His failure was absolute, his future bleak.
Smith returned to the narrow bunk and lay down to let his nerves shake his body like a gnarled branch in a gale.
Chapter 28
Uncle Sam Beasley heard the drumming when he stepped off the elevator and into the dark and deserted Folcroft lobby. He hesitated, his hydraulic hand splayed to grasp any neck that came within reach. He wished he had the cybernetic laser eyeball the Beasley concepteers had designed for him, but the hospital bastards had hidden it too well. He had been lucky to find the hand.
The drumming seemed to be coming around a corner.
Doom doom doom doom...
It was impossible for a man with a silver peg leg to steal up on anyone, even under the cover of a monotonous drumming. But Uncle Sam Beasley tried anyway.
He turned the corner, and his tight face broke into fracturing lines of shock.
He could see the thing that was drumming. It was smaller than he expected and very, very pink.
The hot pink creature looked up at him with blank eyes and said, "Hello."
"Did I create you?" Beasley blurted out.
"No."
"Did Maus send you?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Drumming."
Doom doom doom doom...
"I can see that, you little pink turd!"
"Language, language."
At that, Uncle Sam Beasley decided to strangle the pink creature, if only to stifle that idiot drumming. It was starting to drive him crazy.
But when he reached down for its spindly neck, the creature was no longer there.
Instead, Uncle Sam Beasley found himself looking into a mirror.
It was very strange. He hadn't noticed any mirror. But there he was, looking back at himself.
What was even more weird was that his mirror image was speaking while his own mouth hung slack in surprise.
The mirror Uncle Sam said, "I can help you escape."
"I don't need any help. Especially from a cheap imitation like you."
"They will be looking for you."
"Let them. I have friends on the outside. One phone call and I'm home free."
"I can fix it so they stop looking."
Uncle Sam Beasley blinked his single eye. His icy eyebrows crawled higher on his puckering forehead.
"It will buy you all the time you need," the mirror image said.
"What's in it for you?" Beasley asked, his voice growing warm with interest.
"Revenge."
"I think," Uncle Sam Beasley said, "you and I are starting to speak the same language."
THE MASTER of SINANJU reached the Folcroft lobby by the fire stairs. The door was flung open ahead of him, and he leaped out, keen eyes going right and left.
He spotted Uncle Sam Beasley exiting through the main door.
Chiun's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. The man walked on a clumping leg. He would be easily apprehended.
The only problem would come if the illustrious Uncle Sam chose to fight.
He would be no match for the Master of Sinanju, true. But it would be unpleasant if Chiun had to injure him even slightly. What would the children of the world think of him if it ever got out?
REMO WILLIAMS was creeping around the Folcroft grounds when he heard the first muffled clump. He recognized the sound at once. The rubber cap on the end of Uncle Sam Beasley's silver leg made the identical sound.
"Damn! Hasn't Chiun grabbed him yet?"
Remo veered toward the sound, his face more annoyed than angry. It was, after all, a minor annoyance. How hard could it be to stop a man with an artificial leg?
THE MASTER of SINANJU emerged into the clear night air.
Uncle Sam Beasley had moved with surprising quickness in the few moments when he had been out of the Master of Sinanju's sight. He had almost reached the parking lot, where many cars waited empty of drivers.
Chiun flew after him, saying "Stop!" in a voice that squeaked more than it carried.
Uncle Sam Beasley looked over his shoulder and continued his energetic progress. He was all but running in a lopsided gait that was painful to behold. His entire body convulsed with every step, sending the ruffles at his wrists and throat shaking manically.
Then he turned the corner.
Chiun cleared the intervening space with a flourish of skirts. He popped around the corner, and stopped, face aghast.
The scarlet figure of Uncle Sam Beasley was nowhere to be seen.
Frantic, the Master of Sinanju rushed among the parked cars. He began looking down the rows. Still, there was no sign of Uncle Sam Beasley. It was impossible. Pausing, Chiun peered under the chassis of the neatly ranked cars.
