Dr Quake td-5

by Warren Murphy

  "It's all right," he said, smiling. "That's Manuel. He's their leader. He's going to call the others. Then these two can talk to them."

  "What should we say?" Remo asked.

  Barussio said, "Just tell them that their fears of you are just a superstition. That there is nothing for them to worry about. Tell them it is okay for them to go back to work."

  "Whatever you want," Remo said.

  Chiun was craning his neck, inspecting the fields and hills of the grape farm.

  Albanese stepped beside Remo. "Don't screw it up, sweetheart," he growled softly.

  "Sweetheart? I didn't think you cared," Remo said.

  "Just screw it up and you'll find out how much I care," Albanese said. "Might even have to get some dirt on your pretty little white suit."

  "Oh, goodness gracious me!" Remo said.

  A crowd was gathering now. Manuel had called the adults of the migrant camp and surrounded by children, they had begun to gather in a large clump, Manuel stepped to the forefront. "We are all here," he said.

  Albanese nudged Remo in the ribs. "Talk to them," he said.

  Remo stepped forward. "My name is Remo. This man is Chiun. What problems have we caused you?"

  The adults looked around at each other, then at Manuel. They wore the same white uniforms Manuel did. Manuel said, "First there was the tearing of the earth and many of us died. Now the old folks tell us of more death to come. They say that death will surround us. And that death will come from you."

  "Did they speak of us?" Remo asked.

  "They spoke of an Oriental, an aged man of great wisdom. And they spoke of his white-faced companion whose hands are faster than sight and deadlier than arrows."

  Albanese giggled. But Barussio heard. Hands that he could not see. He remembered his dream of hands, moving faster than sight, dealing out death. He felt a bead of perspiration form on his forehead.

  'Who are these old folks of whom you speak?" Remo asked.

  Manuel turned and spoke a few soft words in Spanish. The crowd parted. An old woman, as old as life and as weary as death, shuffled slowly through the crowd. She was dressed in black, and wore a black shawl. Her face was wrinkled and dry with the sorrow of centuries.

  She stepped closely to Manuel's side. "I have seen the visions," she said to Remo. "I have seen the death of the fast hands coming."

  "All right," Albanese growled to Remo. "Let's cut it short. Tell them to get back to work. Tell them to cut the shit and get back to work. If you and the gook know what's good for you, you'll move now."

  Remo looked at Albanese next to him, registering his size and weight, then turned again to speak to Manuel. But Chiun had stepped forward, cool and imperturbable in his blue robes.

  He walked up to the old woman and took her hands in his. They were the same size. Chiun and she stood there silently for a moment, their eyes locked together.

  His voice rang out across the field, echoing hollowly off the now-empty tarpaper shacks.

  "Hear well my words," he said, intoning as if he were delivering a high mass.

  "Your elders speak truth to you because there is death here. Your elders speak truth to you when they tell you of death to come, and your elders speak truth when they tell you of the man with the hands like arrows."

  "What's he doing?" Albanese hissed. He and Palermo stepped forward behind Chiun, their towering presence meant to intimidate him.

  "The men behind me are evil men," Chiun said, "and for such evil men, death is the only sure reward. It is the only fair compensation for their crimes."

  Palermo and Albanese each grabbed one of Chiun's shoulders. Then they stopped grabbing and drew themselves up on tiptoes into erect positions, their faces contorted in pain, as Chiun dug his hands into their groins, without ever taking his eyes off the crowd of migrant workers.

  "I say to you now that you should escape the death that will come. Listen to your elders. Return to your own land. They will tell you when the time has come that it is safe for you to return here, to return again to your work in the fields."

  "Stop him," Barussio shouted to Palermo and Albanese.

  Chiun's hands released their crushing hold on the two. They lunged at the frail yellow man in the blue kimono.

  Palermo reached him first, then crumpled at Chiun's feet as if somehow his body had disappeared from inside his clothing and the empty garments just fell of their own weight.

