Last Rites td-100

by Warren Murphy

  "She would have to be as old as the hills by now," Remo breathed, looking out at Honolulu basking in the midday sun.

  Smith cleared his throat. "I suppose you would like to visit her?"

  "Try and stop me," Remo growled.

  "She is dying. She can do us no harm if you are discreet."

  "Why are you doing this?" Remo asked suspiciously.

  "Call it a gesture of good faith. I am at a dead end in the search for your progenitors. Sister Mary Margaret may be able to put your mind at rest."

  "If she knew anything, she would have told me long ago."

  "Did she ever tell you she caught a glimpse of the man who left you on the orphanage doorstep?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "MacCleary. Back at the beginning. Since she failed to recognize the man, it didn't matter. It was a dead end."

  "Tell me where she is."

  "Oklahoma City. Our Lady of Perpetual Care Home for the Infirm. Ask for a Sister Novella. Tell her you are a friend of Conrad MacCleary."

  Remo grunted. "A nursing home. No wonder I never heard different. She might as well have been in prison."

  "You should waste no time, Remo. I am reliably informed she is at death's door."

  "Don't sweat it. I can hardly wait to get back to the U.S.A. Chiun has some godforsaken place called Hesperia on my itinerary."

  And Remo hung up.

  Sneaking out of the hotel, he hailed a cab and got on the first standby flight to the U.S.A., figuring he could reach Oklahoma City from any spot in the country. But once Chiun caught up with him, all bets were off.

  He wasn't followed. This made Remo suspicious. He wondered where the Master of Sinanju had disappeared to. It wasn't like the old reprobate to be so easily fooled.

  But as he flew to San Francisco, Remo prowled the aisles several times, searching the faces of the other passengers. None of them were Chiun.

  The first-class stewardess wondered if the seat next to Remo was empty.

  "You're the flight attendant," Remo said. "You should know."

  The stewardess took Remo's surly growl as an invitation. "Do you live in San Francisco?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Visiting? I could show you the town!"

  "It's a stopover. I'm going on to Oklahoma City."

  "I have a third cousin twice removed in Oklahoma City! I haven't seen her in years. Tell you what, I'll take the rest of the month off and we'll do Oklahoma City together."

  Remo made his face sad. "Actually I'm going to a funeral."

  "Wonderful! I love funerals. So does my cousin. Maybe we can find a date for her, too."

  "Are you listening to anything I'm saying?" Remo asked. "I'm going to a funeral and I'd like to be alone with my thoughts."

  The stewardess rested a soothing hand on Remo's own. "I understand perfectly. I'll just sit here and give you silent emotional support."

  "Get lost," said Remo. Setting his seat back all the way and closing his eyes, he let himself sink into blackness.

  A STURDY MAN with a bull neck and merciless black eyes rose up from a plane of darkness all but invisible against a deeper blackness.

  "I am Nonja," he said, his voice the croaking of a bullfrog.

  "You can call me Remo."

  "I mastered the sun source at an early age, but all my life I lived in ignorance."

  "The Great Wang said you know about my father."

  "I had a son. His name was Kojing."

  "I think I heard of him."

  "I had to come to this Void before my ignorance was banished," Nonja intoned. "Know this, O white-skin."

  "Master Kojing lived in the Choson Kingdom era," said Remo. "That much I remember because Persia and Egypt were no longer clients, and there wasn't much work for the House."

  "Master Kojing had a secret. Do you know it?"

  "If I did, I forgot it long ago."

  "You must try to remember. It is very important."

  "Sorry. I give up. Tell me about my father."

  Nonja frowned deeply, his dour face falling into fleshy gullies. "Kojing will tell you this. For I must go."

  "That's it? I don't have to fight you?"

  "No, you do not have to fight me," said Nonja.

  "Good," said Remo. "Not that I couldn't take you." And without warning, Nonja swept Remo off his feet with a sweeping kick to his ankles.

  "Hey! What was that about?" asked Remo from the plane of darkness on which he sprawled.

  "It was about never dropping your guard. Your Master should be ashamed of you."

  "Hey, I just wrestled the Father of All Squid. I'm bushed."

