The Ultimate Death td-88

by Warren Murphy

  Instead, they contracted like a wind-troubled orb web. His tiny nostrils stopped drawing in duck aroma, and the Master of Sinanju straightened like the main sail on a junk.

  Just before Remo could get out the words "Not bad, huh?", Chiun asked a question in a level but vaguely indignant voice.

  "Why are you trying to poison me?"

  "Poison?"

  "This duck is poisoned," Chiun said flatly.

  "Is not!" Remo flared.

  "It is deadly. Do you covet my Masterhood so much that you would stoop to mere poison?"

  "I did not-"

  A single hand rose.

  "It is one thing for you to covet my throne," intoned Chiun. "It is another to employ poison to achieve it. The House has not used poison since before the Great Wang. A simple blow while I sleep would have been sufficient-not that you would have landed such a blow or survived the attempt, but it would have been acceptable."

  Remo shook his head. "You're being ridiculous."

  "Am I? You would not be the first who attempted to supplant me as Master. You would do well to remember what befell him."

  Chiun was referring to his nephew, Nuihc. His brother's son had been Chiun's first pupil. He had turned against his village and used his deadly skills for evil. Chiun had personally eliminated Nuihc in order to save Remo's life, and had mentioned the matter rarely over the past decade. The fact that he brought it up now only angered Remo more.

  "Look," Remo protested, growing hot, "I'm trying to honor you here! Why are you giving me all this BS?"

  "Because you are giving me poison duck. I will not eat it, and I suggest you do not."

  "But you gotta eat the duck!"

  Chiun drew back, his clear eyes hardening. His long-nailed fingers found his wrists and disappeared within the tunnel of his sleeves. He cocked his head to one side.

  "I must?"

  "It's supposed to be your kohi! Remember? This way you can turn one hundred!"

  Chiun became angry. "I am only eighty!" he snapped. "I will always be eighty. I will never age, thanks to your white thick-headedness, and I will never die."

  "You won't?" Remo asked, taken aback.

  "I cannot afford to," Chiun squeaked. "For I am the last of my line, and my only successor is a pale piece of a pig's ear who covets the treasure of my ancestors."

  Remo put his hands on his hips. "You know that isn't true. And I'm sick of apologizing for not realizing you weren't dead that one time. Pulling this 'poisoned duck' scam is a low move. I went to a lot of trouble preparing this bird!"

  "Then you eat it," Chiun sniffed.

  "I will," said Remo, reaching out to rip loose a shriveled brown wing. He brought it to his mouth.

  The Master of Sinanju watched with silent interest. Remo's strong white teeth took hold of a string of meat and pulled it loose.

  He had barely tasted the greasy meat when, faster than Remo's Sinanju-trained reflexes could avoid it, a nut-colored hand swept out. Remo thought for an awful moment that his front teeth had been pulled.

  One moment he was tasting meat and clutching a duck wing. Then both were gone. Remo tasted the duck on his tongue and swallowed involuntarily.

  As soon as the greasy morsel hit his stomach, he knew the duck was poisoned. His dark eyes widened with shock. One hand over his mouth, he made a dive for the bathroom.

  After he had emptied the contents of his stomach-mostly stomach acid-into the toilet bowl, and his vision had begun to clear, he heard Chiun's voice, calm but interested.

  "You did not know the duck was poisoned."

  "Of course I didn't!" Remo snapped, wiping his mouth with the back of his thick wrist.

  "Unless this was clever subterfuge to lull my newfound suspicions," Chiun continued thoughtfully, stroking his wispy beard.

  "Then why'd you pull the duck from between my teeth?"

  Silence. The pause lengthened. Remo got off his knees, which were rubbery from the aftereffects of the shock to his highly attuned nervous system-and Chiun answered.

  "Because I did not wish to be burdened with the disposal of your worthless round-eyed carcass."

  And the Master of Sinanju swept from the room. Soon, the sounds of broadcast-quality British voices once again filled the apartment.

  Remo moved swiftly into the living room and did something that had gotten untold hotel bellhops, apartment house superintendents, telephone repairmen, and other rude persons maimed or killed more effectively than if they'd stumbled across an organized crime summit in progress.

  He switched off one of Chiun's soaps and stepped before the dark screen, blocking it.

