"So we're just going to put this one down as drugs?" Remo said.
"This? No, not this little shivaree. This is the second time that has happened here. That spells bad track or maybe a chronic switching or signal problem. Now, if you fellers will excuse me, I done all I can until they get all the dead ones cleared away. I'm gonna find me a nice clean motel and grab me some shut-eye. I'm beat down lower than a flapjack."
WATCHING MELVIS walk away, Remo growled, "Remind me to tell Smith to have Melvis's ticket punched."
When Chiun said nothing, Remo looked around. The Master of Sinanju was sniffing the still air.
"What's up?" Remo asked.
"Use your nose as I do, lazy one."
Remo tasted the air.
"Do you smell it?" asked Chiun.
"What?"
"The foul, reeking odor."
"All I smell is corn," Remo said.
"This is not a place where corn grows."
"You saying our samurai is lurking in the brush?"
"We will follow the scent and see with our own noses," said Chiun, taking off.
Sighing, Remo followed. A mile up the line the scent trail drifted inland. Chiun changed direction, eyes switching and sweeping, face determined.
The ground was flat and undisturbed. After a while a pair of footprints suddenly appeared and continued along. They were heelless. Remo recognized them. They were identical to the tracks found near the Mystic and Texarkana wrecks.
"Unless somebody parachuted down and walked off with his chute, I think we have something here," Remo muttered.
Farther along, in a copse of spreading hickory trees, the footsteps stopped. The ground was disturbed in a circle, then the tracks continued. But they had changed. They became Western shoes, with deep heels. Where the tracks changed character, the ground was well-scuffed and full of indentations.
"What are these marks?" Remo wondered aloud.
"This is where the ronin removed his armor," said Chiun. "Look, the unmistakable imprint of a do."
"If you say it's a do. I don't know what a do is."
"You would call it a cuirass."
"I probably would if I knew what that was."
"The do is the breastplate of the ronin."
Chiun set his sandaled feet into the new tracks. They were the same size.
Nodding, Chiun continued, saying, "Come, slow one."
"I'm not the one nursing a missing fingernail."
At that, Chiun swirled and blazed his eyes at Remo. "You insult me!"
"No, just pointing out that I'm a full Master, not a spear-carrier. How about a little respect?"
"When we again encounter the ronin, it will be your duty to remove your finger and fling it in his face."
"I'll think about it," said Remo.
They walked on. Chiun folded his hands into his kimono sleeves. "A true Master would not hesitate," he sniffed.
"How about I just give him the fickle finger of fate instead?" Remo undertoned.
The track stopped at a busy highway. They looked up, then down. There was a Burger Triumph and a Taco Hell in one direction. The other was deserted except for a sign that said Chesapeake Hotel.
"We will try there," said Chiun.
"What would a ghost ronin be doing in a hotel?"
"Awaiting his doom," said Chiun, who picked up his skirts and strode toward the motel.
Remo followed, thinking he had never seen Chiun so determined before.
THE DESK CLERK at the hotel was extremely accommodating when Chiun asked for the room number of his Japanese friend, whose name slipped him at the moment.
"Mr. Batsuka is in his room. Three-C."
"Did he say Batsucker?" asked Remo as they waited for the elevator.
"Batsuka. "
"That a first name or a last name?"
"We will wring the answer from the wretch's very lips before we grind his skull to powder," Chiun vowed.
"Don't forget we need to wring some explanations for Smith before the grinding begins."
"If I become carried away in my anger, Remo, I will count on you to restrain me until the all-important answers are ours."
The elevator let them off on the third floor. Room 3-C was to their immediate right, down a red-carpeted hall.
Standing outside the door, they put their cars to it.
"I hear CNN," said Remo.