Chiun shrugged. "Then stay. But remember. When the time comes, what we will encounter is my business, not yours."
"Maybe," Remo said.
Chiun withdrew one slender hand from his sleeve and swung over the blood-stained door to the refrigerated truck container beside him. He was silent as Remo peered in.
Inside, nine bodies lay sprawled in grotesque positions. Icicles hung from their mouths and eyes, where their last dribblings had frozen, and their shabby clothes lay in stiff folds around them, stuck to the metal walls and floor. The frigid air inside the container smelled like a meat freezer, the stale odors of flesh and steel mixing together as the container's motor whirred unceasingly.
"Did they freeze to death?" Remo asked.
"Look closer. Look at their wounds."
Remo stepped up into the truck and examined the stiff bodies. "This isn't real," he said, his breath turning the ends of his hair white with new frost. "They were all killed in hand-to-hand combat."
"Karate does not kill this way," Chiun said, stepping into the truck. "That is hand-to-hand. So is atemi-waza, aikido, bando and t'ai chi chuan, but those methods were not used on these men."
Remo shook his head. "It's weird. It looks like one of us killed them."
Chiun sniffed. "It could hardly have been I," he said. "Does this look like perfect technique? But the work is of Sinanju."
Remo stared at him for a long moment, incredulous. "You don't think I did it, do you?" he asked finally.
"Emperor Smith thinks you did. Another truck filled with bodies slain in this manner was found in the ocean. He ordered me to kill you. Naturally, I was interested to see more of this work. The style is quite masterful."
"He ordered what?"
"He ordered me to kill you. That is part of my agreement, you know. A contract is a contract."
"But... but I didn't do it," Remo stammered. "I've never even been here before..."
"Stop babbling," Chiun snapped. He jumped off the end of the truck to the ground, his robe billowing. "Of course you didn't do it. This is not the work of a bent elbow. Only one highly skilled in the art of Sinanju could kill this way. A clod could never achieve such skill." He waved Remo out and shut the door.
"Wait till I get my hands on Smith. That C.I.A. looney."
"There is no need for spitefulness," Chiun said calmly. "In this truck is more than enough evidence to vindicate you in Emperor Smith's eyes. That was why I had to come here first."
"First? Before what?"
"Before confronting the killer of those men in the truck."
"But I thought we were the only two people alive who still practiced Sinanju," Remo said.
"Alive, yes." Chiun reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out the yellowed scrap of paper bearing three Korean characters. "I knew you were not the killer when I received this."
" 'I live again,' " Remo whispered.
"One who is dead has passed the knowledge of Sinanju on to another." Chiun folded the paper and replaced it in his robe.
"Nuihc?" Remo whispered. "But he's dead. I saw him die."
"He has left an heir. Through him, as his message says, Nuihc and his infamy live again." Chiun looked up toward the castle.
High above the desolate shipyard, its white turrets shone in the morning light. And within its stone walls, a legacy of destruction and evil waited for its moment of triumph.
?Nine
Below the Dutchman's castle, perched on a rocky outcropping, Pierre lowered his binoculars after the young American and the old Oriental stepped out of the truck body in the shipyard. Ordinary tourists to Sint Maarten didn't go around stealing magnetic cards and snooping in the shipyard compound on Sunday. The American, Remo, had put on a show of ignorance about the card, but the old man knew.
Something was going on, all right. Fabienne "wasn't feeling well" all of a sudden after meeting Remo, and the Dutchman's mute had gone through her house like a hurricane. Not to mention the shots fired at his own truck yesterday. Whoever the Dutchman was, he had something to do with the two figures in the shipyard below. And those two men were up to something very fishy.
He toyed with the binoculars hanging around his neck. This information would be worth something to the Dutchman, maybe enough to fix the truck. Still, it meant climbing Devil's Mountain and facing the Dutchman himself...
Pierre scrambled down the crumbling path that led back to the village of Marigot. No, nothing was worth the terrors of Devil's Mountain. White folks' business was their own. He would go into town, borrow the price of a Red Stripe beer, and forget all about it.
Still, the possibility of making a quick hundred nagged at him as he walked, ever more slowly, down the hill. Five minutes inside the Dutchman's castle. That was all it would take, and Pierre would have a crisp new C-note in his pocket for his truck. Maybe the Dutchman would give him more than a hundred in gratitude for learning about the two men in his shipyard. Man, they'd change their tune down in Gus's Grotto when Pierre LeFevre walked in and ordered drinks for the house. Those boys would think twice about refusing him the next time he was hurting for change.
The legend was that the Dutchman brought down madness upon whoever looked on him.
A cache of small stones beneath Pierre's left foot gave way. Dancing and windmilling his arms, he managed to stay upright. Breathing hard, Pierre spit twice on the ground and formed the symbol of the Evil Eye with his fingers. Okay, okay. I ain't going nowhere but Marigot, boss.
It was going to be a scorcher today. Already the air hung in a damp curtain of mist that would melt and sizzle the island like pork rind by noon. Houses began to appear here and there along the dirt path that had widened into a passable road leading straight to Marigot. Red Stripe'll sure taste fine, money or no money, even though it's a stupid legend made up by ignorant islanders who believe any damn foolish thing they hear...
Cool it, Pierre, a voice inside him said. You don't need no hundred dollars that bad.
Oh, yes I do. And the Dutchman's what can give it to me, if only I wasn't such a chickenshit. And lookee here, a Willys Jeep right here on the road with the keys in the ignition and a ten-gallon can of gas in the back.
He walked around the Jeep checking for flats. Nope, all good tires, and even a crowbar on the back seat. That Dutchman try to mess with Pierre, I gonna give it to him straight between the eyes...
Somebody owns this car, the faint inner voice said.
So? I give it back. Just don't want to go up Devil's Mountain on foot.
You can't drive away from the devil, the voice said. It was barely audible.
"You watch me," Pierre said out loud as he climbed in the Jeep and gunned the engine to life. He sang. "Hey pretty baby, can you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?"
The Jeep skidded fitfully up the winding road and onto another, smoother path lined with tall shade trees. Easy riding, this road, Pierre thought as he maneuvered the machine up the dark stillness of Devil's Mountain.
?Ten
"So the Dutchman's hooked up with dear, departed Nuihc. The only thing I don't understand is, why did he wait so long to contact us?"
Chiun flashed him an irritated glance. "That is hardly the only thing you don't understand, brainless one." He held up a long index finger. "Point one. This Dutchman person has not contacted us. Through Nuihc's letter, he has contacted me, and me alone."
"I suppose trying to bump me off twice doesn't count as contact," Remo said sarcastically. Chiun ignored him.
"Point two. The killings in the truck are the work of a young man. Strength and skill without complete control. I have undoubtedly surprised the Dutchman by coming upon his island. He is not yet prepared to face me."