Now that the idea had taken hold, Meecher knew it was right. Ethel and the shark lawyer would probably bleed him dry, but they wouldn't get his dog, not this time. He was so pleased at the prospect of a new Bingo that he put down the paper, unread for the first time in years. He padded into the bedroom, slipped on a sports coat, and picked up his wallet from the dresser. The pet store on Sunrise Avenue was still open.
Meecher felt a growing sense of excitement. Maybe this was what he'd needed all along, another purpose to his life, no matter how small it might be. This just might be a turning point, he decided. Maybe a dog would help turn his life around. He whistled cheerfully as he headed for the door. His plump hand was on the knob when the doorbell rang. Probably Morty from down the hall, he thought. He'd invite Mort along. Morty would get a real kick out of helping Meecher choose Bingo II.
Smiling, Meecher opened the door. There was a soft, popping sound as a single bullet from the silenced Colt pierced his heart. He sagged to his knees and then toppled over, hitting the carpeted foyer with a gentle thud.
"Let's get him inside," Bauer said. "We wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors."
Quantril nodded. He took hold of one of the dead man's wrists. With Bauer holding onto the other one, they dragged Meecher's body into the bedroom and propped him up against the dresser.
"I wonder what the rent is on this place," Bauer said.
Quantril laughed. "I don't know. But I think they just had a vacancy."
Bauer grinned before he disappeared through the doorway. With his gun in hand, he checked out the rest of the place. There was no one in the other rooms. From the look of things, the late Al Meecher had lived alone.
When he came back to the living room, Quantril was out on the pocket-sized terrace. "Terrific view," Quantril said, nodding toward the Dream Date building on the opposite side of the street. The tall steel-and-glass structure rose sixty stories upward. On the top, a blinking red light flashed a warning signal to low-flying aircraft.
Leaning against the terrace railing, Bauer peered up at the skyscraper. "This time it's got to work," he said nervously.
"It will. Every detail has been taken care of. All my records will be destroyed, and the annoying matter of those two idiots will be cleared up in the process."
"What if they don't come to the building?"
"Where else would they go?" Quantril said, exasperated. "Your sentries spotted them coming this way, didn't they?"
Bauer nodded.
"And the police weren't with them?"
"No. They must be a couple of thrill seekers or something. No cops within half a mile."
"So it's just a matter of time before they get themselves killed."
"If you say so," Bauer conceded uncertainly.
"I do say so. Do you think I want them alive? I've taken a big loss myself, you know. The whole monastery setup is blown, and I've got all those women to replace." He walked into the living room and slumped down on Meecher's easy chair with a sigh. "It'll work," he said. "They can't get out of this one. The back-up's foolproof."
Bauer was on edge, restless and uneasy. He wandered aimlessly around the living room, picking up the newspaper and then tossing it back to the floor unopened.
"Stop pacing," Quantril ordered. "It's making me nervous."
Bauer forced himself to sit down. "It's just…"
"Just what?" Quantril asked irritably.
"I recognized that guy on the roof. Name's Remo Williams. He served under me in Nam."
"So?"
"He's supposed to be dead. I read about it a long time ago. Some drug thing. Williams got the chair."
"Looked like a pretty lively corpse to me."
"It was the same guy. I know it was."
"You're sure you didn't hit him at the monastery?"
"Yeah," Bauer said. "The long-haired kid got in the way."
"Well, you should have," Quantril grumbled. "That mistake's going to come out of your pay."
There was a long silence. Finally Bauer said, "I just don't understand it."
"For God's sake, what now?"
"The way they fought. Williams and that old gook. Christ, he must have been as old as the man in the moon. And Williams is supposed to be dead. It just gives me the creeps, that's all."
"Look, he's not a ghost, okay? Take my word for it. Somebody screwed up somewhere. And the other guy might have looked a lot older than he really was. There's nothing supernatural going on. Now will you leave me alone? I have to think."