  "Be grateful then I did not strike a death blow, big foot."

  "Wait! What about my father?"

  Master Nonja crossed one ankle before the other. His legs scissored apart at the knees. Dropping into a lotus position before Remo's sprawled form, he dropped into the black plane of the Void and out of sight.

  WHEN REMO WOKE up, the stewardess was still holding his hand lovingly. She smiled dreamily.

  "You talked in your sleep."

  "Did I make sense?" Remo asked.

  "No. You were adorable. I could have listened all night."

  "It's day."

  "That was an invitation." And the stewardess favored Remo with a blatant wink.

  Excusing himself, Remo went to the rest room and locked himself in until he heard the landing gear whining down from their wells and the passengers stir from their seats.

  Slipping among the exiting passengers and walking low behind a lady who weighed more than a baby elephant, Remo managed to slip past the sentinel stewardess and off the plane unseen.

  Changing planes, he found all flights to Oklahoma City full.

  "I'll fly standby," Remo told the redheaded clerk. She gave him an inviting smile. "Every flight is absolutely, positively filled to capacity until tomorrow. At least."

  "I'm in a rush."

  The clerk leaned forward. Her lips were almost as red as her hair. "I'd be happy to put you up at my place until tomorrow," she purred. "I have a very comfy sofa bed. It sleeps two. Three if you're adventurous." She winked.

  "I have to go out today."

  "In that case," the clerk snapped, her face reddening, "you can walk for all I care." She slapped a Closed sign on the counter.

  "Damn," muttered Remo. "Since when did Oklahoma City become so popular?"

  Going to the gate, he tried to bribe his way onto the flight. One passenger expressed interest, but changed his mind when Remo found he had only thirty dollars and two ancient coins on him.

  When a male steward happened by, Remo got an idea. Digging into his wallet, he pulled his Remo Black sky marshal's ID card. It was a little waterlogged around the edges, but still readable.

  Accosting the flight attendant, Remo showed his ID and said, "The federal government needs your cooperation."

  "Sure. What can I do?"

  "We have intelligence out of the Middle East there will be an attempt to skyjack the Oklahoma City flight. It's booked solid, and I have to get on board without alerting the terrorists."

  "How can I help?"

  "I need your uniform."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm going to take your place. It's for the safety of the passengers and crew."

  When the man hesitated, Remo told him. "If you're not on the flight, you're not likely to catch a stray round."

  The flight attendant squared his shoulders bravely. "If it's for my country, I'll do it."

  Five minutes later Remo emerged from the men's room and boarded the flight unchallenged.

  It was a smooth flight. He only had to step on the toes of one smitten stewardess to discourage her. And he picked up two hundred dollars in tips and assorted phone numbers and propositions on crumpled napkins from female passengers.

  He kept the money. The napkins he threw away.

  Chapter 17

  Everywhere he went, Sunny Joe Roam saw death. They lay sick in their hogans. They sp
rawled in the hot sun drinking again, drinking heavily to kill the pain and numb the mind to that fact that they were doomed. They were all doomed, Sunny Joe saw. Even himself, if he stayed. Death hung in the very air. Men shivered unnaturally in the 130-degree heat.

  By the time he realized it was too late for them all, Sunny Joe had kicked out the virologist flown in from New York and turned away the Arizona State epidemiologist, saying, "This is Sun On Jo land. Sun On Jo laws apply here, not yours."

  "I know that," said the state epidemiologist through his particle-filter mask. "But state law requires the reservation be quarantined. No one in and no one out." And he solemnly handed over a big red sign.

  Sunny Joe had nailed it to the corral fence on the spot.

  Walking his horse back after posting the sign, Sunny Joe met Tomi on the dusty road.

  "We're all gonna die, aren't we, Sunny Joe?"

  "You knew that from the time you were a pup, Tomi."

  "No, I mean we're all gonna die soon. And together."

  "Would you rather die alone?"

  "I'd rather not die at all." Tomi spit into the dust. "Think it's the deer mice, like the paleface medicos say?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I'd like to know what killed me, yeah."

