Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  Crouching low, Kevlar-outfitted officers had dragged the boy behind police lines. But he was a lost cause. Jonston's concern right then was the rest of the family. As far as he knew, the other three-father, mother and daughter-were still alive inside. He intended to keep them that way.

  "It's been too long," Jonston mused.

  Cameras whirred all around. Some were network. The curse of being so close to Washington.

  A few men were clustered around him. SWAT-team members, hostage negotiators and other detectives. The microphones were far enough away that they couldn't pick up his words.

  "Let's do it," Jonston whispered gruffly. "Take them out if you have to. Whatever force is necessary to save the family. I don't want any more dead. Understood?"

  There was not a single questioning word.

  The assault began less than three minutes later. Tear-gas canisters were launched through front and side windows. A split second later, doors were kicked open simultaneously in kitchen, garage, basement and front hall.

  Two men went in through the shattered livingroom picture window, rolling to alert crouches on the glass-covered floor.

  Though their timed movements were textbook perfect, none of the efforts made by police were necessary.

  The first men in the living room found the Anderson family. The father was piled in a corner, dead from an apparent beating to the head.

  The mother and eight-year-old daughter were on the couch. Each had a clear plastic garbage bag over her head. The mother's had been tied with a bathrobe belt, the daughter's with a short extension cord. Warm mist from their last, desperate breaths clung to the interior of the bags. Their sightless eyes gazed in horror at the vacant air before them.

  Across the room the television played; silently turned to a channel covering the hostage story. Although the power to the home had been cut, the TV was plugged into a black battery box. A retractable silver antenna wobbled in the smoky air.

  The tear-gas haze cleared a few minutes later. Lieutenant Jonston was ushered into the living room. His face contorted in disgust at the sight of the dead family.

  "Where are they?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

  In reply, a shout issued from the basement. "Down here!"

  Dozens of boots and shoes clattered on the old wooden staircase as the men hurried downstairs. Several SWAT-team members were gathered before an area at the front of the cellar that had once been sectioned off for use as a coal chute in the old house. Jonston bulled his way through the men into the narrow alcove.

  Stones and mortar that hadn't been disturbed in a hundred years were collapsed in a pile near the foundation wall. A black tunnel extended beyond. Jonston heard the radio squawk of officers within the depths of the burrow.

  "Where does it go?" he demanded levelly.

  "We don't know yet, Lieutenant," replied a heavily armored officer crouching before the opening. "It's pretty deep. Looks like they might have been tunneling it for days. Weeks, even. Must have just broken through tonight."

  Jonston glanced up at a small window above him. It sat directly over the tunnel. The dirty panes faced the street, blocked by a thick evergreen. Blue squad car lights swept the window.

  The killers had slipped out beneath his own feet. "I want them found now!" Jonston snapped. The escape tunnel led to the sewer system. Fanning out, the police discovered a cap had been loosened on a street near some woods three blocks away from the Anderson house. No one had seen any suspicious vehicles or men on foot. No one had seen a thing. The killers got away scot-free.

  After the police were through combing the home, and relatives were finally allowed inside, it was learned that the only things missing were the Anderson daughter's Girl Scout beret and sash. The killer or killers had left both cash and jewelry.

  In a further bizarre twist that capped the whole macabre affair, a small independent film entitled Suburban Decay was released three days later. In the film, a family with the surname Anderson was terrorized and finally murdered by a psychotic neighbor. The film's killer-an antihero who was eventually successful in his efforts to elude authorities-used a tunnel to escape.

  Because of the real-life similarities, the movie was elevated above the art houses and film festivals where such films generally languished. It was bought by a major distributor and went on to make 14.8 million dollars, a box-office take almost 250 times the original cost of the film.

  When it was suggested by a print reporter that the mild success of the movie was based solely on public fascination with the real-life Anderson case, a studio spokesman was quoted as saying, "We are saddened by the loss of the friends and family of the Andersons. It is a loss that we, too, feel. We cannot, however, let bizarre similarities to current events compromise the artistic integrity of this studio. Life goes on."

