"No. That is what causes illness. But if doctors cannot get people to think right and end their illness, then they must do it some other way. It is a gift they have. You should not denigrate. Least of all, you, who have no gifts at all."
"Since when did you become a spokesman for the AMA?"
"I do not know what it is, this AMA, but if it involves speaking only the truth, then I am for it."
Remo only grunted, thoroughly down now after having been so up. Victory no longer seemed as assured as it had when he jumped through the door. There was work yet to be done.
And he had something else to think about. The aging of Mrs. Wilberforce had been nagging at his brain, and he realized now what it reminded him of. Anthony Stace in Scranton. Remo had been looking for a vigorous middle-aged man and instead had found a parchment-brittle old spectre who seemed to welcome death in preference to being old.
Had it happened to him, too? That sudden aging? And what was it he had told Remo? "Stay away from hospitals." Had it happened to him too? Kathy Hahl had said shock could produce that kind of effect, but Remo had never heard of shock this severe.
"Chiun, how does a man grow old?"
"By donating the best years of his life to an ungrateful whelp who does not even acknowledge the finest of gifts." Chiun was still angry.
"Chiun, for a minute, forget Barbra Streisand. I just saw a woman die. Three days ago, she was a big, strong, loud hulk who could've busted a bear's back."
"It sounds like no great loss," Chiun said.
"No. But just now, she looked a hundred years old. She was thin and wrinkled. Dammit, Chiun, she was old. And a week ago, I ran into a man who was the same way. Overnight, he had aged."
"And you do not understand it?"
"No," Remo said.
"There are many things in the world we do not understand. How does an American meat-eater learn the secrets of Sinanju? What makes him able to climb a wall, to break a bond, to withstand a potion?"
Remo waited for Chiun to answer his own questions as he usually did, but there was no answer. Remo said, "I changed, Chiun. That's how I was able to do these things."
"And you changed because you willed yourself to change."
"Are you saying these people got old because they willed themselves to?"
"No," Chiun said. "I say they grew old because they did not will themselves to stay young. Perhaps one of your country's special medicines made them old. But it could not have happened unless they allowed it. No one changes unless he allows himself to change. They grow old only who have been waiting to grow old."
"Thank you for no answer at all."
"Call upon me anytime," Chiun said, and returned his gaze to the window.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"His name is Doctor Demmet. No, I don't know the first name. Just Demmet."
"A minute," Smith said. "Let me run that through the computer."
Remo heard the telephone being placed down, then he heard Smith working at the small computer console in his office. Thirty seconds later, the phone was picked up.
"If there is anything, we should have it in a minute or so," Smith said. "What about this Demmet? Why him?"
"I don't really know," Remo said. "It was just the look on his face in the emergency room." Remo thought back, saw again Demmet's strained thin-lipped face, his obvious mixed emotions when Mrs. Wilberforce began to sink. His frenzied effort to save her, to keep her alive, but then the look of relief on his face when there was nothing else he could do for her. "It was just the way he looked," Remo said again.
"Not much in the way of concrete information," Smith said dryly. "Hardly twenty-five-thousand dollars worth."
"Well, actually," Remo said testily, "I was thinking of distributing a questionnaire to the staff here. Which one of you is a killer? If not you, list five suspects in descending order of probability. Then when I get them all together, I was going to ship them to you and you could run them through that idiot computer, which would probably decide that the guilty party was me. Dammit, of course I don't have anything concrete yet, I just got here."
"Wait," Smith interrupted. "The printout's coming."
He paused for a full minute, then began to read;
"Demmet, Daniel, M.D. Born in Elkton, Maryland."
"Skip the who's who. Get on with it, please," Remo said.
Smith paused a moment, then said, "Demmet was one of the consulting physicians when Nathan Wilberforce died. He was the anaesthesiologist when Boulder, the IRS man, died."
"Is that concrete enough for you?" Remo gloated.
"It is highly suggestive," Smith said.
