He nodded for her to drink it. Kim Kiley and the man with her refused the tea. Ethel wondered what they were going to do when the man found out they had no film.
William nodded again for her to drink. They both sipped. It was that sort of sweet taste that she knew would not cling, but only refresh. It sent a warming tingle through her body and she put her cup down and asked to leave the world.
Why had she said that? she wondered. "Oh yes," came the very gentle thought. "I'm dying." Remo and Kim Kiley watched the couple smile pleasantly, lean forward and then keep on leaning.
"They're dead," gasped Kim. "Really dead. Check."
"They're dead," said Remo.
"Don't you do a pulse?" she asked.
"They're dead," said Remo.
"Did they kill themselves? That's a stupid question, right?"
"No," said Remo. "I don't think they knew what was in that tea."
"What are you, a mind reader?"
"No," said Remo. "I read people."
"They're so still," said Kim with a shiver.
"That's what dead looks like," Remo said. They searched the lab but could not find the film. Kim pointed out that the developer had just been used because the agitation baths were still at their precise temperature.
Another strange thing was that this laboratory usually had fifteen people working in it but when they had arrived there had been only the two owners.
"I think there has to be something special when the owners dismiss everyone and then develop the film themselves. In the old days when porn was illegal, that's how they made dirty pictures. Not this place, of course. Other small labs."
"But what's illegal about photographing me?" Remo asked.
"I think someone is trying to kill you and take pictures of it. Maybe someone wants to see you die horribly."
"In high speed?" Remo asked.
"You're a funny guy," said Kim. "Good-looking and funny."
Inside the office, they found a log of assignments. Remo noticed the same photographer who had been at the presidential press conference also shot the Billings, Montana, scene. The next assignment for Jim Worthman was the Gowata caves on the island of Pim. Jim Worthman was supposed to get footage of bat droppings.
"Bat droppings?" asked Kim. "What's the action in bat poop? I mean, doesn't it just poop?" Remo looked at the name again. Worthman. And there was Wonder. Something in the names reminded him of something, something about other names he had been hearing.
But he didn't know what it was.
Kim shivered. She wanted to get out of this place of death. She did not approve of death and intended to delay hers as long as possible.
"I guess that's why I'm against chemicals. Really, it's a cause I am deeply devoted to."
"If you're going to come with me," Remo said, "I don't want to hear about your deepest principles."
"How do you know I want to come with you? Mind reading again?" Kim looked up and smiled.
"I have a mystic sense of a person's intentions," said Remo. "Especially when for the first time this afternoon, she just moved her eyes above my belt buckle."
Chapter Seven
Reginald Woburn III saw the film. He saw the bullets and he saw the movements. The film was fed into a computer. The computer calculated the speed of the bullet, the time of the bullet, and it told Reginald Woburn that the plum he was supposed to pluck had to be moving before the bullet left the barrel. The plum seemed to move, virtually on the sniper's decision to fire.
Stick drawings analyzed the movements of the body. They compared the movements to those of the top athletes in the world. The highest score so far in this concept of perfect movement had been a 4.7 by an Indian fakir who had chosen to compete in the Olympics ten years earlier. He had won the marathon run in a record time that had never been approached since then.
This plum, this white man named Remo, registered a 10. Reginald looked at the numbers, shut down the machine, went into the bathroom and vomited in fear.
It was almost dawn when he realized that he was actually doing everything right. The seventh stone was correct. For the great secret of the seventh stone was that the other six methods had failed. Therefore the Korean of the time of Prince Wo, that assassin from Sinanju, could not be killed by sword or poison or the other four ways. The seventh stone had said, "Do not use methods that fail." Of course, that was obvious. But when one thought about it, when one understood the stone, one realized that it was not that obvious. The way of the seventh stone was to find the way, perhaps the most mysterious of all, especially in the light of this Remo's extraordinary powers. And if he had such powers, what kind did the old Korean possess?
"He will show you how to kill him. Be patient and let him." That was another message from the seventh stone.
But how? Reggie didn't know, and so to find out how, he first had to find out, and to understand, how not.
Reggie went back to the bathroom and retched again. He had not expected it to go this far. He had believed that at least one bullet would work. But he had taken precautions, even if he didn't think he would need them.
The awful sense of seeing how easily the plum had avoided the first death and the magnitude of the man's abilities terrified Reggie. He trembled as he looked at the stone's message again. Let him show you how to kill him.
But what if he escapes again? Reggie thought. What if the great sea itself does not work?
What so worried Woburn this dark night of his soul was that he had been sure that if bullets did not work, he would find some way to pluck his plum. But the film showed nothing, no weakness. What if they could not be killed? That little house of assassins had been around for thousands of years. What if they were immortal?
Reginald Woburn III went to the beach his ancestor had landed on and in the old prayers asked the sea which had given Prince Wo safe passage once, to swallow the first plum. Because if it did, that would make the second easier to pluck.
The prayer made him feel better and what actually made his blood run fresh with vigor was his father, who had never really been easy to get along with.
Dad would not let another Wo be killed. He was vehement about that.
"Where are you talking from?" Reggie asked. Dad had reached him on the private phone, that one that could not be tapped into.
"From our Palm Beach home," his father said.
"Is Drake, the butler, there?"
"Yes. He's right behind me."
"Would you do me a favor, Dad?"
"Only if you promise not to get any more of us killed. The family is up in arms."
"I promise, Dad," Reggie said.
"All right," came the father's voice.