  Reading this report from the comfort of his den, Lieutenant Frederick Jonston made only one bitter comment. "Yeah. It goes on for some."

  Afterward, he wadded the newspaper and threw it in the trash bin next to his cluttered desk. He missed.

  Chapter 2

  His name was Remo and he had stopped trying to pretend he was interested in what his employer was saying five minutes before. He had stopped actually listening to what was being said four minutes and fifty-eight seconds earlier. What he had gleaned in those first two seconds before his eyes glazed over and his mind wandered had something to do with bombs or guns or some other things that went boom. At least he thought that's what it was about.

  Remo didn't like bombs. They always took the fun out of everything. He thought about bombs for a little while. Ticking, exploding. Sometimes, when they went off they were very bright. Almost pretty. Like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Remo watched a bomb explode in his mind. He yawned. "Remo, are you paying attention?"

  The voice creaked like a rusted hinge on an ancient door. It yanked Remo from his reverie. When he blinked, he was once more sitting on his living-room floor of his Massachusetts home, legs crossed in the lotus position. From the chair above him, the pinched face of Dr. Harold W. Smith looked down, irritated.

  "Yeah, I heard every word, Smitty. Ka-boom. End of the world, all the usual stuff. You hungry?"

  "No," Smith replied tightly. "And this is serious."

  It had to have been. At least in the mind of Harold Smith. The gaunt old man generally didn't approve of face-to-face meetings. His sharp features were somber. The gray-tinged flesh around his thin lips formed a taut frown. A battered briefcase was balanced carefully on his knees, which were stiff in the neatly pressed gray suit. Confident he had Remo's attention focused once again, he resumed speaking.

  "I have found a disturbing sameness to these cases. I am not certain what the underlying connection is-if any. It is possible that they are merely coincidences. Perhaps even copycat incidences."

  "Yeah. Copycats," Remo sighed. "Can't have them."

  Smith's frown deepened. "You cannot tell me two words I have spoken since I arrived, can you?" he challenged.

  Remo's bored gaze suddenly found focus. "Sure I can," he said. "Um..." His dark eyes flicked around the room, as if the clues to Smith's briefing were buried in the wallboard. At last he snapped his fingers, struck with a sudden burst of inspiration. "You said 'Hi, Remo' when I let you in. There. Two words."

  "Actually, I said 'Hello,'" Smith said thinly.

  "Oh. Well, I got the 'Remo' right." Dejected, he sunk in on himself, a balloon deflating.

  "And could you please turn off the television?" The big-screen TV had been on since Smith's arrival. On it, four creatures with frozen plastic faces and teardrop-shaped bodies cavorted around a surreal landscape. Each was a different color: orange, maroon, blue or pink. Geometric shapes jutted from the tops of their heads.

  For some reason Smith could not fathom, the costumed characters spoke in insipid baby talk while they buttered muffins and bounced balls around the TV screen.

  "Don't tell me you've got something against the TeeVee-Fatties, Smitty?" Remo
asked. He had been staring blankly at the program through most of Smith's briefing.

  "Please, Remo-" Smith began.

  "That's Poopsy-Woopsy," Remo interrupted knowingly, pointing to the pink creature. "Jerry Falwell says he's gay."

  "Yes," Smith said flatly. His lips pursed. "Where is Master Chiun?" he asked suddenly.

  It was the one question Remo had hoped Smith wouldn't ask.

  "Chiun?" Remo said innocently, his spine growing rigid.

  "Yes. If you insist on ignoring me, I would like to share this information with both of you at once. I do not wish to have to repeat myself a third time for his benefit."

  "I'll pay attention," Remo promised. "Honest." He clicked off the TV. Poopsy-Woopsy, Tipsy, Wee-Wee and Doh collapsed into a single bright dot and were gone.

  To Smith he seemed suddenly too attentive. The older man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is Chiun at home?"

  Remo missed a beat. "He's not here," he admitted vaguely.

  "When will he return?"

  "I'm not sure. He's been keeping kind of odd hours lately," Remo said. "I haven't seen him in days."

