The Seventh Stone, page 12
“Let’s have a look at them then,” Reggie said with a smile. He leaned over and opened the little wrought-iron gate buried inside the shrubs and then stepped back while Basket Mary squeezed her bulk through it. Her grin faded a little as she caught sight of the overturned table, the shattered crockery, the little slumps of congealed egg and fruit with the bluebottle flies buzzing around them. Something was not so nice here was the expression that briefly crossed her face. Something was not right. But like the smallest cloud crossing in front of the sun, the feeling passed in just a moment. Basket Mary looked up. The sun was still there, right up in the middle of the sky as always, and she smiled as she looked again at Reginald Woburn and noticed his beautifully cut clothes, the luxurious furnishings of his gazebo and the private beach that led to the big fine mansion on the hill behind it.
Basket Mary decided there was nothing wrong here, at least nothing that a couple of her baskets couldn’t cure.
“Let’s see the green-and-white one there,” Reggie suggested. “The one in the middle of the stack.”
“You got the eye for real quality,” Basket Mary congratulated him. With a swift and surprisingly graceful motion, she transferred the teetering stack of baskets from her head to her hands and then to the carpeted floor. She leaned over to separate the one he wanted from the stack. Reggie leaned over too. He was smiling as his fingers fumbled for and clasped the breakfast knife, lifting it out of the debris of his scattered food.
Suddenly Reggie was feeling good. The fear that had clawed at his inside was melting away as if it had never been there at all. In its place was a warm glow, the thrill of anticipation. What had he ever been afraid of?
“Here you go.” Looking up, Basket Mary held out the pretty green-and-white basket.
“And here you go,” Reggie said, smiling. Sunlight glistened off the long slender blade as he drove it into her vast chest. Blood sputtered around the metal and Basket Mary screamed, until Reggie clapped his hand over her mouth and bore her to the ground with the weight of his own body, as his knife continued to rummage around in the big woman’s chest.
She struggled for a few moments, her body thudding around as she tried to buck Reggie off her. The latticework walls of the gazebo shook, and then she was still.
Reggie never felt better in his life. Suddenly, he wanted breakfast. He rose and looked down at Basket Mary’s body. Then he remembered something he read once: that inside every fat person was a thin person trying to get out.
He knelt again alongside Basket Mary, raised the knife and started to test that theory.
When he was done, he picked up a telephone and dialed the police. “Could you send someone over?” he requested cheerfully. “There’s a dead woman all over my gazebo.”
The constable arrived an hour later. He stood just inside the wrought-iron gate and surveyed the carnage with professional calm. “No arrow in the heart, no morder,” he pronounced. “Natural causes for sure. Never any morder here. Just surf, sun and good times. A real vacation paradise.”
“Absolutely,” Reggie agreed. He nodded toward what used to be Basket Mary. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’m a little short of staff.”
“No trouble,” the constable said. “I get her up for you.” He reached into the pocket of his baggy uniform and pulled out a folded plastic trash bag. “My scene-of-the-crime kit,” he said. “Never go nowhere without it. Come in handy when these natural-causes deaths be messy like this one.”
“Very commendable,” Reggie said.
“You go and enjoy yourself. I clean up fine.” Kneeling down on the blood-soaked carpet, he began to shove Basket Mary into the bag, with all the eagerness of a slum kid who had unintentionally been invited to the White House Easter egg hunt.
The aftermath of killing held no interest for Reggie. He picked up a croissant that had landed atop one of the bushes, and munching casually, he opened the gate and sauntered down to the beach. There was a cool pleasant breeze from the sea. Gulls wheeled and dived above the clear blue water. The surf lapped gently against the rocks like a lover talking.
Reggie sat down on a flat-topped rock at the water’s edge. Now that he was feeling like his old self again, his thoughts returned to the problem of the two plums. He could think of them now without fear. It was a strange but wonderful contentment, a feeling of being at peace with himself.
