The Wrong Stuff td-125

by Warren Murphy

  "It moves funny," Chiun pronounced as the picture faded to black.

  "Nothing funny about that," Remo said grimly. His expression was dark as he shook his head. "And did you happen to notice how that van looked like the one the Rocket Revengers blew up? They must be tied in somehow."

  A leathery hand waved away any interest in the crashed vehicle. "The men are irrelevant," Chiun said. "It is the beast that is troublesome."

  "Gotta go with you on that one," Remo agreed. "I have to admit I'm not thrilled at the idea of having to tussle with a bug that big. What do we do, have one of us pin it down while the other one squashes it?"

  Chiun's brow was furrowed. "Whatever else this creature might be, it is new to Sinanju," he intoned seriously. "Without the wisdom of the past to guide us, we should learn all we can about it before we race off to engage it. Perhaps even leave it to a later Master to exterminate."

  Remo was surprised by his teacher's reluctance. It was an attitude he did not share.

  "Nah," he dismissed. "We've gone up against worse. As long as we don't wind up snagged in its web like Vincent Price, we'll be golden."

  "Did you see a web?" Chiun challenged.

  Remo was surprised at his scolding tone. Impatience sparked the depths of the old Korean's eyes. "I was just kidding, Chiun," Remo said.

  The Master of Sinanju closed his eyes patiently. An intense world-weariness descended on the dry skin around his creased lids. "Please, Remo, make an effort to involve your brain, as well as your mouth, when you are thinking. I will not be here forever to guide you."

  The fatherly care with which his words were spoken made Remo feel suddenly very small. And concerned.

  "Are you all right, Little Father?" he asked, worry tripping his voice. He thought of the week's worth of near silence he'd been subjected to by the old man.

  Chiun's eyes opened. Though the skin around them crinkled like old parchment, they remained youthful. "Of course I am all right," he retorted. "But I will not always be so. Anyone can see that my days have long grown short."

  Remo fidgeted uncomfortably. "There's nothing wrong with you," he dismissed.

  "Now," Chiun said, shaking his head. "But not forever." An awkward silence momentarily descended. "Have you forgotten your visitations from your brother?" the old Korean asked quietly.

  Remo felt a chill in the hotel room that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

  The old Asian was referring to Remo's ghostly visitor from the previous year. The small Korean child had foretold that the coming years would be difficult for Remo Williams.

  The little boy had appeared a half-dozen times to Remo, and it was only after he was long gone the last time that Remo found out who he was. The boy who had haunted his days was Chiun's natural son, Song, who had died in a training accident before Remo was even born. Since Remo was Chiun's spiritually adopted son, the old Korean considered him brother to the biological son he had lost years ago.

  "Of course I haven't forgotten," Remo said softly. "I just don't like to think about it that much."

  A fleeting sternness touched the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled visage. "Is that so?" he asked. "Can I assume you were not thinking about it when you slew the homicidal ballfooter but a stone's throw from Fortress Folcroft, knowing that it would upset Emperor Smith? Have you not been thinking about it when you've used every opportunity to antagonize the Prince Regent? Was it far from your thoughts when you watched our home burn to the ground?"

  Remo's shoulders sagged. "Okay, so it's passed through my mind from time to time." He raised a warning finger. "But I'm bugging Howard on my own time," he stressed.

  "So you say," Chiun replied thinly. "In any case you were warned that these times preceded your ascension to Reigning Masterhood. You must understand that when that time comes, your responsibilities will be far different than they are now." The old man's tone was serious.

  Remo was now reasonably certain why Chiun had been so quiet after their talk in the Folcroft hallway. He, more than even Remo, understood the truth behind Remo's hastily spoken words.

  Remo knew that there was nothing more sacred to his teacher than his duties as Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. And even though it pained him to even consider a time when Chiun would not be Master, Remo understood that one of the most weighty tasks as Master was to choose a successor who understood all the great burdens his station entailed. Burying the sadness he dared not reveal, the younger man nodded. "I understand, Little Father," Remo said softly.

