Next Of Kin td-46

by Warren Murphy

  "Hey, if you're going to be running my life for the next two weeks, I demand a cease-fire," Remo said.

  "I like to run your life, child. Get you to eat some decent food." She turned to Fabienne and said something that sounded to Remo like "Hee Ho Hee Hee Da Bo Wa Wee Tee No Mee Ha."

  Fabienne clucked sympathetically and responded, "Hey He Hah Key Hee Hoo Die Ho Hee Noo."

  "Beg pardon?" Remo asked.

  "Sidonie says you eat nothing but brown rice and tea."

  Remo shuffled half apologetically in the sand. "I don't know. I eat other things. Duck, sometimes. A little fish—"

  "Raw he eats it," Sidonie said with disgust. "These fanatical Americans, always with the health food."

  Fabienne took Remo's hand again. "And I told her that I cook very good brown rice. I like raw fish, too."

  "You do?"

  "Come see me tonight. My driver will be here at seven, but take as long as you like," she said.

  "Ill be ready at seven." Remo beamed as the girl waved to them both and walked away with the purposeful, athletic stride of a rich girl weaned on tennis and horseback riding.

  "Now you go inside," Sidonie said. "The old gentleman, he already in his room, looking at the TV. I got your lunch."

  She took Remo to a big wooden table in the kitchen, set before him a bowl of brown rice and a cup of green tea, and poured herself a big tumbler of dark rum as she settled her bulky body on a chair beside him.

  "Not bad," Remo said, tasting the rice. Sidonie grunted. "Say, what language were you speaking back there with Fabienne?"

  "That Papiamento. The native tongue."

  "I thought the native tongue was English."

  "Oh, we all speak English. Also French and Dutch, some Spanish. This island so mixed up with all the Europeans come to steal her away from us, they teach us all their languages. So we put them together in Papiamento. It easier— also the white man don't understand."

  "The girl's white."

  "She different. She be here all her life. Her daddy a fine man, too." She shook her head sadly. "Dead now."

  "Recently?" Remo asked.

  "Couple of year. First he go cuckoo, then he dead." She polished off the contents of her glass and refilled it with the same fumey liquid. "I work for Monsieur Soubise for many year. During the war, he take me back to Paris with him." She grinned broadly. "Monsieur and Sidonie, we fight for the Resistance."

  "Is that where you learned to drink like a sailor?" Remo asked wryly.

  Sidonie tapped the rim of her glass. "This pure island rum. Good for the digestion." She hiccupped. "Also it give a good buzz."

  With some difficulty Sidonie lifted herself off her chair and waddled around the kitchen, straightening containers and dusting the windowsills. "Anyway, Fabienne, she's a good girl. Always have something nice to say, even now that she lose all her money."

  "That's funny," Remo said. "She seemed like a rich girl."

  "Oh, her daddy very, very rich. But he go cuckoo." In demonstration she twirled a corkscrew in the air beside her temple. "He change his will, leave everything— the shipyards, everything— to the Dutchman. And Monsieur, he don't even know the Dutchman. Cuckoo."

  "Who's the Dutchman?" Remo asked.

  Sidonie's eyes narrowed. "He no good," she said. "Live on Devil's Mountain in the old castle. He cuckoo, too."

  Remo laughed. "I guess the old monsieur was happy to find a kindred spirit."

  "Don't you talk about the Dutchman with Fabienne. It just upset her. He take all her money, and she fighting two year in the court now trying to get it back. She very upset, poor thing."

  "She can't be that poor," Remo said consolingly. "She's got a driver."

  Sidonie snorted. "Dat just Pierre," she said. "He don't cost much. Pierre do anything for a dollah. Don't you talk to him neither. This island, she nosy. And Pierre got a big mouth on him."

  "Okay, okay," Remo said.

  "You listen to Sidonie, child, you be all right here." She chuckled and squeezed his cheek between fat brown fingers.

  * * *

  The footsteps banged forward like a fleet of Sherman tanks. How was a being of delicate sensibilities, whose only pleasure in the twilight of his years was the viewing of the pure love stories presented on the touching daytime dramas, supposed to concentrate on the vicissitudes of life with the clamor of 10,000 giants outside his window?

  Chiun leaped up and switched off the Betamax, which was airing a 1965 episode of "As the Planet Revolves."

