Blood Lust td-85

by Warren Murphy

"Face it. Johns don't happen to walk around with a pair of yellow kerchiefs, lose their cool, and strangle two hookers-"

  "Call girls," the first detective said. "These were high priced broads. Look at those clothes. Designer clothes for sure."

  "They smell just like dead hookers to me," the other grunted. "Worse. Like I was saying, no one happens to strangle two hookers with identical scarves. If it was a crime of passion, he'd have cut or bludgeoned one. No, this is a kinky hit. The worst kind. Who knows what this guy had eating away at him to do all this?"

  "You think it's a guy?" the M.E asked, changing a flashbulb.

  "I know it is. Women don't do serial killings. It's not in their nature. Like lifting the toilet seat when they're done."

  "We don't know it's a serial thing yet."

  "This is the fourth corpse wrapped this way in less than a week. Trust me. If we don't find more like these in the next few days, it'll be because whoever did this ran out of yellow silk."

  Deciding there was nothing more he could learn, Remo started back down, taking the side of the building in hand and using gravity to return him to the sidewalk.

  As he walked away, he thought about yellow scarves.

  And he thought about how much he missed Chiun, and wished more than ever that the Master of Sinanju were still around.

  If the yellow strangling scarves and the cold feeling deep in his stomach meant anything, Remo needed the Master of Sinanju as he had never needed him before.

  But Chiun was gone. And Remo walked alone. And there was no one to protect him if his worst fears proved true.

  Chapter 10

  Remo walked the humid streets of Washington, D.C., with his hands crammed into his pockets and his sad eyes on the endless pavement unwinding under his feet.

  He tried to shove the fear into the deepest recesses of his mind. He tried to push the ugly memories back into some dark corner where he could ignore them.

  "Why now?" he said, half-aloud.

  Hearing him, an alley-dwelling wino lifted a paper-bagwrapped green bottle in salute. "Why not?" he said. He upended the bottle and chugalugged it dry.

  Remo kept walking.

  It had been bad before, but if what he suspected was true, Remo's life had just taken a turn toward catastrophe. He considered, then rejected, calling Smith. But Smith would not understand. He believed in computers and balanced books and bottom lines. He understood cause and effect, action and reaction.

  Harold Smith did not understand Sinanju. He would not understand Remo if Remo attempted to tell him the true significance of the yellow silk scarves. Remo could not tell him. That was that. Smith would only tell Remo that his story was preposterous, his fears groundless, and his duty was to America.

  But as Remo's feet carried him toward the Capitol Building, he thought that his responsibilities were also with the inhabitants of Sinanju, who, when the Master of Sinanju failed them, were forced to send their babies home to the sea. Which was a polite phrase for infanticide. He owed Smith only the empty grave somewhere in New Jersey. To Chiun, and therefore to the Masters of Sinanju who had preceded him, Remo owed much, much more.

  Were it not for Chiun, Remo would never have achieved the full mastery of his mind and body. He would never have learned to eat correctly, or to breathe with his entire body, not merely his lungs. He would have lived an ordinary life doing ordinary things and suffering ordinary disappointments. He was one with the sun source of the martial arts. For Remo, nothing was impossible.

  He owed Sinanju a lot. He had just about made up his mind to go back to the village when Smith had called. Now he had more reason than ever to head for Korea.

  In Korea, he might be safe.

  But if he returned, would it be because he was too afraid of the yellow scarves? Remo wasn't sure. In twenty years of working for CURE, Remo had known fear only a few times. Cowardice he had tasted once. Years ago. And even then, he had not feared for his own safety, but for others'.

  And now the terrible unknowable power that had once made of Remo Williams an utter slave to its whims had returned.

  Remo found himself on the steps the Pantheon-like National Archives Building. On an impulse, he floated up the broad marble steps and into its quiet, stately interior. He had been here before. Years ago. He glided on soundless feet to the great brass-and-glass repository housing the original Constitution of the United States in a sandwich of inert gas.

  It was, of course, where he had last seen it. Remo stepped up to the encircling protective guardrail and began reading the aged parchment paper that struck him as looking a lot like one of Chiun's scrolls, on which he faithfully recorded the history of Sinanju.