He did not see a prone Uncle Sam or the strange feet of a lurking Uncle Sam.
Straightening, the Master of Sinanju wore his wrinkles like a puzzled web in which his hazel eyes quivered like uncertain spiders.
"It is impossible!" he squeaked.
REMO WILLIAMS took the corner at a dead run and almost collided with the Master of Sinanju.
"Where'd he go?" Remo asked.
"Who?"
"Beasley. He just came this way."
Chiun stamped a frustrated foot. "He could not. I have chased him to this spot, and he has vanished."
"Well," said Remo, looking around, "he's somewhere around here."
"But where?" Chiun squeaked. "He could not elude us both."
"There," said Remo, pointing toward the gate.
The ridiculous buccaneer figure of Uncle Sam Beasley was trying to reach the Folcroft gate on foot. It was absurd. He could never do it, exposed as he was. On the other hand, he was making good time. Even if he was practically hopping like a ungainly red rabbit.
"Let's go," said Remo.
Together they raced after Uncle Sam Beasley, easily overtaking him.
"Give it up," called Remo.
"You cannot escape us," added Chiun, running alongside.
Beasley stopped. He whirled to confront them.
Uncle Sam Beasley smiled his wintry smile, and his skeletal steel hand clenched, fingers clicking as they made contact with his shiny palm.
"I do not wish to harm you, purveyor of cartoons," warned Chiun, his hands fluttering before him uncertainly.
"On the other hand," said Remo, "we don't have time to screw with you."
The hydraulic hand feinted toward Remo.
"Remo, do not hurt him!"
"Don't sweat it," Remo said as he met the steel appendage with a chopping blow that knocked the hand from its stump.
The hand fell to the grass with a surprisingly soft sound. It lay there, whirring, fingers clenching and unclenching like an upside-down steel tarantula trying to right itself.
Remo brought a hard heel down on it, there was a snap, and the whirring just stopped.
Uncle Sam Beasley lost his wintry smile. He said nothing.
"You coming without a fuss?" asked Remo.
Hanging his head, Beasley raised his mismatched arms in abject surrender.
"Guess without your robot hand, you're not very brave," grunted Remo.
Beasley said nothing to that, either. Remo took hold of his good arm and marched him back to Folcroft.
"Well," Remo told Chiun, "this is one thing that's gone well so far."
Headlights blazing, a car roared out of the parking lot and bore down on them.
"Watch out, Little Father!"
Whirling, Chiun broke left. Remo pushed Uncle Sam in the opposite direction, leaping after him.
The car swooshed by, sucking air, grit and dry dead leaves behind it. Its red parking lights vanished through the gate and down the road.
Remo pulled Beasley to his feet.
"Who the hell was that?" Remo demanded.
"I do not know. But he possessed but a single eye."
"You're thinking of Beasley," said Remo, giving the unresponsive Uncle Sam a hard shake.
"Yes, I am thinking of Beasley," s
aid Chiun solemnly.
"But we've got Beasley right here."
"It must have been some other one-eyed pirate," said Chiun suspiciously, giving Uncle Sam a very hard look while stroking his wispy beard.
HAROLD SMITH came off his bunk when the rapping of knuckles on glass came.
Remo's face floated in the door window.
"Remo! Have you seen Chiun?"
"Better than that. Here's Beasley."
The hangdog face of Uncle Sam Beasley was brought into view, held steady by Remo's fingers at the back of his neck.
The Master of Sinanju's bald head came up into sight. "What should be done with this misguided one, O Emperor?"
"Lock him in a cell. He should keep overnight."
"No problem," said Remo. "What about you?"
"Brull was here. He suspects Folcroft of being a CIA front."
"So, let him."
"He's trying to extort money on behalf of the IRS."
"We can convince him of the error of that position," said Remo.
"No. It would not work."
"So what will?"
"I do not know," Smith admitted, his lemony voice dejected.
