Death Check

by Warren Murphy

  Remo waved at Brewster, who was gesticulating wildly with his free hand, as he shouted into the phone: “Dead. Aaah. Dead. Ooooh. Help. Dead. Brewster Forum. Blood.”

  And Remo sauntered off, flatfooted, off balance and laughing at himself. The flush of relaxation might have explained why he was about to enter the first black-out period of his life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  THE MAN ONCE KNOW AS Dr. Hans Frichtmann examined the new negatives. The lighting was not as good as on the others, but it would do. And the set was complete. He would take pains that no illiterate cop would steal these as McCarthy must have done with the first set. An insignificant Irish life for a brilliant plan. Funny how a flea could clog a great engine.

  Well, no matter. The Jewess had been the last. One could almost develop a fondness for the animals if they were not so annoying.

  The average German had not understood. They had reaped the benefits, but they did not want to know about the dirty work. They had almost made the world Jew-free, and did the world appreciate it? How did they expect them to get rid of Jews if not by gassing them and burning them?

  Oh, certainly everyone at home cheered when you were on top and they did not have to get their sweet little hands dirty. But when you lost, the shock. No one was political. Not when you lost. But they had cheered you when you were winning. Did they expect the Jews to disappear without mass killing? Just by wishing? Of course, it was unpleasant. That was the price one must pay. There were even some Jews he would have saved if he could. Some he respected more than Germans. But if you started making an exception here and an exception there, then where were you? Jews. All over.

  He didn’t ask for the Jews to be in the world. He hadn’t put them there. Hadn’t made them like they were. He was building a better world. And if it took some unpleasantness, then certain brave people would do it. Nobody had seen the Germany he had seen or lived in the Germany he had lived in. Chaos. Disorder. Der Fuhrer had ended it and given Germany back its soul.

  But the Germans had failed the party and the nation. Because they were not worthy of their heritage. A little trouble and they collapsed, and then every one of the little hypocrites ran around saying he didn’t know, he was sorry. Well, they were not strong enough to know, only to reap the benefits. They could have known. The evidence was there.

  Where did they think all the Jews went that disappeared in box cars? To Grossinger’s?

  He had to laugh at that. Even the generals in their cars and with their fancy servants. Turning their heads, going through convulsions not to see the blood that he had to live through daily. And he was a doctor. But he was a German and a Nazi.

  Their clean hands. The swine. Looking down on him. How dare they, those generals? He remembered a night at Horcher’s in Berlin. It had been furlough from the camp in Poland. He had sent a drink to the young staff officer, sitting with his lady friend at the next table. The drink had come back untouched.

  “What? An officer from the Afrika Corps refusing a drink? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  He said this with as much warmth as possible. They were all Germans after all, especially under the new order. He had gone through medical school, the son of a carpenter. So the officer obviously was aristocracy. But what did that mean now? In the new Germany, they were all one. One race. The master race.

  “Will you not share a drink with a fellow officer?” he had asked. And the arrogant swine had answered:

  “With a fellow officer I would.”

  That had done it. “You think you are so fine in here, eating the best of foods, drinking the best of wines. Why do you live so well? Because of me.”

  The officer had tried to ignore him. But one could not ignore a man who refused to be ignored.

  “I see your lady friend eats delicately. In our camps we do not have the luxury of delicacy. We must have the gold teeth pulled out of the heads of Jews because Germany needs the money. To pay you and put wine on your table. The fatherland needs the hair of Jew children and the clothes of the processed people.

  “Who do you think is putting the food on that table? I am. By killing the inferior races so that you can live in your delicate comfort. Do you know what it is like to rip out someone’s testicles? But I must, so we will know more about reproduction for your comfort.

  “Hey, high-class lady! Have you ever seen so many people in a ditch, that the blood seeps up through the earth that covers it? Does that go well with your chocolate mousse? Eh? How does that go?”

  They had left, of course. Run away, leaving the dirty work for men strong enough to do it. Naturally, he had been arrested that night for disorderly conduct and given a stern rebuke for his loose tongue. But doctors were scarce. And the SS understood, despite what was said of them after the war.

  He put the negatives back in the envelope. With these, he had just the wedge to give his new employers who, as coincidence would have it, were also building a great new world. With these, one could easily begin to work effectively. Oh, not to get anything major all at once, but to force a scientist to take a visit to a city in another country and just talk about things. These photos could enslave America’s greatest brains for their entire lifetimes.

  A perfect plan. Almost ruined by that Irish cop, but salvaged. The new policeman? Well, he was something more. Luckier than McCarthy and better. But still only a policeman and it was too late for him to do anything anyway. Dr. Hans Frichtmann allowed himself a touch of regret that he would not be around long enough to teach a final permanent lesson to Remo Pelham.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  FIRST THERE WAS THE NOTE.

  Deborah was not home. The door was unlocked, her cottage empty of her, and a note on the desk, sealed in an envelope with Remo’s name on it. The bitch. The little Jew bitch. That little whore Remo had been willing to die for, just to screw. She probably gave it away for shekels.

  Smith had been right. He had been descending so fast that he was incapable of correct judgment. She had given him a feel and sidestepped him. Quick and neat.