  A guard came up to him after only a few minutes.

  "Excuse me, sir," the guard began in a soft but unequivocal voice, "but we prefer that tourists not loiter here."

  "I'm not loitering," Remo said testily. "I'm reading."

  "There are brochures available out front with the entire text of the Constitution printed on them. In facsimile."

  "I want to read the original," Remo said, not turning.

  "I'm sorry, but-"

  Remo took the man by the back of the neck, lifting him up and over the guardrail until his surprised nose was jammed up against the breath-steamed glass.

  "According to this, it's still a free country," Remo snarled bitterly.

  "Absolutely," the guard said quickly. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is what I always say. Always." As a reward, his feet clicked back on the polished marble floor. The hand at his collar released. He adjusted his uniform.

  "Enjoy your reading, sir," the guard said. He faded back toward a doorway where he could keep his eye on the strange tourist in black, yet still stay out of reach of his strong hands.

  If the guy made any weird moves, he would trigger the alert that would cause the Constitution housing to descend by scissors jack into a protective well in the marble flooring.

  Then he would get the hell out of the building. The guy's eyes were as spooky as an owl's.

  Remo finished reading in silence. Then, turning hard on his heel, he left the Archives Building and glided down the stairs like a purposeful black ghost.

  Harold Smith picked up the blue telephone, frowning.

  "Yes, Remo?"

  "Smitty? I have some good news for you and some bad."

  "Go ahead," Smith said in a voice as gray and colorless as his apparel.

  "I'm quitting CURE."

  Without skipping a beat, Smith asked, "What is the good news?"

  "That is the good news," Remo returned. "The bad is that I can't quit until I finish this assignment."

  "That is good."

  "No, it's bad. I may not survive this one, any more than Chiun survived our last one."

  "Come again?" Smith asked, his voice losing its studied neutrality.

  "Smitty, you gotta get those computers of yours replaced. They blew it. Big-time."

  "Come to the point, Remo."

  "If they're still working-which I doubt-you're going to get a report on a couple of strangled call girls found in the offices of the Diplomatic Escort Service."

  "I trust you interrogated them before you strangled them?"

  "Nope. I didn't strangle them. My guess is our happy hooker did."

  Smith paused. Remo could hear the hollow clicking of his computer keys. "What did you learn from the office?"

  "That Washington is in the grip of a strangulation flap-something your computers should have picked up, if they were working."

  "I am aware of only two homicides by strangulation other than those you have reported," Smith said. "A medical-supply salesman named Cosmo Bellingham and an insurance adjuster by the name of Carl Lusk. One was found in the elevator of the Sheraton Washington Hotel. The other in an alley near Logan Circle."

  "And that didn't ring any bells?"

  "Two strangulations. Statistically within the norm for an urban center like the District of Columbia."

  "We
ll, counting the two call girls, four hotel maids, and the late ambassador, we have nine. How statistical is that?"

  "Are you saying that all of these homicides are connected?"

  "You tell me," Remo said acidly. "Does your computer tell you what they were done away with?"

  More clicks. "No."

  "Silk scarves," Remo said. "Yellow silk scarves."

  "Like the ambassador?" Harold Smith croaked. "Oh, my God. Are you certain?"

  "The cops I overheard at the escort service say it's the killer's trademark. Now, think. Who do we know who strangles with yellow scarves?"

  "The Thuggee cult," Smith said hoarsely. "But, Remo, you wiped that group out long ago. It was the work of that pirate who ran Just Folks Airlines, Aldrich Hunt Baynes III. He's dead. The cult was smashed. Even the airline is out of business now."

  "Tell me, Smith, were those two salesmen traveling when they got it?"

  "Let me check." Smith's fingers attacked his keyboard like a feverish concert pianist. Presently, expanded versions of the wire-service reports on both homicides appeared on the screen as side-by-side blocks of text.

  "Bellingham was killed shortly after checking into his hotel," Smith reported. "The other man died before reaching his."