  "The specialist says it's the mice. The rains made 'em multiply. They carry the virus in their bodies and in their droppings and their urine. He says we make a mistake when we abandon the hogans of those who die. The mice get in and make it their home, and when the mourning period is over, we catch it when we clean out the mice. The more who die, the more will die if we stick to our ways, he said."

  "White people been trying to get us to mend our ways as long as I can remember, Sunny Joe."

  "Well, even if we all turned apple now, it'd be too damn late. There's no cure. Not for this kind of hantavirus."

  "That what he called it?"

  "Yeah. He said the healthy had only one hope. That was to clear out. Get as clear off the reservation as possible. Desert mice are too plentiful. No way to find and trap them all so they can't spread the Sun On Jo Disease."

  "You should go, Sunny Joe."

  "Can't. I'm the last Sunny Joe. The tribe depends on me. How could I turn my back on my people now?"

  "But you're a big man in the white world. You got money, position, fame. We're just Indians. The world will spin just fine without us."

  Sunny Joe spit into the dust, killing a tiny pinacate beetle.

  "I'm just as Sun On Jo as you, Tomi. Don't you ever breathe different. I said I come home to save my people or to die with them. Now I'm doing it. One or the other, I'm doing it."

  Sunny Joe stared off toward Red Ghost Butte. His rugged face was thoughtful.

  "It's the end of the Sun On Jos, ain't it, Sunny Joe?" said Tomi.

  Bill Roam nodded. "Hell, we been dying a damn long time. Not enough children been born, and too few of 'em female. When the last Sun On Jo squaw passed through the change of life, that was it. I thought I could bring some fresh blood in and keep us going a generation or two longer, but I was a fool. It was all pipe smoke. Without another Sunny Joe to take my place, there is no future."

  "What about the prophesy?"

  "Which prophesy is that?"

  "The one that says Ko Jong Oh will send one of his spirit warriors to help out the tribe when it is most in need."

  "Yeah. Forgot about that."

  "Well?"

  Sunny Joe blew out a long, sad breath. "I think if old Ko Jong Oh was going to do it, old Ko Jong Oh would have done it by now. Don't you, Tomi?"

  "Yeah. Guess it was just happy firewater talk."

  "Maybe."

  Abruptly Sunny Joe put his booted foot into a stirrup and mounted his big chestnut horse. He forked it toward the west.

  "Where you going?" Tomi called after him.

  "To Red Ghost Butte."

  "Nothing up there but the ancient ones."

  "That's where Ko Jong Oh dwells. I'm going to talk to him. Maybe he's plumb forgot about his spirit warrior. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe he'll be along directly."

  "Good luck, Sunny Joe."

  "Hah, Sanshin! Ride!"

  And the horse disappeared in a cloud of desert dust that hung in the hot still air like the red breath of death. As soon as he inhaled it, Tomi began coughing. The trouble was, he just couldn't quite stop.

  Chapter 18

  Remo kept glancing in the rearview mirror as he piloted the rental car from Will Rogers International Airport. He was not followed. He was sure of it-not that there was any way the Master of Sinanju could have followed him all the way from Honolulu.

  But Remo wasn't taking any chances.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Care Home for the Infirm was a rambling, nun-black Victorian building ten years in need of paint, with the sign hanging on rusty chains on the lawn. Remo walked up to the dark front door not knowing what to feel. Would Sister Mary remember him? Would she still be alive?

  He rang the bell and waited, focusing on his breathing. His stomach tightened in a way it used to when he was a boy and the world was a frightening place.

  The door opened and a middle-aged nun peered out.

  "I'm looking for Sister Novella."

  The nun regarded him owlishly. "And what is your business?"

  "My name is Remo. Williams," he added. The taste of the last name he no longer used was strange on his tongue. "I grew up in the orphanage where Sister Mary Margaret taught a long time ago."

  "I see. Well, in that case I am Sister Novella. Come in, Mr. Williams."

  Remo stepped in, and the smell of the place hit him with a shock. It was a mixture of antiseptics, candle wax and must. It smelled a little like Folcroft's main patient-care wing but not as clean. The mustiness was winning.