  Smith's eyebrows slid almost imperceptibly higher on his forehead in an expression of mild curiosity. "That is not like the Master of Sinanju."

  "Trust me, Smitty," Remo muttered. "It's more like him than you wanna know."

  Remo was being deliberately unresponsive. The two Masters of Sinanju-the only true practitioners of the most ancient and deadly martial art in the history of mankind-had probably had some kind of fight again.

  Smith let the remark pass.

  "As I said, these cases I mentioned are similar."

  "A bomber?" Remo asked, now genuinely interested.

  "There have been no bombs involved in any of the incidents," Smith replied, puzzled.

  "Didn't you say something about bombs?"

  "No. Remo, please pay attention. There have already been seven people killed."

  Smith took the battered leather briefcase from his lap and set it on the floor between his ankles. Another man would have extracted files from the valise in order to more thoroughly brief his field operative. Not Smith. He didn't like to rely on paper. Paper was a physical link to the secret work that had occupied virtually all of his adult life. As director of CURE, the supersecret organization charged with safeguarding the constitution, Smith's desire for secrecy approached paranoia. Although he had used computer printouts in the earlier days of his stewardship of CURE, that habit had waned with the encroachment of the pervasive electronic age.

  Telephone briefings were the norm, although at this stage of their decades-long relationship a meeting with Smith was the exception to the rule. The odd nature of this assignment had flushed him out of his office in Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. For this reason alone, Remo tried to concentrate on what his employer was saying.

  "There were two bodies found approximately one month ago in a wooded area in the Florida panhandle. Both were college juniors. Roommates at the same university. They had been hung by their ankles and sexually mutilated. According to police experts, they were tortured for a number of days. Eventually their throats were slit."

  Remo's attention was focused now. Smith's dry recitation of the case's facts seemed only to add to the horror of the incident.

  "Did they find out who did it?" Remo asked.

  "Not as such," Smith admitted. "But there is a pattern." Smith shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "A seemingly unconnected murder took place a few days after this incident. A torso was found in a box near a waste receptacle at a condominium complex in Boise. Authorities are still unable to identify the victim in this case."

  "The same killer?"

  "Possibly," Smith hedged. "Are you familiar with the Anderson case?"

  Remo shook his head.

  "It has gotten a great deal of coverage on the news the past few days. A family of four was murdered in their Maryland home."

  "Oh, yeah. I think I might have seen something about that," Remo nodded. "The guy dug a tunnel out or something?"

  "'In' would be more accurate. This was how the killer or killers gained entry to the Anderson home. They merely used the same route for egress."

  "Wasn't there something about it being in some dip-shit movie?" Remo asked. "That's why it was on so much."

  "Yes," Smith replied. "A film dealing with much the same themes as the true-life Anderson case has opened to critical praise. It is currently doing well in art houses."

  "What's wrong? Outhouses all booked up?"

  "That would be a more appropriate venue," Smith agreed humorlessly. "But be that as it may, the Anderson case is only part of a larger picture. In the other two incidents I mentioned, films were also released with themes similar to those murders. Like the Anderson film, these did better than expected in large part because of an apparent public fascination with the true-to-life incidents. It is my belief that the fictitious events on-screen are directly linked to those in real life."

  Remo shook his head. "Smitty, this seems like kind of a nothing assignment. I know the FBI can't find their ass with both hands and a fanny map lately, but it doesn't sound like they'd need to pull Efrem Zimbalist Jr. out of mothballs for this one. Can't we just take a break and let them do their jobs for once?"

  Smith sat back in his chair. His steely gray eyes were mildly accusatory. "You have been taking a break for the past three months," he advised, voice level.

  "It hasn't been that long," Remo said dismissively.

  "Yes," Smith said, nodding, "it has."

  Remo raised an annoyed eyebrow. "Okay, maybe. But can I help it if the bad guys have been in a slump?"

  "I had an assignment for you one month ago. The survivalist group in Utah. There was also the potential Islamic terrorist cell in New Jersey the month before that. In both instances you refused to go."

