"But what of the villagers?" Pullyang said unhappily. "Will there be no farewell feast?"
"Inform my people," Chiun said, eyeing the Americans for any hint that they understood his tongue, "that if they wish the Master of Sinanju to provide them with a feast, they had better show him more appreciation in the future."
Pullyang departed in haste.
Chiun turned to the American seamen and he smiled placidly. "My luggage is being brought to this very spot," he explained in their sparse, unlovely language. "Then we must depart as quickly as possible. If my faithful villagers learn that I am leaving them so soon, they will shriek and rend their garments and put up all manner of commotion to persuade me to remain, for they love me greatly-I, who am the center of the universe to them."
"Maybe we should take you now and come back for your things," one of the seamen suggested earnestly, while the other cast uneasy glances out over the West Korea Bay.
"No, it will only be a moment," said Chiun, cocking a delicate shell ear for the sound of shrieking and garment-rending. Hearing nothing of the sort, he lapsed into a sullen silence. Had the people of Sinanju sunk into such ingratitude that they were going to embarrass him in front of the Americans by allowing him to take his leave without begging and pleading?
Chapter 15
Harold Haines drove through the predawn darkness from his Starke, Florida, home with the bleary eyes of a man who had not slept. He had not. He popped caffeine pills to keep himself awake as the twin funnels of his headlights burrowed through the thick hot air.
In less than seventeen hours he would press a button and monitor the three meters, one marked "Head," the others marked "Right Leg" and "Left Leg," that monitored the amperes going through each electrode to the condemned man, repeating the process as many times as it took for the attending physician to pronounce him dead.
Harold Haines intended to spend all day making certain that only one press of the button would be necessary.
This would be the last one, Haines decided. No more. He had electrocuted more than his share of men. And for what? Florida only paid one hundred and fifty dollars per subject. It wasn't worth this. He felt ... burnt out. That was the only word for it.
Burnt out. Just like the men who had sat on the hot seat. Only Harold Haines still lived.
A few more hours. And he would retire for good. The only reason he didn't quit immediately, he told himself, was that Remo Williams represented unfinished business. As much as he felt no stomach to cook him again, he was more afraid not to. He didn't understand why. He was a professional execution technician. People in his line of work couldn't afford to be superstitious. And he had never had a superstitious thought in his life.
Tonight, Harold Haines felt haunted.
The road twisted ahead. It was like driving through hot, sodden cotton. He put another bitter caffeine pill in his mouth and swallowed it dry. His eyes held the road with difficulty.
And then, so suddenly that it was like a materialization, a lean man emerged from the side of the road, waving a C.O.'s jacket. A man wearing graystriped guard pants and the apricot T-shirt of the row.
"Oh, Jesus!" Harold Haines cried. He hit the accelerator. The man leapt into his headlights and vanished.
"It's him!" Haines moaned. "Williams. My God, I ran over him."
Haines hit the brakes and his car fishtailed wildly, scattering the roadside palmetto bugs, swapped ends, and came to a stop, its grille pointing away from the prison, not far distant in the suffocating night.
Harold Haines stumbled from his car. His headlights impaled the dirt road with insect-busy illumination. He couldn't see a body. Maybe he hadn't hit him after all. There hadn't been any impact sound. Unless the guy went under the chassis and between the wheels. Haines's mind flashed back to an incident many years ago when he had run over a cat.
The cat had unexpectedly leapt from a roadside hedge, directly in the path of Haines's car. There had been no place to swerve on the narrow one-way road. The cat it was a common tabby-disappeared under his bumper. No crush of bones. No thud of impact.
In his rearview mirror Harold Haines had seen the cat rolling in the wake of his car, apparently unharmed. He pulled over and ran back to the poor creature. It was on its back, its paws shaking violently, as if it were warding off an unseen predator.
Carefully, because it looked so helpless, Harold Haines used his shoe to nudge the agitated feline to the curb and out of the way of oncoming traffic. It stopped squirming when it nudged the curb. But its paws continued that spasmodic frantic twitching. And then the blood began to seep from its open, silent mouth. Only then did Harold Haines realize it was dying-or dead, its brain neurons causing that furious electric spasming.
