Except for the sound.
The room was filled with cages. The cages were filled with lab animals—rats, cats, dogs, a few monkeys. Their combined noises were a roaring din, and Remo realized the heavy reinforcement of the doors had screened the ruckus from the outside halls.
In the back of the lab room were long tables. Other tables were interspersed between the cages. Racks of test tubes and instruments were on the tables. Along the side walls, partially obscuring the view from the windows, were tall white cabinets. One was half open and in it Remo could see supplies of chemicals and drugs in little bottles and flasks.
Remo moved into the room and the animals hushed. He could feel their eyes on him, watching him move.
Now what? He realized what a waste of time the whole idea had been. So the hospital had a private research lab. What in the hell did that have to do with anything, except research?
For a moment, he considered leaving, then shrugged and moved in among the cages.
The first cage contained a black alley cat. On the front of the cage was a neatly labelled sign that read: "Clyde. Born 11/14/72." The cat watched Remo insolently as he read the white tag. The cat licked its lips. Remo stuck a finger into the cage to tickle the cat's neck. The cat retreated to the far side of the cage, cringing.
Not much of a cat, Remo decided, and moved to the next cage.
It held another cat, also black, but this one's facial whiskers were grayed and the animal was emaciated. It lay quietly in a corner of the cage and as Remo stepped in front of the wire mesh, it rose to its feet with great effort and obvious discomfort and stood in the center of the cage. The cat yawned, so Remo could see many of its teeth were missing—its gums were old, wrinkled and dark.
It looked like the grandfather of all cats. No: grandmother. Remo looked at the tag on the cage:
"Naomi. Born 11/14/72."
"Naomi," Remo said. "Nice Naomi." He stuck a finger into the cage and that cat looked at it in disdain, as if it were something the dog had dragged in. "Here, nice Naomi," Remo said softly.
The cat refused to move, refused to acknowledge his finger.
Remo shrugged. "To hell with you, cat," he said.
He began to walk away, toward the front door, when he paused. Something was wrong. What was it?
He turned back to the two cages. Clyde and Naomi. Mother and son? Grandmother and son? They looked it. Clyde was young and frisky; the other cat aged and tired. Poor old Naomi.
Old?
Remo went back and looked at the tag on the cage.
Naomi. Born 11/14/72.
He looked at the other cage.
Clyde. Born 11/14/72.
The two cats were the same age. But how could that be? Clyde was young, healthy looking; the other cat old and tired. Was Remo finally onto something?
Remo walked along the other rows of cages. He saw that they were divided into pairs. In one side of the pair was a young animal; next to it an ancient specimen. But the tags all listed each animal in the pair as born on the same day. Someone, something, somehow had aged one of the animals.
The thing he had seen with Mrs. Wilberforce. Before that with Anthony Stace in Scranton.
Every animal pair in the lab was the same. One old, one young, but the tags on the cage listing their ages as exactly the same. Packaged senility.
Remo was at the table in the back getting ready to look into the files when a voice came. "Hey. What are you doing there?" Remo turned. The burly man with the shoulder-length black hair stood inside the double doors. He moved forward quickly toward Remo. "I said, what are you doing there?"
"I heard you. I'm not deaf."
"What are you doing?"
"It's all right," Remo said. "Doctor Demmet said it would be okay for me to look around."
"Well, he ain't got no right to give nobody permission to wander around in here. Who are you anyway?" Another man came out of the office. He also wore the two-piece white medical uniform. He was young and blond and even bigger than the first man. He looked at Remo, then at the dark man inside the door. "Who the hell is this guy, Freddy?" he asked. "Damned if I know. You were supposed to be watching the place." To Remo, he said, "I asked you, who are you?"
"My name's Williams," Remo said.
"You a doctor?"
"No, actually, I'm a patient. But I heard so much about your wonderful experiments here with aging that I thought I'd like to see for myself. And Doctor Demmet said it would be all right."
"It's not all right. Not all right for nobody but us," Freddy, the dark-haired man, said. "Al," he added. "Call the boss, explain about this guy."
