The assassin stood in the woods behind the Furlong County Golf Course. He was a small man, dressed casually in khaki slacks and a yellow sports shirt, and he would have looked like many other small men in Furlong County if it had not been for the fact that his skin, like his shirt, was yellow.

His attention was fixed on a squirrel, hopping along a felled tree. The squirrel moved a foot in a nervous hop, stopped, with his plumed tail waving about, then hopped again, all in a quick, herky-jerky movement.

Slowly, the assassin bent down and picked up a small stone in his left hand. He tossed it up into the air, about ten feet high, in the general direction of the squirrel. The stone bounced off the log behind the squirrel who took off as if propelled by a diarrhetic jet.

The animal raced the ten feet down the log, across two feet of open space, hopped onto the trunk of a fat black tree and flashed up toward safety.

The assassin's right hand sped almost like an electric spark toward the back of the thick black leather belt he wore. In one smooth movement, he extracted a red handled knife, brought it up to his ear, and let fly.

The knife made one fast half-turn in the air and then slammed into the squirrel's tail, ripping through the fur and flesh and burying itself an inch deep into the wood of the tree. The squirrel kept trying to climb but, pinned by the knife, was unable to move and emitted a pained, noisy shriek.

The shriek lasted only a split second, because even while the first knife was being thrown by the right hand, the assassin's left hand was moving to the back of his belt, removing another knife, and with an identical throwing motion, winging the knife toward the spot on the tree where the squirrel futilely moved his legs.

That knife too made a lazy half-turn before the spike-sharp point buried itself into the squirrel's small skull, cracking it with an audible split and pinning the animal to the tree. The shriek died in the animal's throat. The assassin smiled and walked toward the tree to retrieve and clean his knives and return them to the belt of six he wore.

But the assassin's smile was not a smile of pleasure. This had been his third squirrel of the day and he felt a lingering tinge of apprehension that his ancestors who had honed this knife-throwing art over the centuries would be disturbed if they could see that he kept his skills sharp by killing squirrels.

But soon, he thought, soon came Wesley Pruiss.

But even that did not give him much satisfaction, for a normal man was not much more to him than a squirrel. No more of a challenge. No more of a threat.

He wished instead for the days he had read about and heard about, in centuries past, when great killers were sent out to track down other great killers.

Today, he thought to his dismay, there were no great killers left to test him and to challenge his genius in a contest in which second-place meant death.

Wesley Pruiss was sleeping when the pickets arrived. Rev. Higbe Muckley wore a long frock coat and a shirt with a frayed collar and a tie whose back strand was longer than the front.

Behind him were forty pickets, most of them carrying signs. One sign read: "Rock of Ages."

"What the hell does that sign mean?" Remo asked Theodosia.

She came to the window and brushed her body against his, but she did not recoil at the touch. Instead, she stayed there and pressed against him harder.

"What sign?" she asked, looking down.

"The one the lunatic is carrying."

"Be more specific."

"'Rock of Ages,'" Remo said. "What does that mean?"

Theodosia shrugged, a rubbing shrug that manipulated her body against Remo's.

Pruiss woke up as the pickets, marching slowly around the building, began to sing.

"What's going on out there?" he snarled from his bed.

"The dancing girls have arrived," Remo said.

"Chase 'em, I'm trying to sleep."

Their voices drifted up from below:

"...Cleft for me.

Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Who brought the pickets?" Pruiss asked sleepily.

"It looks like that Reverend Muckley," Theodosia said. "The bible thumper from California." She pressed closer to Remo.

"Well, at least it ain't none of them lesbian libbers," Pruiss said, before turning his face away on the pillow and closing his eyes. Remo felt Theodosia's body stiffen slightly.

"Why'd this Reverend Muckley come here?" Remo said.

Theodosia said, with sureness. "Those goddam oil companies must have put him up to it. I think they're behind everything that goes on around here."

Pruiss, on the edge of sleep, mumbled something.

"What, Wesley?" Theodosia asked. But Pruiss was asleep.

"The CIA," Remo said.

"What?"

"He said 'the CIA.'"

The dark-haired woman shook her head. Her hair brushed against Remo's cheek.

"Ever since Grossdid an article on CIA assassins, Wesley's been convinced the CIA is after him. If his car runs out of gas, it's the CIA. If the tailor rips a button off his shirt, it's the CIA. It's like a fixation with him."

"I don't know," Remo said. "They do some strange things."

"If they wanted to harass somebody, they could surely find a better target than Wesley," she said.

"They've got enough people to harass everybody," Remo said.

Downstairs, the hymn-singing had changed to chanting:

ONE, TWO, DOSEY-DO,

PRUISS IS GONE

AND GROSSMUST GO.

"That's enough of them," Theodosia said. "I'm calling the police."

"Don't bother," said Remo. "I'll shoo them."

Remo went downstairs and waited on the front steps for Rev. Higbe Muckley to make the circuit of the country club building.

"Nice sign, mama," he said to an old woman who walked by, carrying a placard that read: "We will not be bought off by a mess of tax pottage."

"You think so?" she asked, her bitter lined face lighting up.

"Best one yet," Remo said.

"Think it'll make that Pruiss go home? Back to New York where he belongs?" she asked.

"No," Remo said. "Of course not. Signs never do anything except get you on television."

"Oh my, television." Her hand moved to smooth her hair.

"Absolutely," Remo said. "You're a shoo-in for it."

"You're one of them, aren't you," the woman asked Remo. She nodded toward the house.

"Guess so."

"Well, you probably can't help it, being Italian and all," the woman said.

"Nice talking to you, mother," Remo said as he saw Reverend Muckley come around the far corner of the building, moving his hands as if an orchestra leader, conducting the chants. He was a big man and he ambled along and Remo thought all he needed was a beard and top hat to look like Abraham Lincoln.

Remo fell in alongside him as he passed the steps.

"Good to welcome you here, son," Muckley said. "Where's your sign?"

"I don't have one," Remo said. "Look. There's a man sick upstairs. Whether you like him or not, he's sick. Now why don't you go away and give him a chance to heal up?"

"An angel of the devil," Muckley said. "Sent to visit evil upon us. It is God's will that he be ill and God's will that we be here, the hosts of the Lord, to guard against him." His voice was impassioned but Remo saw there was no fire in Muckley's eyes. He was just reciting from memory, probably something he'd recited hundreds of times before.

"I'm glad we had this little chance to talk," Remo said. He grabbed Muckley's right hand and pinched the flesh between his index and middle fingers. "Sure I can't convince you?"

Muckley winced. "Of course, there is a time and place for Christian charity. Even to those who offend us."

"Right," Remo said. "Sort of turn the other cheek."

"Correct," Muckley said. Remo was leading him away from the house now, back toward the narrow street. As if they were mountain climbers, attached to their leader by lifelines, the forty pickets followed him.