"You are not making any sense," Smith clucked. "I will come back when you are again yourself."
Remo opened his eyes. He reached out and took Smith by the wrist. He squeezed. Smith's face twisted with the pain.
"No time," Remo said tightly. "You gotta take me back there. I gotta find Chiun. I think he's left."
"Left CURE?" Smith said huskily.
"CURE. America, everything. I don't know yet. We had a fight, but I can't believe he'd throw everything we had away over a lousy fight. It must have something to do with that dingdong Chinese student."
"Zingzong," Smith said. "His name is Zhang Zingzong."
"Whatever. He and Chiun were fighting all last night. They made such a racket I checked into a motel. When I went back this morning, the limo was there, but most of Chiun's steamer trunks were gone. You know he never takes that many unless he's planning to go back to Sinanju. Then I got the stuffing kicked out of me by that kung-fu bozo."
"You, Remo?"
"Hate to admit it, but he was good."
"I will undertake a search for Chiun. Please let go of my wrist."
"I said," Remo added, squeezing so hard Smith's forehead broke out in a sweat, "there's no time. Screw your computers. Take me back to that garage. The limo went in there. It's gotta still be there, or it's not anywhere."
"Very well," Smith said stiffly. "The doctor thinks there is no internal organ damage. But are you up to walking?"
"Help me up."
Unhappily Smith allowed his shoulder to be used as support. Slowly he eased Remo up to a sitting position.
"Where are my clothes?" Remo asked, grimacing.
Smith handed him a pile of clothes and primly turned his back while Remo painfully slid into them.
"Lead the way," Remo said, getting to his feet with arthritic difficulty.
"Are you certain this is wise?" Smith asked doubtfully.
"Screw wise. We can't waste time."
Remo let Smith drive. He regretted it as soon as they pulled into traffic. Smith drove like a maiden aunt. He slowed down at every yellow light, stopping dead and looking both ways before proceeding through stop signs, and observed the speed limit as if his car would self-destruct if the indicator touched the fifty-six-mile-an-hour mark.
"Will you please pull over and let me drive?" Remo pleaded.
"No," Smith said firmly. "I do not wish to be ticketed."
Remo was sprawled in the back seat of the old car, trying to stay comfortable. It hurt to shout. So he stopped shouting.
Finally Smith called back.
"I believe it is this street," he said.
Remo sat up, looking around.
"Yeah," he said. "Dead ahead. The white garage by the Spanish-style house."
Smith brought his battered car to a crawling stop.
Smith got out and opened the door for Remo. Remo had to be helped out. He hated letting Smith help him, but saw no choice.
Remo walked to the garage door on his own.
"See the tracks?" Remo said, pointing.
Smith nodded, seeing the rattlsnakelike treadmarks in the snow. It looked like two rattlers had slept side by side.
"Okay, let's go around the side," Remo suggested.
"Is this safe?"
"Screw safe. You'll understand when we get inside."
Remo pushed in the door and waved Smith into the cool dim garage interior. The windows were grimy, cutting off outside light.
What little light there was fell on a tiled stone floor, and there was no sign of any car, black or white.
"You mentioned a black limousine," Smith pointed out.
Remo's expression was loose with doubt. "I meant a white convertible."
"Well, which is it?"
"You don't understand, Smitty," Remo said. "The black limo drives in here, the door closes, but by the time I get inside, it's turned into a white convertible. Linda like Cinderella's pumpkin."
"I see no car."
Remo walked toward the garage door.
"There were tracks here. You can still see them. They were the limo tracks, not the convertible's. I compared the treads."
Smith said nothing. He looked at Remo through his rimless spectacles as if in pity.
"Don't look at me like that!" Remo shouted. "I swear it happened twice. The limo goes in and vanishes into thin air."
"I see no evidence of any such phenomenon," Smith complained.
"No shit," Remo said testily. "That must be why the dictionary lists 'disappears' as a synonym for 'vanishes.' "
Smith was looking at the floor. He knelt and felt the ground. His hands came away with a smear of oil.