The Wrong Stuff td-125

by Warren Murphy

  "Now, it was here in the shadow of Chomolunga where Master Shiko did come upon a gathering of Sherpa monks. They had heard that the Master of Sinanju was approaching their pathetic excuse for a monastery and had come out to greet him. And on the slippery path to Kathmandu, they did beg him stop. Surrounded were these monks by men of the new squalid Sherpa settlements, and the look of fright was full on all their ugly flat Sherpa faces. However, Shiko could see only the faces of those nearest, for his eyes were weak by now. But heard he the trembling fear in their voices.

  "And these monks did speak in quavering voices, and they did tell of a terrible beast that had been attacking their settlements. They claimed that this creature did live in the forested regions near the snow line and did only venture down to prey on them. The beast was of great size with fearsome large hands and feet. The color of snow was this terrible creature, and was thus nearly invisible to the eye until it was too late. Many had died, they said.

  "'Why does this beast attack you, O quivering Sherpas?'" the aged Master Shiko did ask.

  "'He fears our nearness, great Master of Sinanju,' the monks did reply. 'For until our arrival these mountains were his home and his alone. At unsuspecting moments he does leap from concealment, casting our people from the mountainside to the rocks of the ravines far below. We fear he will kill us all, thus reclaiming that which he sees as his.'"

  At this, Remo broke in once more. "You're saying they were new to the mountain, right?" he asked.

  "That is correct," Chiun replied.

  "Hmm," Remo said. "Maybe there was no abominable snowman," he suggested. "Maybe they were just slipping on the snow and falling over the side of the mountain."

  In an earlier day Chiun would have been annoyed at yet another interruption. However, this time a thin smile slithered across the old man's parchment lips.

  "That is partly true," he admitted, nodding wisely. "These first Sherpas had only recently migrated from the eastern Tibetan province of Khams to settle in this mountainous region. If Shiko's mind was as clear as that of the young Master he was pretending to be, he would have realized that these clumsy clods were not used to living on mountains and were merely slipping and cracking open their own thick Sherpa heads. But, alas, this did not occur to Master Shiko. He did have mind enough to know, however, that Sinanju had met many things known to quail the human heart. Some have been real-like dragons, minotaurs and gorgons."

  "Gorgons?" Remo asked skeptically. "Aren't those the snake-haired chicks that turn you into rock?"

  "There are limits to my patience, Remo," Chiun warned.

  "Sorry," Remo sighed.

  "So some monsters have been real while many more have been false things, created by man to explain or excuse his own weaknesses. In the age during which Shiko lived, there were few real monsters left. And though he had spent much time on these paths as a young man, in both winter and summer months, never once hearing of such a fantastic creature, Shiko was nevertheless intrigued by this tale, for he was still in the blush of false youth following his success in Persia. Throwing wisdom to the wind, he agreed to undertake the task of hunting this new beast. The Sherpa monks did pay him in gold and, after ritualistically sprinkling the ground around his feet with holy water and flowers, they did send him off on the hunt.

  "Ordinarily, a Master would have embarked on such an expedition alone, but even in his delusional state Shiko realized that he would need someone to carry the tribute paid him by the monks. In addition to this, a fierce winter had late descended on the Himalayas. Men were needed to carry his supplies, and so it was decided that a group of young Sherpas would accompany him on his journey.

  "They traveled on mountain paths, around Solu Khumba and up toward Kala Patter, which lay in peaceful slumber beneath the watchful gaze of mounts Lhotse and Nuptse. The trails were treacherous, and many were the times that Master Shiko's swift hand saved one or another of his retinue from falling to their deaths. They had trekked far, and Shiko was beginning to lose hope that they would ever find the creature they sought. But on the first day of the third week, they spied the beast's tracks."

  In the seat next to the old Korean, Remo's face grew intent. The sounds of the plane engines and the general passenger sounds faded as he listened to Shiko's tale.