  Chiun's facial hair trembled. His eyes narrowed until they resembled the seams on old walnut shells.

  "I bought the duck from the Japanese supermarket at the foot of the hill," Remo said in a dead-level voice.

  Chiun looked up, his expression stiff, like that of a death mask.

  "Consorting with Japanese," he said in a monotone. He shook his aged head. "It is no wonder you have gone astray."

  "I can prove it!" Remo said heatedly. "I have the receipt, and the plastic wrapping off the duck. You know how long it takes to wash the aftertaste of plastic wrapping off fresh duck?"

  "About as long as it takes to wash virulent poison and other evidence of foul play," Chiun said pointedly.

  "Thank you, Jessica Fletcher," Remo said acidly. "Would you like to see the wrapper?"

  "No. It has obviously been tampered with. It is a pink salmon."

  Remo blinked. "Say again?"

  "One of those mystery things," sniffed Chiun.

  Remo, taken aback, gave this some thought. "You mean a red herring?" he asked at last.

  "It is possible," Chiun said vaguely. "For although I speak excellent English, my American is not as fluent. No doubt it is the fault of certain officious persons who continually tamper with the tongue."

  "I'm more interested in knowing who tampered with that damned duck."

  "Ah. So now you cast blame on the poor innocent duck."

  "No, I don't. But since you and I almost ended up like dead ducks as well, don't you think we should look into this?"

  "Why?"

  "Because the Japanese supermarket is the only place for miles around here that carries decent rice."

  The Master of Sinanju absorbed this observation. His be-wrinkled visage alternately twitched and smoothed, as the inchoate expressions vied to dominate it.

  Firm resolve won. Chiun came to his feet and said, "Lead me to this place."

  The Hinomaru Japanese Supermarket claimed to stock no foods or goods that were not imported from the islands of Japan. Its signs were exclusively in Japanese. Any person who spoke only English would have been lost in its well-stocked rows. Even the prices were in yen, although the dollar was welcome.

  Non-Japanese were not barred from the Hinomaru Supermarket-that would have been illegal-but neither were they made to feel welcome.

  So when Remo and Chiun entered the establishment and demanded to speak to the manager, they were pointedly ignored.

  This rudeness lasted as long as it took for the Master of Sinanju to insert the head of a stock clerk into the gaping mouth of a deep-sea bass that was stacked in an ice-lined cedar counter in the seafood section.

  When the stock clerk's muffled cries attracted the manager's attention, Remo grabbed him by his white shirt front.

  "Speak English?" he asked.

  "Yes. Naturarry."

  "Great. I bought a duck here today." He held up the wrapper. "Where did this come from?"

  "We do not serr these," the manager said, a little too quickly for Remo's liking.

  "My ass," said Remo.

  "I knew it," said Chiun. "You are in galoots together."

  "That's 'cahoots,' " corrected Remo.

  "Thank you for admitting your guilt."

  "If you'll just use your nose, you'll smell the heady aroma of ruddy duck wafting through the deep-sea bass," Remo said pointedly.

  Wha
tever retort the Master of Sinanju had been about to make was never offered. Instead he began to sniff furiously, then flew into a back room, where two stock boys were busy re-crating shrink-wrapped duckling corpses.

  Chiun scattered them with a flurry of upraised arms, and fell upon the crates. He sliced a package open with a long fingernail and extracted a headless duck carcass. He sniffed it all around and said, "Poisoned." He dropped the duck from his tapered fingers.

  Turning on the flustered manager, who along with Remo had followed him into the room, Chiun demanded, "From whence comes this carrion?"

  "Japan," said the manager instantly. He nodded his head like one of those glass birds that constantly bob for water.

  "You lie!" screamed Chiun, with such vehemence that Remo momentarily dropped the limp, bloodied wrapper he had been carrying. He snatched it up with a backhand gesture, one eye on the Master of Sinanju as he hectored the suddenly trembling Japanese.

  The exchange that followed was too rapid for Remo to follow, even if he had been fluent in conversational Japanese. But the facial expressions told most of it. Chiun was accusing the manager of lying through his teeth. The accused protested, relented, and then shamefacedly admitted his guilt.