With the sun warm against his face, he leaned over to doodle in the wet sand with his blood-encrusted finger. He drew a sailing ship with no emblem on its unfurled canvas. He doodled men in armor, their faces old and wise and full of mystery. He drew himself and his father and a crude outline of the island and finally the seventh stone itself. The surf came in, spitting at the rocks. When it went back out again, the wet sand was smooth, his drawings erased by the sea.
Not fully aware of what he was doing, Reggie leaned over again. The sand and water had washed the blood from his finger. He began to draw again, not shapes or images this time, but a single word, in ancient runelike characters. He recognized the language immediately. It was the language of Wo, the words that tied all the descendants of Prince Wo together. And he recognized the word too, a single word of command that had come unbidden to his casual finger from somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. He had known all the time what he must do about the “two plums.” Smiling, Reggie stood and studied the word in the sand. It was a summons, a call to the far-flung Wo clan.
The single word was COME.
* * *
Reggie sent the one word to the farthest corners of the earth. In Nairobi, the Wosheesha tribe forsook the sacred ritual of the harvest hunt to pack up their spears and leather thongs. In Hokkaido, Japan, the Woshimoto clan prepared their ceremonial robes and made a final visit to the graves of their ancestors. In Manchester, England, the Woosters packed their Gladstones and left a note for the milkman. The Wogrooths of Holland left their tulip beds in the care of a neighbor while the Worriers of France closed and shuttered their prosperous Left Bank café.
Two mornings later, the descendants of Prince Wo had converged on the island of Little Exuma.
As the clock in the tower of Government House chimed the noon hour, Reginald Woburn III rose from his chair at the head of a long banquet table. The table was piled high with food, an international bazaar of delicacies representing the best of more than a dozen different cultures. There was even more diversity in the people seated in the high-backed chairs that bordered the table. Faces as ebony as a starless night; delicate oval faces the precise shade of yellowing ivory; bland milk-white faces, cream and cocoa faces, cinnamon-red faces; young faces and old faces, and all of them turned attentively to the man at the head of the table.
“You are all welcome here,” Reginald Woburn greeted them. “You have come from near and far in answer to my summons and now we are all together, every last living descendant of the great Prince Wo. It is a time for rejoicing, a time for celebration, but that is not the only reason you have traveled these many miles.”
He looked around the large room. The faces stared at him.
“We are gathered here for a purpose, a noble undertaking that will, once and for all, restore our noble house to its full and rightful position of honor. We have come here to band together against a single enemy. We are united so that we may banish him from the face of the earth forever.”
“Who is this great enemy?” Maui Wosheesha demanded. His voice was as full of quiet strength as a lion passing silently through the high grass. His gold and ivory bracelets clattered musically as his broad hand closed around the shaft of his steel tipped spear.
“You wish to see him?” Reggie asked. “You desire to hear his name spoken aloud?”
“Show the man and say the name,” Hirako Woshimoto insisted. There was the faintest rustle of silk as his fingers came to rest on the tasseled handle of his ceremonial samurai sword.
“The man is one called Remo. And if you wish to see him, you need merely to look beneath your plates.”
The low-voiced murmur of a dozen different tongues accompanied the lifting of the plates. There was a photograph under each one, all alike. They showed Remo, wearing the ugly grayish suit he had worn to the presidential press conference. The camera had caught him in the instant that he had tossed a notebook, severing Du Wok’s sword hand from the rest of his arm.
“His head is mine,” Ree Wok shouted.
“Mine,” said Maui Wosheesha.
“Mine,” said Hirako Woshimoto.
Reginald Woburn silenced them with an upraised hand.
“Who will kill this man?” he shouted.
“I will.” A hundred voices, a dozen tongues, all of them speaking as one. The windowpanes rattled as the chorused response filled the huge dining hall.
Reginald Woburn smiled, then slowly looked around the long table, meeting the eyes of each of them in turn.
“He who kills him will have a further honor,” he said.
“What is this honor that will be mine?” asked Hirako Woshimoto.
“He who kills this man will be allowed to kill another.”
“Who is?”
