Killer Watts td-118

by Warren Murphy

  Crawling, the gangster peered into the terrifyingly deep shadows of the alley. When he looked back into Remo's eyes, he saw that they were far darker and much more menacing.

  "Shit, yeah," Ennio gasped. Still on his knees, he nodded so hard gravel from the roof became embedded in his chin.

  "Good," Remo said. "I'm holding you to that. Remember. You go back on your word-" he pointed to the space between the buildings "-next flight you take is one-way."

  As Ennio Ticardi began vomiting his last meal onto the surface of the roof, Remo slipped back over the side. He was gone before the first spurt of linguine hit the cold black tar.

  Chapter 3

  Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, awesome custodian of five thousand years of accumulated secrets of the most feared and respected assassins ever to tread the dirt of the earth, was content.

  It was a feeling with which he had little experience. Chiun savored the rare sensation.

  He was a wizened Asian with skin like ancient parchment. A brilliant gold brocade kimono decorated his frail frame. Two white-turning-to-yellow tufts of hair clung in impossibly delicate clusters to the taut tan skin above each ear. A third thread of hair jutted from his bony jaw. The wisp of hair at his chin quivered as the old Korean repeated the lines of his favorite Ung poem.

  "'0 spider spinning web, in strands. O insect snared, flutter flitter. Spider, insect.

  Insect, spider.

  Consume in Nature's endless Beauty Cycle.'"

  A single, perfect tear appeared at the corner of one deceptively young hazel eye as the Master of Sinanju pictured the spider twirling endlessly in its web of Life. The tear rolled down his parchment cheek as he continued to repeat these same lines over and over. In the best Ung, whole sections were repeated as many as six thousand times in order to achieve the desired result of perfect unity between poem and soul. Chiun was on his four thousand and fifty-first repetition of this same beautiful verse.

  As he recited, suffused in the beauty of the words intoned, the front door of his condominium opened.

  "Chiun, I'm back!"

  Remo. In a state of bliss, the Master of Sinanju ignored his pupil's braying voice.

  ...... insect snared, flutter flitter......

  A moment later, Remo stuck his head around the door. He was puzzled to see Chiun sitting immobile on his reed mat in the center of the livingroom floor. "Didn't you hear me?" he asked, stepping into the room. "I'm home."

  Chiun did not look his way. He continued reciting his poetry undaunted.

  "Are you crying?" Remo asked, suddenly worried. When Chiun still didn't respond, Remo listened for a moment. The light finally dawned. "Pee-yew," he said once he'd caught a few words.

  "I'd cry, too, if I had to listen to that Ung crapola. What are you up to, the millionth verse?"

  "'...Nature's endless Beauty Cycle.' Visigoth!" The last word didn't seem to be part of the poem. Remo had heard the spider poem more times than he cared to remember and he didn't once remember any references to Visigoths. He asked Chiun about this.

  " '.. . spider spinning, web in strands.' Heathen!

  'O insect snared, flutter flitter.' Vulgarian!

  'Spider, insect,' barbarian!

  'Insect, spider,' oaf!

  Hater of beauty who ruins even the most elegant of lyrics with his fat, stomping white feet and his stupid, loudmouthed, loutish interruptions!"

  Picking himself up on bony knuckles, Chiun spun away from Remo. He dropped back down facing away from his pupil. Staring at the wall, the old Korean continued to recite his poem.

  Remo got the message. "If you wanted privacy, you should have used the meditation tower," he grumbled.

  Backing from the room, he left the tiny Asian alone. He wandered back to the kitchen for something to eat.

  In the back room, he found the wall phone off the hook. Chiun must have taken it off before he had started on his Ung. Expecting a call from Upstairs, Remo replaced the phone delicately in the cradle, figuring that when it rang he could snare it before the noise bothered Chiun.

  He had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang sharply.

  Remo snatched the receiver back up. Down the hall, the Master of Sinanju's angry mumbling grew louder.

  "Hi, Smitty," Remo whispered.

  "Remo?" asked the puzzled lemony voice on the other end of the line. The tart voice belonged to Dr. Harold W. Smith, Remo's employer and director of the supersecret organization known only as CURE.

