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to the building. See if anyone there saw this guy this morning. What he was
wearing."
With a sharp nod, Detective Wayne turned. "C'mon, Javez," he barked at one of
the uniformed men.
The two officers headed down the path.
"See if his car is still here," Smith called after them.
Davic nodded. "Right. You know what he drives?"
"I believe it is a red Ford Explorer."
"Red Ford Explorer," Davic shouted after Wayne. "Check with the guard at the
gate. Javez, search the lot while he's asking."
He turned to Smith. "No offense, but I've talked to your security guard. He
ain't exactly Columbo."
"I'm not sure if that will yield anything useful," Smith said. "If this is the
path he took, I believe he would continue on it. After ten years of
confinement, he would take the most direct route to freedom."
"You're the head doc," Davic said. "Stay with the body," he ordered one of the
uniformed men. "And keep sharp. You're with us."
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The other uniformed officer fell in with Davic and Smith as they continued on
the path.
A dozen yards away they found a small mound of discarded linen. Smith
recognized the blue-speckled johnny that was standard for Folcroft's bedridden
patients.
Around the area a few cracks were visible in the ice-coated snow. Several
delicate footprints marred the otherwise untouched frozen sheet of snow.
Smith was surprised to see the prints. It had been the CURE director's
experience that men like his missing patient always walked without leaving a
trace. But, then, the man they were tracking had been in a coma for ten years.
No matter how skilled he might be, he could not possibly be at one hundred
percent. And if his skills were stale, then maybe-just maybe-this could be
ended this day after all. Fingers tensing around his air gun, the CURE
director hurried along the path in the company of the two police officers.
The trail led directly up to the high north wall of the sanitarium. It would
have been difficult for an average man to scale, but for the fugitive they
were seeking, it would have been a simple matter to climb. But he hadn't gone
over. He had gone through.
A massive hole gaped in the high wall. The old concrete veneer had shattered
to dust. The heavy bricks beneath were exploded outward. They peppered the
snow out in the direction of the lonely road.
To Detective Ronald Davic, it looked as if a stampeding elephant had broken
through in its panic to flee Folcroft Sanitarium. As they approached the wall,
the Rye police detective shook his head in disbelief.
"What the hell kind of inmates do you have locked in this loony bin?" he
breathed, glancing over at Smith.
The Folcroft director didn't answer. His gray eyes were trained directly
ahead. His lips pursed in concern.
When Davic glanced back at the hole in the wall, he saw that the landscape had
changed. A lone figure was now framed in the opening.
When he saw the sudden movement ahead, the young uniformed officer whipped his
gun up. "Hold your fire!" Smith commanded.
Too late. The cop had already squeezed off a round.
Luckily Smith managed to grab the gun at the last instant. Wrestling with the
strong young man, Smith directed the barrel toward the ground. The revolver
crackled and the bullet buried harmlessly in snow and earth.
The gunshot echoed off into the distance.
To Harold Smith, the fact that it was lucky he had managed to redirect the
man's aim was not in question. Had the gun been aimed at the man standing
within the remnants of the wall when it was fired, the police officer would
have been dead already. As it was, the new arrival merely looked on with dark
annoyance before returning his troubled gaze to the shattered wall.
"That is not the man you are after," Smith snapped at the uniformed officer.
"This is another Folcroft patient."
The uniformed officer was panting fearfully. He looked over at Detective
Davic, a frightened expression on his face.
"I'm-I'm sorry, sir," he managed. Davic waved an angrily dismissive hand.
Smith was already heading for the wall. Leaving the young officer behind,
Davic hurried with the Folcroft director over to the man at the wall.
The stranger who stood amid the collapsed bricks was five feet tall and older
than most of the trees in the surrounding woods. He wore a green silk robe
that seemed able to capture light where none existed. Twin tufts of soft
yellowing hair clung to the parchment skin of his otherwise bald scalp. His
button nose was directed up to where the wall arched in a snaggletoothed
collection of jagged brick.
"I thought you were away with your son," Smith said tightly to the wizened
figure. A concerned eye darted to where Detective Davic stood, panting, beside
them.
"I am back," announced Chiun, the Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. His
sharp hazel eyes scanned the contours of the damaged wall. "And he is finally
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free."
And the old Korean's singsong voice trembled with the grave tones of
foreboding doom.
Chapter 4
Smith gave his spare tranquilizer gun to Detective Davic's partner, insisting
that as director of Folcroft he had to personally escort the elderly patient
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