"That won't be necessary," Remo said. "I'm leaving." He moved away from the desk toward the bank of cages.
The black-haired man stepped forward to meet him,
"You're going to wait," he said coldly.
"If you insist," Remo said. The blond man went to one of the offices in the back. Remo looked to his side at the cages of Clyde and Naomi. With two flicks of his right hand, he opened both cage doors.
"Hey. What are you doing?" Freddy asked.
"Opening the cages."
He walked back along the aisles, opening cage doors. Freddy lunged for the cages of Clyde and Naomi, but before he could close them Clyde had hopped out onto the floor. "Stop that, you bastard," he yelled at Remo. Remo, whistling, continued along the aisles, flicking open cage doors. Freddy closed them as fast as he could, bellowing all the while. The noise brought the blond man out of his office.
He moved toward Remo, but before he could reach him, the floor of the laboratory was aclutter with animals. Two chimps were out, hopping up and down off cages, screeching at the top of their register. The young-looking chimp took a leap and landed on one of the lab tables where he began knocking over vials and test tubes.
"Catch that frigging monkey," Freddy yelled to Al, who brushed by Remo, ignoring him and chasing after the chimp.
Remo, still whistling, sauntered casually toward the front door of the lab. He let himself out, then as an afterthought, reached up to the overhead door stop and locked it open.
As he passed the nurse's desk, he leaned over her and said, "They'll be busy in there for a while. I wouldn't disturb them if I were you."
Just before he turned the corridor, leading to his room, Remo glanced back. A chimpanzee was running through the open door, with Freddy and Al racing along behind him.
"Happy Feast of the Pig," Remo called.
Behind him, he could hear the shrill chatter of the chimp and the heavy thudding of Freddy and Al's feet as they tried to corner him.
Hell of a way to run a hospital, with monkeys running around loose, he thought. Wait until Chiun heard about that.
But Chiun was not in his room. He was making his rounds.
"I am Doctor Park. What seems to be wrong here?"
The doctor at the bedside looked away from the patient, and at the tiny wizened Oriental in the green robe.
"Doctor who?" he asked.
"Doctor Park. I am here for consultation. Oh, I understand. You do not wish to talk in front of the patient. Correct technique. Step over here and tell me what is wrong."
Chiun stepped back. The tall, dark-haired doctor looked at him quizzically for a moment, then with an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, stepped over to Chiun's side.
"The patient," he said softly, "is a middle-aged male. He has a stomach blockage of undetermined nature. Surgery is indicated."
"You are sure he is not faking?"
"Faking?"
"Yes. Most of the people here I believe are faking."
"Why?" the doctor asked, amused.
"Who knows?" Chiun said. "It appears to be a national pastime. Nevertheless. I will examine the patient."
He brushed by the tall doctor and moved to the bedside. The patient, a fifty-ish man with a red tight-skinned face, looked at him hopefully.
"What is the nature of your pain?" Chiun asked him.
The man put a hand on his
lower abdomen. "Here," he said.
Chiun looked at the spot a moment. "Do you eat meat?" he asked.
"Meat? Sure."
"Do not eat meat any more. Except for duck. Eat rice and fish." Chiun nodded his head for emphasis.
The patient looked at him, then over Chiun's shoulder at the other doctor.
"If I cure you, will you promise?" Chiun asked.
"Sure. I promise."
"All right." Chiun pulled the cover over the man down, exposing his long scrawny legs. Chiun snaked his long-nailed fingers down along the man's left leg, feeling, probing. He reached to the top of the foot, squeezed a moment and nodded in satisfaction when the patient grimaced. He pressed his left index finger on that spot, and reached his right hand under the foot. Then he pressed his two fingers toward each other, the man's foot imprisoned between them.
"Ouch. That hurts," the man called.
"Silence," Chiun commanded. "I am curing you." He returned to his task, this time with greater pressure.
The patient bit his lip against the pain and then gasped as Chiun gave the foot a final twist between his fingers. . "There," he said. "It is done."