"Look," Remo said impatiently, "this running around can't go on forever. We gotta poop or get off the pot. "
"Yes," chimed in Chiun. "Let us turn these taxidermists into poop, and all our troubles will fade like yesterday's fog."
"They've seized my home. I do not know where my wife is. She is my chief concern now."
"We can look into that. But what about you?"
Smith said listlessly, "I am not important."
"Smitty, stop talking like that. We have unfinished business. I want you to find my father for me."
"It is impossible."
"Like hell it is. My mother-I mean the woman who spoke to me-claimed I knew my father. Look, how many people can that be? You can do background checks on everyone I ever knew. Something will turn up. Until then, you stay in the game."
"I make no promises, Remo. For the life of me, I do not see how we can put the pieces of the organization back together."
"Sleep on it," said Remo, shaking the silent Uncle Sam Beasley. "Let's start with putting this loose end to bed for the night."
As they walked away, Harold Smith could hear Remo scolding Uncle Sam Beasley. "I can't believe you turned out to be such a pill. I was a big fan of yours when I was a kid, you know."
"Even in my humble village," Chiun was saying, "the name of Uncle Sam made childish eyes glow like candles."
If Uncle Sam had any reply to that, Smith did not hear it as he lowered himself onto the narrow bunk. He didn't close his eyes until he heard the clank of a cell door shutting. Then he turned over on his side and he fell instantly asleep.
Chapter 29
In the hours before the sunless dawn of submarine life, Winston Smith awoke like a spark flaring. His hands fished under his pillow, and he turned on the light. He sat reading the sea gram over and over.
"The bastard," he said feelingly. "The cold, mother-loving bastard."
After a while he lit a cigarette and smoked it to a stub. Then he cracked open the door and stuck out his close-shaven head. A seaman was making his way along the corridor.
"Hey, sailor. When do we make port?"
"We're in it."
Smith blinked. Only then did he notice the absence of vibrations and other sounds of a submarine under way. "What port?"
"Search me. It's classified."
"Sounds like my kind of port," said Smith, shutting the door to smoke another Lucky.
This time he used the lit end to ignite the sea gram. It refused to burn until he blew on the smoldering edge. Then it caught, burning briefly in his fingers.
Winston Smith didn't bother to let go when the flames licked at his fingers. He just let the fire run its course and crushed the curled black paper in his unfeeling fist while it was still hot.
"Uncle Harold, you picked the wrongest damn day to do this to your favorite nephew."
He picked up the BEM gun and laid the plastic manual on his knee. There must be something in the specs that would disarm the damn antifiring interlock.
Chapter 30
In the deepest part of the night, Harold Smith heard a familiar voice. It snapped him from his dreamless sleep.
"Harold?"
"Maude?" Blinking, Smith rushed to the locked door.
There was Maude Smith in all her blue-haired matronly glory. Nevertheless, she was a welcome sight.
"Harold, what are you doing here?"
"I am under house arrest. Please do not enter. How did you get past the IRS?"
"That doesn't matter, Harold. I have come to tell you something important."
"What is it?"
"Harold, I have been keeping a dreadful secret from you all these years."
"Secret?"
"Yes. I have been too ashamed to reveal it to you until now. But with all that is happening, I think you should know."
"Go on," said Harold Smith, unable to comprehend what his wife could have on her mind. She seemed incredibly calm under the circumstances.
"You have always been a good husband. You know that."
Harold Smith cleared his throat. "Thank you."
"But you have not always been home. You were away a lot during your days with the CIA. After you came to Folcroft, I thought that would change, but if anything, your absences grew worse."
"I have my responsibilities," Smith said defensively.
"There was a time many years ago when you were away for nearly a year. Do you remember?"
"I remember. I was in the Philippines."
"During that time, Harold, I am afraid I was not entirely faithful to you."
Harold Smith reeled on his feet as if punched in the stomach.
"No," he said, shocked.
