Warren Murphy: Prophet Of Doom

"If you mean did we just have an election, yes," said Remo. "But that was for President. This guy Cole is running for the senate."

Chiun was confused. ' 'Were not the senators elected at the same time as the President? I remember talk of

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his garment hems failing to sweep others into office in his wake."

"You mean coattails," said Remo. "Some of the Senate was up for reelection during the presidential campaign. And all of the House, I think. But the Senate races are staggered so that everyone isn't up for reelection at the same time."

"Why is this so?" Chiun asked, puzzled.

And lest Remo find himself explaining a process he didn't fully understand himself, he parked their rental car on a side street and got out to ask for directions.

The main thoroughfares of Thermopolis were lined with hundreds of cars, all abandoned. In fact, the entire town looked abandoned.

"Where the hell is everybody?" Remo wondered aloud.

Chiun thrust his button nose in the air and sniffed delicately, like a foxhound on the trail of his elusive prey. His face immediately scrunched up in disgust.

"Pah! Is every corner of this land befouled by vile odors?"

Remo, too, caught the scent on the wafting breeze. "Popcorn," he said. All at once they heard a loud cheer from somewhere beyond the highest buildings, toward the center of town. "Must be some kind of rally, judging from all the signs," Remo guessed. "They start earlier and earlier every campaign season." He sniffed again, this time detecting the distinct odors of warming pretzels and syrupy soft drinks.

Chiun was waving his kimono sleeve before his face. "What this nation needs is one of those devices that is affixed to the sides of commodes to dull the effect of your foul white smells. And it should be built

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in this state." Chiun gathered up the hems of his brilliant canary yellow kimono. "I will investigate the source of these noxious fumes, Remo, while you attempt to find someone who can make sense of your country's incomprehensible electoral process."

And with that the Master of Sinanju padded off in the direction of the commotion.

Remo headed off in the opposite direction, looking for someone who knew the way to Ranch Ragnarok, and didn't want his vote.

On the sidewalk in front of a hardware store, Remo cornered a man in a plastic foam hat and a bright blue blazer festooned with all manner of pins and buttons and insignia declaring his commitment to Jackson Cole. Even the T-shirt he wore sported a likeness of the popular senator, but Cole's silkscreened face was drawn so tightly across the man's protruding belly it made the senator's gaunt features look broad and vaguely piggish.

"Hey, Lester," Remo said, reading a name off a square of masking tape over the man's breast pocket. When the man looked his way, Remo figured he'd gotten the name right. "Which way is Ranch Ragnarok?"

Bloodshot eyes rolled in sockets that were rimmed by yellow fatty deposits. "What do you want to go out there for?" Lester asked.

Remo shrugged. He wasn't used to having his motives questioned when he asked simple directions. "Enlightenment?"

"You'll get more enlightenment out of a fortune cookie," Lester said. "Those Truth Church nuts are dangerous." He sized up Remo's lean frame. "You

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don't look like you could handle the kind of trouble they dish out."

Remo was suddenly interested. "What sort of trouble?"

"Talk is they murdered a guy recently," Lester confided in a whisper louder than most people's normal speaking voices. "Some kids were out snooping by the ranch one night a couple of months ago—you know how kids are. Anyway, they saw some of them Truth Church psychos gun this guy down in cold blood. At least that's what / heard."

Remo thought of the missing FBI agent.

"Why didn't the police check it out?"

"You've obviously never seen the place," the man snorted. "They've got guns up the wazoo. That Clear-Seer battle-ax runs a tighter ship than the U.S. Navy. No one leaves unless there's at least three of them together, and that's just to buy supplies. Ask old Harvey in here—" he jerked a dimpled thumb toward the hardware store window behind him "—those nuts have bought enough concrete to build a hundred Moscow tenements. They've got bunkers filled with ammo and explosives. Is that what you want to get yourself into?"

Remo said, "I'm full-grown now. Just point me in the right direction...."

"If I don't tell you, I'd be doing you a favor," Lester cautioned. "Why don't you come along to the rally with me? The whole town's already there. We got a lot more serious stuff going on than those Truth Churchers." He tapped his largest lapel pin, which declared The GOP Does It On Its Platform.

"Look—"

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"Senator Cole himself is going to be there," Lester interrupted. "This is his hometown, you know. He and me went to school together. You know, I remember one time..."

And with that Lester launched into a well-worn tale of how he had once backed up Jackson Cole in a junior-high-school fight.

Remo rolled his eyes heavenward and hoped that Esther Clear-Seer didn't die of old age before he had a chance to pay her a visit.

Senator Coles advance people had coordinated with the local police to ensure the senator would have a clear path from his limousine to the bandstand.

The townspeople of Thermopolis were cordoned off in a wide circle around the speaker's area, leaving enough room for the senator's family and staff, local politicians and business leaders, as well as their families, and whatever media were covering the relatively minor photo op.

As it was, there were only a few print reporters from nearby towns and a couple of camera crews. The first crew videotaping the speech was from a small local cable station, so it was naturally shuffled off to the back. The second was the more professional of the pair. It was from WONK, a larger station in Cheyenne that already had a deal with one of the major networks to run on the national nightly news any newsworthy footage they collected.

The WONK camera had the sweetest location for filming, directly in front of the bandstand, and when it was announced that Senator Coje's limo was a block away, the cameraman checked his small black-and-

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while receiver to make certain the picture was in perfect focus.

He saw an egg.

The cameraman squinted his eyes in confusion.

An egg?

He looked through the camera viewfinder. There it was, a little fuzzy, but it was definitely egg-shaped. He brought the camera into focus, and the edges of the egg grew more defined. It was tan and unevenly colored, with puffs of angel's hair on either side. And it had ears.

The cameraman stuck his face around the camera.

A bald head that looked like it had escaped from an ostrich nest was positioned directly between the camera and the bandstand. Beneath the head the back of a golden kimono with brilliant red piping cascaded down to the well-trampled grass.

"Hey, Gramps, you're in the way," the cameraman complained.

The sounds of cheers suddenly erupted from the edge of the crowd and swept inward, toward the stand. The senator had arrived.

The cameraman looked around desperately. He could turn the camera to catch the senator as he climbed from his limo, but the wizened figure before him was casting a shadow across the equipment.

"Hey, you're standing in my light."

The old man didn't turn.

Maybe the old guy was hard of hearing, the reporter thought, so he spoke up again, louder this time.

There was an ever-so-slight movement of the gossamer webs above the ancient Asian's ears.

"The radiance of the Master of Sinanju is light

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enough for a thousand of your recording devices," the old man intoned without turning.