Market Force
( The Destroyer - 127 )
Warren Murphy
Richard Sapir
STAY TUNED FOR MORE DEATH AND DESTRUCTION
Somebody is using television as a mind control vehicle, sending subliminal messages to hollow-eyed viewers, and turning ordinary couch potatoes into raging mobs programmed to kill. A secret enemy dares to take over the world - by controlling it's greatest natural resource: the boob tube.
Worse, it's soon clear that whoever is behind the conspiracy knows about CURE and plans to preempt its mission to protect the world. Will Remo and Chiun kill each other...or just change the channel? Will Harold Smith discover his new assistant is a traitor...or just a victim of bad programming. Will the Destroyer be cancelled by a certain network bigwig...or will the most fiendish plot ever to grip the airways become just another failure in the cutthroat world of big entertainment?
Destroyer 127: Market Force
By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir
PROLOGUE
The blood was everywhere. On the floor, on the bed. It had even splattered into the hallway outside the hospital room. God, it looked as if someone had stomped on a blood-filled balloon.
Given the condition of the two bodies discovered so far, the fact that the blood had shot out as far as the hall didn't surprise Detective Ronald Davic. Not with the inhuman force that had been employed against the poor dead doctor.
"Damn, what a mess," Detective Davic muttered as he circled around the far side of the corpse.
This was definitely one for the books.
The body was hanging from the wall. Actually hanging, like a cow on a slaughterhouse hook. That was a twist Detective Davic had never seen before. And it wasn't as if he was new to this sort of thing. Before coming to town, he'd spent fifteen years working homicide in New York City.
Fused. The back of the dead doctor's head had been fused with the wall. There was no other way to describe it.
The body hung in defiance of gravity. The dangling toes brushed the floor. The skull had hit so hard it had split at the back, creating suction that was proving difficult to pop. The police were through examining the body. At the moment, the coroner's boys were trying to pry the head loose. They were hoping the body would drop once the head popped free.
It was all too much. When he'd first stepped into the hospital room, Davic was forced to walk on tiptoes to avoid the grisly puddles of sticky blood. The floor, the far wall, the nightstand, the bed. God, it was everywhere.
Like nothing he'd ever seen before.
"Jesus, what could have done this?" Davic muttered as the men from the coroner's office worked around the doctor's suction-stuck skull.
"Some of these crazies have strength like you wouldn't believe. Like superstrength or something. This is one for the books, though. At least it's new to me."
Detective Fred Wayne was trying to put on a nonchalant front. Davic ignored his partner.
The kid didn't really need to point out that this was beyond his police experience. Even if Davic didn't already know it to be true, he could have figured it out by the way Wayne blew his lunch out in the hallway the moment he'd gotten his first glimpse inside the room.
Wayne was trying to mask his earlier loss of control with phony bluster. It wasn't working. He still looked green around the gills. The younger detective was looking everywhere but at the body as he talked. "Uniform is searching the grounds," Wayne said.
"Jackson and Javez are keeping an eye on them. Making sure they don't make too big a mess."
"The guy who runs the place back yet?"
"Not yet," Detective Wayne replied. "He phoned his secretary yesterday to say he was on his way. Some kind of business trip. But that was long before all this. She said she has no way to reach him. Guy doesn't even know what he's coming back to."
"What about the assistant? He was supposed to be at work, right? He turn up yet?"
Wayne shook his head. "We're still searching inside. He could have left the building for something, maybe didn't tell anyone. Or he could be another victim. I guess we won't know until he turns up."
"If, " Davic muttered to himself.
A sucking crack came from the rear wall.
The coroner's men had managed to unstick the body from the wall. They tried to catch it, but it lurched forward, falling facedown in a heap on the floor. The blossomed head cavity yawned up at the cold fluorescent ceiling lights.
Detective Wayne immediately grabbed his mouth and ran out the door. The sound of dry-heaving came from the hall.
Detective Ronald Davic decided the kid might have a good idea. He needed some fresh air.
Leaving the men in the room to load the doctor's body onto a stretcher, Davic stepped into the hallway. Another coroner's crew was at the end of the hall rolling a gurney with the second body-this on a nurse-through the fire doors.
"Hold up," Davic called.
A man in white held the door for him, and Davic slipped into another short hallway.
They rolled the gurney past a few windows that looked out over water. A left from this hall and they were in the main basement corridor. At the end were fire doors. Once through them, they carted the stretcher up the stairwell to the first-floor landing.
Davic scooted ahead. He held the door for the men as they rolled the stretcher out into daylight.
A silent ambulance was parked at the side of the building, its back door open.
The men loaded the sheet-draped body of the unlucky nurse inside. As they strapped it in, Detective Davic tapped a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.
He had misplaced his lighter days ago and hadn't yet picked up a new one. Davic was afraid for a minute that he had lost the book of matches he'd scrounged from the back of a kitchen cupboard. He found them in his raincoat pocket.
As the men were closing the door on the dead nurse, Detective Davic lit up. He pulled in a deep, thoughtful lungful of smoke as he watched them move to the front of the ambulance.
