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"First things first," Kaspar said. "If I do not find the one I seek, I am destined for failure."
"Then we better find this guy," Princippi responded, sobering. "Because I can tell you from experience, failure sucks."
The ambulance passed through the iron gates of Fol-croft Sanitarium a little after 9:00 p.m. The white-and-blue vehicle circled the meticulously landscaped traffic island at the main entrance, stopping before the lone figure who stood waiting like a ghost in gray.
The attendant in white uniform and orange jacket climbed from the cab. He walked to the rear of the vehicle, the gravel driveway crackling beneath his shoes. He lugged a clipboard beneath his arm, which he handed to the sour-faced man in gray.
"You sure you want this one?" the young man asked, chewing languidly on a huge wad of gum.
Harold W. Smith had already begun signing the sheaf of forms jammed under the clipboard's metal fastener. He felt his heart skip a beat. "Is something wrong?'' he asked, looking over the tops of his glasses as he signed another sheet.
The attendant laughed. "Just that this nutcase trashed the first ambulance the company sent to fetch him." The young man was like a rusty faucet that, once it was pried open, could not be stopped.
As Smith hastily filled out forms, the other launched into his story. "First he tells Buck—that's the other driver—that he wants to ride up front. Buck says no
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way. Company policy. Fine, everything's hunky-dory. Buck barely makes it out on the highway from La-Guardia before it starts raining."
"It hasn't rained in six days," Smith said levelly.
"It wasn't raining water," explained the driver slowly, turning the wad of gum over in his mouth. "It was raining stuff. You know—blankets, plasma bottles, tongue depressors. Finally Buck spots the oxygen tanks and gurney come sailing over the roof. When he looked in the rearview, he saw your psycho ripping the back door off the ambulance." The ambulance driver paused and singled out one of the forms on the clipboard.
"That one is for the door, and the one below is for the damage this guy caused when he threw it over the ambulance roof. It took out the right front tire and shattered the axle."
"Yes, fine," said Smith unhappily. He signed the final forms hurriedly, handing the clipboard back to the driver.
"I heard how these crazies can be superstrong sometimes," he added. "But, man, throwing something as heavy as an oxygen tank over the roof of a moving ambulance? I hope you got a sturdy rubber room, Doc."
Smith followed the ambulance attendant to the rear of the vehicle, and the young man unlocked the door, taking special care to stand clear in case the lunatic in the back let loose with another tantrum.
The door came open.
And the rear of the ambulance was empty.
"What the—?"
The driver climbed up into the back of the large van
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and began digging through boxes and peering behind assorted medical equipment.
"Where is my patient?" Smith demanded anxiously.
"Hiya, Smitty," a familiar voice said.
Smith spun around to find Remo leaning casually against the side of the ambulance, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his torn chinos.
"Lose someone, pal?" he called airily toward the rear door.
The driver stuck his head out of the back of the ambulance. "Hey, how'd you get out there?" he asked.
"I opened the door and climbed out of the cab," Remo said, a smile of utter contentment spreading across his harsh features. He pointed to the ambulance cab. The passenger's door was hanging open. "Be sure and tell Buck how you waived the 'no front riders' rule." He coughed quietly into his balled fist.
This was more than the driver could comprehend. "But you were in back," he sputtered. He removed his cap and scratched his head pensively.
"If there is any further damage," Smith said quickly in a rare display of generosity, "be sure to send any additional bills to Folcroft."
He grabbed Remo by the arm and hustled him up the steps.
Wearing a look of utter bafflement, the young man closed the rear door of the ambulance and climbed back up into the cab. As he leaned over to close the passenger's door, he noticed that the seat was pushed forward slightly. When he glanced behind it, he found a wide hole had been ripped in the sheet metal sepa-
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rating cab from body. He hadn't noticed it from the back because it had been blocked by an equipment-laden shelf unit.
He looked up at the building. The mental patient had already disappeared inside the sanitarium with the doctor. The attendant stuffed a new stick of gum in his mouth as he considered the damage to the ambulance.
Finally he shrugged, started the engine and circled back around to the main road. He had resolved to let whoever signed out the ambulance after him take the blame for the damage.
After all, how was he going to explain this to his supervisor?
"Where's Chiun?" Remo asked.
Smith was stooped, carefully examining the bullet wounds in Remo's legs. "The Master of Sinanju is in his quarters," he said vaguely.
The scrapes and bruises on Remo's arms and back had long since healed, Smith saw. His system was now working furiously to repair the internal damage caused by the Pythia's bullets.
"I kind of figured he'd meet me out front." Remo sounded disappointed.
Smith stood. "This is remarkable, Remo," he said. "Your wounds are healing so rapidly I would swear they occurred weeks ago. The scabs have even dropped off."
"Right," Remo said disinterestedly. "Smitty, you did tell Chiun about the yellow smoke?"
Smith's steady gray gaze was drawn away from the injuries. "I informed him before your arrival."
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"And?"
"He wishes to meet with you downstairs." Remo cleared his throat. "Bet he's pretty steamed."
Smith did not respond. He didn't feel it was his place to tell Remo that the Master of Sinanju had seemed more sad than angry.
"Chiun did seem concerned by your cough," he admitted.