  "Out," he shouted to the world at large. "Leave my presence immediately, noisy lout, or..."

  Two weary eyes beneath a twenty-year-old straw fedora peered at him over the windowsill.

  "Emperor Smith," Chiun said, suddenly bowing obsequiously to the man who sent the yearly tribute of gold via submarine to Chiun's village. "My heart thrills with this honor." His hazel eyes darted back for a longing moment to the blank TV screen. "As the Planet Revolves" was infinitely more interesting than Harold W. Smith, even during the commercials.

  "Can I— can I come in?" Smith said with utter solemnity as his head, framed by the open window, craned suspiciously in all directions.

  "At your service, o esteemed Emperor," Chiun said, groaning inwardly. Smith's careworn, withered lemon face had "meeting" stamped all over it. The blank eye of the Betamax stared mockingly. Chiun extended a hand to Smith, who was trying to crawl through the window, his face contorted in agony as he sought a toehold with the tips of his Florsheims. With a light flick of the Oriental's wrist, Smith sailed over the Betamax and came to rest on a plump cushion in the corner.

  With a smile and a bow, Chiun began to wheel the television toward the door. "One moment, most worthy Emperor, and I will command Remo to your presence here—"

  "No," Smith whispered urgently. He rose from his sprawled position on the cushion, reassuming his habitual air of bland dignity. "Remo is in the kitchen talking to the housekeeper. That's why I came this way instead of to the door. I have to speak with you alone."

  Chiun's eyes brightened. "I see, o magnificence," he said conspiratorially. "A private mission... an assignment for another government perhaps?" He winked.

  "Chiun," Smith said, flustered, "we work for the United States."

  "Governments come and depart in the night. But an assassin is a treasure forever. Yet I will do as you bid, Emperor..."

  "Good. I was counting on that..."

  "As soon as we arrive at a mutually comfortable and honorable fee for my duties. Perhaps twenty thousand in gold..."

  "This is part of our original contract, Chiun."

  "Oh." The old Oriental's eyes wandered back to the blank Betamax.

  Smith nervously rolled his hat in his hands. "Let me explain as quickly as I can, before Remo happens along."

  "By all means," Chiun said, stifling a yawn.

  "You've probably been wondering why I sent the two of you to Sint Maarten for your vacation."

  "Not at all," Chiun said, feigning disinterest. "If you in your wisdom did not see fit to grant an old man his only wish of seeing his village of Sinanju..." He closed his eyes and shrugged expressively.

  "I was planning to, but something came up." From inside his coat pocket he extracted a large envelope containing a dozen or more photographs. He leafed through the pictures and handed one to Chiun. It showed a large ship with a crane on its deck hoisting a long rectangular metal box out of the ocean. "A U.S. salvage ship dredged up this truck body nearby, off the coast of the island."

  "Ah, most fascinating," Chiun said. "Have you by any chance been privileged to observe the beautiful daytime dramas on the television?" He scurried over to the Betamax. "Perhaps, if we are fortunate, Dr. Rad Rex will appear in 'As the Planet Revolves.' "

  "Chiun— really—"

  Smith was too late. Chiun had already pushed the magic switch that brought Dr. Rad Rex and the suffering Mrs. Wintersheim back into the room just as Mrs. Wintersheim was revealing her guilty secret involving her daughte
r's marriage to Carl Aberdeen's podiatrist, Skip. The old man was settled in front of the television, smiling raptly, his lips mouthing the words he had heard thousands of times before.

  Brushing a hand over his eyes, Smith knelt beside him. "Chiun, the sunken truck container in that photo I just showed you contained more than a hundred dead bodies of unidentifiable men."

  "Tsk, tsk," Chiun conceded.

  "The point is, someone murdered them."

  "Here today, gone tomorrow," Chiun murmured.

  Smith squeezed his eyes shut. Briskly he took out another photograph. "I think Remo killed them," he said.

  Chiun nodded. "Perhaps they offended him."

  "Will you please look at these?" Smith asked, thrusting the sheaf of photographs in front of Chiun.

  With a sigh, the old man turned first his head, then his eyes in the direction of the pictures. Then slowly his hand reached out and depressed the "Off" button on the Betamax. "Remarkable," he said.

  "I thought you'd recognize the style."