  "Yeah." Remo turned away from the open kitchen door. He used his body to muffle his voice.

  "Is there something wrong? You sound odd."

  "You've got a lot of nerve for a guy who sounds like his voice box was soaked in grapefruit juice," Remo commented.

  Smith didn't press the issue. Instead, he went straight to the subject at hand. "Remo, what the devil happened in Providence?"

  "What do you mean?" Remo asked, his tone one of absolute innocence.

  "You knew the assignment, did you not?"

  "Yes, I knew the assignment," Remo sighed, annoyed. "It's just things didn't work quite right once I got there."

  "I should say not. The accountant you were supposed to deliver into federal hands is dead, and with him goes our hope of sending Bernardo Patriconne to prison."

  "Your hope," Remo stressed. "I'd just as soon go in and separate that rat bastard's head from his neck."

  Smith sighed. "Need I remind you that this is not a one-man war against the Mafia?" he explained patiently. "The Mob is dying as a criminal force in the United States. We must continue to allow it to seem as if the system is taking care of society's worst elements."

  Remo guffawed at this. "Maybe you're the last guy to hear this, but the system is not working, Smitty. For every Mob boss the Feds spoon out, an ocean of scum floods back in to take his place. Cubans, Jamaicans, South Americans, Russian Mafia, Yakuza, Indonesians and about a billion donless Guidos are all running like madmen through the streets. Let alone the Crips, the Bloods, the Gangsta Disciples and all the other homegrown junior skunks."

  "I am not going to argue the issue with you," Smith said tartly. "We are discussing last night's debacle. According to my information, Hy Solomon knew enough to sink much of the Patriconne syndicate. Now he is dead."

  "I got a replacement," Remo said defensively.

  "Yes," Smith said, voice thin. The drum of rapid typing filtered through the receiver as Smith pulled up a file on his computer. "Ennio Ticardi. A low-level Mob functionary with no real knowledge of anything remotely connected to Bernardo Patriconne. It is even questionable if he has ever even met the Rhode Island don."

  "Not a problem. If you want I can get him to swear he did," Remo offered slyly.

  The ten seconds of ensuing dead air spoke volumes. "Let us put this disaster behind us," Smith droned eventually.

  "Fine with me," Remo replied jovially.

  It seemed a chore for the CURE director to forge ahead.

  "There has been an incident near the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico," Smith began. "Two charred bodies were discovered in the desert this morning."

  "And?" Remo asked. "What, a couple joyriding teenagers broke down in the desert and fried in the sun?"

  "Hardly. These two were not alone. Similarly burned bodies have appeared in and around Alamogordo. Clearly they are linked murder victims."

  "A serial killer who gets his jollies dousing people with gasoline," Remo speculated.

  "Perhaps," Smith admitted. "Local authorities have reported a number of deaths. In fact, members of some of the surrounding police forces have succumbed, as well."

  "Succumbed?" Remo asked, puzzled. "Don't they believe in guns?"

  Smith sounded puzzled. "I am not entirely certain what is going on. But so far, by all accounts only one man seems involved."

  "Wait a minute, Smitty," Remo said. "They know who the guy is who's doing this?"

  "As I said, I do not know for sure. The accounts are sketchy. From wh
at I have been able to learn, however, it could very well be one man. A man known to authorities."

  "So what do you need me for? Why the hell don't they just arrest him?"

  "They have tried," Smith explained. "So far with no success. General Chesterfield of nearby Fort Joy has offered assistance to the remaining local authorities. They have taken him up on his offer, but as yet the individual or individuals remain at large."

  "This is screwy." Remo frowned. "How much trouble could one guy be?"

  "I know you meant that rhetorically," Smith said dryly. "But you know as well as I the answer to that question."

  "Oh. Right. Well, whoever he is, he's not Sinanju."

  Chiun chose that moment to pad into the kitchen. His leather face was stern as he crossed to the refrigerator.

  Remo hadn't noticed until now that his voice had gotten louder as his conversation with Smith had proceeded. He had been speaking at his normal level for a few minutes. At Chiun's appearance, he lowered his voice. Pointless now, since he was sure he was going to get reamed for interrupting the elderly Asian's recitation.

