"I have found a disturbing sameness to these cases. I am not certain what the underlying connection is-if any. It is possible that they are merely coincidences. Perhaps even copycat incidences."
"Yeah. Copycats," Remo sighed. "Can't have them."
Smith's frown deepened. "You cannot tell me two words I have spoken since I arrived, can you?" he challenged.
Remo's bored gaze suddenly found focus. "Sure I can," he said. "Um..." His dark eyes flicked around the room, as if the clues to Smith's briefing were buried in the wallboard. At last he snapped his fingers, struck with a sudden burst of inspiration. "You said 'Hi, Remo' when I let you in. There. Two words."
"Actually, I said 'Hello,'" Smith said thinly.
"Oh. Well, I got the 'Remo' right." Dejected, he sunk in on himself, a balloon deflating.
"And could you please turn off the television?" The big-screen TV had been on since Smith's arrival. On it, four creatures with frozen plastic faces and teardrop-shaped bodies cavorted around a surreal landscape. Each was a different color: orange, maroon, blue or pink. Geometric shapes jutted from the tops of their heads.
For some reason Smith could not fathom, the costumed characters spoke in insipid baby talk while they buttered muffins and bounced balls around the TV screen.
"Don't tell me you've got something against the TeeVee-Fatties, Smitty?" Remo asked. He had been staring blankly at the program through most of Smith's briefing.
"Please, Remo-" Smith began.
"That's Poopsy-Woopsy," Remo interrupted knowingly, pointing to the pink creature. "Jerry Falwell says he's gay."
"Yes," Smith said flatly. His lips pursed. "Where is Master Chiun?" he asked suddenly.
It was the one question Remo had hoped Smith wouldn't ask.
"Chiun?" Remo said innocently, his spine growing rigid.
"Yes. If you insist on ignoring me, I would like to share this information with both of you at once. I do not wish to have to repeat myself a third time for his benefit."
"I'll pay attention," Remo promised. "Honest." He clicked off the TV. Poopsy-Woopsy, Tipsy, Wee-Wee and Doh collapsed into a single bright dot and were gone.
To Smith he seemed suddenly too attentive. The older man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is Chiun at home?"
Remo missed a beat. "He's not here," he admitted vaguely.
"When will he return?"
"I'm not sure. He's been keeping kind of odd hours lately," Remo said. "I haven't seen him in days."
Smith's eyebrows slid almost imperceptibly higher on his forehead in an expression of mild curiosity. "That is not like the Master of Sinanju."
"Trust me, Smitty," Remo muttered. "It's more like him than you wanna know."
Remo was being deliberately unresponsive. The two Masters of Sinanju-the only true practitioners of the most ancient and deadly martial art in the history of mankind-had probably had some kind of fight again.
Smith let the remark pass.
"As I said, these cases I mentioned are similar."
"A bomber?" Remo asked, now genuinely interested.
"There have been no bombs involved in any of the incidents," Smith replied, puzzled.
"Didn't you say something about bombs?"
"No. Remo, please pay attention. There have already been seven people killed."
Smith took the battered leather briefcase from his lap and set it on the floor between his ankles. Another man would have extracted files from the valise in order to more thoroughly brief his field operative. Not Smith. He didn't like to rely on paper. Paper was a physical link to the secret work that had occupied virtually all of his adult life. As director of CURE, the supersecret organization charged with safeguarding the constitution, Smith's desire for secrecy approached paranoia. Although he had used computer printouts in the earlier days of his stewardship of CURE, that habit had waned with the encroachment of the pervasive electronic age.
Telephone briefings were the norm, although at this stage of their decades-long relationship a meeting with Smith was the exception to the rule. The odd nature of this assignment had flushed him out of his office in Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. For this reason alone, Remo tried to concentrate on what his employer was saying.
"There were two bodies found approximately one month ago in a wooded area in the Florida panhandle. Both were college juniors. Roommates at the same university. They had been hung by their ankles and sexually mutilated. According to police experts, they were tortured for a number of days. Eventually their throats were slit."
Remo's attention was focused now. Smith's dry recitation of the case's facts seemed only to add to the horror of the incident.
"Did they find out who did it?" Remo asked.
"Not as such," Smith admitted. "But there is a pattern." Smith shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "A seemingly unconnected murder took place a few days after this incident. A torso was found in a box near a waste receptacle at a condominium complex in Boise. Authorities are still unable to identify the victim in this case."
"The same killer?"
"Possibly," Smith hedged. "Are you familiar with the Anderson case?"
Remo shook his head.
"It has gotten a great deal of coverage on the news the past few days. A family of four was murdered in their Maryland home."
"Oh, yeah. I think I might have seen something about that," Remo nodded. "The guy dug a tunnel out or something?"
"'In' would be more accurate. This was how the killer or killers gained entry to the Anderson home. They merely used the same route for egress."
"Wasn't there something about it being in some dip-shit movie?" Remo asked. "That's why it was on so much."
"Yes," Smith replied. "A film dealing with much the same themes as the true-life Anderson case has opened to critical praise. It is currently doing well in art houses."
"What's wrong? Outhouses all booked up?"
"That would be a more appropriate venue," Smith agreed humorlessly. "But be that as it may, the Anderson case is only part of a larger picture. In the other two incidents I mentioned, films were also released with themes similar to those murders. Like the Anderson film, these did better than expected in large part because of an apparent public fascination with the true-to-life incidents. It is my belief that the fictitious events on-screen are directly linked to those in real life."
Remo shook his head. "Smitty, this seems like kind of a nothing assignment. I know the FBI can't find their ass with both hands and a fanny map lately, but it doesn't sound like they'd need to pull Efrem Zimbalist Jr. out of mothballs for this one. Can't we just take a break and let them do their jobs for once?"
Smith sat back in his chair. His steely gray eyes were mildly accusatory. "You have been taking a break for the past three months," he advised, voice level.
"It hasn't been that long," Remo said dismissively.
"Yes," Smith said, nodding, "it has."
Remo raised an annoyed eyebrow. "Okay, maybe. But can I help it if the bad guys have been in a slump?"
"I had an assignment for you one month ago. The survivalist group in Utah. There was also the potential Islamic terrorist cell in New Jersey the month before that. In both instances you refused to go."
"Been there, done that," Remo said. "Survivalists and Arab terrorists are yesterday's news. Say, the Russian Mafia's big these days. Or killer viruses. Can't we do something with those?"
Wordlessly, Smith removed his rimless glasses. Tired fingers massaged the bridge of his patrician nose. "Remo, CURE does not exist to alleviate your ennui. Frankly, I have been a little concerned by your attitude of late. Ever since your encounter with Elizu Roote in New Mexico-"
Remo's tone hardened. "You don't have to bring that up."
During his last assignment a few months before, Remo had encountered a man unlike any he had ever met in all his years as CURE's enforcement arm. Surgically enhanced with biomechanical implants, Elizu Roote had offered unexpected resistance. And nearly killed Remo.