It was a frustrating process. There was something he felt he should know, something he should do. Yet the more he tried the more certain he was that he was just forcing it further and further away. But it was important.

The feeling that there was something big looming on the horizon had first come to him in California. It was a moment come and gone. Now it was like trying to remember a dream.

After leaving California two days ago, there had been a brief side trip to Russia in order to take care of some unfinished business. He had only returned to U.S. soil late the previous afternoon.

Once he'd landed in New York, Remo had sent his teacher back to Folcroft while he came out to the cemetery alone. To think.

Afternoon had long since bled into the postmidnight hours, yet Remo felt no closer to an answer.

Maybe it was nothing. His life hadn't exactly been a piece of cake lately. And according to a source he didn't really care to think about at the moment, it was only going to get worse. Maybe that's all this was. An unconscious concern for what might be.

After a few more minutes of trying to chase an inchoate thought around his brain, he finally threw up his hands.

"Ah, hell," Remo grumbled.

With a feeling of deep frustration he unscissored his legs and rose to his feet.

Even though he had sat in the same position for more than ten hours, there was no crack of bone or strain of tired muscle. With just a simple fluid motion he was up.

Dark eyes read the name etched on his headstone one last time before he turned abruptly away.

He had taken not a single step before he heard a sound.

The creaking of a gate. Hurried footfalls scuffed a gravel path. Hushed, nervous voices carried to his ears.

Remo's internal clock told him that it was 2:37 in the morning. Not a likely time for anyone to be paying a visit to the grave of a departed loved one.