  "Book me on a flight to New Mexico," Remo said softly. "I'll check out whatever's going on."

  "There is a U.Sky flight to Alamogordo leaving from Logan in two hours. I have already made the arrangements."

  Remo frowned with his entire face. "What the hell is U.Sky?"

  "It is a new shuttle service. I have found their rates to be quite reasonable."

  "By reasonable, I assume you mean cheap."

  "It is no-frills," Smith admitted.

  "Just as long as I don't have to flap my arms out the windows," Remo said as he hung up the phone.

  When he turned, he found Chiun sitting at the low kitchen table. The Master of Sinanju had a bowl of cold leftover rice sitting before him. He picked at the white clumps with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

  "Smith has another assignment for me," Remo ventured.

  "The neighbors and I heard," Chiun replied icily.

  "Yeah. Anyway, I don't know how long I'll be."

  "Mmm," Chiun grunted as he chewed a mouthful of rice to paste.

  "Look," Remo sighed. "I'm sorry I interrupted your little poetry recital. Once I'm gone, you'll be able to go through all twenty-four hours' worth of 'spider eating bug' in peace, okay? Are we friends again?"

  Chiun glanced up from his bowl. Hazel eyes glinted. "No," he said flatly. "I am your teacher and you are my tin-eared pupil. I am your adoptive father and you are my thankless foundling. We are victims of fate who have been thrown together. We are not, nor have we ever been, friends."

  The somber tone he used was obviously forced. The truth was, Chiun was still in a happy mood, in spite of Remo's interruptions. What's more, thanks to the glimmer in the Korean's eyes, they both knew it.

  "You're breaking my heart." Remo grinned, clutching his chest.

  "You have no heart," Chiun sniffed in reply. "Nor a soul. If you did, you would not feel as you do about beautiful Ung."

  "Beautiful Ung is an oxymoron," Remo pointed out. "Even Robert Frost laughs at Ung."

  "I do not know who that is," the Master of Sinanju said. "But if he does not appreciate Ung, then he is no poet." He raised a finger. The nail was long and wickedly sharp. "You would be advised to keep on my good side, Remo Williams. I will soon be in a position to grant you the celebrity you crave."

  "Michelle Pfeiffer?" Remo deadpanned.

  "She, as well, if that is your wish," Chiun admitted. "But what I was referring to was your own big break, as such happenstances are termed in the Industry. Perhaps I might someday get you your own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame," he added coyly.

  Remo felt the lightness go heavy. He was beginning to get a sinking feeling. Chiun was talking movie talk again. Something he hadn't done in months.

  On assignment in Hollywood eight months ago, the Master of Sinanju had conned a pair of slimy producers into reading a top secret movie script he had written. If Chiun's early boasting was accurate, his film was going to be produced. He had been in touch with the West Coast as late as last fall, but since then the Master of Sinanju had grown silent on the subject. Remo assumed the deal had fallen through and thought it wise not to press the point. But here it was, resurfacing again.

  "Don't tell me you've been on the phone with Bindle and Marmelstein?" Remo asked.

  Chiun's thin lips formed a wrinkled smile. "Play ball with me and I will make you a star." That was all the answer he needed.

  "Oy vey," Remo muttered.

  "However," Chiun warned, "interrupt my Ung again, and I will refuse your telephone entreaties, your name will be stricken from my Rolodex, and I will see to it that you are excluded from the most important social affairs. You will never assassinate in this town again, Remo Williams."

  "You don't own a Rolodex," Remo pointed out. The old man's knowing smile told a different story. Remo shook his head. Chiun's movie was something he didn't have the energy to deal with right now. "I've got to get going," he muttered.

  Chiun happily returned to his rice.

  In the doorway Remo paused, a twinkle visible once more in the back of his deep-set eyes. "Do you really think we're not friends?" he asked.

  The Master of Sinanju did not even look at him. "This I have said," Chiun replied, chewing softly.

  "I still like you, Little Father," Remo challenged, a broad smile spreading across his face. Chiun continued to chew. "I will like you better when you are gone," he replied blandly.

