"I was just wondering," she said. "I was up for a movie part the other day. I think I did really, really good and all. Do you think they'll call back?"
The Reverend Man Hyung Sun looked blandly at the woman. "No," he said.
"No?" she asked, crestfallen. "Oh." Though she was deeply disappointed, neither she nor her costar made a move to leave.
Chiun was standing at Sun's elbow near the studio door. "Do you wish me to dispose of these empty-headed ones, O Holy Seer?" the Master of Sinanju offered in a loud whisper.
He did not have to.
"Okay, we're done here," Dan Bergdorf said, sweeping in from the set. The executive producer shepherded the pair of soap-opera actors away from his featured performer.
The two of them had been hired by Bergdorf for the latest Sunnie fortune-teller commercial. Soap stars had instant face recognition from the types of people who called psychic lines. These two were the flavor of the month.
"You're going to get a lot of callers telling you they phoned in because of Cassandra and Cleft," Bergdorf warned as he came back over to Sun, using the actors' TV names.
Roseflower was walking briskly behind him.
"As long as they call," Sun replied flatly. "We go now," he said to the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun allowed the cult leader's assistant to guide them out to the limousine. He got in the back seat with Sun while Roseflower climbed in behind the wheel. They were out of the Channel 8 parking lot and on the highway back to New York in a matter of minutes.
They had driven in silence for almost twenty minutes before the Master of Sinanju spoke. "Something puzzles me, Great Mystic," Chiun said.
"A question is the first step to knowledge," Sun intoned seriously.
Chiun resisted the urge to accuse the Sunnie leader of sounding like a Chinese fortune cookie. After all, he was the herald of pyon ha-da.
"Why must you do these programs?" Chiun asked. "They are demeaning. Beneath one as holy as you."
"You honor me with your words," Sun said. "But know you this," he continued, raising an instructive finger, "even a god must pay the rent."
And at these words, Chiun grew silent. He remained mutely troubled for the entire journey back to the East Hampton, Long Island, estate of Sun.
When they arrived, they found Michael Princippi's ratty old car already parked near the closed garage bays. Roseflower parked the limousine away from the main house.
Chiun and Sun walked together up the gravel pathway to the mansion.
"There are those who would do me harm," Sun said as they climbed the steps.
"They must get through me first, Holy Seer," Chiun said.
"I am pleased you say that," Sun replied. He paused, resting his hand on the door handle. "Such a one is in my home at this very moment. I have foreseen it. As have you, though to a lesser and mere mortal degree."
Chiun's eyes strayed to the battered Volkswagen rusting in the driveway.
"The one called Prince," he said.
Sun nodded. "I fear my life is in danger. You are my only salvation. Will you remove the evil from before me?"
"I live to serve, Holy One," Chiun said, bowing.
Sun returned the gesture, though with regal restraint.
"Then it shall be."
Smiling, Man Hyung Sun pushed the door open.
IT WASN'T THERE.
Princippi had searched for the ancient urn in every room upstairs. He could not find the stone container anywhere.
"He must have read my mind," the former governor muttered as he looked in the bedroom closet of the Reverend Sun for the third time.
It had been at his Manhattan apartment earlier. Sun might have moved it back. Hell, the Hamptons house was so huge it could have been hidden anywhere in any of the dozen buildings. Even on the grounds somewhere.
Princippi was frantic. He had been a party to the murders the first time around. Again, this time. It could ruin his life-any future career he might have-if that urn wound up in the wrong hands.
He looked around desperately at the big empty closet. Four walls. One mirror. A few hangers. Nothing more.
His heart thudded like mad. He felt his stomach twisting and churning anxiously. His bladder felt as if it were going to burst.
Bladder!
"Bathroom!" Princippi cried.
Running, tripping, he ran into the master bath.
It was huge. Whirlpool. Sauna. A tub seemingly as big as an Olympic pool.
Princippi dived at cabinets and closets, throwing towels and toiletries onto the tiled floor. His knees ached as he skidded to a stop in front of a pair of closed louvered doors. Hands shaking, he fumbled them open.
Nothing. Controls for the hot tub. No sign of the Delphic urn.
His head twisted around. He felt dizzy. Lightheaded.
The bathroom was a mess. Junk was strewed everywhere.
No urn.
No urn anywhere.
The entire estate to search.
No time.
He didn't know how long Sun would remain at the studio. The cult leader had told him he planned to stay behind for several more hours, but he might change his mind.
Mike Princippi desperately wanted to go to the bathroom. It felt as if he was about to wet his pants. He looked longingly at the toilet across the field of scattered debris.
No time.
Head reeling, he raced from the bathroom.
The bedroom suite was still empty. Run. Escape. Hide somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere he would not think to look.
Blood drumming frantically in his ears, Princippi ran through the bedroom and out into the upstairs hallway ...
...directly into the Reverend Man Hyung Sun!
Princippi skidded to a stop. "I, uh... Hi!" He was sweating profusely. His ears rang like twin deafening gongs. "I was, uh, I was just going."
The ex-governor attempted to sidestep Sun but was stopped by a frail hand that seemed to come out of nowhere.
Chiun stepped out from behind the cult leader. His hand was pressed firmly against Princippi's chest. It was as if the former presidential candidate had slammed into a solid brick wall. Chiun's face was cold.
"You thought I would not know of your treachery?" Sun demanded. "How could you be so foolish?" There was almost a pitying expression in his angry eyes. Princippi caught a hint of the yellow fire in his pupils.
With his back to Sun, the Master of Sinanju did not glimpse the hint of demonic possession. He continued to stare-eyes glinting cold like midnight glaciers-at the former Massachusetts governor.
"I-it wasn't..." Princippi stammered.
The flickering yellow fire in Sun's eyes. The accusatory tone. Chiun's icy, level gaze. It was all too much for him. He shook his head helplessly.
"Some are too weak, even for pyon ha-da," Sun said to Chiun. "This is such a one. All the gods together could not make this Greekling a true Korean."
"Huh?" Mike Princippi asked.
"Kill him," Sun commanded.
Princippi's eyes went wide. "No," he said. A spark of hope dawned. He wheeled to Chiun. "The urn. Ask him about the Delphic urn," the exgovernor pleaded.
His own voice sounded far away. It took him a second to realize why.
He had not spoken the words at all. They were heard only by him in his own mind. He knew this because one needed a throat, tongue and a working larynx in order to articulate sounds. Most of the aforementioned list had somehow inexplicably been ripped from the person of Mike Princippi.
Much of his neck lay in a pile on the carpet before Man Hyung Sun's bedroom. The Prince wondered briefly how they had gotten there and-all at once-he stopped wondering. To wonder, the only thing one really needed was a functioning brain, but the late Mike Princippi no longer had that particular item.
The former governor and presidential candidate slumped to the floor on top of the tattered bloody strips of his own throat. Even as he fell, Chiun was tucking his slender killing fingernails back into the folds of his kimono.