The ambulance drove slowly from the side parking lot. Davic walked along behind it. He stepped into full daylight when he rounded the front of the building.
There were three other ambulances there, as well as two fire trucks, five police cruisers and a handful of unmarked cars.
Davic wondered why it was that men in official cars always seemed to park where they'd cause maximum inconvenience for everyone else. Probably just because they could.
The ambulance had a hard time threading its way through the traffic jam of parked cars. The driver bumped the right tires through the snow of the front yard to get around the landscaped rotary. It was clear sailing after that.
Lights off, the ambulance with the dead nurse drove down the great gravel driveway and passed through the wrought-iron gates. Siren silent, it drove slowly away.
Back up the driveway, Detective Davic dropped his cigarette. The wind whipped his thinning hair. He ground out the butt under his toe. Cursing the habit and the job that had forced it on him, he turned back.
The building loomed high above him. On one of the windows, someone had taped a cardboard angel, ringed with holly. A pathetic attempt to welcome in the season.
Alone in the main driveway, the police detective shook his head. "Merry Christmas," Ronald Davic grumbled.
His words were blown away in a swirl of winter wind.
With a deep frown on his doughy face, the Rye, New York, police detective trudged slowly up the broad front steps of Folcroft Sanitarium.
Chapter 1
When the plane touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, the tired passenger at the very back of the coach section released a silent sigh of relief.
With weary eyes the bland man in the gray suit watched the tarmac speed by. When the glass-encased terminal building rolled up to meet the plane, he exhaled once more.
Dr. Harold W. Smith was grateful to be home. When the plane had fully stopped and the passengers were given permission to deplane, Smith stayed in his seat. Not wanting to fight the crowd or draw attention to himself, he let others grab for their bags and cram the aisles. Only when the crowd had thinned did Smith get wearily to his feet.
Smith had been pressing a battered briefcase between his ankles for most of the flight from South America. Picking it up, he set it onto his seat. Reaching up, he unfastened the overhead compartment. He pulled out a small black suitcase.
Age had worn the frayed plastic corners of the once sturdy nylon bag. The zipper on the small side pocket no longer worked. It was stuck permanently shut, a few strands of black nylon thread jammed firmly in the metal teeth.
For years now Smith had kept the same carry-on at work just in case he was called away on emergencies. Of course, the types of emergencies that would likely pull Harold Smith from his desk were the kind for which packing was most times impossible or pointless. Impossible because he never knew what sort of climate he might land in, pointless because he might never return. How could one pack for every conceivable climate on the planet and why would one need a spare pair of underwear if one was dead?
In the bag were three pairs of socks and underwear, a spare white shirt, a shaving kit and a toothbrush. The toothbrush was a promotional item Smith had gotten from his dentist. For decades now after each of his yearly dental appointments, Harold Smith had made certain to collect the free toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste Dr. Rohter, his dentist, supplied his patients. One time back in the 1970s Smith had forgotten to collect the free items and had driven all the way back to the dentist's office to get them. He wasn't embarrassed in the least to do so. After all, the dentist got them for nothing from his suppliers. As a patient in good standing, Harold Smith was as entitled to his free toothpaste and toothbrush as any other patient.
In the bathroom cupboard of Smith's tidy little home at the edge of the Westchester Golf Club was a shoebox filled with free toothbrushes and tiny tubes of toothpaste. The contents of some of the toothpaste tubes had liquefied from sitting unused for so long.
Smith placed his carry-on next to his briefcase as he pushed shut the door to the overhead compartment. The bag was a nuisance that he hadn't really needed to bring with him on this trip.
A pragmatic soul, Smith had at one point considered bringing the bag home for good. It was only taking up space in his office closet. But in the end he had decided that it would be more suspicious to board an international flight with only his battered leather briefcase. And one thing Harold W. Smith did not crave was attention.
Smith picked up his two pieces of luggage. Before the crowd had thinned completely, Smith fell in with it. He left the plane without the flight attendant at the door even making eye contact. Few people ever took notice of Harold W. Smith. He was just a nondescript gray man with a worn overnight bag and briefcase.
Smith walked briskly through the terminal and out into the cold winter day without a single person glancing his way.
The sky above New York was a sallow gunmetal gray. The color of the day seemed reflected in the gaunt man with the worn bags who hurried up the broad sidewalk.
Everything about Smith seemed tinged in grays, from his three-piece gray suit to the pallor of his skin. The only splash of color that stained his otherwise absolute grayness was the green-striped Dartmouth tie coiled around his neck like a knotted snake.
His sheer ordinariness was the perfect camouflage.
No one would have guessed that this shivering gray man hurrying through the parking lot of John F. Kennedy International Airport was more than just the sum of his gray parts.
Harold Smith was much more.
Smith was director of CURE, a secret agency whose existence was known only to the highest level of the executive branch of the United States government. CURE's mandate was to work outside the Constitution in order to protect it. As head of CURE, Harold W. Smith controlled forces far greater than any other man on the face of the planet. The fact that he looked even more boring than the average dull, gray businessman hurrying to his car on a shivering winter day was Smith's greatest shield. His ordinariness turned away prying eyes, preventing discovery of America's greatest, most terrible secret.
