A faint smile brushed his thin lips as he slipped behind the wheel.
He took a left off the dead end. The tidy residential street ran parallel to the golf course.
The route was familiar. He soaked in the scenery with a melancholy twinge.
The house he'd recently lost had actually been his second real home. His first full-time residence had been here, on this very street.
It was a cruel quirk of fate that had robbed him of each home. He, Remo Williams, orphan and perpetual outsider to the entire human race, could never have a normal home.
His old house came up on the left.
The new owners had made some changes to the simple, two-story Cape. Vinyl siding now covered the paint. Most of the shrubs near the front were gone.
Children apparently lived there now, for the lawn was covered with plastic toys. Orange-and-yellow leaves formed a damp pile near a multicolored jungle gym.
A knot formed in the pit of Remo's stomach when he saw the white picket fence that now enclosed the front yard. In the days when he used to dream of home and hearth and some semblance of a normal life, his mind's eye seemed always to surround that life with a tidy picket fence.
But that wasn't his life and would never be. Remo drove on.
Harold Smith's home was next door. The CURE director's battered station wagon had already been in the Folcroft Sanitarium parking lot when Remo left that morning, so he wasn't surprised to find that it wasn't in the driveway now.
Smith's wife was out in the yard. The matronly woman was dressed in slacks and a big flannel shirt. She was wrangling wet leaves from beside the front step with a bamboo rake that seemed to be missing most of its prongs.
Even Smith had a home. It might not be perfect and he might not spend much time there, but the fact remained it was there whenever he wanted it to be. All Remo had was a sackful of metaphorical lemons and a prophecy that his life was going to get worse before it got better. If it got better.
The street ended abruptly at a busy intersection. "Maybe the worst of it's behind me," Remo muttered as he pulled out onto the cross street.
Downtown Rye had evolved since Remo had first been drafted into CURE. Back in those days, though it was close to New York City, Rye had still retained some small-town charm. Not anymore. Over the decades the city had become a typically soulless suburb. Neatly washed brick buildings advertised law and accounting firms while whitewashed banks crowded the sidewalk. Remo counted thirty-seven sets of traffic lights on what had been the old Boston Post Road. A set of lights positioned every ten feet, all red, turned the main road into a parking lot. It took him fortyfive minutes to travel three city blocks.
He was grateful when he finally escaped the busiest part of town. Suburban sprawl changed over to woods. Through a shower of gaily colored leaves, Remo caught glimpses of Long Island Sound. A few boats bobbed on the sun-dappled water.
The familiar high wall of Folcroft appeared on his left. Remo followed it to the main gate. He drove past the guard shack with its sleeping uniformed guard and up the gravel drive of the sanitarium.
Remo parked his car in the employee lot and headed for the side door.
He sensed a pair of heartbeats in the stairwell even before he reached the door. When he pulled it open, one of the two men was already looking his way.
The wizened Asian looked as old as the hills. Other than two tufts of yellowing white hair that sprouted above each ear, his age-speckled scalp was bald. His skin was like ancient parchment. The fine lines of delicate blue veins crisscrossed beneath the dry surface.
Chiun, Master of Sinanju and Remo's teacher, clucked unhappily. As the door swung shut, the elderly Korean's youthful hazel eyes frowned disapproval at his pupil.
A much younger man had been sitting on the bottom step near Chiun. He seemed startled at Remo's appearance. As Remo stepped inside, the young man scurried to his feet.
"It was you, wasn't it?" Mark Howard asked without preamble.
The assistant CURE director was in his late twenties and had a broad, corn-fed face with ruddy patches on each cheek. At the moment a sickly flush tainted his pale skin.
"Guess good news travels fast," Remo said blandly.
"Oh, God, it was you," Howard said, sinking back to a sitting position on the staircase.
"I plead the Fifth," Remo said dully. "You eat breakfast yet, Little Father?"
When he tried to cross to the basement staircase, a bony hand pressed against his chest, holding him in place.
"Stop, idiot," Chiun hissed.
"Why?" Remo said, his face drooping into a scowl.
"So I can hear you play Jiminy Cricket to Spanky here?" He nodded to Howard. The young man was still sitting on the stairs, one hand holding his queasy belly. "No, thanks."
"You killed B.O. Anson," Mark Howard said weakly.
"There is no sense in denying it, Remo," the Master of Sinanju charged, folding his long-nailed hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his purple day kimono. "Emperor Smith's oracles have already divined your guilt."
"Guilt's a funny thing," Remo said. "Smith's computers say I'm guilty-I say I was chipping golf balls in my hotel room in Chicago. We'll leave it to the jury to decide."
Howard finally looked up. Dull shock filled his tired eyes. "How could you?" he asked.
"Easy. Keep your legs apart, concentrate on the ball and make the club an extension of your own arm."
"As usual, you are an audience of one for your own pathetic attempts at humor," Chiun said. "Now make things easier for your poor old dying father and apologize for slaying the ballfooter."
"What?" Remo said. "No way. I've had a crummy year, and I decided to give myself an early Christmas present. And don't try to get around me with that dying thing. You're as healthy as a horse."
"No thanks to you," Chiun snipped.
"Apologies are irrelevant," Howard said, pulling himself to his feet. "Dr. Smith wants to see you. He sent us to collect you as soon as you got back."
Remo's face darkened. "Oh, c'mon," he groused.
But Chiun was already turning away. "Come, Prince Mark," the old man said. Tucking his arm into the crook of Howard's elbow, he guided the much younger man up the stairs.
With a deepening frown, Remo followed.
"So how'd you know it was me?" Remo grumbled as they mounted the stairs.
Howard pitched his voice low. "You know that the mainframes automatically flag all Sinanju-signature deaths. The news has already picked up on it. Given the circumstances, there's a feeding frenzy going on."
"Really?" Remo asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone. "What are they saying?"
The assistant CURE director shifted uncomfortably as he walked. "That a golf ball fired from some kind of portable cannon went straight through Anson's head." It seemed as if he didn't want to believe the reports.
"I called 'fore'," Remo said defensively.
"This is terrible, Remo," Howard insisted seriously.
"Terrible," the Master of Sinanju echoed. Remo shot the old man a hateful look.
"There must have been hundreds of people on that golf course," the assistant CURE director continued.
"Relax," Remo said. "Even if someone saw me-which they didn't-they didn't really see me. Back me up, Chiun."
"It is true, O Prince," the Master of Sinanju said.
They were at the second-floor fire door. Howard stopped. "I know Dr. Smith is confident in this ninja stuff, but-" He glanced apologetically at the Master of Sinanju. "I'm sorry, Master Chiun, I just don't know."
For any other man, comparing Sinanju to ninjitsu would have guaranteed a one-way trip to the Folcroft morgue. But, standing in the stairwell beside the young man, Chiun merely shook his head somberly.
"Ninja are like Sinanju, Prince Mark, the same way a firefly is like the sun. Remo is correct. It is possible for many eyes to have seen him without ever truly seeing him."