The doctor who had been watching this stepped forward. "Just what is done?"
"The patient's pain. It will soon be gone. His stomach will work. He will be well again. He will eat no more meat and therefore will not suffer this illness again."
The doctor looked at the patient, who looked at first stunned, then a slow smile spread over his face.
"Hey. The stomach. It doesn't hurt anymore."
"Of course not," Chiun said. "Obey my orders. No more meat."
The tall doctor moved to the patient and began to press into his stomach with his fingertips. "Does it hurt here? Here? Here?"
The patient shook his head. "I tell you, doc, it doesn't hurt anymore."
The doctor shrugged and turned to Chiun. "Doctor Park, you say?"
"Yes. Who else can we help?"
"Right this way."
As they moved through the hospital corridors, Chiun explained his background. He had studied medicine under the personal tutelage of that great doctor, Lance Ravenel.
"Lance Ravenel?"
Chiun nodded.
"I have never heard of him, I'm sorry to say."
"Do you not watch 'As the Planet Revolves' on the daytime television?"
"'As the Planet Revolves? Dr. Ravenel?"
"Yes. The beautiful story is about him," Chiun said. "He is a very fine doctor."
Thus did the Master of Sinanju try to impart wisdom to a so-called physician in the United States of America. And he was repaid by this so-called physician who put hands upon him and did declare that he was taking him to the authorities. Whereupon, the Master of Sinanju did deposit this so-called physician in a broom closet. This, did the Master explain to Remo later in their room.
"I am disgusted with the state of American medicine, Remo," he said.
"Forget that? Did you kill the doctor?"
"Kill? I? Here in this institution to help the ailing? I only put him to sleep."
"Thank God for that. And then what happened?"
"I talked to other doctors. They were not interested in my plan."
"Which was?"
"I explained to them the truth that the people in this hospital were not sick, but were faking. I told them what they should do. Did they listen? No."
"What did you tell them to do?"
"Aha," Chiun said. "A brilliant plan. Take the six sickest persons. Execute them as a lesson to the others. That would show them that they must stop this faking."
"But they wouldn't listen," Remo said.
"Correct," Chiun responded. "They would prefer their pills and their knives. Anything rather than use their heads."
"Do not be upset, Little Father. The world is just not ready for your hospital-emptying plan."
"I am disgusted, Remo. They had not even heard of Dr. Ravenel. I am beginning to think that program must be devised in England. I understand they have very good medicine and doctors in England. I think I will tell these doctors they should go to England to become as good doctors as they have in England."
"You do that, Chiun," said Remo. "I'm sure they'll be delighted at your suggestion."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Remo decided to talk to Dr. Demmet, a decision which had been made somewhat earlier by Kathy Hahl.
She found Demmet in an X-ray laboratory where he was filling in for the radiologist, overseeing the work of an intern who was processing X-ray plates.
When he saw Kathy Hahl come through the door, all boobs and buttocks in a short white skirt, Demmet told the intern to take an early lunch. The intern grinned at Demmet after eyeing Kathy Hahl himself, and when the young doctor left, he conspicuously locked the door behind him.
"Insolent bastard," said Kathy Hahl, after the door closed.
"No worse than most. The doctors they're turning out today are shit," Demmet said. He sat behind a desk, looking at reports, and his voice was thick.
"Like a drink?" he said. Kathy Hahl shook her head. As he reached into a desk drawer and brought out a pint bottle of vodka, she moved alongside his desk and perched herself on the edge of a table at his left hand.
"Don't mind if I drink alone, do you?"
She shook her head. "You're doing a lot of that these days," she said. Her voice was a soft, sexy, unmistakable scold.
"Why not? It's one of the things I do really well." He poured the liquor into a water tumbler and drank one-third of it at a gulp. Then he refilled the glass, capped the bottle and put it away.
"Still feeling sorry for yourself?" she asked. Slowly she raised her legs and propped them up on his open desk drawer, pulling her knees up close to her bosom. Her skirt fell loose from behind her thighs. "You used to be interested in more than self-pity," she said, invitingly.