  "Gook bastard," Albanese cursed. "This is going to be fun." He went at Chiun's throat with both hands to squeeze the life out of this old spectre. His hands stopped working before they reached Chiun's throat. Then he was lifted off the ground, the force of an elbow crushing his windpipe, driving it upward into his mouth. His body followed, flying through the air, lifeless, to fall with a heavy thud at the feet of the woman in black. She looked down at Albanese's corpse, still writhing in death, and spit into his face.

  She turned and the crowd split to make room for her. Without a word, she shuffled away, the adults behind her, herding their children along with whispers and pats on the backs of heads.

  "Come back," Barussio shouted. "Come back. It's all a mistake."

  "No mistake," Remo said.

  Barussio reached into his jacket for his gun, a move he had not made in years but which he still did well.

  The gun was out, in his hands, pointing at Chiun and his finger was squeezing the trigger. But his finger squeezed against only air as the gun dropped harmlessly to his feet.

  Barussio began to turn toward Remo. In his dream, he had never seen the hand that killed him. He did not see it now. He did not even feel it. All he felt were the beads of perspiration on his head, his armpits suddenly clammy and wet, the sweat running in sudden spring rivulets down the insides of his thighs.

  The perspiration was already beginning to show through his suit by the time his dead body reached the ground, kicking up the red dust into a small splash of dried blood.

  Remo's eyes met Chiun's and the old man bowed. Remo returned the bow with mock courtesy.

  Then he said, "Okay, Chiun, let's go. I've got some work to do."

  As they walked slowly back toward the white Cadillac, leaving the three dead bodies on the ground behind them, Chiun said, "What is next?"

  "I've had it. I'm going to go get the guy who sent these goons after us."

  "Who might that be?" Chiun asked.

  "Lester Curpwell IV," Remo said. "The guy behind all this."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Where's Curpwell, honeybunch?" asked Remo.

  "He's inside his office," the young bronzed girl said. "But he sent out word not to disturb him for anything." She looked up and down Remo's body as if she regretted giving him that message.

  "That's all right. He'll see me," Remo said, brushing past the girl's desk, walking toward the massive wood and brass doors to Curpwell's inner office.

  "You can't go in there," the girl protested weakly. "He's already had two people barge in on him today. You can't go in there."

  "Quiet, honey, or I'll shatter your charge card. I'm Remo Blomberg, the department store impresario."

  The door was locked, the kind of lock in which a small pin shoots out from the lock mechanism and prevents the knob from turning. But if the knob is turned anyway, Remo found, the pin is sheared off and the door will open.

  He pushed open the door. Curpwell was slumped forward on his desk. Remo covered the fifteen feet in just three steps.

  Curpwell was not a pretty sight. His head lay on the desk blotter between his arms. His hands were threaded with small strings of blood from tiny puncture holes made in each finger and in the backs of his hands. There were the same puncture wounds in his ears and cheeks. Remo felt sticky blood under his fingers as he looked for a pulse in Curpwell's neck. There was only a faint pulsation.

  Curpwell's secretary stood in the doorway, her hand to her mouth.

  "Quick," Remo said. "Get a doctor. He's been hurt. Then call the sheriff. And for God's sake, close the
door."

  The doctor would do no good. He would be too late. The sheriff was as worthless as a banker's smile. But Remo did want the door closed. He wanted to be alone with the dying man.

  He reached down inside Curpwell's shirt and with strong hands began to tap the chest in the area over the man's heart. He leaned Curpwell back into his chair and spoke into his ear.

  "Curpwell, it's Remo. Remo Blomberg. What happened?"

  Curpwell's eyes opened and Remo saw that they had been punctured too. Blood had dried inside each eye and they stared forward unseeing, each bearing a deep wound which had cost Curpwell his sight and would soon cost him his life.

  "Curpwell. What happened?" Remo repeated.

  "Remo." The man spoke slowly, agonizingly. "They thought I made earthquakes. Wanted me to tell secret."

  "Who did?" Remo asked.

  "Mafia. Man named Musso. Had an ice pick."

  Remo's hands kept working on Curpwell's chest and the voice came a little stronger now.

