"In my previous living death, I was a patient at the Houston hospital," the other rasped. "The Leader's nurse came to me. The nurse helped me to become one with the Creed."
"The nurse?" Remo asked. "She's the one who infected you?"
The old man seemed puzzled. "Infected?" he asked.
"With her fingernail," Remo said.
"Infected," the old man chortled mockingly. "You blind fool!" His tone changed as Remo burrowed his hand in more deeply. The man sucked in a gulp of air over his blackened teeth. "She opened my mind to truths that will soon be understood by you as well, gweilo," he gasped.
"Who was this nurse?" Remo asked.
The old man's eyes circled the room one final time and locked on Remo's. They had the same strange, distant look as those of the other gyonshi.
"Mary Melissa Mercy was her blessed name," he rasped.
Remo asked, "Young? Super-healthy? Hair like a bonfire? Sensible white shoes?"
The old Chinese nodded. "She is responsible for placing me here in the Leader's stead. An honor I will cherish until the day I live in death." The old man seemed tired from his effort. His breathing had become a rattle.
Remo understood now. Mary Melissa Mercy. The woman from the Three-G health food company. The Leader had been there the whole time. And Chiun had known it. That's why he had led Remo away. It all made sense now, right down to the sensible shoes.
Remo looked down at the Chinese. "This is your lucky day," he said fiercely. "You get to die a second time."
He pressed the heel of his hand to the old man's throat, until he felt the fragile windpipe collapse under his viselike grip. The rheumy eyes bulged one final time, then the old man's head lolled to one side.
Remo looked around the room for something to use to cut the man's throat.
He found nothing. The room was spartan, even by Folcroft standards. There wasn't even a nightstand near the bed. An unnecessary luxury, it seemed, for a man who presumably had been a mere shell on life-support.
"Dammit!"
Time was pressing. Smith would need medical attention, even though Remo knew there would be little that could be done for him. If Chiun hadn't been able to resist the gyonshi toxin, then an ordinary man like Smith would be no match for it.
He would have left the gyonshi as he was but for Chiun. The Master of Sinanju had seen some special significance in the release of the weird orange smoke, so Remo, while not entirely understanding it, decided he would honor the ritual.
He'd find a scalpel or something in the medical wing of the facility. But for now he turned his attention back to Harold Smith.
He didn't know how badly Smith had been affected by the gyonshi poison. The CURE director seemed to be sleeping peacefully at the moment. He remained slumped in the chair where Remo had left him, his chin pressed down against his chest, breathing deeply. In fact, he looked as relaxed as if he had been embalmed.
Remo experienced a moment of unreality. Chiun stricken. Now Smith. It felt like the walls were closing in.
He recalled the tale Chiun had told him years ago, when a Master of Sinanju-Remo suddenly remembered his name had been Pak-had encountered the blood-drinking gyonshi in a Shanghai forest. There, the House of Sinanju had nearly been rendered extinct, as one by one Pak's servants' relatives were overcome by a mist that took the form of men with long, killing nails. Only by deceit and cunning had Pak compelled the bloodsuckers to spare him.
Now, untold generations later, Remo stood in Pak's sandals. And he found them cold.
Remo shook off his fear.
He decided to get Smith to a doctor, then return later to release the bad air of the dead man.
Remo stepped up to the chair and slipped his left hand behind Smith's stiff neck. His right found the backs of his employer's knees, and he started to gather the old man up.
At the moment of Remo Williams' maximum exposure, Harold Smith's eyes sprang open in a wild burst of energy. Remo felt the vibrations as Smith's heart rate increased almost fivefold.
Smith's hand shot up in a stunningly quick strike.
There was little time to react. Remo felt the sudden, unstoppable jab to his throat. His blood ran cold.
Remo Williams was spared only by the fact that Harold W. Smith was by nature a meticulously neat individual.
The older man's fingernails were always kept clipped and filed precisely. There were no sharp edges to pierce the skin. The blunt tip of his index finger merely poked the flesh of Remo's neck, like a soft eraser.
"Nice try," Remo snapped, dropping Smith back into the chair. A cold sweat trickled down the gully of Remo's back.
Hot-eyed, Smith tried again. This time, by holding his finger to Remo's throat and digging at his carotid artery, leaving only pale tracks that quickly faded.
Firmly, Remo removed Smith's hand and forced it into a harmless fist. Smith looked up, but the gray eyes that stared into Remo's were not those of Harold W. Smith. They were those of Don Pietro. Of the old gyonshi in the bed behind him. Of the Chinese couple. Of Sal Mondello. Of the black-clad Oriental with the creepy eyebrow who had ambushed Chiun.
They were the eyes of the Leader. The Leader who stared mockingly into Remo's soul through the vacant, dispossessed eyes of his superior.
And a voice that was unlike Smith's began to chant.
"The stomach is the center. The house of all life and death. Life begins and ends here. The soul dwells there. Destroy the stomach and destroy all life. We are the holy saviors of the stomach. We wander the earth as the undead, slaves to our God, punishers of all transgressors."
"Tell it to the head psychologist," Remo said bitterly, hefting Smith carefully into his arms.
He carried him out of the hospital room, knowing that his employer was as lost to him as the Master of Sinanju.
For there was no cure for gyonshism-except by slitting the throat and releasing the orange smoke that clogged Smith's lungs.
Remo knew he might have to perform that operation on Smith. And he would do it.
But who would free the Master of Sinanju from his living hell? For Remo knew he could never bring himself to cut the throat of the man who was more than a father to him-not even if Chiun himself were to beg for such a boon.
Chapter 19
Mary Melissa Mercy stood before the Leader in the security room at Three-G, Incorporated, the room he had been using as his headquarters. He was seated before a bank of television monitors.
"The Master of Sinanju has succumbed!" she trumpeted proudly.
The words thrilled him. So many years . . . so much wasted time . . . so hungry for vengeance. Now, fulfilled.
"He is dead?" the Leader asked eagerly.
"Better." The girl's tone seemed to shimmer with delight. "He has become one with the holy Creed. He is gyonshi now."
The Leader nodded. "The Taoist," he said, knowingly.