so."
"But that doesn't exactly prove anything. The time frames were loose enough that we could put thousands of people in the right place at the right time."
"What's this bunch doing all the traveling around for, anyway?" Remo asked.
"Don't you read the news? Their president is on the talk-show circuit. He's trying to drum up support for their independence movement. They want to break away from the United States."
Remo frowned. "Show me what the president looks like."
Howard tapped a few keys and pushed back from the screen. Remo slid around the desk and looked at a Web page for the Union Island Independence Movement. The page was dominated by the smiling face of the elected leader of the island, President Greg Grom.
"What do you know, it's the same kid I saw on TV," Remo said. "He doesn't look old enough to vote, let alone get elected."