Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  Fade to Black

  ( The Destroyer - 119 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  NOW PLAYING

  Something smells at Cabbagehead Productions. Ticket sales for the indie company's slasher movies are skyrocketing, thanks to the publicity of some real-life murders. Remo draws the short straw to dump whoever is behind these stunts on the cutting room floor.

  But now it's time for the feature presentation: a terrorist bomb in New York...the White House under siege...hours of nonstop action...edge-of-your-seat thrills from the summer's biggest blockbuster: Die Down IV.

  Remo's problem isn't the army of extras hired to commit murder, or the truck bombs rigged to blow a Hollywood studio sky-high. It's the Master Of Sinanju himself, Chiun, busy strutting like a tyrant and generally wreaking havoc on the set of his own top-secret movie...and smack in the middle of the greatest epic disaster of all time.

  Destroyer 119: Fade to Black

  By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

  Prologue

  Excerpt from The Annals of the Glorious House of Sinanju:

  To all later generations that they might learn truth!

  The words you read have been inscribed by the awesome hand of Chiun, unworthy custodian of the present history of our House and trainer of Remo the Fair, who, though not technically of the village proper, was deemed an adequate receptacle by the Master in spite of his pale complexion, strangely deformed eyes and near total lack of gratitude for the greatness bestowed upon him by the most benign and patient Master Chiun. But there is no sense in complaining about things one cannot control, especially the ingratitude of a thankless foundling, so why bother?

  The History of Sinanju

  AND LO DURING THIS portentous time, the Master of Sinanju did venture to the most distant western shore of the current Rome. It was called America.

  So vast was this nation that it took many days overland to travel from its cold and barren eastern shores to the warmer climes of its west. But because of his special status as royal assassin to America's mad yet generous Emperor Harold I, the Master did not have to waste his time on common ground transport. A flying machine of Korean design (see The Thieving Wrights: Where They Went Wrong) did spirit him to his destination in mere hours, thus sparing him prolonged contact with the dregs and castoffs who did populate this land.

  The Master of Sinanju did travel in secret in the dead of night. This he deemed necessary, for though the Master was acting in the interests of Sinanju, he was not acting directly on behalf of his emperor. However, he was on a mission that would ultimately bring glory to the House and, as a result, glory to he who had contracted with the House. For this reason, when the veil of secrecy was at last lifted, Harold the Generous would rejoice in the Master's secret actions. Of this, the Master of Sinanju was certain.

  And the Master's airship did travel to that region of America known as California-named thus despite the fact that it was not ruled by a caliph, but by a governor (see White Nomenclature: the Case Against).

  As promised by those who had summoned him, a carriage awaited the Master. The coach was a kind reserved for only the most revered individuals in this nation. Called a limousine, it was, and not even the Master's emperor of the time did have one of these special carriages.

  The Master was ushered into this regal chariot and was driven in haste to the preordained meeting place. His destination was a wondrous province of this Caliphless-fornia. A place of magic and wonder, the name of which was known in the four corners of the world. Hollywood it was called, even though no woods of holly were immediately visible to the naked eye (ibid).

  When first he had ventured there, this province had presented an enigma to the Master. For though the word studious was trumpeted from every building, no evidence of current study or past education was visible in its inhabitants. Only upon closer inspection did the Master realize that the word was actually studio, which in this tongue was roughly equivalent to the atelier of the French.

  Once in the Woods of Holly, the Master's limousine did speed him between the heavy castle gates of Taurus Studios. There he was met by those who had summoned him.

  The first was called Hank Bindle, the second Bruce Marmelstein. Makers of magic they were. Illusionists were they. Theurgists of the highest order who did transform paper into moving images.

  "Hey, babe. How you doing? Looking good," did the first magician, the one called Bindle, pronounce as the Master alighted from his sleek black chariot.

  The prestidigitator Marmelstein, not to be outdone, did intone, "Looking great, but what am I talking? It's got to be-what?-a hundred in the shade out here. I'm sweating my mazurkas off. Let's go up to the office."

  This they did, Bindle and Marmelstein flanking Chiun, toadying respectfully to the Master.

  The air within their fortress of glass and steel was cool, controlled by machines built for men who could not control their own bodies. Only when they were secure in their inner sanctum did the two address the Master.

  "The picture's gonna be great," Bindle insisted.

  "Gangbusters." Marmelstein nodded, seeming to agree. As was his wont, he employed an odd colloquialism that the Master had not before encountered.

  "Boffo," Bindle pressed, seeming to agree with the agreement.

  Their confusing use of language did not distract the Master. For it was written in our histories by the Lesser Wang that "there is a time to endure the braying of jackasses and there is a time to talk turkey."

  Although the Master had partly ventured to this land because of difficulties with their mutual project, there were also problems with a contract between the Master and the wily sorcerers Bindle and Marmelstein.

  "I have been contacted by barristers who claim that you are attempting to rewrite our original agreement," the Master intoned seriously. His piercing hazel eyes searched for deception. With Hollywood producers this was like looking for water in a swimming pool.

  "Lies," lied the crafty Bindle and Marmelstein in unison.

