Her eyes bloomed. "You can do astral sex? I thought I was the only one who knew that stuff."
"I just read about it," Remo lied. "What's it like?"
"You lie in separate beds, sometimes separate homes. You never touch in the physical sense. But your souls mate."
"Is it good?"
"It's transcendent. Did I ask you your name?"
"Remo."
"I'm half-Italian, so we should get along just fine. Assuming you believe in prenuptial agreements."
"I wouldn't ask the woman I was going to marry to sign one," said Remo.
"You got it backward. I'm the one who hit Mass Millions."
"Oh. Right."
"Anyone ever tell you that you're a little slow sometimes, Remo?"
Remo nodded. "You'll meet him."
Grandma Mulberry met them at the door, took one look at Jean and said, "Do not fall for his act. He is a faggot."
Jean burst out laughing. "She's cute."
"She's not the one I want you to meet," Remo growled.
"Oh, I think she was."
They found Chiun in the bell-tower meditation room. The Master of Sinanju looked rested and bright of eye on his reed mat. Without skipping a beat, he said to Jean, "You are very beautiful."
"Thank you."
Remo broke in. "That's Chiun. Chiun, this is Jean. We're talking about getting married."
"If you marry for money, love cannot fail to follow."
Remo blinked. "I know this is kinda sudden but-"
Chiun lifted a long-nailed hand. "You have my permission to wed. I bless this union."
Remo blinked more rapidly. Jean laughed out loud, a happy, infectious sound.
"May you bear my adopted son many squawling infants," Chiun said expansively.
"Don't you at least want to know her heritage?" Remo asked.
"A good thought," said Chiun. "Child, what is your father's last name?"
"Rice. My name is Jean Rice."
Chiun brought his deceptively delicate hands together, and his face assumed a rapturous expression. "You will be an excellent influence upon my wayward son, who has sowed his wild oats for too long now. It is time he settled down to a steady diet of rice. Even if it is white rice."
"We haven't set a date yet," Remo said quickly.
Chiun arose from his mat. "There is no need. I am prepared to marry you now."
Remo stepped back with nervous speed. "Wait a minute! What's the rush?"
"You have made the decision. It is done. As head of the House, it is my duty to join you in matrimony."
Remo started backing out of the room.
"But first you must know certain things about my adopted son, Remo," added Chiun.
"Shoot," said Jean, folding her arms.
"He is a fearsome killer."
Jean cocked an eyebrow. "Him?"
"Yes. Second only to myself. Many enemies of this country he has slain in cruel and merciless ways. For we secretly work for no less than the emperor of America."
Jean eyed Remo. "He's funny. I like him."
"He's a pain in the butt," returned Remo.
"He's using reverse psychology, you know."
"I am not," Chiun flared. "If no one objects to this union, I pronounce you assassin and consort."
"Wait a minute. I object," Remo said.
Jean wrapped one arm around Remo and said, "Too late. We're wed."
"I hardly know you. And this is just a date."
"Don't sweat it. I'm rich. I'll support you."
Chiun's eyes narrowed sharply to conceal their growing merriment.
"Look," Remo sputtered. "I just met her. I thought I'd use her to get that old bat off my back. I can't walk by her and she makes a crack about my masculinity."
Face reddening, Jean released Remo and stepped away.
"You were just using me!" she said, her voice squeezing down in shock.
Remo caught himself. "I didn't mean 'using' like that."
She grabbed his arm again. "So we can get married, after all."
"You are married," said Chiun.
"No!" said Remo.
"If you jilt this woman who loves you, Remo, it will bring shame to the House," Chiun scolded.
Remo grabbed Jean by the hand and dragged her down the stairs. Her laugh bounced off the walls. Remo, visibly annoyed, fumed until they were out of the building.
Once outside, Jean looked up at the fieldstone monstrosity and said, "If we end up living here, I want some changes."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Remo growled.
She looked up at him, her eyes appealing. "You weren't really using me?"
"I need to get that iron-haired scold off my back."
"Uh-huh. Let's go back to the beach. You look like you could use a good smooch."
"I'm a little rusty in the romance department," Remo admitted.
She took his hand. "I have just the cure for that ...."
Chapter 23
The first psychological profile came by e-mail.
Smith's system beeped to alert him of the incoming transmission from the FBI Chicago office. Smith hadn't expected a report this soon, although he knew the Bureau profilers were very good at this sort of task.
The text report was succinct to the point of ridiculous:
UNSUB is antisocial type. White male, age about thirty-five, intelligent, detail oriented and keeps bees. Probably had an ant farm as a child and fell into fantasy world inhabited by insects. Lives in isolation. Minimum to no social life. Drives Volkswagen Beetle. Follows the Charlotte Hornets.
Smith input the text into his own profile generator and commanded the program to generate a rough artist's representation of the UNSUB.
Moments later-the speed of modern computers still sometimes astonished Smith, who had cut his analytic teeth in the halcyon days of Univac-a color image appeared.
It showed a nearly featureless white man, bearded, but wearing dense wraparound sunglasses and a deerstalker cap.
Smith blinked. The system had generated a face that was a cross between Sherlock Holmes and the Unabomber.
Obviously, he was working with insufficient data.
Saving the image as a file, Smith returned to the task at hand. Perhaps one of the other profilers would do better. After all, profiling was not an exact science ....
Chapter 24
Midway through dinner-Remo had ordered mako shark out of habit-he realized the merry look in Jean's eyes wasn't there because she had won seven million dollars courtesy of the state of Massachusetts, but because she was in love with him.
Not lust like most women, but love. It had been a gleam in her eye from the first, but now it was open and unconcealed.
"So," Remo said, putting down his fork, "what's the attraction? It can't be my pheromones. They've been pretty quiet lately."
She smiled. Her lips were very red. They went with her eyes somehow.
"Last summer, I had my Tarot cards read," she said, leaning forward. "Guess what the woman said."
"Search me."
"'You're coming into money.'"
"They all say that."
"It came true, didn't it? Now shut up and listen. Then she flipped a couple of cards over and said, 'I see you on a beach. There's a man walking the beach with his head down. Dark hair and dark eyes. He has unusual energy.'"
"That could be anyone."
"'And wrists like two-by-fours.'"
Remo's knife and fork froze in midair. "She said that?"
Jean nodded. "Her exact words. So when I saw you, I knew exactly who you were."
Her smile lit up her crinkling eyes.
"Who am I?"
"Let's just say this-there's still time to run."
"I don't run from anything," said Remo. But his dark eyes were worried.
They drove to the beach and walked its entire length and back again. A cold moon came up and washed them in its pristine light.
They were still there when the sun rose.
Chapter 25
If Mearl Streep hadn't had the misfortune to be christened Mearl Streep, a lot of things might have been different.
For one thing, he wouldn't get all those annoying telephone calls at all hours asking for an autographed picture of himself in drag.