Things were quiet in the world. What Smith saw now were the usual mundane, day-to-day affairs that the Folcroft Four-his name for the quartet of mainframes-collected from a wide variety of sources.
A crooked judge in Fresno.
A seeming new drug pipeline from South America.
Rival Mafia factions involved in a turf dispute at a New England fishing port.
Nothing worthy of Remo's particular talents. Smith accessed the latest information on the BBQ situation. As he expected, there was nothing new. It was early yet. If Remo had already found the creatures, it might not be reported to the press for several hours.
He hoped that Remo was successful. In his rockribbed Yankee soul, Smith could not fathom why someone would want to derail a project devoted solely to the benefit of mankind. But then, Smith's analytical mind had always had difficulty comprehending irrationality.
As he pondered the BostonBio situation, his computer emitted a small electronic beep. Smith adjusted his rimless glasses as he turned his attention to whatever it was the Folcroft Four had found. Nimble fingers accessed the new file. He was surprised to find that it was related to Remo and Chiun.
The program was part of a complex system Smith had established to keep track of CURE's operatives. It trolled the Net in search of their names, creditcard uses, bank withdrawals or anything else that might be of import.
Smith's bloodless lips pursed as he read the report.
Ordinarily, the computer system would disregard the telephone bills Remo received at the home he shared with the Master of Sinanju. It was only programmed to respond in the event of a large anomaly in any of the monetary transactions of either Remo or Chiun.
As Smith scanned down the lines of the phone company invoice, he was dismayed to see dozens of long-distance phone calls. All were to the same four numbers in California. Smith recognized the 818 prefix of Burbank and the 213 of Los Angeles. These showed up more than any other.
The total bill came to $587.42.
Smith knew Remo all too well. There was no way CURE's enforcement arm would have stayed on the phone with anyone that long. It had to be Chiun.
But whom would the Master of Sinanju be calling in California? Especially when Remo said the old Korean had been meditating in isolation the past several weeks.
Remo and Chiun's last assignment had taken them both to California. It was possible that Chiun had met someone there with whom he was now conversing. The thought troubled Smith. The wizened Asian had a habit of blurting out the nature of his work to anyone who would listen. Fortunately, the people who heard his claims of being a master assassin in the employ of America were either eventual victims of CURE or merely disregarded Chiun as a delusional old man.
The Master of Sinanju was up to something. What it was, Smith had no idea. But over the years, he had developed a keen sixth sense when it came to the wily old Korean. And whenever Chiun got involved in something new, it usually wound up costing Smith money. Reminding himself to ask Remo about the bill, Smith switched back to his regular work.
When his desk phone rang forty-five minutes later, however, Smith was so engrossed in his work that he forgot completely about the outlandish telephone bill.
"Smith," he said crisply, receiver tucked between shoulder and ear.
"Morning, Smitty."
In the kitchen of his condominium more than 150 miles up the East Coast, Remo kept his voice low. Since his return home the previous evening, there had been stirring sounds coming from the Master of Sinanju's bedchambers. Chiun's meditation phase seemed about to end, and Remo didn't want to be blamed for causing cosmic disturbances in its waning hours.
"What have you to report on the BostonBio situation?" the CURE director asked.
"You mean you haven't heard?" Remo said, surprised.
Smith got an instant sinking feeling in the churning pit of his ulcer-lined stomach. "What is wrong?"
"I guess that means you haven't." Remo took a deep breath. "Remember that little murder thing near the lab?"
"The bookstore owner? What of it?"
"Looks like BostonBio had better dust off its liability policy."
Smith's prim mouth thinned. "How can you be certain the creatures were responsible?" he asked.
"Because I saw what these things are capable of last night," Remo said, voice grim. "Let's just say they're not candidates for the petting zoo at Santa's Happy Village."
Before Smith could press for details, a screen-inscreen file automatically opened at one corner of his buried monitor. AP text appeared in even lines.
"One moment, please," Smith said to Remo. Using his keyboard, Smith clicked the window to full size. He quickly digested the wire-story report. "Remo, there was an incident last night west of Boston. Two trucks were found in the woods near Concord prison. Six mutilated bodies were discovered near the vehicles. They were flagged due to their similarity to the original death near BostonBio."
In his Massachusetts kitchen, Remo frowned. "I didn't know about the second truck or the other three bodies."
"They were found a half mile away from one another," Smith explained. "Obscured by woods."
"Hmm," Remo mused. "Anyway, looks like the BBQs are going postal. Oh, and HETA's in on the party, too."
"The animal-rights group?" Smith queried.
"It was their commandos who swiped the one eyed, one-horned, flying purple people-eaters from BostonBio. The local HETA chapter had set up a switch last night with a group farther west. They were doing the whole Born Free thing until their cargo got the munchies."
In his Spartan Folcroft office, Smith removed his glasses. He massaged the bridge of his patrician nose.
"How many of the creatures escaped?"
Remo hesitated. "This is where it gets a little tricky. My best count puts it at one."
Smith paused for a moment before speaking. He lowered his spotless glasses to his onyx desk, hand rock steady.