  "They have informed me that you wish to cut my percentage down from the agreed-upon amount."

  "Would we do that?" Bindle squeaked.

  "No," Marmelstein answered his partner.

  Now, the Master of Sinanju was not a fool. He knew that these two conjurers were attempting to deceive him. And though telling falsehoods to a Master of Sinanju was, under ordinary circumstances, an offense punishable by death, the Master did have need of these two. In his wisdom did Chiun the Brilliant take a new tack.

  "I have heard rumors of production delays," the Master said craftily.

  "It's a little behind," the worm Bindle confessed.

  "More than a little," the spineless Marmelstein muttered, with a furtive eye on his partner.

  "A couple of weeks behind," the slimy Bindle admitted.

  "What we were wondering..." Marmelstein ventured.

  "If you could, you know..." offered Bindle.

  "Move things along," Marmelstein finished. There it was. The mendacious magicians had spoken aloud that which the Master already knew.

  They needed the Master of Sinanju to move their production forward.

  "It would be a pleasure to aid you, O wise Bindle, O learned Marmelstein," the shrewd Master said magnanimously.

  With the words of the Master ringing true in their ears, there was much relief in the private halls of Taurus. Their faces-brown from the captured sunlight of coffinlike booths-did brighten with pleasure.

  "Great," the sorcerer Bindle sighed.

  "Perfect," the toothy Marmelstein exhaled.

  But before relief overwhelmed them, the Master of Sinanju held up a staying hand. "When certain contract provis
ions are met."

  Smiles melted into suntanned skin. The round white eyes of the two magicians belonged to animals in an abattoir.

  "But..." Bindle spoke.

  "B-but..." Marmelstein stammered. The Master cut them off.

  "Our contract will be reopened. I have learned much these many months since first I signed. It will be rewritten in such a way as to make impossible any attempts to deprive the Master of that which is rightfully his due. Plus ten points. Gross. This for my agita. Only when this new contract is processed will I agree to aid you with your difficulties."

  The tricksters Bindle and Marmelstein were at a loss, thwarted by the superior skills and mighty bargaining position of the Master of Sinanju. They conferred among themselves, but only briefly. Finally, Bindle spoke.

  "You can have it all," he said, choking on the words.

  "Everything you want," Marmelstein echoed.

  "You will give points?" the Master asked craftily.

  "Everything's negotiable," the defeated Bindle stated.

  "Whatever you say," agreed the dejected Marmelstein.

  "I have heard a rumor that a film starring the foulmouthed jester Edward Murphy was said to have lost money. This in spite of domestic grosses exceeding one hundred miilion dollars and a production cost much lower than this," said Chiun the Insightful, who had studied the habits of these Hollywood cretins and was aware of the sly manipulations they were known to make on paper. "This so that the makers of the film did not have to pay the writer."

  "A lie," Bindle insisted.

  "A mistruth," Marmelstein interjected.

  "And if it was true, we would never do that to you," Bindle stressed.

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Marmelstein agreed.

  "That would be prudent." The Master of Sinanju nodded sagely. "For if I were to ever learn again that you have attempted to cheat me, I would be forced to deal with you thusly."

  And in demonstration, the Master of Sinanju did raise a single fearsome fingernail.

  The Master did draw this lone Knife of Eternity along the center of Bruce Marmelstein's heavy desk. He expended no effort and when he was finished, a single sharp line-more precise than any manufactured edge could produce-bisected the gleaming piece of mahogany furniture. As Bindle and Marmelstein watched in fear, the Master did slap both hands flat on either side of the line. In the wake of the thunderous clap, the desk did separate in twain, dropping open like the petals of a blooming flower. The rumble of the crashing fragments shook the fortress to its very foundation.

  When the Master turned back to face the magicians, he did detect a scent displeasing to him emanating from the lower garments of the wizards. They spoke in haste to him.

  "You'll get everything you want," the sorcerer Bindle gasped.

  "I'll personally guarantee it," Marmelstein the Magician agreed quickly. His eyes were filled with terror.

  "The new contracts will be ready for you to sign in an hour," Bindle insisted.

  "Half an hour," Marmelstein said rapidly. "We'll courier them to your hotel."

  "That reminds me," the Master said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I wish you to pay my hotel expenses, as well."

  "Done," agreed Bindle.

  "I'll call the limo," said Marmelstein. Pulling at his trousers, the magician went off to summon the coachman who would take the Master to his lodgings.

  "I'll get the ball rolling with legal," Bindle said, heading for his telephone.

  "I will wait outside," said Master Chiun, the brilliant negotiator, for the odor in the inner sanctum of the titans of Taurus was more than he could bear. He left the conjurer Bindle to talk to legal.

  Thus did the Master of Sinanju, in the earliest days of what Western calendars inaccurately deemed the twenty-first century (see Pope Gregory XIII: Calendars, Carpenters and the Confusion They've Wrought), arrive in and conquer the province of Hollywood.

  Chapter 1

  On the evening of his murder, Walter Anderson steered his Ford Explorer up his driveway at the usual time. A hint of the summer Walter would never see wafted through the open driver's side window, carried on eddies of warm spring air.