  "These attacks were nearly perfect," he said beaming. "Oh, a little sloppy with this third vertebra, slow inside line here-details, details. Overall, this is most excellent work. I congratulate you, o Emperor."

  "On what?"

  "On your most astute perception of my pupil's progress. Will you give him a medal?" Chiun nodded expectantly.

  Smith cleared his throat. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."

  "Oh!" Chiun slapped his forehead. "Of course. You are a man of great wisdom, Emperor Smith. Many thanks, o illustrious one. I shall display it with great pride and humility."

  "Display what?"

  "My medal, of course. Only one of truly keen acumen such as yourself would seek to reward the student by honoring the teacher. I am deeply touched by this tribute."

  "Chiun, you don't understand. I've never assigned Remo to these islands before."

  "So? An assassin with skill such as I have taught Remo can kill here as well as anywhere."

  "I was afraid of that," Smith said. His face was drawn and haggard. "Please listen to me, Chiun. I haven't got much time, and I have to explain something to you. If Remo didn't kill those men in the truck on assignment, that means he's been killing them on his own. You know I can't permit that. It was part of our initial deal."

  Chiun's smile faded as Smith's meaning became clear. "Perhaps he was only practicing?" Chiun offered.

  "It doesn't matter what the reason was. If Remo has gone off on a killing spree, he must be stopped."

  "Yes," Chiun said softly. "It was our agreement."

  "And you must stop him."

  The old man slowly nodded assent.

  "It should be done at an appropriate time, and with no witnesses. That's why I rented the villa for you. You'll have to dispose of the— uh—"

  Chiun held up a hand for silence. After a moment, Smith stood up awkwardly beside the frail old teacher who sat with his back bent and his head bowed.

  "This is the end for all of us," Smith whispered, his voice cracking. "After you report back to me at Folcroft, you'll be sent back to Sinanju, and..." There was no need to explain that Remo's death would mean the end of CURE, since Chiun had never known who his employer was beyond Harold W. Smith. And there was no need to point out that Smith's own life would end with Remo's, in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium. There was, in fact, no need to say anything more. Quietly, Smith walked back to the window. As he removed his hat in preparation for his exit, Remo walked into the room.

  "Smitty," he said. "What are you doing here?"

  "Uh— vacationing. With Mrs. Smith. On Saba, uh, nearby island." Smith had never been a good liar. He nodded tersely and strode toward the door.

  "Hey, wait a minute. You two look like senior projects at undertakers' school. What's going on?"

  Smith shook his head, cleared his throat again, and said, "Good day," without looking at either of the men in the room. Chiun sat motionless, his head bowed. "Oh, I nearly forgot," Smith said. He took a parchment-colored envelope from his breast pocket and slid it on the floor beside Chiun. "It was on your doorstep, but I saw the wind blow it into the bushes. Thought I'd better hand it to you myself before it got lost." He touched his fingers to his hat and was gone.

  "What in the hell has happened to Smitty?" Remo said, laughing. "First he puts us here in deluxe accommodations, then he comes here on vacation. That old skinflint hasn't taken a vacation in fifteen years, and the last time was to visit his wife's uncle in Idaho..."

  Chiun wasn't listening. His breath was catching as his hand moved slowly toward the envelope beside him.

  "What is it?" Remo asked. "You feeling all right, Little Father?"

  Chiun snatched up the envelope and held it with both hands up to the light. On it in both English and Korean, was written the name "CHIUN" with thick black brush strokes. In a frenzy the old man tore open the envelope and yanked out a single translucent piece of old, dried rice paper.

  Then Chiun did something so strange, so unlike himself, so terrifying, that Remo couldn't believe his eyes. The old man leaped up from the floor, bounded toward Remo, encircled him in his frail, bony arms, and held him.

  "Wha-what?" Remo stammered. "Little Father, are you okay?" Chiun said nothing, but held fast. "I mean the dives were pretty good, if I do say so myself, but... C'mon, I'm not used to this. Hey, it's the envelope, isn't it, Chiun? What'd you get? A fan letter from Sinanju. That's it, isn't it, a fan letter?"

  Still caught in the old man's embrace, he turned to see the piece of paper in Chiun's hand. On it were three carefully drawn Korean characters.

  "What's it say, Chiun?" Remo asked.