  He slunk off, then promptly returned with a bill of lading. Chiun snatched it up, glanced at it, and blew out of the supermarket like an elemental wind, leaving Remo staring at the manager, and the downcast manager contemplating his own shoes.

  Remo handed him the duck wrapper and said, "Nice chatting with you," before he left.

  When Remo caught up with Chiun he asked, "Where are you going?"

  "To the kingdom of the Chicken King."

  "Yeah? Why?"

  "To search for poisoned ducks, of course."

  "Why on earth are we off to see the Chicken King over a duck?"

  "That is not the proper question."

  "Then what is?"

  "The proper question is, 'Why is the Chicken King poisoning ducks?' "

  "Could be worse," Remo suggested.

  Chiun stopped and examined his student under the sickly yellow corona of the late afternoon sun.

  "How?"

  "They could be poisoning fish, too. Then we'd be eating rice and nothing but." Remo grinned disarmingly.

  Chiun frowned. "Only a round-eyed white would entertain such a dastardly thought," he sniffed.

  "Don't look at me. I didn't poison the freaking duck."

  "That," said Chiun darkly, "remains to be seen.

  "Oh," said Remo, who had thought he was off the hook, but now knew otherwise.

  Chapter 5

  "Fast, powerful, and extremely virulent," pronounced Dr. Saul Silverberg, leaning over the operating table. He was dressed in the starched white uniform of a surgeon. He had on white orthopedic running shoes with white rubber soles, thick white athletic socks, baggy white, pleated slacks, a stiff white cotton shirt, and the classic white lab coat.

  Over his mouth and nose was a white mask, attached by a white band around his white ears. Even his hair was white. He was with the Department of Poultry and Avian Sciences, Human Nutrition Division, School of Environmental Medicine, Latvia Nuclei Research Laboratory, New York Medical Center, which made him the foremost expert in food-borne disease outbreaks in the world. He involved himself only in the most important cases, had a reputation to match, and didn't come cheap.

  Only the best in the world was good enough for this patient.

  "Forceps," he snapped to the short brunette nurse. She slapped it into his hand. He worked briskly, carefully. "Probe." She gave him that, too. "Light," he said. "I need more light here."

  The nurse repositioned the intense penlight on the flexible metal stand closer to the patient's mouth. Silverberg peered inside.

  The operating room shone with new beige tile and pink caulking. All the equipment was gleaming silver. It was all brand-new, perfectly maintained, and the best money could buy.

  Silverberg looked up, his expression serious, and pinioned the patient's guardian with his milky gray eyes. "I'm . .. concerned," he said solemnly, choosing his words carefully. Then he began spitting out terse questions.

  "Where did she last eat?"

  "Out . . . outside," said the patient's guardian. "Were the foods prepared hours before serving?"

  "Uh . . . yes."

  "Was there adequate refrigeration?"

  "Well, no, not really."

  "Was the food reheated?"

  "No."

  "What were the symptoms?"

  "What?"

  "Nausea? Vomiting? Cramps? Diarrhea? Fever? Other?"

  "Well, you saw her, doctor . . . ."

  "Yes," said Silverberg grimly. "I see her." His inquisition resumed. "Did you check the utensils?"

  "Yes."

  "Water supply?"

  "Yes."

  "Sewage disposal facilities?"

  "Yes."

  "Garbage storage?"

  "Yes."

  "Vermin control?"

  "Yes."

  "Lighting? Ventilation?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" the guardian exclaimed. "We checked absolutely everywhere and everything. There just doesn't seem to be a reason for this terrible, terrible disease!"

  Silverberg looked up from the operating table at the man opposite him. The latter was sitting in a small glass room, speaking into a state-of-the-art microphone. Dr. Silverberg listened through a tiny speaker set high on the tile wall.

  The man had a light bulb-shaped head, fringed with yellow hair, and decorated with narrow eyes, a light bulb nose, and thin lips. He didn't so much have a chin, as a neck that started a few inches below his mouth. His neck was as wattled as a turkey's.

  Although skinny, the man wore an expensive, beautifully tailored brown suit, which nevertheless sagged on him like a burlap bag. His tie was thin and power-red, tied in a wartlike knot under his bobbing Adam's crab-apple.

