Death Sentence td-80

by Warren Murphy

  Naomi backed away. "Don't even speak to me, you ... you impostor!"

  "What about her?" Remo asked.

  "If she agrees to accompany us, she will not be killed."

  "Well, I've come this far," Naomi said abruptly. "I'll see this through to the end."

  "That is laudable," Chiun said with a tight wise smile. "Come, let us be on our way while there is still light."

  The Master of Sinanju stepped aside for the two whites to lead. They hesitated, then, seeing the elfin twinkle that he allowed to come into his clear hazel eyes, they stepped past him. Remo pushed the nervous woman along with his hands on her shoulders.

  At the precise moment that they passed him, the Master of Sinanju tripped Remo. Remo went down like a sack of potatoes. The woman shrank back but she was not swift enough to elude the talonlike fingers that reached up for her long-necked throat.

  A moment's pressure on the base of the neck was sufficient. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she vented a sigh. Then she collapsed to the floor like a deflating balloon.

  Chiun stepped back and put his hands into his joined sleeves as Remo, his face horrified, knelt at the woman's side.

  "You little fraud, she's not breathing!" Remo said, looking up in anger.

  "She breathes poorly, but she breathes," Chiun told him unconcernedly.

  Remo placed a hand over her heart, and feeling a beat, let out his pent breath. The tightness in his face loosened.

  "Now what?" he demanded tightly. "Are you going to sandbag me next?"

  "Now that she will not interfere, you and I will go to Folcroft."

  Remo stood up, his hands bone-white fists of tension. "No more tricks?"

  "Not from me," Chiun said loftily.

  "Then you go first," Remo said, motioning for the Master of Sinanju to lead the way, which Chiun was only too happy to do. For night was coming on, and miles away, at Folcroft Sanitarium, there was much to be done, and many matters to settle.

  Particularly with the new director of CURE, Norvell Ransome.

  Chapter 23

  Norvell Ransome's watery eyes registered momentary shock as Remo and Chiun entered his office. Then a studied calmness dropped over them like a dingy veil.

  "Remo Williams, dear boy!" he exclaimed. "What an astonishing turn of events. You two have obviously found one another."

  "I found Remo," Chiun said, closing the door. Remo stepped off to one side, his dark eyes unreadable.

  "And the Vanderkloot woman?" Ransome inquired. It was almost a purr.

  "I dealt with her as Smith would have wished," Chiun said. "She will trouble us no longer."

  "Smith was-I mean is-an exceedingly efficient administrator. I know he would be pleased." Ransome cleared his throat with a rumble of phlegm. He touched the concealed stud under the lip of the desk and the CURE terminal disappeared silently, a blank panel sliding over its well.

  "I imagine, Remo, that you would like an explanation for your recent incarceration," Ransome said unctuously.

  Remo started to speak, but the Master of Sinanju shushed him with a knifelike gesture.

  "We would like an explanation," Chiun said pointedly.

  "To be sure." Norvell Ransome laid his pudgy fingers flatly on the desk. This was a critical moment. Chiun had found Remo and brought him back, as he had expected. The question remained, how much did Remo remember? And how would he react?

  "You are aware that the security of this operation requires extraordinary measures," Ransome began. "Especially measures in the event of compromise or catastrophic failure. Failure such as the compromising of this facility, or the death or exposure of one of its operatives."

  "We know this," Chiun intoned.

  Carefully Ransome lifted a copy of the National Enquirer from the desk drawer and held up the front page, showing the artistic likeness of Remo's face.

  "You both know of Smith's unfortunate situation," he continued. "It was brought about by this regrettable display of journalistic excess. Hence the need to remove the Vanderkloot woman. This presented the President with a conundrum. To shut down CURE operations? Or to await Smith's recovery and decide upon a course of action later? The President, I am pleased to report, resorted to the latter option. That is where I came in. My first instruction was to set into motion Operation RESTORE, which is one of Smith's rather ingenious, ah, retirement programs. I must say that this presented me with an unaccustomed challenge, but it was made much easier by your fortuitous absence, Master Chiun."

  "Are we going to listen to this windbag all night?" Remo demanded. "He's not giving us squat."

