Smith felt a chill that had nothing to do with his ordeal.
His eyes may deceive him, but his hearing was perfectly reliable.
The fireman was moving through cattails that ignored him, water that failed to eddy or gurgle in response to his progress.
Crouching low, Smith watched the man.
He wasn't searching. He was moving in a direct line, toward open water. The back of his black slicker shone. The back of his black fireman's helmet, with its scoop-shaped brim, reflected the shine of moonlight normally.
Nothing else about him was normal.
As Smith watched, mesmerized for reasons he could not process logically, the black shoulders were swallowed by the black water and still the man waded on.
The waterline crept up to the back of his neck, then the helmet brim, then the crown, and yet the fireman continued, unconcerned.
The top of the helmet became a black dome that traveled on, and Smith could see clearly that no bubbles of escaping air were breaking the surface.
The water failed to purl or corkscrew when the shrinking dome of the helmet was lost to sight.
"It should have purled," Smith muttered. "It did not."
His voice in the darkness was thin and hollow.
Smith watched for bubbles. There should be bubbles. If the man were drowning, his lungs should give up expelled gases. If he wore an oxygen mask, there would be bubbles.
There were no bubbles. There was just the placid water that had swallowed a wading fireman with complete and total soundlessness.
Harold Smith was a very logical man. It was his logic that spoke next.
"I do not believe in apparitions," said Smith in a voice that was firm yet troubled and held a hollow ring that only his wife would recognize as doubt.
Smith tore his eyes from the spot and continued on his way. Entering the water was out of the question. He had not the strength to rescue the fireman.
But he moved down to the waterline to examine the soft mud for footprints. He found a set moving toward the black lapping water, but they disappeared well short of where they should. The tracks simply stopped dead. Watching, Smith saw that the tide was going out. If it were coming in, the lapping wavelets would explain the erasure of tracks. But the water was receding, so there was no explanation.
Eyes lifting, Smith watched the water. A fish struck at something, then vanished. He saw no other bubbles of any kind.
Moving on, Harold Smith was hit by a sudden thought. Fire fighters wore fluorescent bands on their slickers. That man had none. Normally they carried bright yellow oxygen tanks slung over their backs. Smith had seen no oxygen tank.
Coming to a spray of light at the edge of the police line, Smith found a pair of taxis waiting for fares.
He opened the rear door of one and levered himself onto the cushions. All strength seemed to drain from him then.
"I would like to go to Rye, New York," he said.
"That's gonna cost, pal," the cabby said.
"Quote me a rate."
The cabbie pretended to think and said, "Seventy-five bucks. Tax and tip extra."
"What tax?"
"Actually there ain't one. That was just my way of saying, 'Don't forget him what brung ya.' "
And Harold Smith was so drained of strength that instead of bargaining, he nodded yes just before dropping off to sleep.
WHEN THE CABBIE said, "Rye coming up," Smith struggled back to consciousness.
"This next exit," he said, squinting at his surroundings. His head pounded, and his tongue tasted like dead fish.
The cabbie leaned into the offramp.
"Folcroft Sanitarium," Smith murmured. "Follow the third left all the way to the end."
He managed to stay awake until the cab slithered between the stone lion heads that guarded the Folcroft gate.
"That'll be seventy-five bucks," the cabbie told him. "Tip not included."
Only then did Smith realize that someone had picked his pocket back at the wreck. His wallet was gone. And so was his red plastic change holder.
But he stopped caring almost at once, because he fainted, slumping to the floorboards like a gray bundle of wet kindling.
Chapter 7
Remo was climbing behind the wheel of the APC when he remembered something important.
He snapped his fingers. "Smith's briefcase!"
Chiun made a face. "He is dead. His possessions do not matter."
"It's got his portable computer inside."
"It matters not."
"It's rigged to blow if someone opens it."
"Unimportant," said Chiun, settling into his seat.
"No, you don't understand. If a rescue worker tries to open it, he'll be killed."
Chiun was unmoved. "That is his fault for trifling with the emperor's possessions."
"We gotta find that briefcase before someone else does."
"Washington, then the briefcase."