"Suggestive, my left nostril. It's solid."
"Suggestive. I'd keep a weather eye on Demmet if I were you."
"Thank you," Remo said testily. "And if you were me, what would you do if you saw a woman age forty years in a couple of days?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" Remo realized that suddenly Smith was fully attentive.
He told the director about Anthony Stace, and then about Mrs. Wilberforce. There was silence on the phone when he finished.
"Not so quick with your suggestions now, are you?" Remo said. "You sometimes seem to have the idea it's easy out here in the field. I don't think you have any real concept of the kind of work I do."
"Mediocre work, generally," Smith said. "On the aging business, I have no explanation. I'll try to get autopsy reports on the two bodies."
"You do that. You do that. And in the meantime, I'll stay here doing the hard, difficult work that solves problems like this."
"I'm touched," Smith said. "I hadn't realized how hard you work."
"That's the trouble," Remo said. "No one realizes how hard I work."
"I'll keep it in mind." Smith hung up.
Remo put the phone carefully back, restraining his impulse to break it into little plastic chips, only because the bill for the phone would go to Smith and he didn't want to have to put up with that again. He looked around the large sitting room, illuminated now only by the conical splash of light from the high-intensity lamp on the wall over his head.
Chiun slept on a thin mat in a corner of the room. Remo watched him, then went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. Slowly, he began to breathe deeply, down into the pit of his stomach, to try to rid himself of his tension and annoyance. Breathe. Deep. Down into the groin. Hold it. Release. Two counts for inhale. Two counts for hold. Two counts for slow exhale. He did it again and again. And again.
The breathing exercise blotted out his surroundings. His perceptions eased. His level of consciousness lowered. Tension began to drain from his body and mind. Pure silence. Pure rest.
"Hnnnnnkkkkk." The noise was like an un-oiled buzz saw ripping wet green wood. It went through Remo's ears like an ice-pick. What the hell was that?
"Hnnnnnnkkkkk" came the sound again, even louder this time.
It was Chiun. Snoring.
"Knock that off, Chiun," Remo yelled at the open door.
"Hnnnnnnkkkkkk."
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Remo growled. He got up out of the bed and slammed the door.
Before he returned to his bed, it came again.
"Hnnnnnnkkkkkk."
Remo went out into the sitting room and looked over at the sleeping Chiun.
What he would have liked to do would have been to go over to Chiun and put his toe into Chiun's side and get him to stop the snoring. What he would not have liked would have been the broken leg, or worse, that would be sure to follow.
"How's a guy supposed to sleep around here?" he asked aloud.
"Hnnnnnkkkkkk."
Remo slipped on his gumsoled shoes and walked out into the now darkened hospital hallway. His annoyance bubbled in him and momentarily he considered introducing the entire hospital staff to Remo's unique of way of observing the Feast of the Pig. No. Smith would go nuts over another Scranton.
Instead he walked the corridors, at first hearing his gumsoled shoes squish against the highly polished mar
ble floor, then trying to forget his mind in his body, and practicing walking silently, soundlessly.
He found a dark corridor around the corner from his room, and began to practice the Ninja side crawl. He stood with his back to the wall, then began to move down the hallway, left foot crossing over right, right left lifting and extending full, then left over again. Back and forth, he did it, faster and faster, until he was moving with the speed of a sprinter. Four times down the corridor, four times back. It did no good, and on his last return trip, he heard his gumsole squeak once on the final move, and the sloppiness only increased his annoyance.
He ran straight up along the corridor, through a fire door, down to the next floor, along the corridor, down another flight of steps to the next floor, along another corridor, practicing moving silently, and he finally pushed open a fire door, to find himself in the hallway next to the clinic's main lobby. He still was not tired, he was not breathing hard, and he wasn't at peace with himself.