  "Hush," Chiun admonished. "Forgive my pupil. He has been testy since his recent brush with death."

  Ransome let that pass with a simple "Ah." He continued, "It was as simple as waiting until Remo was in the comfort of his very own domicile. A home which, I am sorry to inform you at this late date, Dr. Smith had the foresight to tamper with in certain subtle ways. In short, Mr. Williams, you were gassed in your sleep."

  "Impossible!" Chiun snapped. "No vapor could catch Remo unawares."

  "A colorless, odorless gas that insinuated itself into his bedroom while he slept," Ransome quickly inserted. "Remo was removed here to Folcroft by ambulance, where, still sedated, his memory was, I regret to say, tampered with. It is very complicated, but it involves a certain drug that wipes the memory clean, going back to any point the administrator-and I use the term advisedly-chooses. Rather like erasing a portion of audio tape. Artificial memories are substituted via posthypnotic suggestion. For Smith evidently felt that some memories might not suppress successfully. So they were transformed. I reviewed the computerized memory simulations before the Folcroft doctors-who thought they were conducting a modest experiment and was quite stunned.

  If you remembered Smith, you would recall him as judge Smith. A deceased CURE operative named MacCleary became the fodder for a simulated memory involving the murder of a prison guard who never existed. And if you remembered Chiun-Smith's greatest fear-you would trigger a memory of his unfortunate demise. After that, you were transferred from here, using altered documents. The rest you know. You woke up on Florida's unparalleled death row, unaware that you had not spent the previous two decades at the New Jersey correctional facility, which was the last true recollection you were allowed to retain."

  "You smarmy bastard!" Remo said, starting forward. Chiun stopped him with a hand placed to his chest.

  "Please," Norvell Ransome said, "restrain yourself. This was Dr. Smith's program. I merely, ah, executed it."

  "And the state of Florida nearly executed me," Remo snarled.

  "What?"

  "I was scheduled to die this morning."

  "Dear me. Is this true, Master Chiun?"

  "If Remo says it is true, it is true," Chiun returned coolly.

  "This was most unfortunate. Some bureaucratic malfeasance, for which the responsible parties will pay dearly, let me assure you. You see, it was all very elegant, but quite harmless. Remo, without memory of CURE or Folcroft or any of it, was simply deposited back in the place where he came from-death row. A facility other than Trenton State was mandated, of course, because Remo Williams had been executed at Trenton. Or so it is believed."

  "Then Haines was telling the truth," Remo gasped. Ransome's open face contracted suddenly.

  "Haines?"

  "The state executioner who was to pull the switch on me. The same one who did it years before," Remo said.

  "Really? The same executioner? Remarkable."

  "Dreadful," Chiun corrected. "We nearly lost Remo. "

  "That was not the intent of Project RESTORE, let me assure you." Globules of sweat were breaking out on Ransome's forehead now. One ran down one side of his nose and dripped into his open mouth. He swallowed it absently. "The plan was simply to keep Remo out of the public eye while Dr. Smith's situation became clear. For you see, this particular plan suited both problems: Smith's illness and the Enquirer exposure. "

  "What was suppo
sed to happen to me if Smith didn't recover?"

  "My dear man, you must understand me when I tell you that the answer to that question is classified. Who knows, but Dr. Smith or I may have to implement it at some future point." And Norvell Ransome broke out into bubbling laughter. It shook his bulky toadlike form, but left the Master of Sinanju and Remo unmoved. Ransome subsided.

  "Truthfully, that would be up to the President," Ransome said in a subdued voice. "Remo's memory is easily restored in the event Smith's possible demise does not effectively shut us down."

  "Well, now that we're all here," Remo said suspiciously, "what now?"

  "Now," Ransome said; glancing at his wristwatch, "it is growing late." He pushed himself up from his desk. "I anticipated Master Chiun's return, but not yours, Remo. A room has been prepared for you, and let me suggest you take advantage of it. For the night is no longer young."

  "I'm not sure I trust this guy," Remo said, causing a hurt expression to settle over Ransome's corpulent face.

  "Remo," Chiun hissed. "Shame on you. You have heard this man's reasonable explanation." Ransome's face brightened. "Let us take advantage of his generous hospitality. Tomorrow will be time enough to discuss the pressing matter of our future. And CURE's."