"Sure, boss," Bauer said. He chewed on his thumbnail to pass five minutes. "You're sure it's going to work?"
"Shut up," Quantril said stonily. "I'll just say it one more time. Those two might be good fighters, but they can't fly, got it?"
"Can't—" Bauer smiled. "I guess not."
"Now, we'll just watch for a while until the fun starts. Then we'll be on our way. My office already thinks I'm on vacation in the Alps."
Bauer looked up in surprise. "Is that where we're going?"
Quantril gave him a sly look and shook his head. "No. We're going to a place about three hundred miles south of here called Bayersville."
"A town? You sure it's safe?"
Quantril chuckled. "More than safe. Believe me, you've never seen a town like Bayersville before."
There was a knock at the door. Bauer pulled out his Magnum and walked softly to the wall. Quantril headed for the door. "Who is it?"
"Special delivery." The voice was nasal, with a thick Mexican accent. Quantril nodded to Bauer and opened the door.
Immediately a knife was at his throat. "Throw down your gun, Bauer," Wally Donner said.
"Do it," Quantril rasped.
The Colt clattered to the floor.
Wally Donner edged Quantril into the apartment and slammed the door shut with his foot. "Now, look, I don't want any trouble, Mr. Quantril. I just want my money."
"What money?" Quantril managed, looking wildly toward Bauer.
"The money for keeping quiet about you. Have you seen the papers?"
Bewildered, Bauer picked up the newspaper on the floor and opened it. On the front page was a picture of Karen Lockwood, along with the photos of the now-empty monastery in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
"She spilled the beans to the police," Donner said. "Described your little setup to a T. She described you, too, Bauer, and I recognized the description from the times I'd seen you at the rendezvous point when I delivered the women. Only she didn't know your name. I do."
"What's this got to do with me?" Quantril gasped, straining against the blade at his throat.
"I just used my head. All this time I've been wondering about the girls. Who would want two hundred and forty-two women bad enough to lock them up in the hills, I asked myself. And then, after I saw the papers, I asked myself another question. Why here, near Santa Fe? And then it came to me. Dream Date. It had to have something to do with Dream Date. So I watched the building until Bauer came out. And guess who was with him?"
Quantril attempted a laugh. "That's ridiculous. There's no evidence to link me to any of this."
"Hey, maybe you're forgetting, big shot. I'm not a cop. I don't need evidence. I need money. A million bucks, nothing less—"
Deke Bauer slammed into Donner's head with his elbow, sending him crashing into a wall. Then, before Donner came to enough to pick up the knife, the military man stepped on his right hand. He dug in his heel, feeling the small bones break with satisfying little snaps. While Donner howled in pain, Bauer picked him up by the scruff of the neck and the back of his belt and dragged him to the balcony. Then, with a powerful heave, he tossed Donner over the railing.
There was a sharp wail, followed by a strange bouncing sound. Bauer looked out.
Donner had not fallen on the street below. Instead, he was hanging suspended by one arm and one leg from a flagpole halfway down the building.
"Incredible," Quantril said hoarsely behind the soldier.
Bauer rushed back in
to the room to retrieve his Magnum, but Quantril stopped him.
"I'll just finish him off with one shot," Bauer explained.
"Don't be a fool. There are already pedestrians on the sidewalk watching."
From the street, they could hear a woman scream, "Look at that!"
"We've got to get out of here," Quantril said. "Now."
"What about him? He'll talk."
"He'll fall first."
"The cops—"
"They'll be busy. Remember?"
?CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I think we take a right here," Remo said as he peered up at the street sign in downtown Santa Fe. "Yeah, this is it." He nodded toward a modern glass building up the block. "And that's the headquarters of Dream Date."
"What a loathesome name for a business enterprise," Chiun said.
"It's Quantril's operation. And if that soldier was right, he does a lot more than play matchmaker."
The building's lobby, as seen from the street, was brightly lit and ultramodern, with a massive steel-and-bronze sculpture as its centerpiece.
"There are no valets here," Chiun complained.