  "Giant were these prints in the snow," Chiun continued. "Five times larger than any man's. They followed the trail to the thinning edge of the trees. And at dusk on the very day on which they discovered the tracks did they spy the creature." The old Korean tipped his head sadly. "Such was it recorded by Shiko, Remo," he said, his voice low. "However, in point of fact it was the Sherpas who claimed to see the beast. Shiko's eyes being what they were, he could not see to where they pointed. Yet he followed. For months they did follow a jagged course, up mountains and down. The beast remained before them, ever out of reach. And during this time Shiko failed to notice that the men with him-men who had at first fallen with nearly every other step-had slowly become more surefooted." Chiun paused momentarily, eyeing his pupil.

  Remo said not a word. He didn't have to. A knowing look had settled on his face.

  Chiun nodded. "You understand what Shiko did not," he intoned. "For although the deceitful monks claimed to be in search of a monster, what they really wanted was a way to keep their clumsy fellow Sherpas from falling off their silly mountains. And so it was that by the time Shiko's party had finished scouring the hills around Pokhara valley, the Sherpas had become the most skilled mountain climbers in the world outside of Sinanju. Even so, Shiko in his foolishness did not know the truth. Eventually, his health failed him and he was carried back to the Tengpoche Monastery, there to die."

  "Bastards," muttered Remo, who understood that the skills of the Master of Sinanju sustained the village. "They took advantage of an old man. Everybody's out looking for a freebie. I'm surprised Shiko's student what's-his-name, Hat-Trick, didn't kack every last one of them."

  At this, Chiun nodded. "Back home in Sinanju, Hya-Tee heard of his teacher's sickness. He did undertake the long journey to Chomolunga, there to find his Master in his final hours of life. On his trip up to the monastery, Hya-Tee did note the ease with which the Sherpa people journeyed about the mountainside. At the bedside of his Master, Shiko in his dying breath told Hya-Tee of the beast that he had been hired to kill. At that moment did Hya-Tee understand the truth."

  "I'm confused," Remo said. "If Hya-Tee knew what happened, why didn't he wipe out the Sherpas then and there? I mean obviously he didn't, 'cause they're still good at climbing mountains today."

  "Alas, it would have been an easy enough thing if it were but a matter of removing the men who had accompanied Shiko on his fruitless quest," Chiun explained. "But upon returning to their villages, they did instruct their females and children the proper way to tread on mountain snow and ice. The people of other settlements were taught, as well. By the time Hya-Tee arrived there, the skill had been passed to every Sherpa. Still, Hya-Tee could not allow such thievery to pass unpunished. He learned the names of the men who had been with Master Shiko on his pointless hunt, and for a time after the death of his old Master, Hya-Tee became the embodiment of that false creature Shiko had sought. He prowled the night, invisible in the snow, casting to their deaths the original thieves who did steal from Sinanju."

  "Good." Remo nodded, crossing his arms in satisfaction.

  "It was more than good-it was right," Chiun said. "At first the Sherpas knew fear. But over time, fear became respect. Eventually all did realize the debt they owed to Sinanju. When the last thief had met his just end, Hya-Tee did show himself. And said he, 'Thieving Sherpas, you have stolen from foolish Master Shiko and thus from Sinanju. To steal from us is to steal the food from the mouths of our children, for it is the work of the Master that sustains the village. Therefore, on this day and every time this season comes again for as long as you live in these mountains, Sinanju demands payment. The skills you have stolen will not be shared with outsiders, lest you incur the wrath
of the shadowy beast of your own creation.'

  "And thus it was agreed," Chiun said. "Every spring to this very day, the monks of Tengpoche do send a stipend to our village. Hya-Tee returned home to Sinanju, there to inter the body of his dead Master. As the years went by and this tale was passed down from one generation of Sherpas to the next, Hya-Tee's name became distorted. However, his legend is such that men around the world today speak his name."

  Finished with his tale, he fussed at his robes. Beside him, Remo frowned. "Hya-Tee. I don't know-" The light dawned. "Yeti," he said, his eyes widening. "You're saying a Master of Sinanju is the abominable snowman?"

  "I am saying that Hya-Tee exacted proper penance and is remembered for it," Chiun replied blandly.

