The room swirled. Nothing existed for him except the statue. She was the goddess Kali and She owned him.
"Bring me death." He heard the voice again, but this time it did not seem to come from inside his own mind, but from the lips of the statue. And this time he knew he would obey Her.
A. H. Baynes watched Remo move like a zombie toward the door to the street and then go outside. He waited. Then he took the miniature camera from inside his shirt pocket, extracted the tiny roll of film, and put it into his pocket.
Inside his office, he made a telephone call. It was the first time he had ever used the number. The receiver on the other end was picked up but there was no greeting.
"Hello? Hello?" Baynes said.
"One favor you are allowed," the androgynous whisper said. "Then the statue is mine."
"A deal," Baynes said. "I've got a man here. He's a fed and he's got to go."
"I understand."
"I don't care how you do it," Baynes said.
"I will tell you how."
A half-hour later, Baynes met his contact at the site of a condemned building. The person was swathed in cloaks and wore gloves. Baynes passed over the roll of film.
"His name's Remo," he said to the invisible stranger. "This is what he looks like."
The figure nodded.
"I guess that's it, then," Baynes said.
"Prepare the statue."
"What if you fail?"
"I will not fail."
Baynes started to leave, then hesitated. "Will I see you again?"
"Do you want to?"
Baynes gulped and said, "Maybe not. Tell me, though. Why do you want that statue so badly? It's not worth a million dollars."
"I want many things . . . including you." The figure's hands went to its cloaks and began to open them.
Chapter Twenty
Remo careened crazily down the darkened street. The only sound he heard from the sleeping city was the insistent thrum of his heartbeat, and it seemed to be speaking to him, saying, "Kill for me, kill for me, kill for me."
His hands hung rigid at his sides. He staggered up the street like a man dancing with death, insensate, drunk with a lust he did not understand. Don't listen, a smaller voice inside him said, but it was too faint to hear now. And then it was stilled.
A pigeon startled him as it flew off its perch on a telephone line and fluttered to the ground in front of him. It walked in jerky circles, unused to the night.
Bring me death, Kali's unspoken voice called to him. The pigeon stopped and cocked its head to one side, then the other.
Bring me death.
Remo closed his eyes and said, "Yes."
The pigeon, only amused by the sound, looked at him quizzically as Remo crouched. Then, seeming to sense the power of the human who moved without sound, who could hold a position as still as a stone, the pigeon panicked and flapped its wings to soar upward.
Remo sprang then, leaping into a perfect spiral in the manner he had learned from Chiun, a way to cut through the air without creating countercurrents that pressed back against one's body, forcing it downward. It was pure Sinanju, the effortless bound, the muscles pulling in flawless synchronization as the body turned in the air, the hands reaching up to halt the pigeon in flight, the sharp snap that broke the tiny creature's neck.
Remo held the limp, still-warm body in his hands, and the sound of his heartbeat seemed to explode in his ears. "Oh, God, why?" he whispered, and fell to his knees on the oil-slick street. A car blared its horn as it swerved past him, setting his ears to ringing from the shock of the sound. Then it settled and his heartbeat slowed. The night was silent again and he still held the dead bird softly in his hands.
Run, he thought. He could run away again as he had before.
But he had come back before, and he knew he would again.
Kali was too strong.
He stood up, his knees weak, and walked back to the ashram. With each step, he realized he had disgraced Sinanju, had trivialized it by using its techniques to snuff out the life of a poor harmless creature whose only sin was getting in his way. Chiun had called him Master of Sinanju, the avatar of the god Shiva. But he was nothing. He was less than nothing. He belonged to Kali.
Inside the ashram, which still hissed with the sounds of the sleeping members, he placed his offering at the foot of the statue.
She smiled at him. She seemed to caress him, sending out unseen tendrils of passion to this man who gave Her his strength and had brought Her the bloodless death She craved.
He moved closer to the statue, and Her scent, like the fragrance of evil flowers, filled him with a blinding desire. For a moment the other face he had seen before hovered behind the statue's. Who was she? A crying woman, a real woman, and yet, the image of the weeping woman was not real. But somehow it made him ache in pain and loss. And the statue itself reached out toward him with Her strangling hand, and on his lips he felt Her cold kiss and he heard Her voice say, "My husband," and he was weakening, suffocating, giving in....
With a violent wrench he pulled his arm back and struck one of the statue's arms. As it fell to the floor with a shattering clatter, a horrible pain welled up inside him. He doubled over, sinking to his knees. The statue's hand leapt upward and fastened itself around his throat. He yanked it loose and turned, running toward the door of the ashram.
The devotees had been awakened by the noise, but he was out onto the street before they could react.
By instinct, he ran blindly across the street to the shabby motel. It was only when he was in his room, safely behind a locked door, that he realized he still held the hand of the statue. In revulsion he threw it across the room. He heard it hit and skitter along the floor. And then the room was still.
He should do something, but he didn't know what. Maybe he should call Smith, but he couldn't remember why. Maybe he should find Chiun, but it would do no good. He should do many things; instead, he collapsed on the bed and slept.
He was asleep in seconds, but his sleep was not peaceful. He dreamed of the beautiful face he had seen behind the statue's face, the weeping woman whose mouth had parted to kiss him. But before they touched, the face vanished and there was Kali's garish face and Her words, Her voice, saying: "Bring me death."
He turned in his sleep. He imagined someone entering and leaving his room. He tried not to dream, but always there was Kali's face, and suddenly he sat bolt upright in bed, his body drenched with sweat, his heart pounding. He couldn't allow himself to sleep again. He had to leave this place now. Go anywhere, he told himself, sitting up, holding his throbbing head. If It catches you again, you're lost. Go.
He stumbled toward the door and stopped short. He turned and saw the hand of the statue on the floor, but there was something in its fingers.
Frightened, Remo went to it and cautiously plucked the piece of paper from the shattered hand. In the hallway he looked at it.
It was an airline ticket. To Seoul, Korea.
Korea. That's where he would find Chiun. He knew he must go.
"It doesn't matter if it's a trick," he said. He had to get to Chiun. No one else could help.
Once more he walked out into the darkness. This time he could breathe.
Inside the ashram office, A. H. Baynes lit a cigar. The smoke burned his eyes and tasted good.
It was almost time to pack it in, he told himself. He had accomplished everything he'd set out to do, and then some.
All he had to do now was to wait for the final report on the thick-wristed federal agent, and then get rid of the statue.
Maybe someday in the future he would do the whole operation all over again. But not just now, not just yet. There was a faint tapping at the door, and he said, "Enter."