"Remo, that is impossible, given the number of deaths. Surely while one of their fellows was being mauled at each truck, either one or both of the remaining two HETA people could have sought shelter in the cab or trailer. There must have been more than one."
"Should have been. Wasn't," Remo insisted. "Only one as far as I could tell." He hesitated to relay the next bit of information. "Although there were two sets of tracks."
"Explain."
Remo went on to tell him about the footprints at the rear of the truck and the distinctly different tracks that led into the cornfield.
"You could not be mistaken?" Smith said once he was through.
"No way, Smitty," Remo insisted. "Two sets of tracks. One animal. I'm sure of it."
Smith considered. "That is a mystery," he admitted. "However, we are dealing with what is essentially a new life-form. It is possible that this ability to alter its step is some form of self-preservation endemic to this species. Perhaps it only surfaces during a killing phase."
"Oh, and there was something else," Remo said. "I found something in a gash the BBQ made in one of the bodies."
"Oftentimes a tooth or claw is left behind after a particularly savage attack," Smith said. "Which is it?"
"Next mystery," Remo replied. "It's neither. Whatever it is, I overnighted it to you last night. You should be getting it some time this morning."
"I look forward to receiving it," Smith said, intrigued.
"Jeez, Smitty, you're awfully calm about all this," Remo complained. "These things have racked up a pretty hefty body count. I figured you'd want me to squash them."
"If it comes to it, that may be our only option," Smith said somberly, replacing his glasses. "For now we should concentrate on locating the creatures and returning them to BostonBio. Dr. White is the one person in the world suited to learning the true nature of what has transpired there."
Remo snorted derisively. "Humanity's destined for the short end of the food chain if we dump our fertilized eggs into that bottomless basket."
"I am aware of Dr.
White's shortcomings," Smith admitted. "I have been studying her background information. She is quite brilliant but obviously unstable. Her assault against a local Boston television personality two days ago is just the latest incident in a long line of aberrant behavior. She has a police record going back to her college days. However, that does not make her any less important when it comes to understanding these animals."
"Is she on drugs?" Remo asked abruptly.
Smith frowned. "Most of the charges brought against her were drug or alcohol related. The last was two years ago. I believe police found PCP in her car."
"Bingo," Remo said.
"Is that significant?" Smith asked.
"No," Remo replied. "Just explains a lot."
Smith forged ahead. "In spite of her personal failings, Dr. White is your best ally in understanding these animals."
"If it's a choice between the lady or the tiger, I'll take my chances with door number two," Remo muttered.
Before Smith could respond, the text shifted on his monitor once more.
"Hold, please," he said, distracted.
Smith found that his computer had dragged yet another news story from the Internet. According to the identification code the CURE mainframes had given the latest data, it was cross-referenced with the two earlier suspected BBQ attacks. Smith scanned the report quickly.
"Oh, no," he said after he was through. His voice was hollow.
"What's wrong?" Remo asked.
"It appears we no longer have Dr. White's expertise to fall back on," Smith replied.
"Why not?" Remo asked.
Smith scanned the story again, on the chance that he had read it wrong the first time. He had not. "Another mutilated body has turned up," the CURE director said tightly. "This one on the grounds of BostonBio. The Boston Blade is reporting that the body is that of Dr. Judith White."
Chapter 10
Initial reports in the local press of the death of Dr. Judith White appeared to be greatly exaggerated. When Remo returned to the lab at BostonBio, he found the scientist upright, alert and in the middle of throwing a characteristic fit of temper.
"Get that thing out of here!" Dr. White screamed. Her beautiful face curled into wrinkles of intense displeasure as the forensic team attempted to heft the mangled body into a black-zippered morgue bag.
Remo was careful to avoid the wide area of drying blood that had spread out around the body.
As he walked by, he leaned in to get a glimpse of the ghostly white face of the latest BBQ victim. The glassy, frozen-in-death eyes of Orrin Merkel stared up at him.
Judith sat on a desk beyond the cluster of police and medical examiners. A cigarette dangled from between her perfect red lips.
"You're alive," Remo commented as he stepped over to her. There was a hint of undisguised disappointment in his tone.
Judith raised a single eyebrow as she peered over at him. Taking her cigarette between her slender fingers, she blew a huge cloud of smoke at the ceiling. "Isn't the Agriculture Department usually busy pimping out bees and stomping on boll weevils?" she replied sarcastically.
"I haven't graduated to bugs yet, so they assigned me to you. The papers had you dead," Remo pointed out. He glanced back, surveying the scene.
"The papers want me dead. Trust the Blade to screw up a free lunch. I'm the one who reported the body. They somehow twisted that into me being the body."
The police forensic team had succeeded in dropping the largest section of remains into the thick black bag. Remo saw that the stomach cavity had been ripped open. Like the corpse of Clyde Simmons the night before, the scientist's organs had been removed utterly. His abdomen was like an open, ghastly red bowl.
Remo nodded to the corpse. "Orrin," he said. Dr. White blew another cloud of smoke, this one from the corner of her mouth. "What's left of him." She didn't seem disturbed in the least.
"Shouldn't you ratchet down the Bette Davis act a few notches? After all, this does let your BBQs off the hook."