  "All right, so what's this got to do with the eightlegged bank robber we're after?"

  "It is of particular relevance," Chiun said. "Remember, Master Shiko sought a monster that he could not see."

  "It's not the same," Remo pointed out. "Everyone says they've seen a spider."

  "And this is the lesson of Master Shiko," Chiun nodded wisely. "Just because many say they see a thing, that does not make that thing real. Trust your eyes not theirs."

  "We've seen it," Remo suggested.

  Chiun shook his head. "I have seen something," he replied, folding his arms. "What that something is I don't know. In any case, that television image was not clear. It is always wise to make no assumptions about what you think you know about your opponent until you've actually seen it with your own eyes. Such has it been since the time of Master Shiko." He pitched his voice low. "In point of fact, it was like this even before Shiko," he admitted. "Most Masters who came after him agree that we are fortunate the senile old fool didn't sell the entire village out from under us for a handful of magic beans."

  The old Asian settled comfortably back in his seat, interwoven hands resting on his belly.

  Remo bit his cheek thoughtfully. The sounds of the cabin seemed suddenly louder.

  He had seen the image on the TV with his own eyes. It had certainly looked like a spider. But in truth the camera had been wobbly and the image had been fleeting.

  When was a spider not a spider?

  His face tight with somber reflection, he pondered Chiun's words for the rest of the flight to Maine.

  Chapter 21

  When they landed in Bangor, Remo called Smith for directions before renting a car at the airport. They drove east to Bay Cove. With a twice-delayed flight and a long drive, the late-afternoon shadows were already growing long.

  It was the end of the autumn-foliage season in New England. Nature had painted the trees along the winding roads in vivid shades of red and yellow. By the time they arrived in the small seaside community Stewart McQueen called home, Chiun had his window rolled down. The old Korean sniffed the chilly October air with satisfaction.

  "This place reminds me of my village," the Master of Sinanju said as they took the winding main road past quaint cottages decorated with lobster traps and sea-stained buoys.

  "I don't smell shit," Remo said as he studied the road signs.

  Chiun ignored him. "My quest for a new home still continues. I have seen many pictures. The Prince Regent has been most helpful."

  "I think Smitty wants us out of Folcroft," Remo said. "The artist formerly known as Prince is just following orders."

  He turned off the main drag onto a shaded side street.

  "Yet you persist in your recalcitrance."

  "I don't want to live in Maine, Chiun. It's colder than all hell. Besides, we've done the East Coast thing already. I'm putting winter behind me."

  "We will see," Chiun said, settling back into his seat.

  Remo followed Smith's directions, turning off the small lane and onto a tree-lined cul-de-sac. They looped around to the end. When he stopped before the gates of Stewart McQueen's mansion, his eyes grew flat.

  "You gotta be kidding me," he said as he looked up at the unsightly Gothic mess that was Stewart McQueen's home.

  The four-story structure slouched like an architectural bully at the end of the sparsely populated street. The round windows of the gabled attic rooms were like malevolent eyes of doom, staring out across the neighborhood. A widow's walk with rusted rail clung precariously to the slate roof. Gray shingled walls in desperate need of paint were adorned here and there with half-nailed shutters.

  Around the property, autumn seemed to have come earlier than in the surrounding region, for any trace of leaves had been stripped from the handful of trees whose clawlike roots were fixed to soil. Bare black branches scraped the sky.

  In the front seat beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju's button nose crinkled in distaste as he viewed the house.

  "What is this place?" Chiun asked unhappily.

  "I think the nuns would call it a living testament to the decline of American literature," Remo suggested. "Either that or it's the Munsters' summer house."

  The two men got out of the car.

  A pair of black metallic bats decorated the stone posts to which was fixed the rusting front gate. "Cameras in the bats' eyes," Remo pointed out as they strolled up to the gate. He had detected the soft clicks and whirs of delicate machinery.

  "What manner of man lives in such a dwelling?" the Master of Sinanju asked. Standing on tiptoe, he was peering intently up at the bats.