At the far end of the airport parking lot was Smith's trusty station wagon. Like its owner, the old car was showing signs of wear but, like its owner, it stubbornly kept on going. The station wagon had seen Smith through myriad crises, political and social upheaval, seven presidents and just over thirty New York winters.
Unlocking a rusted door, Smith put his suitcase on the back seat near his neatly folded overcoat and scarf. He'd known he wouldn't need the garments in South America, so he'd left them in his car. He was grateful to shrug on the heavy coat and draw the scarf around his thin neck.
He placed his briefcase on the passenger seat beside him as he slid in behind the wheel.
The parking slip was in the sun visor where he'd left it five days earlier.
When he'd left on his trip, Smith knew there existed a very real chance he might never return. Since the car wasn't even worth its weight in scrap metal, he figured he'd just abandon it at the airport. Someone would eventually notice the rusted car and have it towed somewhere for disposal.
But Smith was alive, his car was waiting for him on his return and--even on a cold December day like this-the engine turned over on the first try.
Smith allowed himself a rare smile. Just because a thing was old did not automatically mean it was no longer useful.
He backed carefully from the space and drove to the booth. After paying his parking fee, he headed for the exit.
The traffic from the airport was no worse than normal. Smith scarcely noticed. So bone tired was he, he allowed himself to drive on automatic pilot. Before he knew it, he was driving through the center of his own town.
There was no need to go directly home. Before assuming the reins of CURE, Smith had worked for the CIA. His wife was accustomed to mysterious absences. Still, he had one thing to check on before going to work.
He drove through the congested center of town. A new street built in the 1980s led to the rear entrance of a big apartment complex. A dozen four-story buildings squatted on what had once been farmland. Smith parked his car in front of Building B. Briefcase in hand, he headed for the door.
A row of doorbells was lined neatly on a panel. Smith ran an arthritic finger down the list of names next to the door. He stopped at the one labeled Mark Howard.
Smith pressed the bell.
Howard was Smith's assistant. The younger man was supposed to have been filling in for his employer at work these past few days. But Smith had phoned the office a few times while he was away, and Howard had failed to answer.
At first Smith thought something might be wrong. But he had used his briefcase laptop to check the phone lines and the CURE mainframes for tampering. The agency was secure.
Smith was going to phone his secretary, but decided against it. He didn't want to involve her if it turned out to be a CURE problem. She had no idea what her employer actually did for a living. Besides, Smith suspected he knew what the problem was.
Mark Howard had not been feeling well these past few weeks. He seemed to be suffering from some form of mental exhaustion that was affecting his work. Smith had even given Howard some time off, but when the crisis in South America came he was forced to call his assistant back to work.
Smith wound up staying in South America longer than he had expected, to make certain the danger that took him there was completely eliminated. If Mark's condition had worsened in the five days Smith was away, the young man might have gone home to rest.
At least that's what Smith had assumed. But if Mark was home, he should have answered his door. Smith
rang the bell again. When there was still no answer, the CURE director frowned. A tingle of concern fluttered deep in his belly.
He picked a name at random on another floor and pressed the glowing yellow doorbell.
"Yeah, what is it?" a gruff male voice asked after an agonizingly long moment.
"Exterminator," Smith replied. His lemony voice was crisp and precise. "Maintenance called about a cockroach problem in-" he read the name and apartment number from the tag "-the Robertsons' apartment next to yours. I'm here to spray."
"Why didn't maintenance let you in?"
"I was given the passkey to the apartment, but the custodian failed to give me the key to the front door," Smith said into the speaker. "He was called away on an emergency in another building. It doesn't matter to me if you don't let me in. However, the insects are in a breeding cycle right now. If I have to leave now, this entire building could be infested by the time I get back."
The unseen man exhaled angrily. "Those people are animals," he grunted.
There was a buzz and the security lock opened. Smith slipped inside. He took the stairs to the second floor and hurried to Howard's apartment.
The door was locked. However, unlike the security door downstairs, this one was just a standard dead bolt. Smith took out his wallet and removed a small set of burglary tools. With a few deft wiggles he picked the lock.
The apartment was dark. The curtains were drawn on the dreary morning. Smith shut the door behind him, feeling on the wall for the light switch. "Mark?" Smith called.
No answer. Smith wasn't carrying a weapon. Stepping cautiously, he did a quick search of the apartment.
He found no one. However, there were droplets of water in the shower stall. In the kitchen, a banana peel in a bag under the sink had not yet fully blackened. A cereal bowl in the sink had a small amount of milk in the bottom that had not yet soured. Clearly, his assistant had showered and eaten breakfast in his apartment that morning.
Mark Howard was a hardworking and conscientious young man. His condition had to have worsened after Smith had left, necessitating the need to take a few days off. But he was obviously feeling better, for he had to have returned to work.
Market Force td-127 Page 1
