"Erase them."
That finished, Remo said, "I think these are the Chinese student's tracks."
"Are you sure?"
"He was wearing sneakers. These are the only sneaker tracks."
"Do it."
Remo scoured those prints away, careful not to obscure any remaining footprints.
"Now we have two sets of tracks left," he said confidently.
"The tall man in the fur hat," Smith offered.
"That's what I say. He goes in and he comes out, right?"
"Obviously."
"But look," Remo said, kneeling beside one set of prints. "These are stamped over the other set, so they were made last. Right?"
"Obviously."
"He was in the house when I arrived; therefore, he had to be the first one to go in-before me, before the chauffeur, but after Chiun and Zingzong left."
"I see what you are getting at," Smith said, his face tightening.
"The footprints going into the house were made after the ones going out."
"That's impossible," Smith snapped. "He had to enter the house before he could exit it."
"That's usually the way it works, yeah," Remo admitted.
"Perhaps there are prints in back, or he entered through a window."
"That's what I wondered back at the safe house, where he left only one set of prints, but no go."
"We cannot eliminate any possibility without verifying it ourselves."
"Let's go."
But there were no footprints in the rear of the house-unless bird tracks counted-and there were none near the back door, which was partially blocked by a steep drift.
They returned to the front of the house in dejected silence.
Standing over the confusion of footprints, they stared at them in a lengthening silence as the brittle wind blew snow off nearby roofs.
"You say there was only one set at the safe house?" Smith ventured.
"Yes," Remo said distantly, still looking down at the snow. "Going in. Not coming out. They had to belong to the tall guy in the fur hat. I saw him enter the limo."
"What did he look like?"
"I only caught a glimpse. He kept to the shadows. But I'm sure he was the guy in purple I caught rifling Chiun's trunk."
"How could there be only one set going in if he had come out?"
Remo gave Smith a frank look. "That's what I want you to explain."
"I cannot," Smith admitted. "In fact, I fail to understand how there would be only one set of his prints, no matter in which direction they ran."
"That part I can explain," Remo said. "He must have gone in before yesterday's snowstorm. They got covered up."
"But you claim the tracks going in were visible after the storm."
"During it, actually. It had to be the other set that was covered up."
"Which would have been the tracks leaving the car. But you saw this man enter the limousine during the storm. What you describe, Remo, is a physical impossibility."
"So are these," Remo pointed out in a dull voice. "The freshest tracks lead into the house, but he's not in there."
They regarded the tracks in another pained silence.
"I cannot explain it," Smith said at last.
"Well, here's another one for you," Remo put in. "When I entered the house, I didn't sense him until he spoke. It was as if he had no heartbeat, no respiration, no physical presence. But I could see him."
"You are not claiming to have seen a ghost?" Smith wondered.
"I'm not claiming anything," Remo said quietly. "But you see the same tracks in the snow I do." "I give up," Smith said. He started off to his car.
"Where are you going?" Remo asked, following.
"To Folcroft. Our only lead is Chiun."
"But he disappeared."
Smith turned. "Have you ever known the Master of Sinanju to go anywhere without creating a disturbance?"
"I've never known him to stay in one place and not create a disturbance," Remo said truthfully.
"Then we will find him," Smith said confidently.
Remo limped to the car and climbed into the back.
His ribs hurt as Smith pulled away from the curb. He ignored the pain. It was the worry in his heart, the sick hot pain of loss that bothered him most.
Chapter 10
The entrance to Folcroft Sanitarium was a wrought-iron gate set into stone posts. Each post was topped by a lion's head. The lions looked as forbidding as props from an old Frankenstein movie.
"Sit up," Smith called back.
Remo had been scrunched down in the back seat because the bumps hurt less than if he sat up.
"Why?"
"The guard," Smith said, slowing down as he approached the gate. "I don't want him to become suspicious."
"Screw him. You run Folcroft, not him."
"Please," Smith said edgily.
Groaning, Remo pulled himself up by the coat hook.
"Anyone ever tell you you're a pill, Smitty?"
"Don't call me that. Smitty."
"I've been calling you Smitty since day one," Remo reminded him.
"And I have been objecting since that day," Smith muttered, braking carefully. "Just don't let the guard hear you."
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," the guard said. He looked to Remo. "Nice afternoon, isn't it?"
"Peachy," Remo said bitterly.
"I have some paperwork to catch up on," Smith told the guard apologetically. "Unimportant paperwork," he added quickly.
"Then I won't keep you, sir," the guard said, tipping his cap.
"Smart move," Remo said as they slid into Smith's private parking slot. "You really stressed how suspicious this is."
Smith got out and opened the door for Remo.
"Will you need assistance?" he asked Remo.
"I'm ambulatory," Remo snapped back.
Remo stepped out, surprised at how much it hurt to walk. He let Smith close the door.
Together the two men walked into the Folcroft lobby.
A lobby guard took note of them and said nothing. They went to the elevator and up to Smith's second-floor office.
Leaving the elevator, Remo fell in behind Smith and noticed Smith walked with the suggestion of a limp in his right leg. Remo keyed his breathing down and brought up the creak of cartilage against bone that told him Smith's right knee was the problem.
"Have that knee checked lately, Smitty?" Remo asked as Smith unlocked his office and ushered him in.
"My semiannual physical is not for another seven weeks."
"Wasn't what I asked," Remo said.
Smith said nothing. He went directly to the oak desk and eased himself into the cracked leather executive chair.
Feeling under the worn desk edge, Smith hit a concealed stud. There came a click, and a concealed panel rolled back on the desktop.
The familiar computer terminal hummed up as if on command. A keyboard unfolded, offering itself to Smith's age-gnarled fingers. They set to work.
Remo tried sitting on the edge of the desk. It hurt, so he settled for standing. He watched from over Smith's shoulder.
"What are you doing, Smitty?" he asked, watching a series of texts flash on the screen. To Remo's eyes, the glowing letters were visible as clusters of bright green pixels. He had to step back to see them for what they were-words and sentences.
"I am doing a key search," Smith told him.
"Forget keys. Find Chiun."
"I am not literally searching for a key," Smith explained. "A key search is a global data search keyed off specific data parameters. I am inputting Chiun's physical description and certain behavior patterns unique to the Master of Sinanju."
"Don't forget his fourteen steamer trunks," Remo said.
"Thank you." Smith typed in "large steamer trunks" under the rubric PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES.
When he was done, Smith tapped a control key.
The screen winked out and the terminal hummed. Lines of text flashed on the screen faster than the human eye could register them. Remo caught momentary sentences. "Asian drug suspect gunned down in Newark." "Bruce Lee and Elvis spotted in San Francisco airport." "Vietnamese boat survivor killed by drunk driver."