  "Remo? Remo Blomberg?"

  "Yes. I'm right here."

  "Mafia wants earthquake secret. You call . . . you call Captain Walters of State Police. Tell him. Important he knows."

  "Captain Walters?"

  "Yes. Sure to tell him. Important." Curpwell gasped, a giant gulp of air.

  "Curpwell, I've got to know something. Mafia guys came after me too. Did you send them?"

  "No. Don't know about it."

  "Do you know who's behind the earthquakes?"

  "No."

  "Where did this Musso go?"

  "Go? Musso? Oh." His face twisted as he remembered something important. "Think they went to see Professor Forben ... er ... Doctor Quake. They said. Stop them. They'll kill him." He gasped in air again, but his voice gurgled and cracked, rattling in his throat. He slumped forward.

  Remo stopped massaging his chest. There was nothing more to do. He slowly placed Curpwell's head back against the seat. Then Curpwell spoke again.

  "Remo. Tell me truth. You from the government?"

  Remo leaned close to his ear again. "Yes," he said.

  "Good," Curpwell said, trying to crack a smile past the dried blood on his face. "Must stop earthquake people. Don't let Mafia get hands on it."

  "Don't worry, Les. I won't."

  Curpwell died against Remo's hand, a small smile hardened on his bloody punctured face. Remo gently lay his head down on the desk.

  The secretary was still on the telephone when he stepped out of the office. "You can slow down," he said. "No hurry now."

  Remo had dropped the Cadillac at his house when he let Chiun off. Down in front now, he got back into his rented red hardtop, gunned the engine, and sped off toward the hills overlooking the valley, where he knew the Richter Institute was. His ears picked up the sound of sirens behind him. It would be the doctor. Maybe Wyatt.

  So he had been wrong. It wasn't Curpwell. One innocent man dead, and maybe Remo-by refusing to pay the quake insurance, by accusing Curpwell of being behind it-maybe Remo had played a part in getting him killed. Now there was Doctor Quake to worry about.

  Outside the town, the black roadway suddenly became bare of curbing, then the occasional gas stations and car washes vanished. The roadway was bare and heat-soaked, sending up waves that shimmered and made the road ahead always look wet.

  Off to the side, Remo saw a glass encased telephone booth.

  He pulled up to it, skidding dirt and rocks as he veered off onto the shoulder. He jammed on his brakes and hopped out through the passenger's door. He glanced at his watch. About noon. Smith should be there.

  He dialed the direct 800 area code number that went to Smith from anywhere.

  It was answered on the first ring.

  "Smith."

  "Remo."

  "What's happened?"

  "A man named Curpwell was killed. The Mafia's in on this now. They tried to get him to talk about the quakes. Another gang of Mafia goons tried to kill me and Chiun today."

  "The Mafia," Smith said, as if repeating to himself the latest chess move in an opening unfamiliar to him. "The Mafia, hmmmm."

  "Goddamit, Dr. Smith, stop muttering to yourself."

  "Under no circumstances must the Mafia get its hands on this."

  "I know that," Remo said heatedly. "One thing."

  "What?"

  "Before Curpwell died, he said I should tell a Captain Walters of the state police that the Mafia was interested in earthquakes."

  Smith interrupted him. "You can forget it."

  "Why?"

  "Because Captain Walters is one of our men. So was Curpwell. They didn't know it, of course, but they worked for us. Walters was the next man in the chain above Curpwell. You've delivered the message, so forget Walters."

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me Curpwell was one of ours?"

  "I didn't want to inhibit you," Smith said.

  "You've sure inhibited him. He's dead."

  Smith ignored him. "Where are you going now?"

  "I think those goons might be going to see Dr. Quake. I'm going there."

  "Be careful."

  "Right sweetheart. I'd hate for you to have to go through the trouble of requisitioning a flag for my funeral."

  Remo hung up and jumped back into the car. Seconds later, it was roaring at top speed along the highway, nearing the mountains at the base of which was the Richter Institute.