Many years ago, but as fresh as the palmetto bugs that scurried from his path.
As Harold Haines loped down the road, he half-expected to see the condemned man lying in the dirt, on his back, his eyes wide and unseeing, his arms and legs twisting violently like ... like an electrocution victim's.
Instead, an apricot-hued flash came upon him in the darkness to chop him down with the hard edge of a hand to the side of Harold Haines's thick neck. He went down hard. He didn't know he twitched until he woke up-he had no inkling how much later-to find himself alone in the dark, his car gone, his hands and feet working jerkily, as if fighting off an aerial predator.
Harold Haines dragged himself to the side of the road and sobbed quietly. When he found his courage, he began a stubborn lope to the gates of Florida State Prison.
Haines was allowed through the gate by a tightlipped C.O.
"I was ambushed," he told the guard. "Williams. He must have escaped."
"We know. See the warden. Right now."
Warden McSorley was on the phone when Harold Haines was brought into his office. McSorley waved him to a seat impatiently and turned his attention back to his call.
"Yes, Governor. I do understand, Governor. But we can't hush something like this up. He was scheduled for execution"-McSorley looked at his watch-"excuse me, is scheduled to walk down the line exactly two hours from now."
McSorley listened in silence for so long Harold Haines was forced to pop another caffeine pill. He was starting to feel light-headed. He tried to follow the conversation from the warden's side, and although the words were clear, Haines was still not receiving. His fingertips vibrated like harp strings.
When McSorley finally put down the telephone, he hit an intercom button and spoke to his secretary. "Tell the watch commander to call off the search. No, no explanation. But I want the entire facility to remain on lockdown until we find out how the prisoner escaped."
Then McSorley looked up with tired eyes.
"Looks like you don't work today, Harold," he said.
"I quit," Harold Haines returned dully.
"I may join you. I had the most peculiar conversation with the governor. He told me in no uncertain terms not to pursue Williams. He escaped. I guess you know."
"He ambushed my car. Stole it."
"I wish you hadn't told me that. Look, Harold, I don't know what this is about. I may end up being hung out to dry, politically, but the governor said to abandon the search and make sure no word of this leaks. He wouldn't say why. Can I count on you?"
"I'm afraid," Haines said sincerely. His fingers twined like mating worms.
"Of what?"
"He's gonna come back to get me," Harold Haines said, burying his head in his hands. "I just know he is. You should have seen his eyes in the headlights. They were like tiger eyes. They glowed. His eyes were dead, but they glowed."
"Put it out of your mind," McSorley said, rising. "Whoever or whatever that boy is-or was-he's well on his way out of Florida and I doubt that he's ever coming back. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go down to Central Files, personally burn the Remo Williams file, and spit on the ashes."
Chapter 16
Outside Charleston, South Carolina, Remo Williams' stolen car ran out of gas. He coasted
it to a stop in the breakdown lane of Route 95 North.
There was no point in putting up the hood as a distress signal. Remo had no I.D., no driver's license, no registration, and no money. And for all he knew, the state police had been alerted to his description. Although he was starting to wonder about that. He had encountered no roadblocks leaving Florida, no cruising state police in Georgia. It seemed too easy.
Remo left the car and started walking backward, his thumb hooked hitchhiker-style. He didn't expect to be offered a ride and was not disappointed. He was waiting for the first long-haul truck to come his way.
An eighteen-wheeler eventually rumbled up, and Remo, not thinking that what he was about to attempt was dangerous, if not impossible, leapt into the wake of its exhaust. He caught the tailgate in his hands and levered himself into sitting on it with a twisting spring of his feet. It was that easy.
Remo sat perched on the tailgate, watching the following cars. He was still too conspicuous. He tried the locking lever of the truck gate. It creaked open. Remo let the folding gate rise enough to admit him, and rolled inside.