  Well, he would find her. He would find Miss Quick and Neat and break her arm. Just to let you know, baby, you ain’t that good. No. Never mind. He would read the note and leave. And if he ever saw her again, he would kill her, because she would recognize him.

  He ripped open the envelope, not bothering to turn on the light but reading from the late afternoon sun coming vaguely through the windows.

  “Darling Remo.”

  Oh, what a little bullshitter she was. Cunt.

  “I never told you why I especially loved Conn MacCleary.”

  Because he screwed you when you were three.

  “I was an ugly child, with many freckles. Youngsters as you know can be cruel.”

  As opposed to women.

  “The other children tormented me because of my freckles. My nickname was the Hebrew children’s equivalent of shit-face.”

  Even then they knew.

  “One day, Conn heard the remark. And he looked surprised. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that a woman without freckles is like a night without stars?’ And of course the other children said, but what about a girl? And he told them that a girl with freckles is like the dawn of life, the beauty of a new day, and she is so beautiful that like the shining sun, some people could not see the beauty right away. I guess that started it. I just always believed I would be beautiful and there is nothing like that to encourage the reality of it. That started my swelled head, of course. Conn probably had a bag on, I don’t remember. But that sort of talk is easy to take. In any case, Remo, I grew up in a house where every so often my father would leave. And although they did not want that life for me, I followed it. I guess I had to follow it. Maybe I wanted to follow it. You see enough numbers tattooed on people’s arms and hear enough stories and you know what you must do.

  “That is what has brought me here. One of them. Have you ever heard of Hans Frichtmann? The butcher of Treblinka? Here at the Forum.

  “I s
hould not tell you this, but it is of no matter. I have already made so many mistakes since meeting you, telling you this in print probably will not matter. I love you, Remo. And if I saw you again, I would be hopelessly in love. And because you are who you are and I am who I am, this could not be. Maybe I am deluding myself into believing that you were not deluding me. If you were, I salute you. But this delusion, then, of your love, I will cherish until the last long night without stars.

  “I guess all of us carry our histories like crosses and our destinies like fools. But occasionally, we must succumb to logic. And the logic of our situation is that our love would destroy us. If we could only shake our duties like old dust. But we cannot. Mad dogs yet roam the world and for those we love, we must search them out, fighting all the time to keep our humanity despite the pressures to fight dogs like dogs.

  “We gave each other only an hour and a promise. Let us cherish that hour in the small places which keep us kind. You are kind and good and really very gentle. Do not let your enemies ever destroy that, darling. For as surely as the Jordan flows, we shall, if we maintain that goodness, meet again in that morning that never ends. This is our promise that we will keep. I love you, Remo.

  “Deborah.”

  Well, shit. That’s a woman for you. Of course, she loved him. How else could she call him kind and good and gentle? The utter silliness of it all. Remo read the letter again and felt very good. Then he tore it up, because precautions were precautions, and lit the pieces with a match.

  She was obviously finishing her assignment, and Remo would, as he painfully knew, only be in the way of it. So the simple thing was to go to Dayton, and then buy a ticket to Chicago, and there find someone who vaguely looks like you and who has a passport. Then kindly, good and gentle Remo Williams would work something on the poor bastard, and be out of the country and headed toward Israel and that town in the Negev.

  He would go there, find her parents, and wait. He would tell her parents to mention some phrase from the note. And she would come running home. CURE would find him though. Well, he’d work something out. All this think and counterthink had been a bother anyway. Hell, maybe he’d just find her now and they would both go somewhere.

  Remo watched the last scrap of paper burn and, leaving the cottage, accidentally bumped into the door. To hell with it. Everyone bumped into doors.

  He was tired now, very tired. The sun drained him and the walking drained him. He stumbled on the walk. He had pressed too hard too long and now he was running down. He was sweating now, for real. Real sweat from the afternoon heat. He stumbled again.

  He looked up and saw Brewster’s office. He would rest there awhile and then leave. Stephanie was at the door, but he didn’t feel like talking. He tried to pat her on the head. But inexplicably his hand missed and he fell full-length on the polar bear rug. He crawled to the couch, and pulled himself up onto it. In the cool of the air conditioning, he drifted off. Out.

  Then there was the sleep. It was a deep, unconscious leaving. And there were dreams.

  Chiun, his aged Korean instructor, saying: “Do not pass this point. Do not pass this point. Do not pass this point.”

  And other voices, Oriental voices. And Chiun was telling the other voices that he had not passed the point yet, so they must stand back. And Chiun wore black robes and a black headband and he was motioning that Remo should go to his special room and stay there. He should stay there until everything was all right. Chiun would sit with him. Remo had just worked too hard and too long. Remo should go into the room and Chiun would sit with him and talk to him.

  And since he wasn’t doing anything important at the moment other than dying, Remo decided to go into the room where Chiun was waiting. He could always die. That was Chiun talking. Funny, he thought he had been saying that. But it was Chiun saying that. Remo could die later if he wished. He could die any time he wanted. Promise? Yes. Chiun promised.