"It's Sunday evening. The building's closed. I figured it was the best time to check Quantril's records." He peered through the window. "Still, there ought to be someone here."
He leaned against one of the large glass doors to judge its weight, but to his surprise, they swung open. "I don't get it," Remo said. "There's not a security guard in sight."
Their footfalls echoed through the empty, cavernous lobby. Remo strode silently across the gleaming marble floor to consult the building directory. Dream Date occupied the entire penthouse floor. Across the way he noticed an elevator marked "Penthouse Only."
The unlocked door and the absence of a guard made Remo more than a little suspicious. He couldn't help thinking that their arrival had been anticipated. He wondered what kind of surprises Quantril and his friend. Major Deke Bauer, had in store for them.
"That's the way to the top," Remo said, indicating the private elevator. "Let's go up and take a look around."
Remo pushed the elevator button. The stainless steel doors silently parted. Three men were waiting inside. Each was holding a baseball bat.
"Surprise," one of them said, stepping out. He was so big that he had to stoop to clear the top. Remo slowly took in the bull neck and muscle-corded arms. The man was wearing a garish flowered shirt and lime-green slacks. His bullet-shaped head was bald and shining. His thick, meaty hands were wrapped around a bat. The top hand sported a red ruby ring that winked like a flashing roadmarker.
"Out for a little batting practice, boys?" Remo said in greeting.
"Yeah," the big man answered. "You can be the ball." He whacked the Louisville slugger against his open palm.
The two other men stepped out from the elevator, taking up positions on either side of the bald man. One was black, the other Hispanic.
"What do you guys call yourselves?" Remo asked. "The Bad Breath Bears?"
"Very funny," Flowered Shirt said. "Watch me laugh." He took a mighty swing at Remo's head. The only problem was that by the time the bat reached the place where Remo had been standing, Remo was gone. The bat hit the marble wall with a thunderous crash and splintered into shards.
"How the hell did you do that?" the black man asked.
"Like this." Remo moved one wrist. The next moment, the black man was flying through the air. He screamed as his massive body smashed against the unyielding bronze-and-steel sculpture in the middle of the lobby. His baseball bat went flying.
"Strike one," Remo said.
The Hispanic member of the team took a pace forward. "Willy musta slipped," he said. He raised his bat. "You're gonna pay for that, shithead." The hickory slugger in his hand cut through the air with a sharp, swooshing sound. This time Remo didn't move. A moment before the bat made contact with Remo's neck, he reached out and grabbed its end with two fingers. He pushed, and the bat slid through the Hispanic man's hands like a greased knife, lodging deep in his chest.
"Strike two," Remo said.
The bald, bullet-head man, alone now, blinked a few times in rapid succession. His forehead creased into a puzzled frown, as he picked up the black man's bat.
"Look out for strike three," Remo said, tapping him on the shoulder. The big man whirled around to find Remo leaning against the elevator doors.
Baldy lunged at him, both hands spread wide on the bat. He slammed it against Remo's throat with all the force in his powerful arms.
Remo exhaled and the bat snapped in two like a discarded toothpick.
The broken bat clattered to the floor as the bald man locked his arms around Remo's neck. "You bastard," he whispered. At close range, the man's breath smelled of meat arid cheap wine. His thick fingers edged toward Remo's windpipe. His hooded eyes gleamed as his hands closed on Remo's throat.
"It's language like that that gives the game a bad name," Remo said. He took a half-step, turned his wrist, and the bald man disappeared through the floor of the elevator. Remo heard a high-pitched echoing scream and then a muffled thud from below.
"You're out," Remo called after him.
They walked to the penthouse floor. The foyer was decorated with life-size photos of couples holding hands, skipping along the beach, or staring longingly into one another's eyes. None of the people in the pictures looked as if they would have any trouble finding dates on their own. There was a big teak desk in the unoccupied reception area, and beyond it twin glass doors embellished with Dream Date's swirling gold logo. Remo padded across the thick cream-colored carpet and tried the doors. Like the ones downstairs, they, too, were unlocked.