  The bats didn't look back. Remo and Chiun were now below their range. The dark, smoky eyes stared out across the deserted street.

  "The guy's a superrich horror writer," Remo explained. "I saw on some tabloid show how he had his place done up to look like a haunted house." Hands on his hips, he peered through the bars of the gate at the house beyond. "Can't say it looks better in person than it did on TV."

  With a soft harrumph of disapproval, Chiun dropped back to his soles. "The gate is electrified," he announced, tucking hands inside his kimono sleeves.

  "Whole place is, judging by the hum I'm getting off it," Remo replied. "He must have a major security system. So what do you say, Little Father," he asked, turning to the Master of Sinanju, "through it or over it?"

  Neither course proved necessary. As Remo and Chiun stood on the sidewalk before the gate, a gentle click sounded at the heavy bolt. The electrical charge that hummed through the fence powered down to silence. With a forlorn groan of rusted metal, the heavy steel gate rolled slowly open.

  Remo glanced at Chiun. "This might be a good time to remember not to take any balloons from killer clowns who want to lure us into the woods," he said dryly.

  Chiun's face was serious. "Stay alert," he warned. With that the old Korean slipped through the gates. Remo followed him inside.

  As they walked away, high up on the gateposts behind them, the heads of the two bat sentries swung around.

  The eyes of the metal creatures were directed at the backs of the two men as they made their way up the walk.

  When Remo felt the telltale waves from the cameras on his back, he arched a curious eyebrow.

  "I thought those things looked solid," he commented. "Didn't look to me like the necks could swivel."

  He glanced over his shoulder. But when he did, the bats were once more facing the street, away from Remo and Chiun.

  "What the hell?"

  As a frown took shape on Remo's face, the front gate abruptly swung closed without so much as a creak. The hum from the electrified fence rose in the chilly air.

  "Isn't this the part where Shemp sees the ghost, but Moe and Larry are too busy moving furniture to notice?" Remo asked the vacant air.

  As if in response, a low moan rose from the house, painful and protracted.

  As they headed up the flagstone walk, Chiun and Remo both saw the small speakers hidden under the lip of a narrow ledge just above the eaves. The protracted moan echoed to silence, replaced by the distant, desolate howl of a wolf.

  A blanket of rotten leaves was spread across the dead brown grass. Thorn bushes and creeping ivy decorated the front of the house around the
porch.

  The front steps were bowed and rickety. Up close Remo could see that they were deliberately made to look old and battered. They seemed sturdy enough underfoot as the two men climbed up onto the broad front porch.

  "Abracadabra," Remo said mysteriously, waving his hand as they approached the front door.

  The instant he uttered the word, the door creaked open.

  "I don't know what you think," Remo said, careful to keep his voice low enough that only Chiun could hear, "but I think we're about to get pounced on by an eight-hundred-pound spider."

  "Caution," the Master of Sinanju warned in reply. Senses straining alertness, the old man breezed through the door. Remo followed.

  If the spider was inside, it was not in the foyer. Nor, Remo judged, was it in any of the ground-floor rooms.

  From what he could tell there were no detectable life signs. Just the constant thrum of electricity that powered Stewart McQueen's elaborate security system. The whole house seemed to vibrate with coursing energy.

  The two men had taken only a few steps inside the house when they felt the rush of air at their backs. Spinning, they were just in time to see the front door slam shut.

  To Remo's trained eyes, it moved faster than any mechanical device should have allowed. The entire house rumbled from attic to basement, such was the force with which the door cracked shut.

  Remo bounded back over to the door, grabbing the handle. He expected to shatter the simple lock with ease, but when he took hold of the tarnished brass knob, a surprised look blossomed on his hard face. "There's no dead bolt," he said.

  The Master of Sinanju frowned. Joining his pupil at the door, Chiun tapped the knob with a single slender finger while placing the flat of his palm on the door's veneer. His leathery face grew amazed.

  "This is no longer a door," the Master of Sinanju said as the solid vibrations returned to his bony hand. It was as if upon closing, the entire door had merged with the frame around it, becoming one with the wall itself. They formed a single, solid unit.