“The man was dead. When Ms. Price appeared, she saved the state the cost of his cremation. There is no reason to believe the FBI at the time was even told. Their interest in the case expired with Hardy’s arrest.”
Smith gathered up the photos. Now that Remo had seen them, they were due for shredding.
“You understand why this has taken everybody by surprise, Remo,” the CURE director said. “No one wants to touch a case that involves walking corpses. Since it clearly must be handled, we are elected.”
‘“Meaning me,” Remo said, perturbed.
“Correct.”
“I’ll pay a visit to this Devona Price,” he sighed. “But I promise I won’t enjoy it.”
“She may have no idea what is going on,” Smith admitted, “but she remains the last link in the chain concerning what became of Hardy after he was executed. At the very least, she must have some idea what happened to the body. Whether he was buried or cremated. We need to know this for a start.”
“Squeeze the old lady,” Remo said, standing. “Got it.”
“I would have preferred ‘debriefed.’”
“I’m sure you would have. How far do I go?”
“As far as necessary,” Smith said, snapping his briefcase shut. “Whether we like it or not, the President’s interest makes this a priority.”
“I would have thought his top priority would be deciding if he wanted fries with that subpoena,” Remo said.
“Yes,” said Smith evenly. “Be that as it may, you have all the information you need.”
“I’d say about fifteen pages more than that.” Zombie hit men, Remo thought as he turned to go. He shook his head in wonder.
Behind him, Smith was standing as well.
“Be careful,” the CURE director said. Again, the disquiet was evident in his voice.
“I didn’t know you cared.” Remo smiled, pausing near the door.
Smith ignored the jibe. “Please keep me up to date.”
“Of course. Anything else Henny Penny?”
“Yes. If you should encounter any opposition—”
“Relax, Smitty. I’ll handle it,” said Remo.
“Seriously, Remo,” Smith said. “It is important that we find out what is behind this business. Everyone is worried, from the top on down.”
“Geez, repeat it another twenty times so I don’t forget,” Remo griped. “I’ll take along my garlic necklace and some wooden stakes if that’ll make you happy.”
“How is Chiun these days?”
“Is that a broad hint for me to take him along on this? He’s the same as ever. Some, things never change.”
“If that were only true,” said Smith, “both our jobs would be a great deal easier.” His gray face was gathered into a concerned frown.
“Don’t sweat it, Smitty, okay? I’m on the case.” Remo got out of the room quickly so that Smith could not prolong the meeting any further.
It was a short walk to the elevators, but it gave him time to think about the new assignment. Carbon-copy killers who, apparently, had found some way to come back from the grave. Garlic and wooden stakes.
I’d better take along some holy water, too, thought Remo. Just in case.
Chapter 4
“We look for dead men?” asked the Master of Sinanju.
“That’s about the size of it,” said Remo.
“You are certain they are not gyonshi?”
Remo glanced at Chiun and saw the way his eyes had narrowed, thinking of another mission that had pitted them against an ancient Chinese vampire and a close encounter with the proverbial fate worse than death.
“The Leader is dead,” Remo said. “This is more like twins who don’t know when to quit.”
It wasn’t in Chiun’s nature to display confusion. At the moment, he was seated in the middle of the living-room carpet in their Massachusetts condominium in a perfect lotus posture, with his green kimono almost wrinkle free. If he was curious about the last comment from Remo, he concealed it well.
“Smith would now squander the talents of the Master of Sinanju on crazed forays into the cemeteries and mausoleums of this land? What is next? Goblin chasing? Leprechaun assassination? The man is an imbecile.”
“No one asked you to come,” Remo pointed out.
“I am bored,” Chiun sniffed. “Therefore, I will come.”
“Lucky me,” Remo grumbled.
“I suppose Smith wants you to slay the dead men?”
“Something like that. Along with whoever is behind the operation—whatever that is.”
Chiun pressed the back of one bony hand to the parchment skin of his forehead. “Please let it not be the fiendish Booger Man. Or that wicket harlot, the Tooth Fairy.
Remo sighed. “Can you save this for after we get to Burbank?”
In spite of himself, Chiun’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Not the home of Jay Leno?” he asked.
“Sorry, Little Father, we’re going to Burbank, Illinois,” said Remo, stifling a grin. “It’s near Chicago.”
Chiun hid his disappointment. “There is a paucity of imagination in this land,” he said, annoyed. “Were you aware that there are seven Nashvilles in America, including one in Indiana?”
“That’s probably so. The Hoosier All Jug Band knows where to meet.”
“No imagination,” Chiun repeated. “There is only one Sinanju. Only one Calcutta. One Beijing. One Tokyo. The Asian mind abhors confusion and redundancy.”
“It’s just a shame you guys don’t rule the world.”
“Indeed,” said Chiun, ignoring Remo’s note of sarcasm. “You will be going to this bogus, Leno-less Burbank, then?”
“To see the woman,” Remo told him.
“Adam-12,” Chiun said. “A mediocre substitute for Dragnet. All filmed in California. The place we will not be visiting.” The last was intended to sound like an accusation.
“You can’t blame me for that one,” Remo said. “You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.”
“And you are the one who is now a Ghostbuster. I will accompany you, but do not expect me to arouse any enthusiasm.”
“That’ll make two of us,” said Remo, getting up to pack. “The next flight to Chicago is the red-eye, but I thought we’d wait till morning. That is, if you’re sure you’re coming with me. Don’t feel you have to.”
Chiun considered it for several moments, hazel eyes closed. “I will see this imitation Burbank,” he declared at last, “though it will doubtless be a disappointment without Leno,” he quickly added.
“I liked Johnny better,” Remo said.
“Of course, but even Jay is preferable to Letterman.”
“I thought your favorite was Arsenio.”
As he left the room, he felt Chiun’s glare at his back and smiled.
Chiun muttered something as he gathered up the television remote from where it rested near his knees. As the TV blared to life, Remo stuck his head back in the room. He carried a pink toothbrush—his sole piece of luggage—in one hand.
“Aren’t you turning in?” asked Remo.
“I will be watching Leno on television,” Chiun informed him, “since you refuse me a pilgrimage to the one true Burbank.”
“Take it up with Smith, Little Father.”
“I would, but he is probably deep in planning a strategy of attack against the dreaded Loch Ness Monster,” Chiun replied.
With that he settled his robes neatly around his knees. Using his thumb on the remote control, he turned the TV up so loudly, the whole house shook.
Their flight took off from Logan International Airport ten minutes late, but made it up somehow—a tail wind, Remo guessed—and landed at O’Hare three minutes early.
Magic.
They were objects of attention on the plane and in the terminal, but that was nothing new. While Remo’s face and form were perfectly forgettable, it was unusual to see a white man, average height and weight, accompanied by an elderly Korean who was barely five feet tall. When the Korean dressed in silk, kimonos day and night, the double-take potential was increased a hundredfold. They didn’t quite stop traffic on their trek from the arrivals gate to baggage claim, but it was close.