Lying flat on his back, he gave Judith White a grateful nod. "This ain't the first time a woman's saved my life," he panted. "'Cept most of the others were whores or cocktail waitresses. Much obliged, ma'am."
When the woman who had been his salvation turned her cold cat's eyes to him, the singer shrank from her gaze.
"What press?" she demanded.
"What?" Bugget asked. "Oh. National and regional. TV and papers. They'll be pouring in here any minute to cover the protest. Oh, the protest..." His voice trailed off as he glanced around the parking lot.
Many of the Green Earth members were dead and dismembered. Those who hadn't been devoured immediately had been knocked unconscious for later. Bugget saw that the boxer, homemaker, actress and several others appeared to still be breathing. They had fared better than those who had scattered into the woods. Pitiful cries were being drowned out by growls and the sounds of feasting.
"We were gonna have a protest," Bobby Bugget offered weakly. "Kind of hard to do with only six people."
"Quiet, human," Judith snarled. "I'm trying to think."
Bugget didn't see the hand that struck him. He only knew that he was suddenly tumbling end over end into a nearby tree, a sharp pain in the side of his head.
As Bugget was shaking pine needles out of what was left of his graying blond hair, Judith White was spinning to her pack. Owen Grude was huddled with the rest.
"I told you not to kill anyone unless I said so."
"We thought there was danger," Owen said.
"You thought with your stomachs," she accused. "Think with your mind. Humans are the greatest hunters in the animal kingdom. They can obliterate entire species and send us scurrying into the trees. The only way they'll be beaten is by superior intellect." She looked around the lot. "Hide the dead around back. Cover the blood with sand. We need this mess cleaned up before the press arrives."
The males began carting bodies toward the plant. Judith stopped Owen Grude. "The ones left alive? Get them a drink of water." She pointed to Bugget. "Start with him."
Owen loped off across the lot and up the stairs. He returned a minute later carrying a Lubec Springs sport six-pack. A bottle was brought to Bobby Bugget, while others began pouring water into the mouths of the unconscious.
"Drink it," Judith White commanded.
Bugget licked his mustache nervously. "You don't have anything stronger?" he asked hopefully.
She moved in very close. Bugget could feel her warm breath on his damp mustache.
"Drink it," she demanded, "or I'll split you open and chew your innards from stomach to spine."
Bugget gulped. "If you put it that way." Gingerly he squeezed his nose between his fingers. It had been a long time since he'd drunk plain old water. He never cared for the taste. Tipping his head sharply, he slugged the contents of the bottle down in a few big gulps.
When the foul-tasting liquid reached his stomach, a strange sensation seemed to come over him. The excruciating pain was more than he could bear. Dropping back to the ground, Bugget clutched his belly.
He was writhing in agony on the pavement as Judith White turned from him.
"I'll be inside," she said.
She prowled a few paces toward the building before stopping. She pointed at one of the bodies that was awaiting disposal.
"Bring that one inside," she commanded. "I think better on a full stomach."
Wheeling, she headed back for the bottling plant.
Chapter 14
Dusk was creeping slowly in by the time Remo and Chiun arrived at Folcroft.
Long Island Sound was visible through the trees, slivered with shimmering streaks of twilight, as the cab steered between the great granite columns with their attendant stone lions. At Remo's instruction, the driver brought them to the sanitarium's main staircase.
"Why are we entering this way?" the Master of Sinanju asked suspiciously. Behind them the yellow taxi was making its crunching way back down the great gravel drive.
"Stairs are stairs," Remo said as they headed up.
"Yes," Chiun replied, padding up beside his pupil. "And the stairs that are the stairs we always use are on the other side of the building."
"I thought you liked front doors."
Remo held the door for his teacher. Chiun swept inside. As he walked, the old Korean stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully.
"I notice that this route avoids passing the Prince Regent's office," he commented.
"I know, Chiun," Remo sighed. "And before you start on me, too, I admit it. I think the kid's okay. He was pretty stand-up for us in Sinanju when he didn't have to be. Smitty is doing a good jab bringing him onto the team. He's working out. There, I said it. Happy?"
