And now that he had found his father, alive and not dead, Remo wondered if it would have been better to have left the past alone, as Chiun had said. Because now Remo could trust neither Smith nor Chiun. Both had betrayed him and while he could have expected it from Smith, he felt bewildered about Chiun's reaction.
Remo knew he had now lost a father who was not really his father, and he had gained one who was, but who didn't seem like it.
Maybe when we get to know each other. Maybe then it will feel right, he told himself. Maybe it will feel like it did between me and Chiun. But even as he thought that, he knew it would never be. Between Remo and Chiun, there had been more than a relationship of human beings; there had also been Sinanju. And now it was no more.
Remo did not know what Chiun would do next. But he knew Smith's next move. Smith would order Chiun to find Remo and return him to Folcroft and if Remo refused, Smith would order his death. Smith would not hesitate. It was his job never to hesitate when CURE's security was concerned.
But what would Chiun do when he was given such an order? And what would Remo do if Chiun came to kill him?
Others who had seen their fight on the roof might have been fooled, but Remo was not. Both he and Chiun had pulled their blows, making sure not to try to hurt the other. The result had been a long stylized kung-fu match, the kind seen in Chinatown movies. But Sinanju wasn't like that. Sinanju was economy. Never use two blows where one would do. Never fight for two minutes when the job could be accomplished in two seconds.
Neither of the men had tried to hurt the other. But that might not be the case the next time they met. And Remo did not know what he would do.
So he waited alone in the darkness. A dream had come true in his life, but he knew a greater nightmare was about to begin.
Chapter 19
The Dynacar was waiting for him at the landfill on the Detroit River.
As the gunman got out of his car, he thought that it was appropriate that the car that ran on garbage should be here, surrounded by building-high mounds of garbage.
"I'm here," he said to the opaque windows of the Dynacar.
"I can see you," the unseen man behind the wheel said. "Millis didn't die."
"He's in a coma. He may not be dead but he sure ain't moving, either," the gunman said.
"I wanted him dead."
"And he would have been if I was allowed to pop him in the head."
"I told you before-"
"I know," the gunman said. "No head shots."
"I still want him dead."
"Hey. They've got guards on him around the clock. Let's let things cool down and then I'll finish him."
"Finish him now," said the voice from inside the car.
"Why not Lavallette? I can get him next, then finish Millis."
"There's time enough to get Lavallette. He's making a million public appearances with his new car and he'll be easy. But I want Millis dead now."
"Suit yourself, but hitting a guy surrounded by cops isn't as easy as it might sound."
"Millis next. Then Lavallette."
"What about Revell?" the gunman asked.
"I don't think we'll have to bother with him."
"There's another problem," the gunman said.
"There's always another problem with you. When I hired you, I thought I was getting the best."
"I am the best," the gunman said coldly. "So what's the problem?"
"The old Oriental. The one at the Dynacar demonstration. He showed up at the Millis hit."
"So what?"
"I think he works for the government," the gunman said.
"Doesn't matter to me. If he gets in the way, get him out of the way. Permanently. Anything else?"
"No. I guess not."
"All right," said the voice from inside the car. "I'll pay for the Millis hit when it's done."
And the Dynacar silently moved out of the dumping ground like a black ghost on wheels.
The gunman got back into his car. It was too chancy for him to go after Millis. The automaker would be surrounded by guards. But there was another way perhaps.
He lit another cigarette as he thought it over.
And he also thought that it would be very interesting when it came time for him to go after Lyle Lavallette again. Very interesting indeed.
Chapter 20
There was no longer any doubt in Smith's mind. The unidentified woman who had been killed at the grave of Remo Williams was Remo's mother. And her killer-the same man who was running amok in Detroit-was Remo's father.
There was no other explanation. As Smith had reasoned it out, it must have been a family argument and probably the only close relative the dead woman had was the husband, her killer. That explained why no one had reported her missing to police.
Smith still did not understand how, after so many years, the parents had found Remo's grave. They had never attempted to contact Remo in all the years he was a ward at St. Theresa's Orphanage. They had kept their distance during Remo's tour of duty in Vietnam and during his years as a Newark beat patrolman.
But somehow, later, they had accomplished what Smith had long assumed was impossible. They had found their son, or, more precisely, they had found the grave that they believed contained their son's body.
But now Remo was really dead. And his father was slaughtering the heads of Detroit's automotive industry. Even with all the pieces in place, it still made no real sense to Smith. And there were still loose ends.
An exhaustive records search had turned up no Remo Williams Senior living anywhere in the United States. Smith still did not have a name for the woman who must have been Remo's mother. The woman's morgue shot, circulated nationwide after Smith pulled some behind-the-scenes strings, had yet to bring forth anyone who knew the woman.
Where had the couple been living all these years? Smith wondered. In another country? Under assumed names? On the moon?
Whatever the truth was, Smith had made a mistake many years ago. The mistake was in selecting Remo Williams to be the man who did not exist. Smith had done it, supposing Remo to be a man without a past, but he had had a past and now that past had caught up with him. It had caught up with all of them.
Even with most of the answers in front of him, Smith wondered about the loose ends. He would look into them. But that would have to wait. First, there was still the Detroit matter.
Drake Mangan was dead and Hubert Millis was near death in a hospital. Confidential reports said that James Revell had gone out of the country. That left Lyle Lavallette and the more Smith thought of it, the more sure he was that the gunman would be back to finish the job on Lavallette.
Perhaps not, if Smith could help it.
Remo was gone, but there was still Chiun. Smith picked up the telephone.
The Master of Sinanju was packing his steamer trunks when the phone rang and he answered it in the middle of its first ring.
Smith's voice crackled over the line. "Chiun?"
"Hail, Emperor Smith," Chiun said. It was his customary greeting but its delivery was anything but customary because the voice sounded barren and tired and Smith realized he should proceed cautiously.
"Master of Sinanju, I know how you must be feeling at a time like this," he said.
"Hah! No man can know. No man who is not the blood of my blood."
"All right, then. I don't know. But just because Remo is gone, it doesn't mean that the world stops. We still have a mission."
"You have a mission," said Chiun, folding the last of his sleeping robes and gently packing it in the final open trunk.
"Let me remind you, Chiun," Smith said sternly, "that we have sacred contracts. One stipulation of our contract is that in the event of injury, incapacitation, or the death of your pupil, you, as his trainer, are obligated to render whatever service is necessary to dispose of unfinished business. This Detroit matter comes under that obligation."