The truck interior smelled of oranges. They reminded Remo that he was hungry. After pulling down the gate, he broke open a wooden crate and began peeling a dozen oranges with his hard fingers. He ate intently. Then Remo found a clear space and fell asleep, grateful for his full stomach and his life. He was living on borrowed time now, but all he cared about was sleep.
The truck stopped several times along the way, but the cargo door wasn't opened. The stink of diesel exhaust began to be a problem. Remo was having trouble breathing.
Although the darkness of the truck interior didn't seem to change, Remo could sense, somehow, that night had fallen. The truck was rumbling along, speeding up and slowing down as the driver managed the fast flow of superhighway traffic. Remo hoped the truck was continuing north.
He knew that there was more to the chain of events that had buffeted him since he woke up at Florida State than he understood. The answers, he felt, were somehow connected with a place called Folcroft Sanitarium.
The trouble was, he had no idea where Folcroft Sanitarium was-or if it actually existed.
But finding the University of Massachusetts and an anthropology professor named Naomi Vanderkloot should be no great challenge....
The drone of the eighteen wheels put Remo to sleep again.
Chapter 17
In his office overlooking Long Island Sound, the director of Folcroft Sanitarium watched as the cursor raced back and forth on the desktop computer screen, making phosphorescent green letters like a highspeed snail laying a trail of slime.
There were no reports of a man answering the description of the escaped death-row inmate Remo Williams coming in from any of the usual sources. A man like Williams was unpredictable. But without money or identification, he shouldn't get very far.
The director leaned back in the chair, which was so old it felt like the springs would break under the pressure of his weight. He steepled his tented fingers under his chin and half-closed his eyes in thought.
"Now, where would I go were I he?" he said aloud. "The man has no home, no relatives, no friends. He cannot come here, therefore Folcroft is safe."
His eyes darted to a new line appearing on the computer screen. It was some errant nonsense about a security threat emanating from the Chinese embassy in Washington. Time enough for such matters later.
"Perhaps he will flee the country," the director of Folcroft mused. "Perhaps that would not be a problem. He disappears. He was meant to disappear. Europe is not as final as the grave, but it is sufficient for my immediate needs."
His small lips pursed unhappily, shrinking to an obscene wet sphincter.
"No. Too untidy," he said after a time. "Where would he go? Where could he go?" Possibly not ordering an all-points bulletin was a mistake, after all. But Remo Williams officially did not exist. Putting out a nationwide alert for his apprehension would raise more questions than it would answer. It was fortunate that among the networks of informers he controlled, one was a guard at Florida State Prison who believed he was actually feeding criminal intelligence to the FBI branch office in Miami. His monthly bonus check ensured that he would continue to do so. It had been the guard who had tipped off the FBI-or so he believed-of the escape of the prisoner named Remo Williams in the predawn hours.
The director of Folcroft had moved swiftly. He had phoned the Florida governor and applied the requisite pressure to have the state simply ignore the jailbreak. It was an extraordinary demand, but this was an extraordinary circumstance. Fortunately the governor had a skeleton in his closet, according to the Folcroft database. A very exploitable skeleton. It would have ruined his aspirations to higher office. He had been most compliant in the matter of Remo Williams, a seemingly unimportant death-row inmate who should have been put down decades ago.
But containing this situation was not the same as managing it to a successful conclusion. He must locate Williams.
"Where would he go?" he repeated softly. His watery eyes stared at the shininess of his well-manicured fingernails. "Where?"
Another line of text appeared on the computer screen. It lengthened. He waited until the readout was complete before reading it.
It was a follow-up to the prison-guard informant's report. Contraband reading material had been discovered under the escaped convict's mattress. An investigation was under way. The contraband was the current edition of the National Enquirer.
The director of Folcroft Sanitarium's thick hand raced to the top desk drawer. There, folded neatly, were two copies of the Enquirer. He examined the most recent of the two.
"I wonder," he ruminated slowly. "Would he seek out the Vanderkloot woman? It might be worth monitoring. "
He reached for one of the blue telephones on the desk and made a quick call, issuing low, careful orders.
After he hung up, the intercom buzzed. "Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?" he purred.
"It's Dr. Dooley. I'm afraid there's been a relapse. He said you'd want to know immediately."