  "Excellent. Let me escort you to your room personally. Would you object to taking the elevator down? It's on the first floor."

  Without waiting for an answer, Norvell Ransome led the way. The flooring shook with his thunderous tread.

  "I've seen fat before," Remo whispered to Chiun, "but this bag of lard is an elephant. And his explanation may seen reasonable to you, but it sounds fishy to me. Take it from a guy who knows all there is to know about cons and con jobs."

  Chiun said nothing as they rode the elevator to the first floor.

  "Whew!" Remo said as they stepped out. "Good thing we had the elevator. Walking down an entire flight of steps is more than I'm up to tonight."

  His sarcasm was ignored by Chiun and Ransome. Ransome led them to a room in the patient wing. It was large, but sparsely furnished. Chiun recognized it as quarters he had occupied in times when he lived at Folcroft.

  "There are sleeping mats and a television, as you can see," Ransome was saying. "I will have dinner sent down if you wish. Would you like a menu?"

  "Just rice for me," Remo said, bringing a delighted smile to Chiun's parchment visage.

  "And rice for me as well," Chiun added.

  "Excellent," Norvell Ransome said, "it will be served presently. Now, if you will excuse me, I must bid you both a pleasant good night."

  After Ransome had gone, Remo looked at the solitary sleeping mats and, thinking of Naomi's futon, asked, "Doesn't anyone sleep on beds anymore?" Chiun's answer was lost in hissing white clouds spurting from the wallboards on every side.

  It looked like steam but it bit the skin like dry ice. The Master of Sinanju reacted instantly. But instantly was too late, for his limbs were quick-frozen at once, like a TV dinner. He fell, one elbow and a bent knee preventing his rigid body from touching the floor.

  Remo fell straight back, his hands on his hips. He hit like a board, still and unyielding. His face was as white as a snowman's. He's still-open eyes stared blindly, the pupils frozen with a dusting of opaque ice.

  And out in the corridor, Norvell Ransome turned the hand wheel marked "Liquid Nitrogen" and closed the wall panel concealing it.

  He took the elevator back to his office, suddenly regretting that he had not thought to ask either of them what the acronym CURE had stood for. Well, the night was young. Perhaps the computers would finally give up that most stubborn secret.

  After all, CURE had surrendered everything else of value. Including its most potent human weapons. The too-brief sensation of weightlessness ceased and brought Norvell Ransome's bulk back down to earth. He stepped past the sliding elevator doors and into the dim corridor, where he spied a peripheral flicker of movement and felt a slight breath of disturbed air.

  A fire door was closing, and beyond it came the soft pad of feet on stairs. Norvell Ransome went to the door and opened it. He peered down. The stairwell was empty.

  "Security guard, no doubt," he told himself. Then he waddled back to the office, intending to call the captain of the guards about the annoying irregularity.

  He had ordered rigorously timed tours of the building and grounds.

  Norvell Ransome eased himself into the cracked leather chair and reached for the blue telephone. He stopped, his hand frozen over the receiver. It quivered as his eyes drank in the sight of the CURE terminal screen, up from its well like a blank-faced robot.

  "What the devil," he said under his breath. He was certain he had returned it to its well before leaving. It was standard CURE security procedure, which he adhered to religiously.

  Ransome blinked. In the exact middle of the screen, a short string of glowing green letters floated. Ransome leaned closer. When he read the words, every muscle in his face went slack. His jaw dropped, giving him two extra chins. He swore aloud, but all that came out was a froggy croak.

  For the words on the screen constituted a simple message: I AM BACK.

  Chapter 24

  Dr. Alan Dooley crept down the third-floor corridor to Folcroft's hospital wing. He slipped into Dr. Smith's room, his eyes haunted.

  Smith lay under the oxygen tent. He was the color of fish skin, Dr. Dooley saw. His lips and fingernails were gray. Not blue. They had been a faint blue just minutes ago. Smith was improving. Dooley couldn't understand how.

  He stepped up to the plastic tenting and rustled it. Smith's eyes fluttered open. "It's me, Dooley," Dooley told him. "I did exactly as you asked. It was easy, once I located the status key."