He went back up the stairs to the fifth floor, and moved away from his room, down a long corridor to the back section of the new wing where there were more patient's rooms. He stood listening to the breathing of the patients. A nurse's station should be down the hall and he turned his hearing in that direction. He could hear a ball point pen skidding through its greasy ink across a piece of paper. The nurse was there writing. But maybe it wasn't the nurse. He listened harder. He could hear the faint rustling crackle of a hard fabric, moving in unison with the pen. It was probably a nurse's nylon uniform. Good enough, he thought.
He trained his attention on the door of the third room down the hall. It was slightly ajar.
Remo tried to blot out all other sounds on the floor. He listened intently. Yes. Two people were in that room. Both men. No, wait. One was a woman. The man's breath was shallow and nasal. The woman's breath deeper and slower.
No, Remo, you're wrong. What would a woman be doing in a hospital room with a man?
He listened again. No. It was a man and a woman. Even if it shouldn't be.
That would be all he needed tonight to make the evening complete, a failure on his listening exercises.
He moved along the near wall until he was opposite the slightly opened door. He still could not see the nurse—if it was a nurse—at her desk.
He moved across the marble floor through the swinging door into the dark room. There were two beds there. A man in one, a woman in another.
Okay. The hearing had been right. He felt pretty good. Still he wondered what a man and woman were doing in the same room. What was this—a coed hospital? Was nothing sacred anymore?
Feeling relieved and rested, he walked out into the hallway. He looked down the hall and saw the nurse at her station, writing patients' reports. She chose that moment to look up and see him. Her face widened with surprise. Her hand instinctively reached for the telephone.
Remo walked toward her, smiling.
"Hi," he said.
"Who are you?" she said, her hand still on the telephone.
"Well, actually, I'm an undercover investigator for the state anti-vice and morals commission and I'm wondering what that man and woman are doing together in Room 561."
"That's Mr. Downheimer. His wife is staying with him while he recovers from surgery. But who said you could come up here?"
"Nothing stops me in the search for immorality," Remo said. "It must be rooted out wherever it is, if we're going to preserve the moral fibre of the republic. This is a republic, you know, and not a democracy."
"But…"
"A lot of people think it's a democracy, but it's not really. Ask Chiun. He thinks it's an empire, but actually that's wrong too, you know. A republic. That's all, a republic."
"I think I'm going to call an attendant," she said, lifting the receiver.
"I never met an attendant who knew the difference between a democracy and a republic," Remo said. "But if you think he can take part in our conversation, why go ahead and call him. Actually, though, it was getting late and I was going to leave."
"The attendant will show you out," she said.
"Out? I'm not going out. I'm just going back to my room."
"Where's your room?" The nurse was blonde and pert, and wore a name tag of Nancy. Remo thought for a moment to invite her to his room. But no, Chiun would get upset. Besides she looked like a good nurse and that meant she wouldn't leave her station.
"I'm in Room 515," Remo said. "Over that way." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Mr. Williams."
"The Mr. Williams?"
"I don't know if I'm the Mr. Williams. I'm just plain old Mr. Williams. Just another average, fun-loving, tax-dodging billionaire hermit."
The nurse was flustered. "Oh, Oh." She took her hand away from the telephone, "I had heard you were on this floor, but I never thought I'd see you."
"Do me a favour, Nancy, and don't tell anyone else I'm here. I don't want reporters around. Okay?"
"Sure."
"Good. You working again tomorrow night?"
The nurse nodded.
"Fine. Maybe I'll sneak out to see you again and we can talk some more."
"That would be nice."
Remo turned to his right from the desk, toward a set of double doors. The doors had a plastic red and white sign mounted that read:
NO TRESPASSING. KEEP OUT. VISITORS NOT PERMITTED.
"You can't go through that way, Mr. Williams," the nurse called.
"Oh? What's in here?"
"The hospital's research laboratories. No one's permitted in there. You'll have to take the long way around."
"Okay," Remo said. "See you tomorrow." He smiled at her and began to run quietly down the hall.
