"Nothing," he blurted, "except that I felt kind of sad without you here to talk to. And now that you're back, I'm sort of happy." His hesitant voice grew stronger. "So I guess that's what I got you. A son's love." He smiled hopefully.
In spite of himself, a spark of warmth ignited the old man's eyes. An upturned flicker brushed the vellum corners of his thin lips. He forced it away.
"In lieu of a brass band, I suppose it will have to suffice," Chiun sniffed. "Next time I return from a pilgrimage of self, however, I expect a present with a price tag." He fussed with the hems of his kimono.
"One Mylar balloon coming up," Remo promised, relieved to have dodged the bullet. "Anyway, a lot of junk's been happening since you pulled your 'Louisa May Alcott does Hollywood' routine."
Chiun's eyes instantly narrowed. "You have not been listening in on my telephone conversations?" he accused.
Remo sighed. "No," he said.
"Good," Chiun responded. "For there were none."
Remo didn't bother to mention the fact that the last phone bill he'd seen would have choked a horse. "Chiun, I have a problem."
"That is nothing new. Speak, O Giver of Cheap Gifts."
"Smith has given me an assignment. A genetics company has created an artificial animal that can feed the world. But it looks as if the animal is vicious. People have died."
"All people die," Chiun said, dismissing the last of what his pupil had said. "We know this better than any. As for the rest, I do not understand this nonsense of an artificial animal, yet I know well of many animals deemed vicious."
"The fact that it might be a killer isn't the only problem," Remo explained. "A couple million and a good PR firm could help BostonBio wiggle out of that. The weird thing for me is the tracks these things leave."
He explained to Chiun the stark difference between the hoofprints of the BBQ at rest and the paw prints it made following its murderous attacks. Chiun frowned thoughtfully. "A bird walks, yet it flies," he pointed out. "A duck does both, yet also swims."
"The BBQs don't have wings," Remo said. "And they'd need pontoons to float. They just have big clumsy feet that somehow morph into something delicate when they kill."
Chiun's frown lifted. "Do you remember, Remo, the riddle of the Sphinx?"
"Sure," Remo said. "You told me it back when you were dragging me all around the world during the Sinanju Rite of Attainment. The riddle is, whose face does the Sphinx wear? And the answer is the face of the Great Wang."
Lines of frustrated annoyance creased the old man's parchment skin.
"Why is it, Remo, that you appear never to listen to a word I say, yet apparently absorb just enough to aggravate me at a later date?"
Remo offered a confused half smile. "Luck?" he suggested.
Chiun's gaze was flat. "I refer to the Egyptian riddle. What is it that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three legs at night?"
"Everyone knows that one," Remo replied. "The answer is a man. He walks on four legs in the morning of his life because he's crawling. As an adult, he walks on two feet. And when he's old, he uses a cane. Three legs. But you told me that was a child's riddle."
"And I was correct. For I am aged by anyone's estimation, would you not agree?" Chiun asked.
"Only to those who don't know you like I do, Little Father," Remo said warmly.
"Do not be maudlin, Remo," Chiun chided. "There are those who think me old. Yet I do not require a cane. And so you see the true nature of all riddles." He nodded sagely.
Remo's face clouded. "I do?" he said.
"Yes," Chiun responded. "The answer is that riddles are a foolish waste of time." He rose from the carpet like a puff of escaping steam. "We will learn the true secret of this animal when we see it."
With that, the old Asian padded from the room. As he watched the frail figure pass out into the hallway, Remo felt his heart warm. Even though his mentor technically hadn't gone anywhere, it still felt good to have Chiun back.
"I know where we can find one," Remo called after his teacher. He hurried out into the hall. A moment later, the front door clicked shut.
They were not gone more than two minutes before the phone began ringing urgently.
The desperate jangling echoed into empty, darkened rooms.
Chapter 15
Smith let the telephone ring precisely one hundred times before finally replacing the receiver. Obviously, Remo was either out or was not answering his phone. As for Chiun, the old Korean rarely deigned to answer the telephone.
The CURE director was sitting in his cracked leather chair. Around him, his austere Folcroft administrator's office had been swallowed by shadows. A single drab bulb glowed atop his desk.
It had been many hours since last he slept. Gray eyes burned behind rimless glasses as he stared at the silent blue phone.
All but a skeleton crew remained at Folcroft so late after midnight. Without a major crisis for CURE, it was late even for Smith to be working. But he had been waiting for something specific.
The envelope sent by Remo had arrived late in the morning of what was now the previous day. Under the guise of an FBI investigation, Smith had immediately forwarded the mysterious object contained within it to the Smithsonian Institution for analysis.
He had then sat back and waited.
Day stretched into night and had moved on into the postmidnight hour of the following day before the results finally came back. When the answer was at last sent back along the circuitous electronic computer route Smith had established to ensure secrecy, the CURE director found it as puzzling as Remo's mystery of the BBQ tracks.
He had seen the object with his own eyes before sending it along to the Smithsonian. It was small and half-moon shaped. The tough material was cupped and came to a curving point at the far end.
The object Smith had seen jibed perfectly with the determination of the Smithsonian. He rebuked himself for not coming to the same, obvious conclusion.
Forensic scientists at the Washington institution had concluded that the item was nothing more than a woman's artificial fingernail. The kind glued on to increase normal cuticle length and strength.
In his report, the Smithsonian scientist who had forwarded his conclusions to Smith asked if the nail was part of an FBI serial-killer investigation. In his final e-mail, Smith issued nothing more than a blunt thank-you.
Smith reread the report displayed on his monitor as he considered whether or not he should try to call Remo again.
Pam Push-On Nail. The Smithsonian had even determined the specific brand of artificial nail.
Remo claimed to have found the fingernail in a wound of one of the BBQ victims. Smith considered briefly that Remo might be playing some kind of sick joke. He decided almost as soon as the thought occurred to him that this wouldn't be the case. Remo's sense of humor had never been so inappropriately ghoulish.
Which left Smith with a new baffling mystery. The six HETA people in Concord had been men. Only Remo and a single BBQ had been in the area. How and why was the fingernail left in one of the bodies?
Smith stared, unblinking, at the report, hoping somehow that some new insight would leap out at him. But it remained little more than words on a screen. Even so, for some reason, this new information gave him a feeling of inexplicable dread.
Tearing his eyes from his computer screen, Harold Smith snaked an arthritic hand to the phone. Maybe Remo was home by now.
Chapter 16