  "Yes," the doctor repeated, straightening. "Well, there's not much more I can do here-." He pulled off one white rubber glove with an audible snap. "Besides, the anesthetic is wearing off. Nurse, post-prep the patient."

  The brunette started undoing the straps. The patient blinked several times, kicked her legs once, and clucked. The nurse stepped back as the specially bred fryer chicken tried to stand up.

  Dr. Silverberg motioned the animal's guardian forward, while taking off his mask. Henry Cackleberry Poulette strode into the Henry Cackleberry Poulette Operating Room in the Henry Cackleberry Poulette Wing of the Woodstock, New York, Veterinary Hospital.

  The man millions knew as "the Chicken King" from his series of award-winning commercials faced Dr. Saul Silverberg over a gurney. "Is she all right?" he asked. "Is my baby all right? Will they all be all right?"

  The doctor shook his head slowly and sadly. "Serotype enteritidis," he said gravely. "S.E., for short. It is a very serious disease."

  "You don't have to tell me!" Poulette exploded, his wattle neck stretching even longer. "I'm the one who introduced the legislation all but wiping out S.E. in our lifetime!" He looked at the confused chicken on the operating table, just beginning to stagger away from the tiny restraining straps.

  "But how is it possible?" Poulette muttered. "I installed an in-plant chlorination system. I added the slow-release chlorine dioxide rinse . . . ." His tiny eyes began to tear, and his Adam's apple began bobbing in time to his half-swallowed sobbing.

  The chicken swayed on one leg, executed a half-turn, and plopped onto her scruffy breast.

  "My poor, poor baby!" moaned Henry Cackleberry Poulette. "May I take her now?"

  The veterinarian nodded.

  Tenderly, Henry-Hank, to the world-Poulette lifted the chicken in the prescribed manner, like a football. Weeping tearfully, he carried her from the diagnostic room as Dr. Silverberg and the nurse followed him with their eyes.

  "He so loves his birds," whispered the nurse.

  "You would too," said Dr. Silverberg, "if you looked like a Bantam rooster."

&nbs
p; "It doesn't seem to bother him."

  "That's because he doesn't see the resemblance," Dr. Silverberg said flatly.

  "You're joking. He plays up the resemblance on all his commercials."

  "Because the ad agency people tell him to. He fires anyone who calls attention to the resemblance," Dr. Silverberg fixed the nurse with a professional eye. "You're new here. Remember that."

  "Yes, doctor," said the nurse, who had been hired fresh out of the New York State College of Agriculture in Ithaca, New York.

  Henry Cackleberry Poulette carried the ailing fryer to his awaiting limousine and rode in silence back to Poulette Farms Poultry corporated. He entered the building alone, still carrying the sickly bird. He skirted the Kill Room and the Eviscerating Room and strutted quietly past his battery of secretaries like a man in mourning.

  He closed the soundproof door to his office. Only then did he gently lay the chicken down on his immaculate desk.

  He paused to dry his eyes with a breast-pocket handkerchief monogrammed, in lieu of initials, with the profile of a Brahma hen.

  When his eyes were dry they went to the figure of the ailing fryer, standing on his desk blotter. It was shifting its head about to peer out the broad office window at the nearby Catskill Mountains.

  While it was enjoying this view of the verdant New York countryside, Henry Cackleberry Poulette stole up behind it and, laying one hand over its beak to choke off any outcry, grasped the frightened fowl's neck with the other.

  "Betrayer!" he snarled, then broke the neck with practiced skill and no more sound than a Number 2 pencil snapping. Then he turned the chicken's head completely around to finish her off. "You bumble-footed, egg-bound minx!"

  The chicken kicked and flopped strenuously. Henry Poulette set her on the yolk-colored rug and watched her race blindly into the furniture, her dead, unseeing neck hanging like a deflated balloon.

  When its legs started to jerk and hesitate, he gave it a savage kick, finishing it off.

  "That's for Woodstock High School!" he spat, crushing the skull with the heel of one shoe. "And the senior prom! You and your kind made my childhood a hell on earth! To think that I fed you the best marigold petals money can buy!"

  Chapter 6

  The scene at Poulette Farms Poultry corporated, was reminiscent of Woodstock's most famous brush with history.