  Chiun broke away. "It says 'I live again.' "

  Remo half smiled, trying to share Chiun's joy. "I live again? That's it, huh?"

  "That is the message. 'I live again.' "

  "Hey... great. Good news. Really glad to hear it. Who lives again?"

  "Never mind," Chiun said. He tucked the paper into a fold of his kimono sleeve.

  "Well, whoever it was, I'm glad he gave you such a lift. Say, I've been thinking maybe we could take a little sightseeing tour of the island before dark—"

  "You will perform ten more Flying Walls," Chiun snapped.

  "What? I just did fourteen!"

  "Fourteen of the most slovenly examples of the Flying Wall I have ever had the misfortune to witness. Your descent was at least a handspan too steep."

  "It was not. You weren't even watching..."

  "Ten," Chiun decreed.

  Glaring over his shoulder, Remo shuffled toward the door. "See if I ever ask you again..."

  "Ten."

  After the door closed, the old man smiled.

  ?Three

  There were six women in the room, two blondes, three brunettes, and an Asian. They were all naked, their smooth flanks glistening in the dim colored light of the room as they lounged unceremoniously along the heavy padding of the floor.

  There were no courtesan's squeals to greet the Dutchman as he entered; he was only annoyed by such preliminaries. He took the one nearest to him, a blonde, and directed her languid hand to his body. Her jaw was slack. As she brought him mechanically to readiness, he saw the pinpoint pupils of her eyes beneath the heavy, sodden lids.

  Roughly he pulled her left arm up toward the light to confirm the inevitable appearance of the track marks on the bruised skin. An addict. She would be sent away tomorrow. He did not tolerate drug usage among the women he hired. It emptied their minds. They could be of no use to him beyond providing receptacles for his passion.

  He pushed her aside. The girl slumped to the floor where she had stood. The Dutchman grabbed the hair of the next girl and forced her head back, pulling up the skin of her eyelids to check for the same symptoms. When he was convinced she was in normal health, he eased her to the floor. Silently she submitted to him while the others in the room sat back, their expressions bored, as each waited her turn.

  He went through four of them
, each shattering climax fueling his terrible energy more than the last until his pale skin shone with sweat and his nerves were as sensitive as live electric wires.

  The Asiatic took his thrusts with stoic docility, her almond eyes veiled and impersonal.

  "You are a tigress," he said to her in French, her language. He wanted no one in the Castle who spoke English, to better guard his privacy. The Dutchman himself spoke eight languages, plus the arcane sign language he used with his mute servant, so there was no privacy from the Dutchman.

  The girl's quiet eyes suddenly burned with bright fire. "You are an animal of the jungle," the Dutchman whispered. "Your claws are sharp. Your teeth shine with the promise of death." With an effort, he restrained the girl from raking his back with her long, blood-red fingernails. She bared her teeth in a cat's grimace. Something deep in her throat growled with feline pleasure.

  He fought her, there on the padded white floor, as her knee-length black hair whipped around them both in frenetic passion. Her curled hand struck at his face. He slammed it to the floor above her head and rode her until she screamed in defeat and satiation.

  He was ablaze. He was ready now. Naked and slick with sweat, he left the girl panting on the floor with the others and walked into a small courtyard lined on one end with straw dummies. In the open end of the yard, he performed the difficult exercises he had begun when he was a child. He was twenty-four years old now. He had been slowly mastering the exercises for fourteen years.

  The Dutchman came out of a sustained three-finger stand and vaulted in two triple flying somersaults to the straw figures standing like sentries. With a stroke of his hand, he lopped off the head of one of the dummies, which had been affixed to its body by a four-by-four-inch post. He removed the arms with thrusts of each elbow, the thick wooden supports cracking and splitting with each lightning-fast jab.

  He took on the dummies as he had the women, swiftly, methodically, emotionless. When he had finished, the courtyard was strewn with straw and sawdust and splinters of wood. The Dutchman was at peak now, his muscles prepared, his mind ranging like a predator around the isolated yard.

  He had never learned to control the wild, awesome thing inside his brain that sought release only through destruction. Perhaps it was impossible to control. There had only been a few cases like it throughout all of human history, and those rare specimens had spent their lives in confinement, under the fearful scrutiny of scientists. They had lived like rats in a laboratory cage.