Warren Murphy: Last Rites

The first hogans began appearing. Every door faced east as tradition demanded. Every dome roof sported a stovepipe. And every third roof had a satellite dish pointed to the vaulting blue sky.

"I can see where my money went," he muttered without bitterness.

An Indian in a red-checker shirt and ragged Levi's stepped out of the first hogan, took one look and came back with a pump shotgun. He squinted up the long barrel.

"This is reservation land, white man."

"You wouldn't know it from the sky dishes, Tomi." The pump gun all but fell from the brave's sunburned hands.

"Sunny Joe. That you?"

"I come back."

"We thought you'd deserted us forever."

"You got no call saying that. I been sending money right along."

"Hell, you know we got millions in that bank account we don't ever touch because it came from Washington."

"My money still good around here?"

"You know it is, Sunny Joe."

"Swap you a silver dollar for a cold one."

"Coming right up, Sunny Joe."

Bill "Sunny Joe" Roam kept riding. Tomi caught up on foot. Walking backward to keep pace with the chestnut horse, the spurs on his Reeboks jingling, Tomi handed up a cool Tecate, saying, "Keep your silver dollars, Sunny Joe."

"Sounds like you got plenty of these firewater cans," said Bill Roam, popping the tab.

"I like to keep the dust from my mouth these days."

"How is the dust these days?"

"It's killing us off, Sunny Joe. You know that, else you wouldn't have come all the way from that opulence you enjoy."

"I know," said Bill Roam gravely. "That's why I come back."

And he knocked back the entire can without pausing for breath.

"It's the death-hogan dust. It's powerful strong now."

"I hear they call it something else now," said Sunny Joe.

Tomi spat. "White man's words. White man's science."

"I hear they call it the Sun On Jo Disease."

"What do whites know?"

"How many dead, Tomi?"

Tomi grunted. "How many living is a shorter answer. Just a few of us left. We're dying, Sunny Joe. Not all at once. But it's catching up. The death-hogan dust is bound to devour us all before too long."

"That's why I come back."

"To save us, Sunny Joe?"

"If I can."

"Can you?"

"Doubt it. All I got is money and fame. What do the death spirits care about either?"

"Then why'd you leave all that to risk inhaling the dust of death, Sunny Joe?"

"If my people are going to perish, I aim to die with them. After all, I'm the last Sunny Joe. And what have I got left at my age? Just too much money and useless damn fame."

Sullen Indians began collecting behind the horse with every hogan they passed. Some were drunk. Most were skeptical. A few jeered.

"Show us some magic, Sunny Joe."

"I'm fresh out of magic, Happy Bear."

"Did you meet any famous white guys in the white lands, Sunny Joe?"

"Yeah. Stallone. Schwarzenegger. Any of those?"

"Any and all. But I wouldn't trade a one for the least of you ornery redskins," Roam answered.

"People say you turned apple."

"Do I look like an apple to you, Gus Jong?" The Indians fell silent.

When they passed a hogan and no one emerged, Bill Roam would ask, "Who died there?"

And as he heard the names, he hung his head and squeezed his dry eyes.

"Ko Jong Oh gather up his red soul," he said softly.

"You look tired, Sunny Joe."

Old Bill Roam's eyes sought Red Ghost Butte standing in the shadow of the great Chocolate Mountains. "I am tired. Damn tired. I'm an old man now. I have come home forever." And lowering his voice to a dust-dry whisper, he added, "Forever to dwell with the spirits of my honored ancestors, whom I revere more than life."

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or not.

He knew he had been asleep. In the quiet darkness of the summer night with the faint salt tang of the Atlantic Ocean coming in through the open window of his unfurnished bedroom, he wondered if he was still asleep and only dreaming.

Remo was a Master of Sinanju, and so did not sleep like other men. A part of his brain was always awake, eternally aware. He slept deeper than other men, woke up more refreshed than other men, but still his sleep was deeper. Rarely now did he dream. Of course he did dream. All men dreamed. Even men who had been elevated by the discipline of Sinanju-the first and ultimate of the martial arts-dreamed. But Remo rarely remembered his dreams upon waking.

If this was a dream, Remo knew he would never forget it. If this was a dream, Remo understood it was important.

For in the fitful darkness of his room, where moonlight showed on and off through rifts in the summertime clouds, a woman appeared in the room.

The portion of Remo's brain that never slept, which monitored his surroundings even in the deepest part of sleep, became aware of the woman the instant she appeared at the foot of the tatami mat on which Remo slept.

That the woman did not enter the room through the door or a window startled the never-dormant portion of Remo's brain, and he snapped awake like a mousetrap tripping.

Remo sat up, dark eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room.

At this point he wasn't certain he was really awake. The ever-vigilant part of his brain-which had warned him of the presence in his room-went dormant as his other senses kicked in.

They told him he was alone in the room. His hearing detected no heartbeat, no faint, elastic wheeze of lungs, no gurgle or hum of blood coursing through miles of veins and blood vessels. His sense of smell trapped the airborne scent molecules tumbling around the still air, separated sea salt, car exhaust and mown grass and told him there were no danger smells present.

Almost every sense told him he was alone. Except sight. He could see the woman. She was looking down at him with a calm face that was an oval framed in long dark hair. It was a cameo face. Young but ageless, beautiful but not breathtaking.

Her eyes were very sad.

She stood barefoot at the foot of the reed mat, and while her face was clear, her form was something even Remo's powerful eyes could not read. She did not appear to be clothed. Yet there was no impression of nudity. She might have been some cosmic angel beyond the concept of skin or cloth.

Remo reached out with a bare toe to touch the woman.

His foot disappeared into a darkness so absolute he had to yank it back.

Then the woman spoke.

"I was only watching you sleep." And she smiled faintly. For all its hesitation, it was a warm and generous smile. "You are so handsome as a man."

"Are you really my-mother?" Remo asked in a voice that cracked on the last word.

Her sad eyes shone. "Yes. I am your mother."

"I recognize your eyes."

"Do you remember me?"

"No. But I have a daughter. Your eyes are like hers."

"There is shadow around your daughter."

"What!"

"That is not for you to worry about now. One day you will face this shadow. You will face many things you do not understand." She closed her eyes. "We have been apart nearly all of your life. But that too will change. When you die, my only son, you will die unknown. But they will see fit to bury you in Arlington National Cemetery under the name that belongs to you, but which you have never heard."

"'Remo Williams' isn't my real name?" She shook her head slowly.

"What is my name?"

"You must discover that for yourself."

"Tell me your name, then."

"He will tell you."

"My father?"

"You have not yet found him."

"I've been trying, but-"

"I have told you that I lie buried by Laughing Brook."

"I can't find any Laughing Brook. It's not on any map or in any atlas or guide books."

"Laughing Brook is a sacred place. It does not belong on any map. And I have told you that your father is known to you."