Remo felt the substance work in through his pores and he used the unity of his breathing to let his skin shrug it off. He sensed the room and the softness of the air, saw the stillness of the dead man in diapers beneath him. There was a strange sense of onions in the air, as though he had eaten them a long time ago and now they were coming back.
The droplets made ever-so-delicate kisses on the floor as they fell and became small pools beneath him.
The scent of the solution was in the air also. He could not breathe it. He had to stop. Everything in his body began working against it and yet somehow it had entered through his skin. But he was not without resources because the greatest thing the body could do in Sinanju was what it did by itself. He saw Chiun in front of him giving him those first lectures. He heard the voice telling him about the powers he would have if he were good enough. He knew Chiun was not there in person. He knew Chiun was in him in the spirit.
He could see himself taking that police oath when he was a young man in his twenties, just out of the Marines, thinking he was tough because his muscles were tough. He used to punch with those muscles. He had once thought he had power because he had knocked someone out with a fist.
The room seemed to close in on him, but he didn't allow his body to accept that. He forced himself to work even as he fought the invasion of the substance into his skin, fought the further invasion into his bloodstream, fought the invasion in his mind and his breathing and the last bastion of a person's power, that which was nothing but himself.
Outside, Rubin Dolomo looked at his watch.
“I guess the doorbell didn't work. There are seven other traps,” he said.
“Do you think he's stealing things?” asked Beatrice. She found the car uncomfortable. She was in the front seat with the bodyguard. Rubin sat in the back with his papers on the formula.
“You know he might not even be able to make it out of the house,” said Rubin. “When I worked with the witnesses I used only fresh solution because that was the only reliable kind. The traps were set with stored solution. Incredibly volatile. Could send a person back to a past life.”
“If you believe in them,” said Beatrice. “Go inside and see what he is doing.”
“I wouldn't survive. Nothing can survive in there. Plants are going to forget how to grow. Nothing. I have unleashed the ultimate power.”
“Put out that cigarette.”
“I can't. I'm not finished. I need it,” said Rubin.
“The secondmost-ultimate power,” said Beatrice.
“Uh-oh. Look what's coming,” said the bodyguard.
A thin man with thick wrists and dark eyes was coming out of the rear entrance toward the car. He walked easily. He had a smile.
“He should be back in the womb,” said Rubin.
“Start the car,” said Beatrice.
“The powers that negative force must have!” gasped Rubin. “How can he still walk? How can he breathe? How can he do anything?”
“He's going to kill us,” said Beatrice.
In the panic the bodyguard had shifted into reverse, then forward, then reverse again, all while pressing the accelerator to the fullest. The gears clashed, ground, and crashed.
The man made it to the car.
“We pay more than your employer,” said Beatrice.
“I will abandon the force of Yes for the force of No,” said Rubin.
“Damned car,” said the bodyguard.
“Hello,” said Remo.
“Hi, sweetheart,” said Beatrice.
“Hail to your negative influence,” said Rubin.
“Look,” said Remo. “I've got a little problem.”
“We'll solve it with you,” said Rubin.
“Not a big deal,” said Remo. He was forcing the breath now. “I keep seeing things. Faces.”
“We have three of them,” said Rubin.
“No. Not real faces. A face. Chinese or something. With a wisp of a beard and wisps of hair. He is talking to me. Even now he's talking to me. And I don't know what he's saying.”
“He's not telling you to harm someone?” asked Rubin. “Those are the voices you cannot trust.”
“No. He's just telling me I am going to be all right. Well, I don't know what it is. I guess I'll just have to give you a ticket. Where's the ticket book? Where's my gun? Where's my uniform? Am I on vacation?”
“You're on vacation. Go back inside and enjoy yourself.”
“No. The old guy is telling me not to go back in there. He's like a mirage. Have you ever seen a mirage?”
The bodyguard stepped out of the car and took the man by the hand and in so doing got some of the substance on his own palm. It felt oily. He liked oil. He liked it when his mommy put oil on his bottom after a bath. His mommy was not here. So he cried.
Rubin saw the bodyguard cry.
“That proves it. What power the man has. You are the agent of No.”
“Is that my name?” said Remo. “I remember it as Remo.”
“Hail, No. Good-bye, No,” said Rubin Dolomo, and transferred the suitcases of money to another car, this one unfortunately with license plates that belonged to them. He had planned this escape even before the first trial began. He had the proper phony passports and a car to drive them to the airport that would not be spotted as theirs. No matter, he would have to use the large white sedan with the lettering “Power Is What Power Does.”
It was usually used to pick up franchise owners from the airport. Maybe it wouldn't be noticed at all, now that the forces of negativity were in abeyance. Maybe they could just park it at the airport and not be noticed.
Remo saw the man and woman loading a long white car with luggage. He offered to help but they didn't want him to touch anything. When he grabbed one suitcase they simply left it there and drove off without it. This was surprising because when he opened it he found bundles of hundred-dollar bills. He would have to turn it in to police headquarters. He wondered where it was. He looked around. He saw the bright sun and the rolling lawn and the palm trees. Palm trees?
Palm trees in Newark, New Jersey? He didn't remember ever seeing palm trees there. The Oriental face was in front of him now, telling him how to breathe. Breathe? He knew how to breathe. He'd known how since he was a baby. If he didn't know how, he would have been dead.
Was he dying? He walked around to the front of the house. He felt an oily substance on his hands and he tried to wipe it off. It didn't seem to come off too well. He knew his body was fighting it, but why he knew that he did not know.
An attractive young woman lay on the ground in front of the house. She wasn't moving except for an occasional kick. Her hands were curled up near her chin. She didn't seem to be in much trouble, other than being dead drunk. Her breath had that awful oniony garlic smell that was all around him.
Apparently it was a new form of liquor. Two dogs seemed quite afraid of him as he walked to the gate with the suitcase full of money.
He liked that, especially since they were Doberman pinschers. A man with a crewcut lay unconscious on the lawn. This place was crazy, he thought. The whole place had to be investigated. He wondered if he should call in for detectives. He would have done that but he forgot the number of the station house.
One telephone number kept repeating itself to him. A lemony-faced man kept repeating it. Apparently he was somewhat upset with Remo because Remo kept using it wrong. Finally he repeated the number. Every time Remo thought of telephone numbers he thought of that number. He remembered trying a trick to remember it. The trick was told to him in a funny language. Chinese or something. It was a thing to indelibly engrave something into the memory.
Now how could he know what to do if he didn't know the language? The Oriental was calling him stupid and ungrateful. But the strange thing about it was the man did not dislike him. The Oriental loved him. He loved him as no one had ever loved him. And he loved the Oriental. And what was strange was that he had no reason why. There was no romance involved whatsoever. When he thought of romance he thought of women. Well, that was good. He was straight at least.