  "Absence does make the heart grow fonder," Remo said with a nod as he stepped into the hallway.

  "Leave for ten years and I will love you," Chiun called after him.

  Chapter 4

  Alamogordo was one of the many cities in the modern West that had grown weary of trying to dispel the myth of the typical small border town. It was a pointless battle. The Hollywood image of New Mexico had been pounded into the consciousness of most Americans since birth.

  Even though there were no tumbleweeds rolling down a lonely main street lined with a few windbattered wooden buildings, the small towns out beyond the larger city managed to fulfill the preconceived notion nicely-much to the chagrin of the more urban-minded local community leaders.

  Conforming perfectly to the maddening stereotype was the Last Chance Saloon, a parched watering hole that sat on a desert road on the far side of Lincoln National Forest near the town of Pinon.

  The saloon had been built in the early 1970s by a pair of enterprising young business partners who had hoped to capitalize on the very image the people of nearby Alamogordo wanted to eradicate. The problem was, they were too successful in recapturing the feel of a lonely desert saloon. They stuck their bar out near the flat black strip of Route 24. If there was an actual Nowhere, the Last Chance was dead center of it. The two men went broke in a year.

  The Last Chance went through a number of owners in the ensuing two decades, all the while settling farther and farther into the desert sand.

  Buckled almost like staves on a pickle barrel, many of the sand-ravaged wooden clapboards on the street side of the battered old building looked as if they were ready to fall off. The MPs noted this as they slowed their jeep to a stop before the dust-covered porch.

  Corporals Fisher and Hamill were following up a lead. So far, five such leads had failed to pan out. Of course, it would have been helpful to know precisely what they were dealing with.

  Old Ironbutt Chesterfield-the name affectionately used when referring to their base commander-had turned many of the men under his command over to the local authorities. All anyone really knew was that they were looking for an AWOL private who had been involved in some kind of crazy spree the past couple of days. Word was there'd been a few deaths.

  Acutely aware of this fact, the two MPs unholstered their side arms as they climbed out of their jeep.

  "My mouth tastes like a mud pie," Fisher, the driver, complained as he rounded the front of the Army vehicle. Windblown sand pelted his aviator sun
glasses.

  "Maybe Ironbutt'll buy you a drink after the arrest," Corporal Hamill said dryly.

  "Right," Corporal Fisher mocked. "Chesterfield's like a Vogon. The only way to get a drink out of him is to stick your finger down his throat."

  Thinking longingly of the water-filled canteen in the rear of the jeep, Fisher glanced around. There was a gas station near the Last Chance that looked as if it had been abandoned some time in the 1950s. Farther down, a small hardware store squatted in the baking sun. A few other tiny shacks lined the dust-caked road. Telephone poles listed morosely into the simmering distance. Desolation was as palpable as the windblown sand. Fisher's throat was filled with desert dust. "Let's get this over with," he muttered. Walking abreast, guns aimed before them, the MPs mounted the two squeaking steps to the saloon's broad front porch.

  ELIZU ROOTE had been hunched at the long, dust-covered mahogany bar since the previous midnight.

  He'd used the same glass straight through to dawn. A few empty bottles lay on their sides on the bar's surface. One had rolled off at some point during his hours-long bender, shattering near the greenish brass foot rail at the end of the bar near the men's room.

  His shot glass was empty now. Roote tapped the metal pad of one index finger endlessly against the lip of the thick glass.

  The pads were gold. Even though they didn't look it. Very expensive. At one time, Roote had been impressed. No longer. Now the metal pad on his index finger was just something that made noise against a bar glass.

  The staccato tapping had been going on for hours.

  He had gotten away.

  At first when he'd made it off the base, he had allowed himself a moment of happiness. It quickly died.

  There was no way Chesterfield would want a blot the size of Elizu Roote on his record.

  He would be hunted. They'd want him dead or alive. With the trail of bodies he'd left after his escape, most likely they'd prefer dead.

  Roote was soon proved right. The Alamogordo police had been on the lookout for him much sooner than he had expected. Obviously, however, good old General Chesterfield had neglected to tell them exactly what they were dealing with. When he'd left town, Roote was five and zero with the local police.