  "Travelers. Same M.O., Smitty," Remo pointed out. "They always hit travelers. Make friends, get their confidence, and when they're lulled, wrap the of silk scarf around their throats. Then walk away with their wallets."

  "The two men were also robbed," Smith said. "But, Remo, if we smashed that cult, how could this be?"

  "You forget, Smith. It's just updated Thuggee. It was around long before Just Folks tried to scare up some new customers by scaring passengers away from other airlines. And it'll probably be around long after. Besides," Remo added, his voice going soft, "we smashed the cult, not Kali."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "When we wrapped that one up," Remo admitted slowly, "there were a few things Chiun and I left out of our debriefing."

  Smith clutched the receiver until he was white-fingered. "Go on."

  "It wasn't just Baynes and the others. It was Kali herself."

  "If I recall my mythology," Smith said aridly, "Kali was a mythical Hindu deity."

  "Who lusted for blood and who the original East Indian thugs worshiped. Hapless travelers were sacrificed to Kali. The whole cult thing was triggered, believe it or not, by a stone statue of Kali that somehow exerted an influence over its worshipers."

  "Influence?"

  "According to Chiun, the spirit of Kali inhabited the statue."

  "Yes," Smith said. "I recall now. The cult revolved around the idol. The Master of Sinanju believed that it possessed magical properties. Pure superstition, of course. Chiun comes from a tiny fishing village without running water and electricity."

  "That just happens to have produced a line of assassins who worked for every empire since the paint on the sphinx was still wet," Remo retorted. "So backward that when the United States-the greatest nation on the face of the earth anytime, anywhere-needed someone to pull its chestnuts out of the fire, it turned to the last Master of Sinanju."

  Smith swallowed. "Where is that statue now?" he asked.

  "When we tracked down Baynes," Remo answered, "he had it. I grabbed it. It grabbed back. We struggled. I broke it into a zillion pieces and threw it off the side of a mountain."

  "And?"

  "Obviously," Remo said in a distracted voice, "the spirit of Kali went somewhere else."

  Smith was silent.

  "Strictly for the sake of argument," he asked at last, "where?"

  "How the hell do I know?" Remo snapped. "I just know that without Chiun, I don't think I'm strong enough to beat her this time."

  "But you admitted that you threw it off a mountain."

  "Thanks to Chiun. He made it possible. Until he rescued me, I was its slave. It was awful, Smitty. I couldn't help myself." His voice sank to a reedy croak. "I did . . . things."

  "What things?'

  "I killed a pigeon," Remo said with thick-voiced shame. "An innocent pigeon."

  "And . . . ?" Smith prodded.

  Remo cleared his throat and looked away guitily. "I laid it before the statue. As an offering. I would have gone on to wasting people, but Chiun gave me the strength to resist. Now he's gone. And I have to face Kali alone."

  "Remo, you do not know this," Smith said sharply. "This may simply be a serial killer with an affinity for yellow scarves. Or a copycat."

  "There's one way to find out."

  "And that is?"

  "If this killer is targeting travelers, throw her some tourist bait," Remo suggested.

  "Yes. Very good. The other victims were apparently picked up at the Washington National Airport. That is where you should start."

  "Not me, Smitty. You."

  "I?"

  "If it is Kali, I may not be able to resist her scent. That's how she got to me last time. But you might. She has no power over you. We could set up a trap. You play the cheese and I'll be the trap. How about it?"

  "The field is not my place. It is yours."

  "And I have a responsibility to Sinanju now. I am Sinanju. I have to go there and see if I can hack it as Reigning Master. But I gotta close the books on Kali before I go. It's the only way."

  "You are serious about leaving CURE?" Smith asked quietly.

  "Yeah," Remo said flatly. "That doesn't mean I wouldn't take the odd job here and there," he added. "But nothing small. It's gotta be worth my time. Otherwise you can just send in the Marines. I'm out of it. What say, Smitty?"

  The line hummed with the silence between the two men.

  At last Harold W. Smith spoke.