“The beast,” Reginald Woburn said. “The Korean assassin who drove Prince Wo to these shores. For this young one is his disciple and the seventh stone tells us that both must die.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“PAY ATTENTION NOW,” said Chiun. “A wandering mind gathers only moss.”
“That’s a rolling stone,” said Remo, “and I am paying attention. I always pay attention.”
“You know less about attention than you know about wisdom. A rolling stone gathers no moss; a wandering mind gathers all moss. They are very different,” Chiun said.
“If you say so, Chiun,” Remo said. He smiled at his teacher, who looked away, annoyed. Chiun was worried about Remo. The hiding time had still not passed for him, and he was out of touch with himself and his reason for being. He did nothing now except to perform unspeakable acts with that imposter posing as an actress, who didn’t even know Barbra Streisand, and that was proof that there was something wrong with Remo.
Because he should not be paying so much attention to a woman and to sex; there were more important things for a Master of Sinanju, primarily training and contemplation. As it was now, Chiun had had to implore Remo to show up for this training session.
“Watch closely now,” Chiun said.
“I am watching. Is this a test to see how long I last before I collapse of boredom?”
“Enough,” Chiun muttered.
They stood on the beach of a deserted inlet on the undeveloped side of the island. There were no buildings or people, no pleasure boats to smudge the unblemished line of the distant horizon. A strong southwest wind rippled the surface of the crystal blue water and tempered the heat of the midday sun.
Chiun walked to the edge of the water, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Remo was watching, then stepped toward the frothy bubbles of the spent surf. As he took his first step, he began to wave his arms back and forth alongside his body, his fingernails pointed downward.
He walked out five steps, his arms still moving, then five more. Then he turned and walked back and stood before Remo.
“Well?” he said.
“That’s the lesson for today?” Remo said. “Watching you take a walk in the water?”
“No, the lesson for today is the same as the lesson for every day: that you are truly an idiot. You saw me walk into the water?”
“Of course. I told you I was paying attention.”
“Then look at my sandals,” Chiun said. He raised one thin yellow leg toward Remo. His thin yellow shin peeked out from under the lifted edge of his dark red kimono.
Remo looked at the offered sandal, then leaned over to touch it. It was dry, bone dry. And yet he had just seen Chiun walk ten paces out into the ocean.
“How’d you do that?”
“If you were truly paying attention, you would know the answer,” Chiun said. “Now this time, watch again. But with your eyes and mind open and your mouth closed, please.”
Chiun repeated the stroll into the water and this time Remo saw that the back-and-forth motion of Chiun’s arms at the sides of his body was setting up a pressure wall that literally pushed back the water from alongside him.
When Chiun came back, he said, “Did you see?”
“I certainly did,” Remo said. “Do you know that Moses did that and he got five books in the Bible?”
To Chiun’s unamused look, he quickly added, “Okay, Chiun, I liked it a lot. It was real nice.”
“Nice?” Chiun shrieked. “A walk in a garden is nice. A cup of warm tea is nice. Clean underwear is nice. This? This is spectacular.” His wispy white hair fluttered in the wind as he shook his head toward Remo.
“All right, Chiun. It’s great,” Remo said. “It must be terrific at beach parties.”
“Do not patronize me, white thing,” Chiun said. “This is a tool, not a source of amusement. With this, Wo Lee, the Nearly Great, once escaped an evil king by running through a pond of man-eating fish.”
“Hold on. Wo Lee, the Nearly Great?” Remo asked.
“Yes. None other.”
“Why was he ‘the nearly great’?” Remo asked.
“Because he had the misfortune to select a pupil who did not pay attention.”
“All right, enough. I’m paying attention. I just don’t see a lot of practical value in being able to part the waters,” Remo said.
“I thought it might be particularly helpful to you now that you’ve taken to loitering in damp caves with strange women,” Chiun said. “Now you do it.”
Just as Remo walked to the edge of the water, he heard his name called in a soft, pleasantly familiar voice. He turned to see Kim Kiley standing on one of the grass-capped dunes. Her aqua blue swimsuit emphasized every curve of her full breasted supple body.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said. “What are you two doing over on this side of the island?”