  He followed Sister Novella to a genteel sitting room with an old-fashioned tin ceiling. Her black habit swayed as she walked, her hands tucked absently into unseen pockets. Seen from behind, her head encased in a starched wimple, she might have been Sister Mary herself.

  "How did you find us, Mr. Williams?" Sister Novella asked after they had taken seats.

  Remo leaned forward in his chair. "I knew Conrad MacCleary."

  "And how is he?"

  "Dead."

  "Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Of course, I didn't know him personally. Mr. MacCleary arranged for Sister Mary to join us. It was after the fire, you know. She wasn't young, and when the orphanage-oh, what was its name?"

  "St. Theresa's."

  "Yes. St. Theresa's. Thank you. When St. Theresa's burned, it seemed to take the heart out of the poor dear. She had no more appetite for teaching. So she came here. First she tended to the sick and, as time passed, she duly became one of them. Mr. MacCleary seemed to take a special interest in her and asked to be informed in the event of her passing."

  "Sister Mary. Is she ... ?"

  "Still with us? Yes. But she was given the last rites one week ago."

  "I'd like to see her as soon as possible."

  "I must warn you, Mr. Williams, she may not know you."

  Remo's face seemed to fragment. His shoulders dropped.

  "Oh, it's not that," Sister Novella said quickly. "Her hearing is very poor, and she suffers from low vision. Cataracts, you know. You must not expect too much from her."

  "I understand."

  "Come this way."

  They walked down a corridor and into a floral-papered wing of the rambling old house that suddenly revealed the place for what it really was-a nursing home. Old women were visible through half-open doors, lying in beds or propped up in recliners, staring vacantly at televisions with eyes connected to brains that seemed not to quite comprehend the world around them.

  Remo suddenly felt a lump rising in his throat. A wave of overpowering sadness flooded through his body. He took a deep breath, charging the mitochondria of his body with reviving oxygen, drawing upon reserves of strength he knew he'd need to come face-to-face with his past.

  They cam
e to a paneled door at the far end of a musty corridor. The predominant smell in the air was candle wax.

  "Let me look in on her first," whispered Sister Novella. Remo nodded. The sister opened the door just enough to slip in, and it closed after her with a hesitant click.

  Remo waited, flexing his thick wrists. His heart seemed to be beating high and hard in his hot, tight throat.

  After only a moment the door reopened. "You may come in now."

  Remo stepped into a darkened room. The shades were drawn snug. There was only one item of furniture in the room. An oaken bed worn at each pineapple-style post. It was covered with a fringed bedspread that had once been white but was now very yellow.

  On the bed, stretched out like a mummy, lay Sister Mary Margaret. Remo thought he was prepared. But the shock of recognition was a kick in his stomach that made his heart jump and pound.

  Remo had never seen Sister Mary's uncovered head. Never even knew the color of her hair. But even without her wimple, her hair like iron strands on the dingy pillow, Remo could trace the sweet lines of the womanly face that could be so tender and stern by turns. It was Sister Mary Margaret. But Remo had carried for years a memory of a woman with strength in her face and wisdom in her pale gray eyes.

  That face was as twisted as a tree root now. Her head started on the pillow, struggling to see and hear with organs that had long ago failed.

  "I have a visitor for you, Sister Mary," Sister Novella called in a rising voice.

  The reply was a frail croak. "Eh?"

  "I said, you have a visitor."

  Weak eyes strained to see in the dim light. "Yes?"

  "His name is-"

  Remo interrupted, "Why don't I handle it from here? Could we be alone?"

  Sister Novella hesitated. "Oh, I don't think I-"

  "She practically raised me. There are things I need to say to her. Privately."

  Sister Novella nodded. "I understand. I will be in the sitting room when you are done. Please do not tire her."

  "I promise," Remo said.

  When the door closed, Remo stood in the semidarkness for a long time. Sister Mary seemed to forget she had been spoken to. A chink of light fell upon one searching eye, and it was a like a fat pearl dipped in egg white, cloudy and thick.

  Remo knelt at her bedside and took a waxy-smooth hand in his. It was cool to the touch. Her veins pulsed threadily.