  At his pupil's gentle tone, the harder lines of the old man's face softened. "You are a good pupil, Remo, as well as a good son," he said. "And despite what I and others have told you over the years, you have a good brain, too. It merely lacks focus."

  Remo's smile bloomed with childlike pride. "You really think so?" he asked.

  Chiun rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he droned. "When I first met you I considered wadding up cotton in your ears at night to keep the mice out. I was merely saying so to boost your self-esteem."

  A cloud formed on Remo's brow. "Mission accomplished," he grumbled, folding his arms.

  Chiun turned his attention back to the blank TV screen. "I saw no web from this spider-that-is-not-a-true-spider that moves funny," the old man said. "And if it is different in this one way, it could be different in others."

  "Like being as big as a Buick, for one," Remo suggested thinly.

  "Yes," Chiun replied without irony. "If we are to meet this creature about which you know nothing, do not let its resemblance to a thing you know confuse your reactions to it."

  Remo understood the Master of Sinanju's concerns.

  Yet they seemed unwarranted. "Not a problem," he said.

  As he spoke, the room phone jangled to life. Floating to his feet, Remo scooped up the receiver from the nightstand next to the bed.

  "Yello," he said.

  "Remo, Smith," announced the CURE director's breathless voice. "The creature has been spotted again."

  Remo was instantly alert. "Where?"

  Smith couldn't keep the troubled anxiety from his voice. "Ten miles from your location," he said. "A bar called the Roadkill Tavern. Local authorities were just alerted. As far as anyone knows, it's still there."

  The older man quickly spit out directions. With a final caution to be careful, the CURE director broke the connection.

  Remo slammed down the receiver. When he spun toward the Master of Sinanju, Chiun was already rising to his feet, a serious expression on his aged face. "You heard," Remo said quickly.

  "Yes," Chiun said seriously as he swept to the door. "I only hope that you did, as well."

  And in a flurry of green-and-red silk, he was gone. The old man's concern was infectious. Feeling a pang of unaccustomed disquiet, Remo raced out into the night after the elderly Korean.

  Chapter 16

  The girl had gotten into the Roadkill Tavern with fake ID. Had to have. There was absolutely no way she was the legal limit. Fake ID and maybe a pretty smile had gotten her through the door.

  She was seventeen at best. Maybe a year or two younger. No amount of booze or makeup could hide the truth from the eyes of the shadowy figure who sat in the corner booth. After all, he was an expert.

  A warm beer sat on the table before him. Not too stale that the waitress would get annoyed at him for taking up valuable real estate. He knew how to pace his drinking while remaining inconspicuous. Afterward, when the police started asking the inevitable questions, people might remember there was someone sitting there for a few hours-maybe even come up with a vague physical description-but they wouldn't be able to pin down any specifics.

  It was a talent honed from years of experience. As he sat alone watching the girl at the bar, he tapped a single index finger on the dirty tabletop. A smile above a halter top. Maybe she had a face, maybe not. It didn't really matter. He'd known it the moment she stepped through the door. She would be the next.

  Click-click-click.

  The meta
l pad recessed in his fingertip drummed a relentless staccato on the table.

  He alone heard the noise. The jukebox was so loud no one else could hear the sound of Elizu Roote's tapping finger.

  A faint reddish blush of anticipation brushed the flesh of his otherwise pale cheeks as he watched the boozy young face of the girl he intended to murder tonight.

  IN THE PARKING LOT outside the Roadkill, Clark Beemer hunched behind the steering wheel of the black NASA van. He was trying desperately not to be noticed.

  When someone passed by the van, Beemer's eyes grew wide behind his dark sunglasses. He fumbled with the radio, tugged at the upturned collar of his trench coat-anything to distract, to give the appearance that he belonged here.

  This wasn't fair. Just because he happened to be in on the big, bad secret at NASA, why did he get tapped to chauffeur around the scary robot?

  Clark had been standing right there when Zipp Codwin asked Mr. Gordons to drum up some more operating capital. Even after the thing had turned himself into something that looked human. Even after Gordons had threatened Codwin and all of NASA. One thing about Zipp-he had guts.

