Warren Murphy: The Seventh Stone

Just to make sure, Remo clambered up the rocks and boosted himself through the opening. It was a tight squeeze for him, but it would have been easy for Kim Kiley.

He found himself on a rocky promontory above the cave. Even when the tide was highest, someone standing here would have been safe.

There was nothing to do now but to accept the facts. It had been Kim all along, not caring for him at all, but leading him around like a sacrificial lamb. First the cave and when that had not worked, out into the ocean where the frogman had been waiting to finish him off. And she had probably been tied in with the gunmen too, those at the Indian reservation.

What Remo had thought was an affectionate caring woman had turned out to be nothing more than an attractive piece of bait.

Remo made his way back along the beach, through the mansion and out onto the spacious lawn. The party was in full swing. He saw that Chiun was still talking to that aristocratic man in white, as well as a half-dozen others gathered around in a tight circle.

Remo felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Kim there, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in a low-cut blue silk dress.

"Darling," she whispered and threw her arms around his neck.

She held Remo tight, pressing against him. His nostrils filled with the scent of the perfume she wore. It was just as he remembered it from the very first day, rich and exotic. Bitterly he told himself: as primitive and powerful as a carved stone on a tropical beach.

She finally released him but the heavy perfume seemed to cling to his clothes like a constant painful reminder of his own vulnerability.

"Are you having a good time?" she asked with a Hollywood dazzler of a smile.

Remo said nothing. He looked at her once more, then turned and started through the crowd to get Chiun.

Chapter Fifteen

He did not see Chiun and the crowd was already surging up the hill toward the mansion. A young tweedy man stepped up next to Remo and nudged him with an elbow.

"The entertainment's about to start."

"I bet," Remo said.

He caught a glimpse of shimmering green and gold that must have come from Chiun's robes and pushed his way through the crowd until he found the aged Korean.

"They don't have Barbra Streisand," Chiun said. "But they're going to have a circus." He sounded happy.

Remo leaned over to whisper so that no one else could hear. "Chiun, these are Prince Wo's descendants. They're our enemies."

Chiun hissed back. "I know that."

"Then what are we staying here for? Let's book."

"That means leave?" Chiun asked.

"That means leave," Remo said.

"So we leave and what then?" Chiun asked. "Another day, another year and these people who would not pay their proper bill to Master Pak come to us again? It is better that we resolve all this now."

"If you say so," Remo said.

"I say so," Chiun said. "You go stand on the other side and keep your eyes open."

"Is there a leader? Why not just splatter him now?" Remo said.

"Because we do not know what will happen then. To act without information is to court disaster. The other side."

"All right," Remo said, and moved around onto the other side of the rectangular clearing which was marked at each corner by the large columns he had noticed earlier. The black cloths that covered the tops of the columns were still in place.

The young man whom Chiun had been talking to earlier was now standing in the center of the clearing.

He raised a hand for silence, got it, and announced in a clear voice: "I am Reginald Woburn the Third. I welcome you to the Wo family reunion. Let the fun begin."

As he stepped out of the clearing a brass gong somewhere was struck, sounding a deep-throated reverberation. A trio of high-pitched wood flutes lay down a sweet chord of melody. Cymbals crashed and the gong boomed again as a troupe of brightly clad Oriental acrobats came tumbling through the crowd and into the ring.

"The Amazing Wofans," the young man next to Remo said.

"If you're going to be my tour director, what's your name?" Remo asked.

"Rutherford Wobley," the man said.

"I thought so," Remo said.

He looked away in disgust and saw the Wofans spinning around the ring, doing handsprings and cartwheels, back flips and rolls. Their bodies flew through the air like bright blurs of color as they passed over and under each other like whirling tops in constant motion. While the area they had to work in was not large, they managed to sail through a series of interweaving patterns as complex as a spider's web made from pure energy and motion.

The pajama-clad performers grouped in the center of the ring and flipped themselves upward to form a human pyramid. They were good, Remo thought disgustedly, but he'd seen it all before. He wondered when they were going to start spinning plates on long bamboo poles.

The athletes dismantled the pyramid, rolling to the ground, to the applause of the spectators. Remo glanced across the clearing, looking for Chiun, but he could not see him.

The high-pitched piping of the flutes filled the air with a sound like a mournful wail. The cymbals crashed and then the gong again with its deep lingering echo.

The acrobats responded to the music. They flew across the ring, two, three, four at once, speeding smudges of color that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, tumbling over each other, seeming to pause in the air at the top of their leaps, working their way across the clearing. And then a blue-clad acrobat overshot the rest of the performers and came hurtling at Remo like a dive bomber.

It had started. Remo stepped to the side a halfpace and raised a hand. It looked as if he hadn't really done anything, maybe just waved to someone in the crowd on the other side of the arena. But the acrobat's feetfirst dive missed Remo completely, except where the Oriental's shoulder brushed the tip of Remo's outstretched hand. The contact was punctuated by the snapping sound of breaking bone, a whoosh of exhaled air and then a prolonged scream as the acrobat hit the ground. This time he did not bounce up.

Two more came lunging toward Remo. Red and green this time. Remo turned slightly, catching one with his shoulder blade and the second with his knee. He hoped that Chiun was watching because he felt that his technique was really good on the two moves. The acrobats' bellows of pained surprise drowned out the frantic warbling of the flutes. The red-and-green-clad men popped skyward like bubbles in a breeze. Like bubbles, they were broken when they hit the ground. From the corner of his eye as he turned, Remo saw Reginald Woburn yank the cord that dangled from one of the rectangleclustered poles. There was a blinding flash of light as a mirror on the pole picked up and reflected the brilliant intensity of the sun's glare directly into Remo's eyes. Remo blinked in surprise. As he opened his eyes again, he had to ignore the mirror because the remaining Oriental acrobats were coming toward him, with knives they had drawn from inside their clothing. Remo ducked out of their way and as he did there was another flash of blinding light. Then another. And another.

The harsh white light seared his eyes. Remo ducked away from the acrobats, into the crowd of people standing around the performance arena, his eyes screwed shut tightly. He opened them again, but he still could not see. The brightness had shocked his vision for a moment, and behind him, he could hear the yelling of the Oriental acrobats as they tried to get to him.

Remo fled, then stopped as a thin high voice rose above the sounds of a hundred different noises. It was Chiun's voice rising above the crowd. It sounded metallic and strained.

"Remo," Chiun wailed. "Help me. Attack now. Free me. Help."

His blind eyes burning, Remo lunged toward the voice. Eight steps he knew would bring him to it. But when he was there, all he felt was stillness. There were people there, poised and waiting. Remo could feel them, hear their breathing, sense the coiled tension in their bodies, feel the small movements they made even when they thought they were standing perfectly still.