In the lobby Remo's raised voice caught the attention of a receptionist and two nurses. The receptionist recognized Chiun as a former patient who occasionally stopped back at Folcroft to visit. She thought Remo to be his nurse. Her frown of disapproval at Remo's raised voice was interrupted by a ringing telephone. She was answering the phone as the two men slipped by.
"I am pleased to hear that," the Master of Sinanju said. "Since one day you will be the Regent's royal assassin."
"Can't happen, Chiun," Remo said, shaking his head firmly. "I'm not getting too chummy with the kid because Sinanju rules forbid me from working for Smith's successor."
"Do not be so certain, white man," Chiun said knowingly.
"And here we go," Remo said. "Back to that famous loophole you claim you discovered ages ago and refuse to tell me about."
Chiun smiled slyly. "Are you not the least bit curious?"
"Yeah, I guess. I mean, the way you manage to contort supposedly unbendable rules into pretzel shapes always fascinates me. But just 'cause I like to watch the magician saw the woman in half doesn't mean I'll be running to the nearest Tupperware party with a chain saw. Rules are rules."
"They are not always as inviolate as you seem to think," Chiun replied. "Take your Smith, for instance. You agree that everyone finds him mad?"
"I don't agree with that."
"As I said," Chiun sniffed. "No one of consequence disputes his madness. And yet we have served him well lo these many years. Your House has not always had such tolerance for crazed emperors."
Remo's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means that rules are only sometimes rules. Other times they are guidelines. It is for the wise to know the difference. Thankfully, you have me here to point the way."
He swept ahead of his pupil, through a set of fire doors and into Folcroft's administration wing. Watching his teacher's purposeful stride, Remo smiled. "Amen to that, Little Father," he said, shaking his head.
Allowing the fire door to slip from his fingers, he trailed the wizened Korean up the hall.
SMITH ALWAYS KEPT a change of clothes at work just in case. He had been more than eager to slip out of his golf clothes and back into his more familiar uniform
Back in his three-piece gray suit and starched white shirt-green-striped school tie knotted tightly at the collar -he was hard at work in his familiar Folcroft environs. Day had bled into night, and still Harold W. Smith remained at his desk.
The CURE director had scarcely noted the change of hour or scattering of daylight. He was far too busy monitoring the events taking place along the East Coast.
There had been many more incidents throughout the afternoon. And the tristate area was no longer alone. There had been like occurrences in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. To Smith, the pattern indicated a product being shipped by ground. He had already come to this conclusion even before Remo had phoned back to suggest Lubec Springs bottled water was the source of contamination.
Smith's desk was an onyx slab set before the big picture window at the back of the office. Beneath its surface was a canted monitor, visible only to whoever sat at the desk. A keyboard at desk's edge only became visible when it sensed Smith's touch. Keys lit obedient amber flashes in response to his relentless drumming fingers.
He had been working for hours nonstop. All at once, Smith paused at his workstation.
The lines of amber text on his special monitor were beginning to blur again.
Blinking hard, he removed his rimless glasses. He massaged his eyes with the tips of his arthritic fingers. Looking to a point across the room, he tried to regain his focus.
The thing he stared at was a drab black-and-white photograph of Folcroft, taken some time in the 1950s. It had been hung in the office by the sanitarium's previous administrator.
Smith had never thought to take down the picture, never considered bringing in something of a more personal nature from home. The CURE director felt that any infusion of one's personality into a work area had the effect of making that area too comfortable. And comfort bred lax work habits.
Besides, Smith's office did reflect his personality. It was cold, humorless and Spartan. The room was a direct, if inadvertent, gaze into the soul of the gray old man in the gray three-piece suit who sat in isolation at the loneliest posting in all of America's intelligence services.
Smith's eyes began to clear. The young saplings in the photograph, which had grown into mighty shade trees during Smith's tenure at Folcroft, were starting to come into focus.
