Barussio said, "Just tell them that their fears of you are just a superstition. That there is nothing for them to worry about. Tell them it is okay for them to go back to work."
"Whatever you want," Remo said.
Chiun was craning his neck, inspecting the fields and hills of the grape farm.
Albanese stepped beside Remo. "Don't screw it up, sweetheart," he growled softly.
"Sweetheart? I didn't think you cared," Remo said.
"Just screw it up and you'll find out how much I care," Albanese said. "Might even have to get some dirt on your pretty little white suit."
"Oh, goodness gracious me!" Remo said.
A crowd was gathering now. Manuel had called the adults of the migrant camp and surrounded by children, they had begun to gather in a large clump, Manuel stepped to the forefront. "We are all here," he said.
Albanese nudged Remo in the ribs. "Talk to them," he said.
Remo stepped forward. "My name is Remo. This man is Chiun. What problems have we caused you?"
The adults looked around at each other, then at Manuel. They wore the same white uniforms Manuel did. Manuel said, "First there was the tearing of the earth and many of us died. Now the old folks tell us of more death to come. They say that death will surround us. And that death will come from you."
"Did they speak of us?" Remo asked.
"They spoke of an Oriental, an aged man of great wisdom. And they spoke of his white-faced companion whose hands are faster than sight and deadlier than arrows."
Albanese giggled. But Barussio heard. Hands that he could not see. He remembered his dream of hands, moving faster than sight, dealing out death. He felt a bead of perspiration form on his forehead.
'Who are these old folks of whom you speak?" Remo asked.
Manuel turned and spoke a few soft words in Spanish. The crowd parted. An old woman, as old as life and as weary as death, shuffled slowly through the crowd. She was dressed in black, and wore a black shawl. Her face was wrinkled and dry with the sorrow of centuries.
She stepped closely to Manuel's side. "I have seen the visions," she said to Remo. "I have seen the death of the fast hands coming."
"All right," Albanese growled to Remo. "Let's cut it short. Tell them to get back to work. Tell them to cut the shit and get back to work. If you and the gook know what's good for you, you'll move now."
Remo looked at Albanese next to him, registering his size and weight, then turned again to speak to Manuel. But Chiun had stepped forward, cool and imperturbable in his blue robes.
He walked up to the old woman and took her hands in his. They were the same size. Chiun and she stood there silently for a moment, their eyes locked together.
His voice rang out across the field, echoing hollowly off the now-empty tarpaper shacks.
"Hear well my words," he said, intoning as if he were delivering a high mass.
"Your elders speak truth to you because there is death here. Your elders speak truth to you when they tell you of death to come, and your elders speak truth when they tell you of the man with the hands like arrows."
"What's he doing?" Albanese hissed. He and Palermo stepped forward behind Chiun, their towering presence meant to intimidate him.
"The men behind me are evil men," Chiun said, "and for such evil men, death is the only sure reward. It is the only fair compensation for their crimes."
Palermo and Albanese each grabbed one of Chiun's shoulders. Then they stopped grabbing and drew themselves up on tiptoes into erect positions, their faces contorted in pain, as Chiun dug his hands into their groins, without ever taking his eyes off the crowd of migrant workers.
"I say to you now that you should escape the death that will come. Listen to your elders. Return to your own land. They will tell you when the time has come that it is safe for you to return here, to return again to your work in the fields."
"Stop him," Barussio shouted to Palermo and Albanese.
Chiun's hands released their crushing hold on the two. They lunged at the frail yellow man in the blue kimono.
Palermo reached him first, then crumpled at Chiun's feet as if somehow his body had disappeared from inside his clothing and the empty garments just fell of their own weight.
"Gook bastard," Albanese cursed. "This is going to be fun." He went at Chiun's throat with both hands to squeeze the life out of this old spectre. His hands stopped working before they reached Chiun's throat. Then he was lifted off the ground, the force of an elbow crushing his windpipe, driving it upward into his mouth. His body followed, flying through the air, lifeless, to fall with a heavy thud at the feet of the woman in black. She looked down at Albanese's corpse, still writhing in death, and spit into his face.
She turned and the crowd split to make room for her. Without a word, she shuffled away, the adults behind her, herding their children along with whispers and pats on the backs of heads.
"Come back," Barussio shouted. "Come back. It's all a mistake."
"No mistake," Remo said.
Barussio reached into his jacket for his gun, a move he had not made in years but which he still did well.
The gun was out, in his hands, pointing at Chiun and his finger was squeezing the trigger. But his finger squeezed against only air as the gun dropped harmlessly to his feet.
Barussio began to turn toward Remo. In his dream, he had never seen the hand that killed him. He did not see it now. He did not even feel it. All he felt were the beads of perspiration on his head, his armpits suddenly clammy and wet, the sweat running in sudden spring rivulets down the insides of his thighs.
The perspiration was already beginning to show through his suit by the time his dead body reached the ground, kicking up the red dust into a small splash of dried blood.
Remo's eyes met Chiun's and the old man bowed. Remo returned the bow with mock courtesy.
Then he said, "Okay, Chiun, let's go. I've got some work to do."
As they walked slowly back toward the white Cadillac, leaving the three dead bodies on the ground behind them, Chiun said, "What is next?"
"I've had it. I'm going to go get the guy who sent these goons after us."
"Who might that be?" Chiun asked.
"Lester Curpwell IV," Remo said. "The guy behind all this."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Where's Curpwell, honeybunch?" asked Remo.
"He's inside his office," the young bronzed girl said. "But he sent out word not to disturb him for anything." She looked up and down Remo's body as if she regretted giving him that message.
"That's all right. He'll see me," Remo said, brushing past the girl's desk, walking toward the massive wood and brass doors to Curpwell's inner office.
"You can't go in there," the girl protested weakly. "He's already had two people barge in on him today. You can't go in there."