Smith was surprised to see the prints. It had been the CURE director's experience that men like his missing patient always walked without leaving a trace. But, then, the man they were tracking had been in a coma for ten years. No matter how skilled he might be, he could not possibly be at one hundred percent. And if his skills were stale, then maybe-just maybe-this could be ended this day after all. Fingers tensing around his air gun, the CURE director hurried along the path in the company of the two police officers.
The trail led directly up to the high north wall of the sanitarium. It would have been difficult for an average man to scale, but for the fugitive they were seeking, it would have been a simple matter to climb. But he hadn't gone over. He had gone through.
A massive hole gaped in the high wall. The old concrete veneer had shattered to dust. The heavy bricks beneath were exploded outward. They peppered the snow out in the direction of the lonely road.
To Detective Ronald Davic, it looked as if a stampeding elephant had broken through in its panic to flee Folcroft Sanitarium. As they approached the wall, the Rye police detective shook his head in disbelief.
"What the hell kind of inmates do you have locked in this loony bin?" he breathed, glancing over at Smith.
The Folcroft director didn't answer. His gray eyes were trained directly ahead. His lips pursed in concern.
When Davic glanced back at the hole in the wall, he saw that the landscape had changed. A lone figure was now framed in the opening.
When he saw the sudden movement ahead, the young uniformed officer whipped his gun up. "Hold your fire!" Smith commanded.
Too late. The cop had already squeezed off a round.
Luckily Smith managed to grab the gun at the last instant. Wrestling with the strong young man, Smith directed the barrel toward the ground. The revolver crackled and the bullet buried harmlessly in snow and earth.
The gunshot echoed off into the distance.
To Harold Smith, the fact that it was lucky he had managed to redirect the man's aim was not in question. Had the gun been aimed at the man standing within the remnants of the wall when it was fired, the police officer would have been dead already. As it was, the new arrival merely looked on with dark annoyance before returning his troubled gaze to the shattered wall.
"That is not the man you are after," Smith snapped at the uniformed officer. "This is another Folcroft patient."
The uniformed officer was panting fearfully. He looked over at Detective Davic, a frightened expression on his face.
"I'm-I'm sorry, sir," he managed. Davic waved an angrily dismissive hand.
Smith was already heading for the wall. Leaving the young officer behind, Davic hurried with the Folcroft director over to the man at the wall.
The stranger who stood amid the collapsed bricks was five feet tall and older than most of the trees in the surrounding woods. He wore a green silk robe that seemed able to capture light where none existed. Twin tufts of soft yellowing hair clung to the parchment skin of his otherwise bald scalp. His button nose was directed up to where the wall arched in a snaggletoothed collection of jagged brick.
"I thought you were away with your son," Smith said tightly to the wizened figure. A concerned eye darted to where Detective Davic stood, panting, beside them.
"I am back," announced Chiun, the Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. His sharp hazel eyes scanned the contours of the damaged wall. "And he is finally free."
And the old Korean's singsong voice trembled with the grave tones of foreboding doom.
Chapter 4
Smith gave his spare tranquilizer gun to Detective Davic's partner, insisting that as director of Folcroft he had to personally escort the elderly patient to his room. Leaving the police to search the woods that lined the road beyond the sanitarium's shattered north wall, he hurried the Master of Sinanju back to the building.
Smith was grateful that the old Korean didn't try to engage him in conversation on the way.
By the time they reached the main building, there were even more police cars clogging the drive. Smith felt the watery acid in the pit of his stomach flare hot as he took note of the growing number of blue uniforms crisscrossing the snow-covered main lawn.
Chiun watched the many officers through slivered eyes as Smith ushered him inside. They quickly mounted the stairs, ducking past Smith's harried secretary and into the CURE director's office.
"This situation is very serious, Master Chiun," Smith explained after he had shut the door.
"I agree," Chiun said. "First we must scatter this army of constables that has had the temerity to roost on your palace grounds. I suggest you begin with boiling oil dumped from the parapets. Where do you keep your catapults? The Roman onager is a nice model. I'm sure you have some of those. Use your onagers to launch flaming garbage into their midst and then mow them down with ballista-hurled javelins."
"Master Chiun, please," Smith begged. "You know Folcroft has none of those devices. And we cannot interfere with the work of the Rye police."
"I strongly advise that you do not simply let them swoop in here unchallenged, Emperor Smith," Chiun said, his tone serious. "If you do not act, others will be emboldened by what they perceive as weakness. Soon you'll have Turkish goat herders wandering through your inner ward and Vogul horsemen squatting in the vestibule. If we stick the heads of a few of these pushy doughnut-gobblers on pikes along the walls of Fortress Folcroft, it will discourage the rest."
"No, Chiun," Smith insisted. "Please. I must ask you to avoid contact with the police while they are here. Allow them to go about their business unmolested."
The old man's shoulders sank in helpless confusion.
"You want them here?" he asked.
"No," Smith admitted.
"Quickly, then," Chiun said. "Let us pass out crossbows to your nursing staff. If you lead the charge yourself, I will remain at your side to insure that no harm befalls you."
He turned to go, but the CURE director bounded between him and the door.
"What I mean is that I accept their presence," Smith said hastily. "Try to understand, Master Chiun. Even more complications would arise if we tried to forcibly remove them. It is best for security to allow them to finish their business without interference."
The Master of Sinanju noted the look of pleading earnestness on his employer's face.
"So you want them here, even though you do not want them here," the old man spoke slowly.
"Precisely," Smith said. "You see?"
The old Korean saw exactly. This was obviously some inscrutable white madness, the nature of which he had long ago given up hope of ever understanding.
"Very well, O Emperor," Chiun said, resignation in his voice. "Though the shadows of the deepest cave in the darkest night are terrifying blind to the eyes of we mortals, they are pierced by the brilliance of the light that is your limitless wisdom. It is not up to a lowly assassin such as myself to comprehend the complexities of your dealings in matters of state. If you wish to let foreign armies clomp around your palace as if it were their own, I will not interfere. But might your humble assassin offer one piffling suggestion?"
"What is that?"
"Hide the silver before the Spaniards arrive."
As Chiun tucked his hands deep inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono, Smith allowed a slip of relief to pass his thin lips.
"I am not concerned about invading armies," the CURE director said. "My main worry at the moment is Jeremiah Purcell. You are aware that he has escaped?"
Chiun nodded impatiently. "So I have said."
"He may have a head start of three hours."
"It is closer to four," Chiun corrected. "Judging by the prints he made in the snow and the condition of the body in the woods."
"Then you agree with my assessment," Smith said with a troubled frown. "I had hoped he might have doubled back in an attempt to throw us off the trail. But I thought that unlikely. It is my opinion that he would not stay here."