  Commuting through Washington that morning, Walter had been surprised to see that the cherry blossoms were just beginning to peek from their buds. Since he hadn't noticed them on Friday, they had to have started coming out over the weekend. No matter how lousy his mood, the sight of those tiny pink buds always made him feel a little better.

  Walter drew slowly up the slight blacktopped incline from Clark Street in suburban Maryland, stopping his truck tight behind his teenage son's red Camaro. He cut the engine.

  Walter paused for a moment, staring at the closed garage door beyond Mike's sports car. The weak 1950s-style overhead bulb that hung next to the frayed, unused basketball net threw amber shadows across the weathered beige garage door.

  He was late again.

  Penny would be mad at him. Again. But that seemed to be a given lately. This just happened to be one of the busiest times of year for the construction firm he owned. What did she expect him to do-sell the business? The whole argument was stupid and was always the same. But Walter never heard her complain about the money. Oh, no. Sometimes he'd point this out, but it only provoked more yelling. Tonight he just wasn't in the mood.

  Walter let out a sigh that reeked of his threepack-a-day Marlboro habit and climbed wearily from his truck.

  The flagstone path had been installed in the 1960s and was showing definite signs of age. Walter noted dozens of cracked stones between the slowly disintegrating mortar as he trudged toward the front door.

  She'd been on him to fix the walk for at least five years. "You build buildings, for Christ's sake, Walter," Penny berated him with clockwork frequency. "With dozens of men working for you, you can't spare one mason to patch the goddamn walk?"

  Heading for the front door for what would be the last time, Walter decided to fix the walk. Just like that. Walter Anderson-a man who hadn't gotten his hands dirty in construction for more than a decade-would go to the hardware store and get a couple of bags of concrete mix. He would personally rip up and redo the walk this weekend.

  A spark inside him wanted to be nice. To do something decent for the mother of Mike and little Alice. But mostly he was just tired of hearing her nag. He wouldn't get one of his guys to do it. He'd do it himself.

  She'd probably find a reason to complain about that, too. They'd look destitute in the eyes of the neighbors if he did the work himself. They weren't paupers, after all.

  He didn't care. His next weekend's plans already set at nine o'clock Monday night, Walter happily slipped his house key from the others on the ring in his hand and brought it up to the lock on his front door.

  At just the slightest pressure, the door popped open.

  "Damn kids," Walter muttered as he pushed the door open all the way. "Least it's not January." He took one step across the threshold-his hand still on the brass knob-when he felt a sudden blinding pain shoot through the side of his head. He reeled in place.

  The living room was swept in dark maroon shadows. Penny was there. So were the kids, Alice and Mike. On the couch. Gray electrical tape across their mouths. Eyes pleading. Hands and feet bound tightly together.

  The pain again. Powerful. Overwhelming. A second to realize he'd been attacked.

  He lunged at his assailant. Or wanted to. But something had changed. Penny and the two kids were lower now. On his level. Terrified.

  No. He was on their level.

  He had fallen. Hands reached up to ward off the next blow. Something struck his fingers, slamming them against his own skull. A shotgun butt.

  Fresh pain. Fingers, broken.

  Blood on his fingers. His own blood from the gaping wound in the side of his head.

  The room was spinning. Ceiling whirling high above him. Cracked plaster. He'd promised to fix that, too.

  This weekend. Along with the walk. Hell, he'd even clean the garage. Everything this w
eekend. If only he could live. If only God would spare his beautiful wife and precious, precious children.

  The room, and the world around it, was collapsing into a brilliant hot flash of light. Coalescing into a pinprick explosion. Flickering once, then vanishing forever.

  One final blow to the head, and Walter Anderson collapsed in a bloody heap to the floor, never to move again. The front door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the view of the cracked flagstone walk, the repairs of which would now be left to the new, future owners of the Anderson house.

  "GET THOSE DAMN CAMERAS out of here!" Lieutenant Frederick Jonston had yelled that three times already, growing angrier each time. No one seemed to want to listen tonight.

  One of the uniforms disengaged from crowd control and headed over to the cluster of reporters. A few other officers followed his lead. Together, they corralled the members of the press back behind the yellow sawhorses.

  It was a zoo. At first Jonston had wanted to string up whoever had alerted the media by their eyeballs, but the detective found out after arriving on the scene that the press had received a cryptic phone call from the hostage takers themselves. Just as the police had.

  "They still not answering?" Jonston asked the sergeant on the radiophone in the car next to him. "Nothing, Lieutenant."

  Leaning on the open door of the squad car, Jonston looked at the house. Upper middle class. Neatly tended grounds. Nice neighborhood. He frowned.

  Lights from the roofs of a dozen cruisers and the dashboards of as many unmarked cars sliced through the postmidnight darkness.

  This hostage drama had gone on for four hours. If Jonston had his way, it would not go on another four.

  He turned to the sergeant. "How long's it been?"

  "More than twenty minutes."

  That was the last time they'd heard from the men holding the Anderson family.

  One of the hostage takers' victims was already dead. They had let the son-maybe seventeen years old-get as far as the front door before shooting him in the back of the head. There had been a lot of screaming inside after that.