By the time he got back to his suite, he felt better. Nurse Nancy had been pleasant, he had gotten rid of his anger and tension, and he hadn't even had to kill anyone.
He lay down in bed, smiling slightly to himself, feeling at peace with the world, and before he dozed off the last thing he heard was:
"Hnnnnnnkkkk."
"Damned Chinaman," he hissed to himself and fell asleep, but not before pondering what might be behind those closed doors of the research laboratories.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I did not sleep all night." Chiun had donned a long green robe and stood looking out the window of the sitting room.
"You didn't?" said Remo.
"No. I kept waking up, hearing this awful sound. But when I awoke, I saw nothing. I heard nothing. It was very strange. Did you not hear it?"
"Was it a long, terrible sound, like a crazy goose? Sort of a 'hnnnnkkkkkkk'?"
"Yes. That was it."
"No. I didn't hear it. We will watch for it together tonight."
Chiun searched his face for something less than honesty, but saw nothing there except blandness.
"You are a good son at times."
"Thank you, Little Father."
"Even if you do not give me the only Christmas present I seek, after I made you that beautiful tree."
Remo looked away with a sigh. Someday, he might have to present Barbra Streisand to Chiun.
He showered and later asked Chiun, "What will you do today, Little Father?"
"I thought I would watch these marvellous doctors as they heal the sick and save the dying. Just like Dr. Ravenel on the beautiful dramas. Am I allowed to do that?"
"Of course," said Remo. "You're that noted Korean physician, Dr. Park, aren't you?"
"And you?"
"Today, I'm going to look behind some closed doors," Remo said.
He wore his white doctor's gown, his stolen stethoscope and his black sunglasses as he strolled around the corridors to the research labs.
Remo paused in the corridor facing the doors, waiting to see if there was any pattern of movement in or out. His presence was ignored by nurses and doctors on the floor. He stuck his head into Room 561 where Mr. and Mrs. Downheimer were staying. They were sitting on the edges of their beds, the bedside cabinet between them, and playing K
alah, an ancient African game played with stones. Both looked up as Remo paused in the doorway.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," Mrs. Downheimer answered.
"Enjoying your stay?" Remo asked.
"Yes, thank you."
"I looked in on you last night. You slept very soundly." Remo glanced over his shoulder along the corridor. Still no one at the door.
"Yes. I really feel rested," Mr. Downheimer said.
"Keep up the good work. Who's winning?"
"I am," Downheimer said.
"I am," Mrs. Downheimer said.
Remo heard feet moving toward the end of the corridor. "Well, take care yourselves now," he said, and backed out into the hall.
A big shouldered man in medical whites, with shoulder-length black greasy hair, was coming through the double iron doors. They opened with a heavy squeak.
The man pushed the door shut behind him, then tested the handle to make sure it was locked. Satisfied, he walked down the corridor past Remo toward the elevator. As he passed Remo, he nodded. Remo nodded back. He was not sure whether the man was a doctor or not. He decided not because the man was not wearing a stethoscope, just as the man had decided Remo was a doctor because he was wearing one.
Remo stood in the doorway, watching the man's back until he turned the corner toward the bank of elevators. Remo waved to the Downheimers again, walked toward the end of the corridor and the heavy iron doors. Casually, he passed the nurse's station, nodding to the nurse on duty. She said politely, "Good morning, doctor," then watched as he made for the doors.
He fumbled in the pocket of his medical gown, clicking his fingernails together to simulate the sound of keys clacking on a ring. He put his body between the nurse and the doorknob, mimed inserting a key into the lock, then with his left hand, crushed the door handle, pressing it past the locking pin until the handle gave way and the door bolt slid free.
He returned his imaginary keys to his pocket, turned and smiled at the nurse and went in through the right hand door, pulling it shut tightly behind him.
He was in a large room, filled with sound. Off to the left were a string of small offices, and to the right was a large laboratory that reminded Remo of chemistry labs he had seen back in Weequahic High School in Newark.
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