  "Been there, done that," Remo said. "Survivalists and Arab terrorists are yesterday's news. Say, the Russian Mafia's big these days. Or killer viruses. Can't we do something with those?"

  Wordlessly, Smith removed his rimless glasses. Tired fingers massaged the bridge of his patrician nose. "Remo, CURE does not exist to alleviate your ennui. Frankly, I have been a little concerned by your attitude of late. Ever since your encounter with Elizu Roote in New Mexico-"

  Remo's tone hardened. "You don't have to bring that up."

  During his last assignment a few months before, Remo had encountered a man unlike any he had ever met in all his years as CURE's enforcement arm. Surgically enhanced with biomechanical implants, Elizu Roote had offered unexpected resistance. And nearly killed Remo.

  "I believe I do," Smith pressed. "Twice in the past six months, your abilities have been put to the test by abnormally dangerous foes. Most recently Roote, and before him, Judith White. I have noticed a creeping apathy in your attitude since then, which I believe is a direct result of these experiences."

  "Apathy schmapathy," Remo grumbled. "Maybe I've just learned not to sweat the small stuff. Life goes on, Smitty."

  Smith replaced his glasses. His gray eyes were level. "It does," he said, tart voice even. "For some."

  Remo sighed. "Okay, okay, I'm in. So these crummy movies hadn't been released yet when these things happened?" he asked, his tone anything but enthusiastic.

  "No."

  "Could still be a copycat. Some screwball's getting into sneak previews and then getting his rocks off staging the scenes before the movies are out."

  "That is a possible scenario. Also, there is much information contained in studio press kits-promotional material mailed to critics before the films come out. It is also possible that prints of the films are being stolen before they are released for general distribution. The movie company is claiming that any of these scenarios is a plausible explanation."

  "Wait a minute, Smitty," Remo said, a sliver of concern in his voice. "Studio? All of this shit's being shoveled by one company?"

  His thoughts turned to Chiun. The Master of Sina
nju was in Hollywood right now working on his top secret film. Before he'd left, Chiun made Remo promise he wouldn't breathe a word to Smith about his film.

  Remo had seen the bozos who ran the studio that was making the Master of Sinanju's movie. The stuff Smith had described was so appalling that it could be right up Bindle and Marmelstein's alley. For a sudden tense moment, he held his breath. Smith was nodding. "The studio responsible is called Cabbagehead Productions," the CURE director said.

  Remo exhaled silent relief. Not Taurus Studios. "Okay, this seems pretty cut-and-dry to me. Nimrods make lousy movies, kill people to boost ticket sales." Remo nodded. "And at this point, by the way, I think we should all breathe a sigh of relief that this never occurred to Chevy Chase."

  Smith had already stood to go, collecting his briefcase from the floor. Remo rose to his feet, as well.

  "If this is a for-profit venture, I want it stopped," the CURE director said.

  "Can do." Remo nodded. "Just call me Remo Williams, Wrestler of the Mundane. Say, Smitty, this place isn't in Hollywood, is it?"

  There was something in his tone that caught Smith's attention. It was almost guilty. "Cabbagehead Productions is a small independent company located in Seattle," Smith said slowly. "Why?"

  "No real reason," Remo replied vaguely. "Bad memories from the last time I went to Hollywood."

  Smith knew what he was referring to. Nodding understanding, he said, "Do you want me to set aside two tickets to Seattle?"

  "Not necessary," Remo said quickly. "I can handle this one on my own." He ushered Smith to the front door.

  It was tempting to let the potential headache slide. After all, Smith had had more than his share when dealing with the Master of Sinanju. But in the foyer, dread curiosity got the best of him. As Remo held the door open, Smith paused.

  "Remo, is there something going on with Master Chiun that I should know about?"

  The bland veneer of affected confusion on Remo's face faded to weary resignation. His shoulders sagged.

  "Do you trust me, Smitty?" he asked tiredly. The question surprised the CURE director.

  "I suppose," he said slowly. He was already regretting asking.