  So Remo went. It was very cold in the room and Chiun looked very mean and stern. He was not here to punish Remo but to save him. But you promised I could die?

  You cannot die.

  I want to die.

  You may not. There are things you must do because your life is precious.

  Leave me alone. I want to die. You promised.

  But you are in the room now, Remo, and here you are not permitted to die.

  You’re a liar.

  Yes, I lied to you. I hurt you.

  Yes, you do.

  I will hurt you more. For I am in this room with you and I am going to hurt you more. You will feel great pain.

  I do not want to hurt.

  Listen. You are dying. But I will not let you die, Remo. I prepared this room so that you should not die. That is why together we prepared this room. Your room, Remo. It holds your youth. Without the miracle of rest, you have lived a lifetime in three months. You are an old man, Remo. All that you took by your will and your effort has been taken back because you used it too long. But watch. We will do a trick. Come with me and do the trick. See the fire. It is hot. Hot. We will run through the fire. The trick is the fire. Come. Yes, it hurts, but come. I will go with you. Now. Into the fire.

  And he was roasting alive, in incredible, flashing pain, that seared his flesh. The flames burned his feet and licked at his legs, then engulfed his entire body in a whooshing roar.

  And Remo Williams was standing, yelling in the air-conditioned office and little Stephanie Brewster was terrified beside him. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and the chill made Remo shake. Was it his imagination, the residue of the dream, or did he smell burning flesh?

  Remo rubbed his forehead, and felt something crumble over his eyes. It was charred hair on his eyebrows, curled white ashes that powdered in his fingers.

  Stephanie lost her terror and began clapping. “Oh, do that again. Do it again. Wonderful.”

  “What?” asked Remo.

  “I didn’t know you did magic.”

  “What magic?”

  “You just lay down and shut your eyes and then you lit up almost like a light bulb. Oh, it was stellar. Stellar. Very unusual. That’s redundant. Something isn’t very unusual. It’s unusual.”

  “How long was I here?”

  “Well, I didn’t have my stop watch. But I would guess two or three minutes. You looked very tired when you came in, and then you fell, and your hands were cold, and I thought you were having a coronary. But I didn’t know you did magic.”

  “Yeah, kid. That’s the biz. Look. I’m late for an appointment. Tell your dad that I’m going on vacation and I may not be back because the forum is too rough for me. Okay?”

  “I’ll write it down,” said Stephanie. With her awkward six-year-old hands, she maneuvered a pencil over several pieces of note paper, in a handwriting reminiscent of someone designing a rope.

  “I paraphrased,” she explained, starting on the first page which contained half a word. “Feelings of inadequacy impel Remo Pelham’s resignation.”

  “You’ve got it, sweets.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?” And Remo Williams kissed Stephanie Brewster goodbye and she crinkled her nose, explaining that his face was hot.

  “That’s the biz, kid,” Remo said with lightness of heart, and he left with his very dry clothes crackling around him toward his appointment in Dayton. Wait in Israel for an agent to come home? Remo chuckled. He never would have made it out of Chicago. Well, senility is senility.

  His body hurt, like a very bad sunburn, but it was a good hurt. He was breathing well and moving well and relaxed and alive. He wished Deborah all the best and assumed she would be well because, after all, she was very lucky. She would have died on Deuteronomy. That’s the biz.

  Still, he felt a little desire to read the note again, just once more. But it had gone up in flames and just as well. He would relax, go out of his head in Dayton, fornicate a bit, and maybe start slow in a week or two. Perhaps they
would move Chiun out to him for one of the training programs. He would probably need that.

  An ambulance moved toward him from the other side of the circle. It couldn’t be Ratchett. His house was in the other direction.

  Then there was the body.

  The ambulance slowed and a patrolman riding in front called out: “You must be Pelham.”

  “Yes,” said Remo.

  “You’re the security officer. You want to meet me at the morgue?”

  “Well, I’m sort of busy,” Remo said, and seeing the young policeman’s face contort in shock, he felt somewhat stupid. “I’m clearing up some things here. I’ll be with you later. I’ve had a hard day.”

  “So has she,” said the patrolman, nodding back to the receiving section of the ambulance. “Another OD. Your second in a month. I thought you people up here were brains, not junkies. Look. You’ve got to make it to the morgue because we’re checking out stuff with the FBI. Hey, what happened to your face?”

  “I got too close to a stove.”

  “Oh. Just a second.” And to the driver he said, “Wait a minute.”

  The policeman left the seat and sidled up to Remo and in confidential tones that the driver could not hear said, “Look, no matter what they say, the FBI goes out of its way to grab credit. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Remo nodded.

  “They told us that if anyone saw you to tell you to meet them at the morgue. I know what they’re doing. They want to get you away from the photographers over on the thirteenth green. That’s where we found the body. Fuck ‘em. You’re the security officer. If you make it there fast, you can still get to see a reporter. Know what I mean. I mean they come in here to make a pinch or something that we can do just as good and they act so goddam nicey-nicey like they don’t want the credit. Know what I mean?”

  Remo understood.

  “How does that make us look, right? And you. You’re security officer. Both of us together don’t make what those bastards make. Right? All we got is our respect. Right?”