"Damn local police," Remo said. "They were supposed to get the prints out right away, to try to identify them."
"I will keep my eyes open," Smith said. "Anything else?"
"Yes," Remo said. "A tape recorder. You think you could trace it from a serial number?"
"Perhaps. What is the number?"
Remo read him a long nine-digit number, written on the back of a matchbook.
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"Whoever owns that recorder is involved," Remo said.
"I will try to run it down," Smith said. "Anything else you need?"
"You might run the Mountain High Society through your computers. I don't know if they're involved or not, but they're certainly all over this joint."
"Fine," Smith said. 'TU check."
"Oh, and one last thing," Remo said.
"What is that?"
"Smile. Remember this is the first day of the rest of your life."
"I'll keep that in mind," Smith said as he hung up.
For a gang of a hundred, the Mountain Highs had a small encampment, Remo thought as he approached it on foot.
There was a large trailer home set in back of the clearing. Scattered around the grounds in front of it were a half-dozen high-walled tents, which could sleep no more than four each.
Remo remembered all the designer jeans and snow-suits he had seen last night at the protest rally and decided that the majority of the Mountain Highs had chosen to forego the wilderness and sleep in hotel rooms in the nearby town. But he was interested in only one of them.
He found her sitting in the trailer, on a sofa, drinking a martini with olives. Music played from a large wall-hung stereo. Through the back windows of the trailer, the sun was turning orange as it moved down toward the horizon.
She looked up as Remo came through the front door
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without bothering to knock. When she saw who it was, she smiled.
"I was expecting you," she said.
"I know," said Remo. He watched as Cicely Winston-Alright stood and stretched herself. She was wearing a tight T-shirt and skin-tight slacks.
She showed him a lot of teeth in a milk-white face. "Can I give you something? Anything?"
"Everything," Remo said and waited for her to put down her martini glass, before lifting her in his arms and carrying her over to the waiting bed.
There were thirty-seven steps in bringing a woman to total sexual ecstasy, and Remo had learned them many years before, back when he had been normal and sex had been a pleasure and not just another technique to learn perfectly or face Chiun's wrath.
But only once before had Remo ever found a woman who could manage to outlast step thirteen, even though Chiun regularly insisted that all Korean women progressed through each of the preliminary thirty-six steps before enjoying—if that was a strong enough word— the mind-numbing, soul-shattering release of the final, thirty-seventh step. Remo had seen women of Chiun's village, though, and he suspected that carrying off the thirty-seven steps might be the only way for a man to stay awake during the act.
But Cicely Winston-Alright was something else_ Remo was up to step twenty-two. He had thought he could break down the woman's reserve, that knot of hardness that kept her mid-section stiff and unyielding, but he might as well have been making love to a log.
He moved to step twenty-three. Cicely smiled at him. Step twenty-four, and she allowed that it was nice.
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It was only at step twenty-seven when she began to react. She started moaning, alternating short, biting screams with the tearful crying of his name and insistent demands for more.
Remo gave her more. He had gotten her halfway through step twenty-eight when she gulped two large drafts of air and tensed her body.
It was the right time, Remo decided. He smiled and lowered his face to her ear. "Who's doing the killings at the Tulsa Torrent Camp?"
"Oh, Remo, darling," she said softly. "You're a wonderful lover. Really wonderful."
"Thanks," he said. She shouldn't have been able to do that. She should have been putty in his hands, ready to answer anything he asked.
Step twenty-nine. Another smile, another approach toward her ear, another question.
"What is the Association?" he asked.
"It hasn't been this good in years," she said. "Not since him." She waved vaguely in the direction of a box on top of her small night table.
"The Association," Remo repeated.
"Must we talk now?" she said. "Can you do some more of that stuff with the back of the left knee?"
"No," said Remo. "Definitely not. That was step eighteen and I'm up to step twenty-nine. If I go back to step eighteen, I'll have to start up all over again from there. I might be here all night."
"Would that be so bad?"
"Not if we had something to talk about," Remo said. "Like the Association. Who's the Association? What is it?"
"It's our national group to preserve the environment," she said. "Keep going."
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Step thirty.
"Then why would they want to kill anybody?" Remo asked.
"Kill? Them? Remo, stop it. They can't even fuck. How can they kill?"
"Well, who's doing all the killing down at the Tulsa Torrent project?"