Warren Murphy: A Pound of Prevention

As the reporter watched in shock, the young man dropped to his knees on the wet sidewalk and began tearing streams of heavy black camcorder tape from the belly of the device. It unspooled in long curling sheets that shimmered when hit with fat droplets from the growing rainstorm.

"What do you think you're doing?" the reporter screeched, lurching for the camera.

When he yelled, a few curious faces turned his way. Those who did saw two men. One kneeling in a pile of ruined tape, the other standing above him, shrieking.

While the reporter continued to scream at his cameraman, a lone mourner slipped up the green-matted staircase and under the somber beige canopy to the Simeoni Funeral Home.

When a few of the other cameramen at the entrance tried to videotape him, they later found as they examined the footage back at their studios that the thin man in black somehow managed to be everywhere the camera wasn't. As if he were possessed with some mysterious instinct to avoid the lens.

THE COFFIN COULD HAVE BEEN a large jewelry box. It was a highly polished red, with gold handles and silver accents.

The tiny lid was closed.

Remo noted the family as he slid through the door and into the shadows at the rear of the room. They were typically wholesome. A mother and father, both caught in the snare of middle age. Beside them, an older son in his midtwenties. And at the eye of the storm, a pretty young girl of eighteen. Remo knew her age exactly. It had been on the news.

He had seen her high-school yearbook photo dozens of times on all the networks. Ellen Carlson had become a national celebrity in the worst way imaginable.

The previous year she had been a bright young national honors student with a promising future. Then she met Brad Miller, the ne'er-do-well son of a wealthy Peoria family.

Brad was a sullen drug addict whose resume included a dozen run-ins with the law. When their daughter began dating the twenty-three-year-old college dropout, the Carlsons were upset. Their anger only grew when Brad got Ellen pregnant.

Pregnancy derailed Ellen's plans for college. After she had the baby, she moved out of her own family's modest home and into the Miller mansion. A summer wedding was planned. Ellen had quietly hoped that fatherhood would force Brad to grow up. When it didn't, she had suffered in silence. Until that day one week ago when he had come home at 5:00 a.m. It was her first and last complaint.

Brad had gone to the kitchen and gotten a pair of pinking shears. He brought them upstairs to the nursery that adjoined their suite. And as his infant daughter quietly sucked her hand in sleep, Brad took the scissors and jammed them into her soft, pulsing skull. He left the shears sticking out of the baby's head for Ellen to find.

The rest was national news.

After the murder, Miller had vanished. There were reports that his father had already sneaked him out of the country. Others had him hiding right in Peoria. Everything was denied by a family spokesman. The facts, it was insisted, would prove Brad Miller innocent.

But in the entire grisly episode, there was one solid fact, unknown to the Millers or the world at large: no matter where Brad Miller was, Remo Williams would find him.

Even as he lurked at the rear of the crowded funeral home, Remo really didn't know what he was doing there. Logically, he should have started his search with the Miller family. But something had compelled him to come to this place. To see firsthand, without the dulling filter of the television screen, the result of this unspeakable act.

But the results were proving as bland as a newscast. So many days after the event-with all that had gone on between then and now-the circus had been reduced to a small circle of tired family and a line of grim-faced mourners.

Remo was turning to go when he suddenly felt a set of eyes focus on him. Years of exacting training had given him an innate sense to know when he was being watched. What he felt at this moment was more than just a casual glance. It was a knowing, penetrating look.

He quickly honed in on the source.

An old woman on a folding chair sat with the Carlson family near the tiny casket. Her long black dress was in stark contrast to the crush of flowers that threatened to engulf her frail frame. As she stared at him, her rheumy eyes didn't blink.

A young boy stood next to the woman, holding her gnarled hand. Remo was surprised to see that he was Asian. He was only about five or six years old. His black hair was thick and tousled, framing a flat face.

If he was somehow connected to the Carlson family, he didn't seem dressed for a wake. The boy wore what looked like black pajamas. Remo knew it was actually a two-piece gi, the uniform of the martial arts.

The boy's hooded eyes were downcast. The sadness that clung to him was far older than he.

In a moment, the young Asian child became irrelevant.

The instant Remo's gaze met the old woman's, she released the boy's hand. Pushing herself to her feet, she began walking toward Remo. Although age had slowed her pace, her stride was confident.

Remo didn't know who she thought he was, nor did he care. An undertaker wearing a black suit and professional look of sympathy stood at a nearby archway door. When Remo turned to him, the man reached a helpful hand for the handle.

"Wait, please," an elderly voice stressed from behind.

At the door, the undertaker pointed over Remo's shoulder. "Sir?" he offered politely.

Remo's first instinct was to bolt, but he didn't want to create a scene. Reluctantly, he turned. The old woman stood before him. No one had paid her any attention as she threaded her way to the rear of the room.

A pair of powder-blue eyes, the whites of which had been washed pink from days of crying, stared up at him. A blue-veined hand gripped his forearm. "I knew you'd come," the old woman insisted. Her pale brow was furrowed. Dry patches on her face indicated where she'd had recent minor skin surgeries.

Remo offered a tight smile. "I'm sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else," he said.

"No," she insisted, shaking her head firmly, "it's you. I saw you. They all think I'm crazy. They almost wouldn't take me from the home for this." She waved her free hand up to the line of mourners. "But I knew you'd be here. I told them I had to come. To see you."

Remo wasn't certain what to do. The woman was obviously out of her mind.

"I see things," the old lady continued. "I know things. Ever since I was a little girl and knew my daddy shouldn't go to the docks the day of that terrible, terrible fire. My mother cried for weeks afterward. But I told them. They just wouldn't listen...." Her eyes took on a faraway look.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Remo said, gently trying to coax the crazy old woman's hand from his arm. Her grip tightened. Eyes red from weeping stared deeply into his own. "There are decisions you must soon make," the old woman said, her voice becoming strangely distant. "Difficult decisions. Your life is going to be hard these next few years... Remo." And she smiled.

In spite of himself, Remo felt a chill tighten around his spine.

As a secret assassin in the employ of the United States government, there were only a handful of people who knew his name. And a demented old inmate of a Peoria nursing home was definitely not part of the inner circle.

He shot a glance at the undertaker. The man was engaged in conversation with another mourner. Remo turned back to the woman.

He studied her face, trying to find something that might trigger a memory. But there was nothing. As far as he knew, he'd never met her before in his life. "Do I know you?" he asked quietly.

She gave him the sweet smile of a grandmother he had never known-of the great-grandmother baby Karen would never meet. "You want this," she insisted.