He took that to mean the bodies-there were at least two because the M.E. turned his camera toward the hidden desk well-had been strangled.
Remo listened to the idle talk of the M.E. and two unhappy detectives.
"Think it's a serial creep?" the M.E. asked.
"I hope not. Damn. I hope not," one detective said.
"Face it. Johns don't happen to walk around with a pair of yellow kerchiefs, lose their cool, and strangle two hookers-"
"Call girls," the first detective said. "These were high priced broads. Look at those clothes. Designer clothes for sure."
"They smell just like dead hookers to me," the other grunted. "Worse. Like I was saying, no one happens to strangle two hookers with identical scarves. If it was a crime of passion, he'd have cut or bludgeoned one. No, this is a kinky hit. The worst kind. Who knows what this guy had eating away at him to do all this?"
"You think it's a guy?" the M.E asked, changing a flashbulb.
"I know it is. Women don't do serial killings. It's not in their nature. Like lifting the toilet seat when they're done."
"We don't know it's a serial thing yet."
"This is the fourth corpse wrapped this way in less than a week. Trust me. If we don't find more like these in the next few days, it'll be because whoever did this ran out of yellow silk."
Deciding there was nothing more he could learn, Remo started back down, taking the side of the building in hand and using gravity to return him to the sidewalk.
As he walked away, he thought about yellow scarves.
And he thought about how much he missed Chiun, and wished more than ever that the Master of Sinanju were still around.
If the yellow strangling scarves and the cold feeling deep in his stomach meant anything, Remo needed the Master of Sinanju as he had never needed him before.
But Chiun was gone. And Remo walked alone. And there was no one to protect him if his worst fears proved true.
Chapter 10
Remo walked the humid streets of Washington, D.C., with his hands crammed into his pockets and his sad eyes on the endless pavement unwinding under his feet.
He tried to shove the fear into the deepest recesses of his mind. He tried to push the ugly memories back into some dark corner where he could ignore them.
"Why now?" he said, half-aloud.
Hearing him, an alley-dwelling wino lifted a paper-bagwrapped green bottle in salute. "Why not?" he said. He upended the bottle and chugalugged it dry.
Remo kept walking.
It had been bad before, but if what he suspected was true, Remo's life had just taken a turn toward catastrophe. He considered, then rejected, calling Smith. But Smith would not understand. He believed in computers and balanced books and bottom lines. He understood cause and effect, action and reaction.
Harold Smith did not understand Sinanju. He would not understand Remo if Remo attempted to tell him the true significance of the yellow silk scarves. Remo could not tell him. That was that. Smith would only tell Remo that his story was preposterous, his fears groundless, and his duty was to America.
But as Remo's feet carried him toward the Capitol Building, he thought that his responsibilities were also with the inhabitants of Sinanju, who, when the Master of Sinanju failed them, were forced to send their babies home to the sea. Which was a polite phrase for infanticide. He owed Smith only the empty grave somewhere in New Jersey. To Chiun, and therefore to the Masters of Sinanju who had preceded him, Remo owed much, much more.
Were it not for Chiun, Remo would never have achieved the full mastery of his mind and body. He would never have learned to eat correctly, or to breathe with his entire body, not merely his lungs. He would have lived an ordinary life doing ordinary things and suffering ordinary disappointments. He was one with the sun source of the martial arts. For Remo, nothing was impossible.
He owed Sinanju a lot. He had just about made up his mind to go back to the village when Smith had called. Now he had more reason than ever to head for Korea.
In Korea, he might be safe.
But if he returned, would it be because he was too afraid of the yellow scarves? Remo wasn't sure. In twenty years of working for CURE, Remo had known fear only a few times. Cowardice he had tasted once. Years ago. And even then, he had not feared for his own safety, but for others'.
And now the terrible unknowable power that had once made of Remo Williams an utter slave to its whims had returned.
Remo found himself on the steps the Pantheon-like National Archives Building. On an impulse, he floated up the broad marble steps and into its quiet, stately interior. He had been here before. Years ago. He glided on soundless feet to the great brass-and-glass repository housing the original Constitution of the United States in a sandwich of inert gas.
It was, of course, where he had last seen it. Remo stepped up to the encircling protective guardrail and began reading the aged parchment paper that struck him as looking a lot like one of Chiun's scrolls, on which he faithfully recorded the history of Sinanju.
A guard came up to him after only a few minutes.
"Excuse me, sir," the guard began in a soft but unequivocal voice, "but we prefer that tourists not loiter here."
"I'm not loitering," Remo said testily. "I'm reading."
"There are brochures available out front with the entire text of the Constitution printed on them. In facsimile."
"I want to read the original," Remo said, not turning.
"I'm sorry, but-"
Remo took the man by the back of the neck, lifting him up and over the guardrail until his surprised nose was jammed up against the breath-steamed glass.
"According to this, it's still a free country," Remo snarled bitterly.
"Absolutely," the guard said quickly. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is what I always say. Always." As a reward, his feet clicked back on the polished marble floor. The hand at his collar released. He adjusted his uniform.
"Enjoy your reading, sir," the guard said. He faded back toward a doorway where he could keep his eye on the strange tourist in black, yet still stay out of reach of his strong hands.
If the guy made any weird moves, he would trigger the alert that would cause the Constitution housing to descend by scissors jack into a protective well in the marble flooring.
Then he would get the hell out of the building. The guy's eyes were as spooky as an owl's.
Remo finished reading in silence. Then, turning hard on his heel, he left the Archives Building and glided down the stairs like a purposeful black ghost.
Harold Smith picked up the blue telephone, frowning.
"Yes, Remo?"
"Smitty? I have some good news for you and some bad."
"Go ahead," Smith said in a voice as gray and colorless as his apparel.
"I'm quitting CURE."
Without skipping a beat, Smith asked, "What is the good news?"
"That is the good news," Remo returned. "The bad is that I can't quit until I finish this assignment."
"That is good."
"No, it's bad. I may not survive this one, any more than Chiun survived our last one."
"Come again?" Smith asked, his voice losing its studied neutrality.
"Smitty, you gotta get those computers of yours replaced. They blew it. Big-time."
"Come to the point, Remo."
"If they're still working-which I doubt-you're going to get a report on a couple of strangled call girls found in the offices of the Diplomatic Escort Service."
"I trust you interrogated them before you strangled them?"
"Nope. I didn't strangle them. My guess is our happy hooker did."
Smith paused. Remo could hear the hollow clicking of his computer keys. "What did you learn from the office?"
"That Washington is in the grip of a strangulation flap-something your computers should have picked up, if they were working."