  Codwin's earlier argument held true. NASA needed the money, and Gordons had needed NASA for repairs in the past. But now there was the additional problem that Gordons had created. With the clues he had left behind, the authorities might already be zeroing in on the space agency.

  "Safer from a survival standpoint for you to minimize your time here, son," Zipp had insisted. "Let the brains like me and Graham figure out how to solve your problem. Ol' Clark here'll take you on your rounds tonight."

  So that was it. Clark Beemer wasn't the brains. While the only other men with knowledge of who and what Mr. Gordons was stayed back in the wellguarded safety of the Kennedy Space Center, Clark was forced to take to the road with that creepy, emotionless tin can.

  He heard a shuffling in the rear of the van.

  Since that afternoon at NASA, Mr. Gordons had retained his human form. Like a regular person, he had ridden to the bar in the front of the van with Clark. Once Beemer had parked at the very distant edge of the lot, the android had gotten up and slipped into the back of the van.

  More shuffling. A soft grinding of metal.

  "Why didn't they let you go alone?" Clark muttered to himself as he sank further into his own shoulders.

  A cool mechanical voice answered his question. "There is a fifty-six percent probability that Administrator Codwin did not want you in his vicinity. That, coupled with the eighty-five percent probability of his not wanting me there, either, made his decision to send you with me a reasonable one."

  When Clark turned a peeved eye to Gordons, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  The android had reverted to his spider form. This time the not quite smiling face that jutted from the body of the creature was flesh colored.

  "Why do you look like that again?" Clark asked, panting with sudden fright. One hand was pressed to his chest to steady his rapidly beating heart.

  "In order to mask my true features," Mr. Gordons said. The flatness of his tone never varied. "Necessity forced me to maintain the shape of the Virgil probe throughout the assimilation process. Even though I am now operating at one hundred percent efficiency, I have found that this shape is effective as camouflage. Humans who might otherwise be curious about me are frightened into submission when they see me in this guise. I believe this is due to the fact that most human beings harbor a visceral fear of insects in general and arachnids in particular, would you not agree?"

  Not waiting for a response, the Gordons spider scurried around on clattering metal feet. Displaying its furry rear end, the massive creature rapidly crawled to the rear of the van. It popped the door.

  Clark felt the van rise on its shocks as the heavy android slipped down to the parking lot.

  There was a skittering of feet that seemed to fade in the distance. Clark allowed himself a relieved exhale that lasted only until the huge creature sprang up beside his open window. Gordons leaned his face in close.

  "Do not leave," the android instructed. "I'll be back."

  With that he sank back onto his metal legs and began scurrying to the bar. Clark watched Gordons crawl quickly through the shadows between the many parked cars. He disappeared around the side of the building.

  Clark didn't even realize that he had placed his hand back over his thudding heart.

  "I don't know what visceral means," Clark whispered, "but you sure as hell got the fear thing down cold."

  Pulling his trench coat collar higher, he hunched farther behind the wheel.

  THE FLIGHT Stewart McQueen had taken from Maine to Florida had been as pleasant as it could be for the most famous novelist in America. Only ten people in the first-class cabin approached him to say they were interested in becoming writers, too. A miraculously small number considering how many usually pestered him.

  It never failed to amaze McQueen. Young, old, educated, morons. Everyone he ever met swore that they could be writers just because they knew a few English words and could-when pressed-actually spell some of them. None of them realized that few professional writers stumbled into the job as a lark or a second career. Writing was an obsession that started young and, more than likely, never panned out.

  On his way off the plane, the pilot bounded from the cockpit to pitch him an idea. McQueen brushed him off. The same went for three hopeful flight attendants.

  As he walked through the airport, McQueen pulled his Red Sox baseball cap low over his eyes. Even so a handful of people spied him as he made his way through the terminal. Some asked him questions about agents and publishers. Most were autograph seekers who shoved dog-eared copies of some of his own thick paperbacks under his sharp nose.

