"Then by all means," Chiun said, "go waste effort and time running around doing nothing just to make yourself feel like you are doing something. In the meantime, I will remain here and pray to my ancestors that you are not so exhausted when you finally do meet her that she does not kill you and feast on your impatient innards." He patted the rug beside him. "Or you could sit, my son, and meditate with me."
Reluctantly, Remo realized his teacher was right. He was about to sink back to the floor when he was stopped by a sharp intake of breath across Smith's desk. When he looked over, he saw that the grayness had drained from the CURE director's face, leaving behind a sickly shocked white. The older man's arthritic knuckles bulged in pearl knots around the receiver.
"I will be right there," Smith choked.
He was on his feet even before he had hung up the phone. Seeing his urgency, Chiun rose like gentle steam from the floor.
"What's wrong?" Remo asked. He and Chiun fell in behind Smith as the CURE director raced for the door.
Smith flung the office door open. "There has been an incident downstairs," he blurted. When he cast a glance at Remo, his eyes were sick with fear. "Mark has escaped."
Chapter 32
The room was a shambles. The examining table on which they had put Mark Howard was overturned. The straps that had bound him were snapped.
There was a blood streak on one wall. Mottled brown hair clung to the shiny strip.
From the hall, Smith's troubled eyes were drawn from the blood to the pair of white shoes sticking out from behind the toppled table.
Two nurses in starched white uniforms tended to the injured woman. With them were the two orderlies who had helped bring Mark inside from the helicopter. As Smith hurried into the room, accompanied by Remo and Chiun, a doctor ran past them. He flew over to the group near the table.
Dr. Lance Drew was leaning back against the wall near the door. He pressed a bundle of red-soaked gauze against his neck. Blood stained his fingers. Smith quickly surveyed the scene.
"Master Chiun," he announced tightly, nodding to the injured woman, "could you please see if there is anything you can do?"
As the Master of Sinanju hurried over to the stricken woman, Remo and Smith stepped over to Drew.
"What happened?" Smith demanded.
Dr. Drew seemed dazed. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "He just came out of nowhere. The nurse was about to administer the tranquilizer. But before she could, I heard that terrible snapping."
Smith glanced at the broken restraints. One frayed end lay across the ankle of the unconscious nurse. Gray eyes darted to Remo. The younger man's face was dark.
Another nurse came racing into the room. For an instant she hesitated, trying to take everything in. "See to Dr. Drew," Smith snapped.
Nodding, the nurse led the zombielike Dr. Lance Drew out into the antiseptic hallway.
The Master of Sinanju was hurrying back to Remo and Smith, his face stone.
"How is she?" the CURE director asked.
"She will live," the Master of Sinanju said. "It is merely a concussion. Your quacksalvers believe it to be worse."
The group on the floor was lifting the nurse onto a portable stretcher. They carried the woman hurriedly from the examining room. Their frantic voices quickly faded down the long corridor.
"We must find Mark," Smith insisted once they were alone. His face was pleading.
"He doesn't have much of a head start," Remo said. "And we know for sure which direction he'll be heading in. Maybe we can catch up with him before he does anything stupid."
He began to turn, but Smith grabbed his arm. "No," the CURE director said urgently. His mind was reeling. He tried to force his thoughts into focus. "Mark is highly intelligent. Do not assume he is heading north. At least not straight away."
"She's given them all the same call of the wild, Smitty. She had a million of those things somehow find their way up there. His brain is wired on automatic pilot."
"Perhaps," Smith said, worriedly. "But Mark knows we are aware of that aspect of the genetic programming. If it is not an overwhelming urge, perhaps he can fight it. If so, he could go in an altogether other direction at first, just to avoid the inevitable net he knows I will cast."
"There is some intelligence to the brutes," the Master of Sinanju agreed somberly. "If the Regent retains some small aspect of himself, the Emperor could be correct."
"Fine. We won't assume north."
Smith nodded sharply. The three men hurried out into the hallway. "In the meantime, CURE's computer systems are at risk," Smith said. "Mark knows the codes and could access them remotely. I will have to lock them down."
"One of us should remain with you, Emperor, in case the Prince is still in the building," Chiun said.
"No," Smith insisted. "I will be safe. There are two tranquilizer guns stored in the basement. I will get them once I am finished securing the CURE systems."
Smith headed for the stairwell doors while Remo and Chiun continued for the exit.
"And, Remo?" Smith called. When Remo turned, the CURE director's face was fraught with fatherly concern. "Please try your best to bring him back alive."
Spinning on his heel, he ducked through the fire door. His gaunt frame disappeared inside the murky stairwell.
If Remo didn't know better, he would have sworn Harold Smith's flint-gray eyes were moist.
Chapter 33
Smith hurried alone through the darkened corridor of Folcroft's administrative wing. Cautious eyes studied every shadow as he made his way to his office suite. His secretary was not at her desk.
Assuming she'd finally gone home for the evening, he hurried into his own inner sanctum. Settling into his chair, he did a quick security check of CURE's computer system.
It had only been a few minutes since he'd been summoned downstairs. Smith had assumed there wasn't enough time for Mark to access the system so soon after his escape. Still, he was relieved to find everything in order. CURE's files remained untouched.
Setting to work, Smith quickly altered the security protocols, changing passwords and initiating lockouts. It took only a few moments. With the changes he instituted, he was confident the mainframes would be safe.
Sliding open his top drawer, he grabbed up his special set of keys.
Before getting out of his chair, Smith cast a glance at his closed bottom drawer. Under the circumstances he would ordinarily have taken his automatic with him. But the cigar box in the back of the drawer was empty.
He had given the gun to Mark for protection. The old .45 had sentimental value to the ordinarily emotionless Smith. In more than fifty years he had never loaned his service weapon to another soul. Mark Howard was the first. And now Smith needed it to defend himself against the assistant he had hoped to protect.
Feeling a chill up his rigid spine, Smith dropped the keys in his pocket and hustled out into the hall. In all probability, animal instinct had compelled Mark to flee the sanitarium grounds immediately. He was likely miles from Folcroft already. Still, just in case, on his way to the basement Smith crept past Mark's office.
He wasn't sure what he would do if he encountered his assistant. In his current condition Mark would be more than a match for unarmed Harold Smith.
Fortunately the door was locked and there was no sign of tampering.
Breathing a small sigh of relief, the CURE director hustled to the basement door at the far end of the hall. Smith fought to keep his anxiety under control as he climbed down the stairs. His normally ordered mind swirled with competing thoughts. None of them good.