"I used to be a lot of things," Demmet said, again sipping from the glass. "I used to be a pretty good doctor, you know."
"And you used to be a gambler who didn't pay his bookmaker and was going to wind up wearing cement boots on the bottom of the river. So don't give me that what-could-have-been crap," she said.
He drank again, then glumly said, "To what do I owe the honor?"
"We've got work to do."
"Oh?"
"Yes. That Williams who checked in. He's a fraud. He's been nosing around the hospital asking questions."
"So what?"
"He's been asking questions about you," she said. "I think he's a government man."
"Let him ask. What's he going to find out?"
"He's liable to find out that you were in attendance on every one of those IRS people who mysteriously died during minor operations. I don't know about you, but I'd rather he didn't find that out."
"Well, then, you stop him from finding out," Demmet said, emptying the glass and carefully setting it down into a dark, wet, green ring on his desk blotter. "I'm finished killing people for you."
"This one's not for me. It's for you," Kathy Hahl said.
"No way," Demmet said. He took the bottle from the desk drawer again and Kathy Hahl withdrew her legs from the drawer and propped them up in front of her on the edge of the table. She ran her hands slowly down the backs of her white thighs and watched silently as Demmet poured himself a drink.
She shook her head slightly. It was bad enough that Demmet was becoming a drunk. But he was losing his nerve, and that could be fatal. Before she allowed it to be fatal for her, she would see to it that it was fatal for him.
Demmet drank sullenly from his glass, then turned to her.
He looked at her face and she smiled warmly at him. Then he let his eyes drop to the long curved legs, the milky white tautness of the thighs. She moved her hands farther around the backs of her legs until they met in front of her. She began to stroke herself, fingertip gentle, lovingly.
"It's been a long time, Dan," she said. Her smile was all snow white and invitation warm. "How about it?" she
asked.
"I'd rather drink," he said.
"You think that, Dan. But remember. Remember how it is. Remember the tricks I do." He looked at her face and she touched the tip of her tongue to her partially opened lips. "Remember?" she said breathily.
"Remember the golf course? And the time down on the morgue table? And in my office? How many times in my office, Dan? A dozen? A hundred?"
She stood up and moved alongside him, slipping her hand inside his shirt and beginning to twist the hair on his chest. She put her face close to his ear. "Remember?" she taunted.
Demmet drank from his glass. "I don't want to remember."
"But you can't forget, can you, Dan?" she said. Her hand slid from his chest down along his stomach. "Can you, Dan?" Despite himself, Demmet felt himself being aroused, his body awakening. She darted her tongue tip into his left ear. Demmet tried to concentrate on the glass of vodka in front of him. Her tongue wetted the inside of his ear and then he felt a suction on his ear as she glued her lips to it.
With a muffled roar, Demmet rose to his feet. He threw his arms around Kathy Hahl and buried his face in her neck.
"You bitch," he cried. "You great sex-fiend bitch."
His shoulders heaved. Kathy Hahl could feel them as her chin rested on his left shoulder. He was weeping. "Yes," she said. "I am a great sex-fiend bitch and I want a great sex-fiend man. You. Right now. Don't make me wait."
Her hands fumbled at his belt. She loosened it and Demmet felt his trousers begin to slide from him. He used his weight to force her back onto the empty gray-plastic-topped table. With his left hand he worked her skirt up around her hips. She wore nothing under her skirt.
He wanted to hurt her, to overpower her, to punish her with his sex. But when they were joined, he felt her body begin to quiver and the motion and the contact were too much for him and he felt himself losing control and the motion increased and then he was drifting, just drifting, through a world of exploding fireworks and loud noises, and he felt her fingertips pinching his bare buttocks, and it hurt, but exquisitely, and his pouring out was explosive and all his being was concentrated in that, so much that he did not even feel, among the pinches, the pin prick as the needle-ring pressed into his left buttock and deposited its supply of fluid into his soft tissues.
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