"His name doesn't matter. We were younger then. It was brief, passing, inconsequential. But I have suffered pangs of guilt to this very day."
"Why tell me now?"
"Because," Maude Smith said, lowering her voice and eyes, "during that time I had a baby. A son."
"Impossible."
"I know it sounds ludicrous, but it's true. He was a happy little boy with dark eyes and such a winning smile. I wanted to keep him but I knew it was impossible." Maude's faded blue eyes squeezed shut in the frumpy cushion of her face. "Harold, to this day I don't know if he was your son or the product of my... indiscretion. You see, I learned I was pregnant only six weeks after you had left. There was no way to tell by whom I had the boy, so the week he was born, I put him up for adoption."
"A son," Smith said dazedly. "By now he would be grown. An adult."
"Harold, you have no conception of how this has torn me apart all these long years."
Smith touched the glass before his wife's pained face. "Maude..."
"As time went on, I became more and more convinced that he was your son, Harold. I don't know how I knew that. But I feel certain of it. And every day I miss that little fellow more and more."
"I...I don't quite know what to say. What happened to this boy?"
"I put him up for adoption."
"He can be traced. Surely he can be traced."
"I left him on the steps of an orphanage in New Jersey one morning. And I never looked back. I don't know how he could be found now."
"Orphanages keep records."
"This one burned down long ago, Harold. It's a dead end."
Something caused Harold Smith's gray face to pale. "This orphanage, Maude. What was it called?"
"Saint something. A Catholic name. I chose it because no one would think to trace it to me."
Smith's voice grew low and urgent. "Maude. Think carefully. Did you leave a note? Perhaps identifying the baby by some name?"
"Yes. I gave him a made-up name. I guess I thought I might recognize him later by that name."
"And this name?"
"Williams. Remo Williams."
Harold W. Smith stared at h
is wife as if at a ghost. There was a sudden roaring in his ears.
"You named your son Remo Williams?" he croaked.
"I picked the name off a map of Italy. San Remo. It had such a nice sound. Williams was the name of the college my sister went to."
Harold Smith wore his face loose with shock. He had to swallow twice before he could speak again. Even then, his voice shook and quavered.
"Maude. We cannot speak of this here. Go to your sister's and wait for me. I promise that together you and I will find this boy and determine his paternity. I promise."
"Oh, Harold, you're so good to me. So understanding."
And Maude Smith pressed her pale lips to the glass of the window, leaving a colorless imprint there.
Then she was gone. Harold Smith stared at the faint imprint by the wan light of the corridor for a long time before he returned to his bunk.
He did not sleep the remainder of the night. His mind was working furiously.
And in his tired gray eyes was a new light and a new resolve.
DR. MURRAY SIMON was making his rounds.
He pushed the cart that contained the various generic prescription drugs for the remaining inhabitants of Folcroft's psychiatric wing ahead of him. Normally a nurse dispensed medications. But the nursing staff had been cut to the bone, and the remaining nurses were attending to patients' needs in the convalescent ward.
And normally the rounds Dr. Simon made were Dr. Gerling's responsibility. But Dr. Gerling was in the convalescent ward himself, where he had been taken after he had somehow been overpowered by one of the patients he was discharging from the psychiatric wing.
Dr. Gerling had not yet given a coherent story. And in the hectic aftermath of the IRS seizure, his situation did not warrant great concern. He would recover. Folcroft, on the other hand, might not. A great many patients had gotten loose from their rooms and had been rounded up and returned with difficulty. There were whispers of IRS agents having been taken to the hospital morgue. No one knew what had happened to them, and no one dared to inquire. After all, this was the IRS. They knew how to punish people with long noses.
So while IRS agents ran hither and yon, to God alone knew what purpose, Dr. Murray Simon took responsibility for dispensing psychiatric patients their medication.
It was fairly routine. Dr. Gerling had left very clear instructions. The routine brought Dr. Simon to the door marked Beasley.
Identity Crisis td-97 Page 19