  McQueen dodged them all and hightailed it outside. The woman who rented him his car made him autograph her copy of The Gas Mileage, a terrifying sixteen-part serial thriller he'd written a few years before. It was all about prison inmates, supernatural powers and an evil cadre of killer cars that got only eight miles to the gallon.

  In the farthest airport parking lot, McQueen stopped his rental car. Fishing in his luggage, he pulled out a police scanner he'd brought from home. Hooking it up, he latched it to the dashboard with a pair of roach clips.

  Most of the sightings of the creature had taken place east of Orlando. He struck off in that direction. By the time he began prowling the streets, night had long taken hold of the Florida peninsula.

  McQueen didn't believe in God. Satan, however, was another story. Given the content of his books, the Prince of Darkness buttered his daily bread.

  As he rode along through the enveloping black night, eyes peeled for signs of strange movement, ears alert to the staticky squawk of the scanner, Stewart McQueen found himself uttering a soft prayer to the king of all that was unholy.

  "Dear Angel of the Bottomless Pit, your Satanic Majesty and Father of Lies. Hi. It's me again. I know there's not much left of my eternal soul, but whatever's there is yours. Just give an old pal a break here, would you?"

  Hoping that would be enough to kick start Old Bendy into lending a scaly hand in ending his current bout of writer's block, McQueen raised his penitent head. The instant he did so, a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him.

  His head snapped back down so fast, he smacked it off the steering wheel.

  "But when I finally do die, just don't stick me in the same pit as John Grisham," he pleaded. "I know he has to have the same deal with you as me. Hail Satan, and amen."

  THROUGH THE SLIDING peephole in the storage room behind the bar, Juan Jiminez peered at the shadowy figure.

  The stranger had picked the darkest booth in the Roadkill. According to the bartender, he'd been there for more than two hours. Just sitting and staring.

  As he studied the mysterious figure, Juan felt a puff of hot breath on his neck.

  "You think he's a cop?" an anxious voice whispered.

  Juan pulled his eyes away from the peepho
le. Ronnie Marzano was standing on his tiptoes trying to see through the opening. His black-rimmed eyes were worried.

  "I don't know what he is, but he ain't no cop," Juan said with snide confidence. Without another glance out into the bar, he slid the cardboard shutter back over the opening.

  Ronnie blinked hard as he turned his anxious gaze back to the storage room. "Yeah?" he said. "I hope you're right. I got a lot riding on this."

  At that, Juan snorted. "You do?" he mocked. There were five more men arranged around the room. Each joined in the derisive laughter.

  Ronnie felt like the odd man out. The other five were Cubans, like Jiminez. All six had come to the U.S. ten years ago, floating on a waterlogged boat made from rotted wooden planks lashed to four rusty oil drums.

  There was a camaraderie derived from shared hardship among those six that Ronnie could never be a part of. Not that their friendship was anything he really needed. All Ronnie really wanted out of this deal was some free blow and a couple of bucks for his trouble.

  A stack of corrugated cardboard boxes lined one wall of the big storage room. Each box was filled with two dozen tightly wrapped plastic bundles. More than a million dollars' worth of cocaine, smuggled by Juan Jiminez into the United States from South America. Ronnie had done his part by setting up the meeting between Jiminez and a local distributor out of Miami.

  As Jiminez walked back across the room and plopped into a wooden office chair, Ronnie tracked him with his eyes.

  "I'm the one who sets up the meetings here," Ronnie reminded the Cuban. "I'm the one whose neck's on the line."

  He left out the fact that his brother-in-law owned the bar. Ronnie also neglected to mention that the heat had been threatening to turn up on the Roadkill lately. Word had begun to filter out into the surrounding neighborhood about what was really going on at the dingy little bar.

  Ronnie rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes. "I gotta go to the can," he mumbled.

  Leaving the group of armed Cuban expatriates, he ducked through an ancient door that led into a short hallway. Down at one end was the main bar area. In the other direction were the rest rooms and an emergency exit.