He replaced his glasses and was turning back to his keyboard when the door to his office unexpectedly burst open. Smith looked up with a concerned start.
"Hope you're decent," Remo announced as he strode into the room. Chiun swept in after him.
"He is that and more," the Master of Sinanju proclaimed, personally insulted by Remo's choice of words. "He is decent, kind and generous. Hail, Smith, guardian of the sacred Constitution." The Korean gave an informal bow before sweeping across the room.
At his desk, Smith was still recovering from his initial shock. He offered a hurried bow of his head. "Please shut the door," he said to Remo. "And I wish you would knock."
"And miss that look on your face?" Remo said, swinging the door shut. "By the way, if you want to look a little more guilty, why not try wearing a black mask and an I Violated The Constitution And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt shirt?"
As he crossed over to Smith's desk, he dug in the pocket of his chinos, pulling out an aspirin bottle. "A little present from Catwoman," he said, tossing the bottle to Smith.
The CURE director caught it with both hands. Liquid sloshed inside. "This is the police station sample you phoned about, I assume?" he queried dryly.
"Yep. We dumped the rest down the drain." Smith placed the bottle to one side of his desk. "We will test this if it becomes necessary. When you called, I sent Mark to my country club to collect samples there. They have been rushed off for analysis."
"The kid's not here?"
"I instructed him to remain at the lab conducting the tests. I wanted him on-site the instant there is news."
"The news is what Remo has already told you, Emperor," Chiun said. "The creatures that have twice vexed your kingdom have returned. Fortunately, with Sinanju as sword and shield, you need not fear any common jungle beasts."
Tucking his black robes around him, the Master of Sinanju sank to a lotus position in the center of the threadbare carpet.
"Yeah, go-go team," Remo said. "In the meantime, you've put a stop to the Lubec Springs shipments. So once you have all the stuff that's been shipped recalled, I guess we won't have to worry about any more of those things."
A troubled frown crossed the CURE director's face.
"You did have this stuff recalled, right, Smitty?"
"I have not," Smith replied tightly.
Remo's face darkened. "Why the hell not? In case you haven't heard, we've got Daktari breaking out on Main Street, U.S.A. and there's a run on safari jackets at Banana Republic. You've got to cut them off. While you do that, Chiun and I will go to that bottling place in Maine and pull White's plug."
"You can't," Smith insisted. "Not yet." He leaned back in his chair. "Remo, the nature of this crisis dictates caution. If Lubec Springs is alone in this, then we can focus on them alone. But if the contamination has reached other bottlers, then whoever is behind this could be anywhere. By focusing on Lubec Springs before we know all the facts, we could be alerting Judith White or whoever is responsible. We can't afford to tip our hand too early."
"You're just gonna let people keep drinking that junk?"
"Through CURE's facilities I have given an order ostensibly from the FDA. A new federal mandate now requires a forty-eight-hour waiting period before retailers can sell bottled water. This to allow for settlement of particulates. Given the relatively low number of cases so far, I would imagine that most outlets have not yet reached the contaminated shipments. They must yet have back stock to go through. With any luck, this should buy us the time we need to track down and eliminate whoever is behind this."
"We know who it is, Smitty," Remo said. "By dicking around down here, you're giving White time to get away."
"Quite the opposite," Smith insisted. "To err on the side of caution now should narrow her avenue of escape, assuming we learn that Lubec Springs is the only source of the genetic tampering. If we discover that this is the case, we will know precisely where to send you. You and Chiun may deal with Dr. White once and for all. If, indeed, it is her."
Remo leaned on the edge of Smith's wide desk. "I thought I dealt with her last time," he mumbled bitterly.
"An error that cannot be blamed on Sinanju," Chiun quickly pointed out from the floor. "For the cape in which it has cloaked itself is that of Man. We did not know then that the beast Remo battled had perverted nature by granting itself nine lives. We took but one before. This time, we will do away with the remaining eight."
"Just one of her was plenty tough, Little Father," Remo said. "I don't like the idea of a lion's den filled with eight Judith Whites. Even Daniel didn't have to put up with that."