  "As long as you are with the organization," he said coldly, "you will do as instructed. Go to Washington National. Allow yourself to be picked up by this woman. Interrogate her, and if she is the sole cause of these strangulations, liquidate her. Otherwise, call for further instruction. I will await your report."

  "You gutless bas-"

  Harold Smith hung up the phone on Remo's reply. If there was one thing he had learned in his many years as an administrator, it was how to motivate employees.

  Whatever he had become under Chiun's tutelege, Remo Williams was still an American. He would heed his country's call. He always had. He always would. That was why he had been selected in the first place.

  Chapter 11

  "Screw you, Smith!" Remo shouted into the dead receiver. "You're on your own."

  Remo slammed the phone on its hook. The hook broke off, taking the receiver to the floor with it.

  Remo started away from the pay phone. Outside, he hailed a Checker cab.

  "Airport," he told the driver.

  "Dunes or Washington National?" the cabby asked.

  "Dulles," Remo said, thinking no sense tempting fate. He had been willing to go to the mat one last time for Smith, but only if Smith would do it his way. He had been doing it Smith's way for too damn long. No more.

  "Going anyplace interesting?" the cabby asked.

  "Asia," Remo said, cranking down the window against the heat of the warm July day.

  "Asia. That's pretty far. Better there than the Middle East, huh?"

  Remo perked up. "What's going on there now?"

  "The usual. Mad Ass is rattling his scimitar. We're rattling ours. But nothing happens. I don't think there'll be a war."

  "Don't count on it," Remo said, thinking that what went on in the Middle East wouldn't matter much to him once he was back in Sinanju. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised to find a job offer from Mad Ass himself waiting for him. Of course, he wouldn't take it. He was going to be particular about who he worked for. Unlike Chiun, who would work for anyone as long as their gold took tooth marks.

  The ride to Dulles was short. Remo paid the driver and entered the main terminal. He went to the Air Korea booth, bought a one-way ticket to Seoul, and then went in search of his gate.

  As he approached the metal-detector station, he no
ticed the blond woman loitering outside the ladies' room.

  The first thing Remo noticed was that she had the largest chest he had ever seen. It projected out like a triangular form straining to burst the yellow fabric of her dress. He wondered how she kept from tipping forward.

  Evidently they were quite a burden, because she picked at her brassiere straps with careless fingers.

  Remo noticed her yellow nail polish. His eyes flicked to her throat.

  "Uh-oh," Remo said, his pupils dilating at sight of the tastefully tied yellow silk scarf.

  Remo ducked into the men's room. Bending over a sink, he splashed water onto his face. He patted himself dry with a paper towel. Had she been waiting for him?

  "Maybe she won't be there when I get back," Remo muttered. He went to the door. With a single finger he eased it open a crack. She was still there, leaning against a white wall, her eyes darting to the line of passengers coming down the walkway, laden with luggage and shoulder bags.

  Remo swallowed. She looked very young. Not dangerous at all-unless she fell on top of you and crushed you with her sharp chest, Remo thought with forced humor.

  Words the Master of Sinanju had told him long years ago echoed in Remo's ears.

  "Know your enemy."

  Remo took a deep breath and stepped out onto the walkway. He went directly to the girl in yellow. His legs actually felt rubbery. He sucked in a double lungful of oxygen, held it in his stomach, and released it slowly, releasing also the tension in his chest and the fear in his belly.

  He was in control enough to smile as he approached the blond.

  "Excuse me," he said.

  Her head turned. Her blue eyes fell on Remo. They were curious. Almost innocent eyes. Maybe he had been mistaken. "Yes?" she said in a sweet, breathy voice.

  "Are you Cynthia?" Remo asked. "The office said they'd send a gorgeous blond named Cynthia to meet me."

  Her red mouth parted. Thick brows puckered tentatively.

  "Yes, I'm Cynthia," she said. "You must be-"

  "Dale. Dale Cooper."

  "Of course, Mr. Cooper." She put out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

  Remo smiled. She had taken the bait. "Call me Dale."

  "Dale. Let's get your bags together."

  "Sure," Remo said. He let her lead him to the luggage carousel, where he made a pretense of picking his luggage from the revolving conveyor.