"I really don't understand this," Remo said.
"What is so difficult to understand? My reputation has obviously preceded me. The two men you seek, knowing they had an appointment with death, have fled the scene."
Remo shook his head. "I don't know. If there isn't anyone up here, then why did they go to all the bother of providing the welcome wagon in the lobby? Those three clowns weren't just hanging around the elevator for exercise."
Remo was still pondering the situation as he followed Chiun through another pair of double glass doors. They passed under an archway and into a big room lined with desks. On each desk was a small computer terminal and some software. There were some open doors off to the right. Remo poked his head into one of them. There was a video unit, another small computer, a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, and a low table piled with brightly colored brochures.
"This is probably where they bring the clients," Remo said.
Chiun pounded on one of the video units until it shattered to dust. "The man must die," he said.
"Huh? Hey, what are you doing? We're not supposed to wreck the place."
"The person you seek is a sadist. He has filled an entire room with television sets, and none of them has so much as a channel changer."
"There are more doors over there," Remo said, walking past the old man toward yet another area. Through the new set of doors, the atmosphere was radically changed. The sterile, modern furnishings were replaced with high-backed leather chairs, antique tables, and paintings in ornate frames. "I think we're getting close to the boss's office."
They pushed open a door marked "Private." "I'll lay odds this is it," Remo said, surveying the elegant room. Even though there was only a single glass-and-chrome desk inside, the room was bigger than any of the ones they'd been in before. Remo rummaged through the few neatly stacked letters on the desk.
"Nothing," he said. He looked at the shelves of leather-bound books, the wall-sized computer unit, and the giant picture window with its panoramic view of the city.
Remo shrugged. "I don't understand any of this. Not a file, not a phone book. It just doesn't make sense."
Suddenly the computer hummed to life, tiny lights flashing all over the console. Steel panels slid into place, covering the doors, the windows, all possible means of exit from the room. At the same time th
e carpet began to smolder. Spirals of dancing flame sprang to life in a dozen different locations.
"Now it makes sense," Remo said.
?CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A sheet of flame enveloped the carpet with the suddenness of a windswept prairie fire. Noxious blue smoke filled the room, closing around them in swirling clouds.
"Chiun?" Remo called.
"Save the air in your lungs. You will need it."
Remo slowed his breathing. But the smoke still burned and blinded his eyes. He turned around futilely, hoping to spot the steel doors leading to the foyer and the stairs. But the smoke was so thick that he only managed to disorient himself.
"Wait to hear my voice, Little Father. I'm going to break through one of the steel plates into the next room. I think the fire's contained here."
Before Chiun could object, Remo hurled himself feet first toward what he hoped were the doors. He knew as soon as his feet touched a slick surface that shattered under him that he had found the huge picture window instead.
The glass exploded outward with a whoosh of flame. For a moment, Remo was suspended in midair, like all objects before a fall. Through the billowing smoke he caught a glimpse of the street sixty stories below.
Quickly he contracted himself into a tight ball and moved his left shoulder slightly toward the building. The movement gave him just enough impetus to thrust out an arm and catch hold of one of the comers of the blown-out window. The broken glass in the corner cut deep into his hand, but he forced himself to hang on until he could swing his legs back into the room.
It was less smoky now, but the flames were blazing higher. Waves of heat distorted his vision. It was so hot that he could feel his hair singe. A small bony hand touched his and deposited a ball of silk cloth into it to stem the bleeding.
"We go up," Chiun said. Raising his arm, the old man crouched and turned slightly. There was almost no breath coming from him, so complete was his concentration. Then he spiraled upward, crashing through the ceiling in a burst of pure power. After the rain of debris from his exit settled, Remo spun on his right foot and glided up to follow Chiun through the narrow opening.
The two men stood on a gravel rooftop. It felt good to breathe again. Above them was the night sky, silent and dotted with stars. Too silent.
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