“Nothing,” Chiun muttered. “Especially him.”
“Let’s go swimming then,” Kim said with a smile. “The water looks beautiful.”
“Good idea,” Remo said. “Chiun, I’ll practice later. I promise.”
“Let us hope that later is not too late,” Chiun said.
Kim Kiley said, “I brought a surfboard along. We can take turns on it.” She pointed up to the tall saw grass where a long blue-and-white fiberglass board was lying.
“I’ll go first,” she said. “I want to get the board back by four.”
“Go ahead,” said Chiun. “You can take my turn too. Also Remo’s.”
“You’re sweet,” Kim said.
“Just what I was going to say,” Remo agreed.
Kim got the board and launched herself gracefully into the surf. After she cleared the crest of an incoming wave, she jockeyed herself into a sitting position and began to paddle farther out.
“This is impossible,” Chiun said. “How can we accomplish anything with all these distractions?”
“This is a vacation,” Remo reminded him. “Distractions are what vacations are all about. And anyway, Kim isn’t ‘all these distractions.’ She’s the only one.”
“It only takes one for you to neglect your training,” Chiun said.
Remo’s reply was cut short by a cry for help. It was Kim’s voice, raised in a thin plaintive wail as the wind carried it across the water. Remo shaded his eyes and spotted her, a tiny speck in the distance. Her head was just above the ocean’s surface. Her arms were wrapped around the slippery surface of the board as it bucked and fishtailed, buffeted by the choppy wind-whipped waves.
Remo dived into the surf and swam toward her, his smooth powerful strokes eating up the distance between them. He felt a sense of exhilaration, of breaking free. He had not been able to concentrate during the brief training session; it was all part of that restless feeling that he kept thinking would go away but which he had not been able to shake for the last two weeks. But this, this now felt right.
Raising his head, Remo peered above the white-foamed waves to catch a glimpse of Kim as her hands lost their tentative grip on the board and with one more cry for help, she slipped beneath the surface.
Remo glided across the water now, moving through it not like a man but the way Chiun had taught him, like a fish, being in the water and of it. When he reached the spot where Kim had gone under, he kicked his legs back, twisted and dived. Even this far out, the water was crystal clear.
But he saw no sign of her. Where was she? He started to dive deeper when he felt the slight pressure of movement in the water behind him. He turned, expecting Kim and instead found himself suddenly entangled in a vast net. It closed around, covering him on all sides as if he were some kind of insect who had mistakenly strayed into a spider’s waiting web. He struggled to break free, but the more he struggled, the more his twisting body became tangled up in the net. It clung to his arms and legs, and wrapped itself around his body and head. His vision was obscured by the fine, metal-reinforced mesh. Every move he made only bound him tighter.
Remo felt a flash of panic, not for himself but for Kim. She needed him. This was only a net, a simple fisherman’s tool, he told himself. Nothing to get worked up about. He would break the net and then continue his search.
· · ·
Back on the beach, Chiun watched the shadow cast by a ragged-leaf palm tree. Its length told him that two minutes had passed since he had seen Remo’s head duck under the waves. Chiun thought he would head back to the condominium soon. It had been a trying day and a cup of tea would be soothing.
· · ·
Calming himself, concentrating, Remo grasped the net in his hands and felt it slip away. He tried again and again missed. Whipped by the strong current, the fine-meshed webbing kept moving out of reach, and his efforts had only served to draw the net tighter around him. It surrounded him completely now, as tight and clinging as a newly wrapped shroud.
· · ·
Chiun sighed. He glanced to his right and saw Kim Kiley come running out of the surf and then across the sand back toward her condominium building. Even that woman had sense enough to come in out of the water. It was six minutes now according to the ever-lengthening shadow of the palm tree. Chiun wasn’t going to sit here all day while Remo frolicked in the sea. He would wait only a bit longer and then return to the condo alone if Remo didn’t get back. If Remo wanted to splash around like a fool all day, that was his business. But Chiun wanted a cup of tea. Was that too much to ask?