  "What did computer say?" Smith's words were a croak.

  "The words were PALLIATIVE. RESTORE. FREEZE-DRY"

  "PALLIATIVE," Smith muttered dryly. "That means he's sanctioned. And you say he ordered you to ignore my medical needs?"

  "Not in so many words," Dooley admitted. "But it was clear that he preferred that you never recover. He forbade any significant medical intervention, such as an operation. When I insisted, he sent me away. But my conscience bothered me. I relieved the other doctor."

  "You are not part of the Folcroft staff," Smith said.

  "I was on staff of New York City Hospital. Ransome contacted me. Insisted I resign and come to work here. He ... he knew some things about me. I don't know how it's possible, but he did."

  "The computer told him," Smith said.

  "What kind of computer would know-"

  "-that you are a suspected child molester?" Dr. Dooley started. "The less you know," Smith added, "the better off you will be. Now let me think. RESTORE means that Remo is out of the picture. FREEZE-DRY can only mean he's used the liquid-nitrogen room. He's very smart. He must have neutralized Chiun." Smith's voice lifted. "Dooley. Listen carefully. Go to the first floor, the dormitory wing. You will find a wall panel outside Room Fifty-five. Open it and depress the red button. Wait one hour and Room Fifty-five will open automatically. Assist the individual you will find inside. Inform him that you are acting on my behalf. Then bring him to me. Is that understood?"

  "Yes. I think."

  "Now, go. Ransome will be puzzled by the message you left on the terminal. This will be the first place he will look."

  Dr. Dooley withdrew from the room. He started for the elevator, but the indicator light winked on. Someone was about to step off the lift. Dooley ducked back and slipped through a fire exit leading to the stairwell.

  Norvell Ransome stepped off the elevator. It was most distressing, he ruminated. The CURE computer had been accessed. Remo and Chiun were out of the picture. That left only Smith.

  Ransome hesitated outside Smith's door. What if this was a lure of some kind? Physical danger was not one of Norvell Ransome's loves in life. It was the reason why, when the government combed Ivy League universities in the 1960's for members of prominent old-line families, Norvell Ransome of the Virginia
Ransomes opted for the NSA and not the CIA. Guns were the first resort of the intellectually limited.

  Taking a deep breath, Ransome pushed open the door. Smith lay inert, apparently unchanged from hours before. He approached the bedside cautiously, noticing the absence of blue from Smith's lips and nails. They gave him a deathlier cast, but a glance at the heart monitor oscilloscope indicated a steady heartbeat. Smith's sunken chest continued to rise and fall with his faint breathing.

  No, Norvell Ransome decided, Dr. Harold W. Smith had not been the interloper. It was not his nature to boldly proclaim his return with the childish statement "I am back."

  Ransome hurried from the room, thinking: Who? Only four persons were supposed to know of CURE's existence. Its three operatives were contained. That left only the President, but he was hardly a likely candidate. Yet someone with knowledge of CURE was prowling Folcroft. It must be one of the secrets in the hidden files, along with the meaning of the acronym CURE.

  This time Ransome impatiently suffered through the elevator descent. There was nothing to make the blood course through the body like a good mystery.

  Dr. Alan Dooley was surprised when at last the door to Room 55 opened and he found two individuals on the floor. They lay there like grotesque discarded mannequins. The walls radiated a strong warmth. Dooley had noticed the hand wheel marked "Liquid Nitrogen" and understood. These men had been quick-frozen by the only substance known to do it safely without cellular damage. They probably never knew what hit them. Dooley shivered in the warmth as he knelt and raised their eyelids. He passed a hand over their pupils, intercepting the light. He got reactions from both men. Good.

  "Wake up," Dooley hissed, slapping the white man. "Come on," he urged. The white man did not respond, but the Asian began to stir on his own. He sat up suddenly, his eyes fierce.

  "I'm Dr. Dooley. Smith sent me."

  "I am interested in the one called Ransome," the Asian said coldly. Then he noticed the other man. "Remo!" he said, shocked.

  "He's okay. It's just taking him longer to come around. You were quick-frozen."

  As the Asian ministered to the other man, he said, "And I promise you that the fate that awaits that elephant will not be quick, but infinitely slow."