Although the freshly mutilated corpse of her lab assistant hadn't succeeded in agitating her, Remo's words seemed to. Judith stubbed her cigarette out on the desk's surface. Sliding to her feet, she beckoned Remo to follow.
They walked to a rear door of the lab, Judith allowing the last thin veil of smoke in her lungs to escape along the way.
She pushed the door open. The corridor beyond was lined with the pens from which the animals had been stolen two nights before. Remo was surprised to see one cage was occupied.
An odd-looking creature with huge, sad eyes looked mournfully to him as he stepped into the hall, which connected the two laboratories. The animal's foot-long legs were far too short for its large body. It moaned softly.
"A BBQ?" Remo asked, surprised.
Judith's face was serious. "I found it here this morning when I came in."
"These things have a homing instinct?"
Judith seemed hesitant to speculate. "I guess they must. Unplanned on my part. How else could it have gotten back here?"
"I went to the HETA meeting place last night. They were only planning on exchanging one animal. It got away."
"And this is it." She gestured to the BBQ. It backed away from her hand.
Remo shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know." He frowned. "If this is the one from last night, it would have had to travel twenty miles through pretty tough terrain."
"It might be something I didn't foresee," Dr. White admitted. "We've all heard stories about dogs and cats that travel clear across country in order to find their masters."
"Lady, that's not Lassie and you ain't exactly Timmy."
"It's possible," she stated firmly.
He pointed at the creature's stumpy legs. "This thing would have a hard time walking to the wall and back without collapsing. There's no way."
"Maybe it isn't the one from last night, then," she admitted. "Maybe it's one of the other ones."
"Yeah. And my vote it's the one that killed that guy near here the other night."
Dr. White no longer seemed as certain as before. "Possibly," she said. "But I'm not convinced," she added quickly. "These deaths could be the work of another animal. Or a human being." Inspiration struck. "A serial killer."
"Back at the Agriculture Department, we call that grasping at straws," Remo said. "The only link between the murders are those things." He nodded to the BBQ.
"Deaths," she interjected.
"What?"
"If they are the work of the BCWs-and I'm not conceding they are-then the proper word would be deaths. An animal does not murder. It kills. Perhaps to eat, perhaps to survive. But an animal does not murder."
"That's a tortured exercise in semantics," Remo noted.
"No," Judith said firmly. "That's the law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest." There was passion in her eyes.
"I don't think natural selection has anything to do with anything that's gone on around here," Remo said, deadpan. "And I think the six dead HETA people would back me up on that."
"There were more deaths?" Judith asked.
Remo nodded grimly. "Last night. With the other two, it's human race, zero-BBQs, eight and counting."
"My God," Judith croaked, aghast. She turned away from Remo. Staring out one of the barred windows along the side of the room, she shook her head in slow horror.
"I'm sure mankind'll be touched you're finally coming around," Remo commented dryly.
"Screw mankind," she groaned. "Where does this leave the BCW project?" She bristled at his look of disgust. "I mean it," she complained. "The brass here is already riding me about the incident with that ditz reporter. The BCW project has been hit with major bad press and HETA sabotage. And to top it all off, I heard from my lawyer this morning. That Tulle twerp is suing me for assault. Can you believe it?"
"You shish kebabbed his carotid with a letter opener," Remo pointed out.
"There are some species that would see that as a mating ritual."
"Only the Klingons," Remo s
uggested.
She wasn't listening. "I was complimenting that hypocritical toad. Not that any of you males deserve it. There aren't any real men left in this world." She raised her hands before her as she spoke, palms open and fingers unfurled-penitent claws.
Remo was hardly listening. While Dr. Judith White's parts were all in the right place, her personality was more effective than a cold shower. A feminist lament at this juncture merely worked to clinch an already closed deal.
"Tell me when you're finished," he offered blandly. He wasn't even looking at her. He was peering down at the BBQ, trying to decide if it could be a killer. Big, guileless eyes looked back at him.
Still staring out the window, Judith snorted loudly. "You know what's really pathetic? You're the closest thing to a real man I've met in a long time."
"Look harder," he instructed.
Annoyed, she glanced at Remo again. All at once, her hard expression melted. It happened with bizarre rapidity. Something sparked in the back of her green eyes.
"You are a real man, aren't you," she growled. It was not a question. It was a statement of fact.
"I pee standing up." Remo nodded absently.
Judith bit her lower lip in deep concentration. Abruptly, she reached a clumsy hand out for him. Remo was still studying the BBQ when he sensed the hand swinging toward him. He ducked beneath it.
"I'm sorry," he said, forehead furrowed. "When did this turn into our first date?"
She didn't answer. Her hand snapped out again. As before, Remo ducked away. He was astonished to find that he had inadvertently moved directly into the path of her other swinging hand. He ducked out of the way an instant before she could cuff him in the side of the head.
Remo felt the tiniest brush of her fingertips at the ends of his dark hair.
"Let's get physical," she purred playfully.
It was amazing to him that her blow had nearly registered. Remo was long used to the attention he received from the opposite sex. His Sinanju training had made him alluring to women. They sensed he was somehow superior to other men. Like all animals, they wished to breed with the best their race had to offer.
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