Chiun shook his head angrily. His wisps of yellowing white hair danced above his ears. "Stop mentioning that troublesome wizard," he hissed.
Remo raised an eyebrow at the edge in the Master of Sinanju's voice. He shot a glance at Smith, but the CURE director had turned his attention back to his computer. Flint gray eyes studied the scrolling data stream.
"Okay-" settling on the floor next to his teacher. Remo asked "-what gives with Sinanju and Daniel?"
The old man made certain Smith was not listening. Satisfied they weren't being eavesdropped on, he turned his attention to Remo.
"You remember the tale of Master Songjong?" Chiun asked.
Remo nodded. "Pupil of Vimu. Let his Master go to Egypt to slay a princeling when he should have gone himself. Vimu died away from Sinanju, leaving poor Songjong with the mother of all headaches once he reached the Void."
Chiun crinkled his nose. "That is essentially correct," he admitted slowly. Curious fingers clutched the tip of his beard. "But why would you think that Songjong was vexed when death carried him to the place of his ancestors?"
Remo shrugged. "Nothing pissier than a Master of Sinanju with a headful of self-righteous indignation."
"And on what, pray, do you base such an assumption?"
Remo cast a slow, careful glance up and down Chiun's robes of celebration. "Absolutely wild, unsupportable conjecture?" he asked hopefully.
The Master of Sinanju's eyes were slits of suspicion. "Kindly hypothesize on your own time," he said. He smoothed the knees of his black robes.
"Whatever happened to Songjong after death is his concern," the old Korean continued. "It is his life that is recorded in the annals of Sinanju." His voice assumed the cadence of instruction. "After the death of Vimu, Songjong traveled to Babylon, there to pursue employment in the court of Nebuchadnezzar. The death of his Master had brought great sadness to the heart of Songjong, for he rightly took the blame for the fate that had befallen Vimu. He determined to repay his debt in this life by amassing tribute so great as to wipe the stain of shame away from his name in the histories of our village.
"King Nebuchadne
zzar joyously welcomed Master Songjong, for well he knew of the Pearl of the Orient and the assassins it produced. This because another Babylonian king of the same name had been blessed with the services of a previous Master half a century before. So Songjong found employment with Nebuchadnezzar, and great was his reign. For a time."
At his desk, the CURE director briefly looked up in mild annoyance. "You do not have to wait here," he said.
Remo waved Smith away. "We don't mind." To Chiun he said, "Did things sour in Babylon?"
"In a manner of speaking," Chiun replied vaguely. He continued before Remo could question further. "It was after the capture of Jerusalem. Thanks to the strategic use of the Master of Sinanju's skills and council, Nebuchadnezzar enjoyed a great victory over the Hebrew kingdom. The city was destroyed, and a large group of prisoners was taken away. Some were of royal descent. One of these was a troublesome young know-it-all named Daniel.
"Now Songjong saw mischief in the eyes of this young nuisance and, rather than allow him to work some wicked scheme of revenge against his captors, recommended to the king that the youth be put to death. But Nebuchadnezzar was flushed with his great victory and dismissed the advice.
"While in service to the king, Songjong did occasionally travel to distant corners of the kingdom. One night while Songjong was away, the king had a distressing dream. When none of his wise men could interpret it, he summoned the captive Daniel, who had a reputation as a sort of soothsayer. To the delight of Nebuchadnezzar, the slave was able to discern the meaning of the dream."
"No kidding," Remo said. "What did it mean?"
"What?" Chiun asked, annoyed that the flow of his narrative had been disrupted.
"The dream. What did it mean?"
"How should I know?" the Master of Sinanju said, scowling. "Dreams are baby stories created by the gods to keep the brains of dimwits busy at night-lest, restive, they scurry out ears and scamper away."
"I thought they were a wish your heart made."
The old man gave him a baleful look. "There are inmates under lock and key here at Fortress Folcroft who have greater attention spans than you. Perhaps I will go tell Songjong's tale to them."
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