  So Curpwell was one of ours. And the Mafia moving its clumsy paws into the earthquake picture could end up burying an entire state by accident-a grave from Oregon to Mexico. Remo had to get to the quake makers first.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Richter Institute was nestled back on a small shelf hollowed out of the San Bernardino mountains. It was a small, one-story red brick building nestled in under an overhang of rock and it looked like California's 1970 version of the little one-room school.

  From the road that circled around below, the building was not visible, but signs brought the traveller up a grade, over a wooden bridge that Remo felt was awfully loose and up onto the shelf. Remo pulled his red hardtop to the edge of the shelf and looked down.

  There, only thirty feet below him, lay the San Andreas Fault, the time bomb that ticked away under California. The earth was broken and cracked there. Remo remembered from his geology texts the aerial views that showed the fault to be an almost perfectly straight line separating the two "plates" which cut through California. There was one flaw in the straight line. The Richter Institute was built right here, right on the bend in the fault, the spot where the fault was locked and had been for fifty years, building up pressure that could blow at anytime, tearing California apart.

  At that moment, Remo realized why the bridge to the shelf had been so loose. It was designed that way so that it would drift if there were an earth tremor. A solidly anchored bridge might be destroyed.

  Down around the bend of the shelf, near the fault below, Remo could see a pair of pipes jutting up from the ground. Near them was a small trailer-cabin, a Volkswagen bus parked in front of it. Remo craned his neck and looked left. Far away in the distance was another pair of pipes, barely perceptible at this distance, even to his eyes.

  Remo put the car in gear and burned rubber, heading up toward the institute building.

  There was only one car in front, a dark blue Cadillac brougham, and Remo pulled up alongside it. He reached out to feel its hood. The car was still hot-too hot for sitting in the shade. The Mafia men had not been here long. And Remo entertained for a moment the idea that there was an easy way to get rid of the Mafia: stop making Cadillacs. He'd have to be sure to mention it to Dr. Smith.

  There was only one door into the building. Remo pushed it open, then stood inside the coolness for a moment, listening. His ears picked up the sound of voices to his left. He turned that way down a long corridor that ran along the front of the building, with all the offices on its right.

  One door was open and Remo walked in. He was in a laboratory, a larg
e open room illuminated brightly by overhead lights, the lights glinting off the glass and chrome tables on which there were rows and rows of test tubes, piles of dirt and stone.

  In one corner of the room, there was a computer console that covered almost half the wall. Its tapes whirred softly as they spun. Multi-colored lights flashed on and off and dials pulsated with information gathered from God knew where.

  Remo stepped toward the door to listen in. The voices were muffled by the rhythmic thumping of some kind of machinery; Remo strained to listen.

  A harsh voice said: "Forget that scientific jazz. How do you make an earthquake? That's all we want to know."

  And the deepest voice Remo had ever heard answered, the words coming so slowly that it seemed to take all the speaker's energy to drop his voice into the basement of his throat, "But you can't do it without science, don't you see?"

  "Well, just tell us how you do it."

  "I don't do it. But it could be done." The voice ponderously moved on. "Now try to understand. Along the different fault systems-a fault is a break in the earth-pressure builds up along the crack. When the pressure gets too great, there is an earthquake. Now what could be done-mind you, could be done- would be to relieve some of this pressure before it builds so high that it must blow. It's rather like boiling water on a covered pot on the stove. If you tilt the cover up slightly, it releases the pressure and then the water doesn't boil over or the cover blow off. It's the same principle."

  "All right, all right. How do you relieve the pressure?"

  "No one can yet. I've been trying to develop a new kind of pump that would use water pressure to do it. That would make many small tremors to relieve pressure slowly and thus prevent a big quake. But the work is slow, particularly since the government cut off my research funds. I don't know if it will ever be done."

  There was a long pause. Then the first voice said, "Dr. Quake, I don't believe you. Somebody out here is making earthquakes. You're either doing it or you know who's doing it. Now you're going to tell us about it or we'll make you wish you had."

  "I don't believe that you're really from the FBI," came Dr. Quake's voice of doom.