"Ah, thank you. I will be down directly, Mrs. Mikulka."
"Yes, Mr. Ransome."
Chapter 18
Waking up was the hardest part of Naomi Vanderkloot's day.
It was a life that had, since she'd joined the faculty of the University of Massachusetts, fallen into a rhythmic monotony of teaching two semesters with a break in January and the summer months off. She was a shoo-in for tenure, which would guarantee her frequent sabbaticals. Her salary was good, her Cambridge apartment was rent-controlled, yet in spite of her best efforts, she spent more time out of relationships than in them.
Hence the tragedy of waking up to an undemanding life and an always empty pillow beside her own. Namoi Vanderkloot roused out of sleep reluctantly. She buried her face in the Crate and Barrel pillow to keep out the sunlight coming through the fern-choked window. One long-toed foot peeped out from under the cover to touch the polished hardwood floor beside her imported Japanese futon.
She didn't hear the footsteps in the long hallway outside her bedroom, nor the faint grinding of metal against paint as her bedroom door hinges swung. A crocheted throw rug wrinkled under silent footsteps and the hand that reached for her throat was careful to avoid the stray tendrils of her long hair until she felt them dig into her windpipe ... and by then it was too late.
"Don't move," a hard male voice hissed.
"Mumpph."
"Not a word. I won't hurt you." The voice was as splintery as bamboo. Naomi felt her heart beating. She opened her eyes, but saw only pillow.
The hand was joined by another hand. This one pulled her head back by her straight hair to expose her face. Then it shifted to her mouth before she could scream.
When Naomi Vanderkloot's eyes flew open and she saw the upside-down face hovering over her, she no longer wanted to scream. She wanted to ask his name.
"Mumph!" she repeated.
"You know me?" the man asked. Naomi nodded brisk
ly. He had those same drill-bit eyes, the high cheekbones and cruel mouth. His shoulders were not as broad as she would have liked, but shoulders weren't everything.
"Are you Professor Naomi Vanderkloot?" he demanded.
Naomi's nod was eager this time. She batted her eyes.
"Listen up, then. I'm going to let go of your mouth, but I'll still have my other hand on your throat. Understand?"
Naomi almost dislodged both hands with the enthusiasm of her nodding. The hand withdrew.
"It really is you!" she breathed, sitting up. "I can't believe it. I've dreamed of this moment. This is incredible. You have no idea what this means to-Mummph." The hand returned. This time it pinched her lips shut. Her tongue, caught between them, touched his fingertips. They tasted like oranges. smelled like them too.
"Stop drooling," he was saying. "I'm not here for your benefit. But for mine. Short answers, okay? And spare me the girlish enthusiasm. I'm having a bad week."
Naomi nodded demurely, her eyes drinking in her captor's strong white teeth. He possessed ordinary human canines, which surprised her. She had expected the next evolution to produce herbivores with small blunted teeth adapted for grinding salads, not tearing meat.
The hand withdrew tentatively, hovering over her face. The fingers were long, but blunt at the tips. Usually a sign of a slow sugar burner. She frowned.
"Now, do you know who I am?" he asked intently.
"Yes," she said, hoping that was short enough for him-not that she would mind his strong masculine hands back on her body.
"My name is Remo Williams. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"No. I mean, yes! The letters-some of them-said your first name was Remo."
"Letters?"
"From the Enquirer readers. I thought they were ridiculously unscientific, until so many of them came in saying your name was Remo. Most of them described the old Mongoloid to a T."
"Mongol? How do you know he's Mongol?"
"A Mongoloid, not a Mongolian," Naomi lectured. "A Mongoloid is simply an Asian. From certain genotypical clues-primarily the bone structure of the face and the Mongoloid eye fold-I've tentatively classified him as a member of the Altaic family, which includes the Turkish, Mongolian, and Tungusic peoples. I'm leaning toward Tungusic, which would make him Korean. Although he could be Japanese. Historically, there's been a lot of racial intermingling between those groups. The Japanese aren't part of the Tungusic family, of course, but-"
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