The patient was strapped to his bed. Smith had told the nursing staff that his injuries were self-inflicted and that he might do more harm to himself if restraints were not used.
The doctor stood above the man who had tried to run over Remo on Mott Street. He had removed the dressing and was examining the stitches on his patient's forehead.
"Thank you, Doctor," Smith said crisply as he entered the room. "I would like to see the patient in private now."
"Oh, Dr. Smith," the physician said, looking up. "Your patient's doing fine. As you can see, he's awake. A little groggy, but that's to be expected after a fall like this."
The man on the bed seemed disoriented. Dark eyes darted back and forth fearfully as he tried to understand where he was. He muttered a soft string of words. Smith was surprised they were not in English.
"He's been talking ever since he woke up," Dr. Edgerton said. There was a concerned look on his flabby face.
Smith's eyes darted to the middle-aged doctor. "Do you know what he's saying?" he asked, his voice perfectly level.
"Me?" the doctor said. "No. Took French, not whatever he's speaking. Oh, and some Latin, obviously," he added with a chuckle. "Dr. Smith, I don't think you have to worry about letting staff in here. I know what you said, but I doubt he's contagious. Just a bad bump on the head from that fall you said he took. That's all, as far as I can tell."
Smith didn't even hear the last of what the doctor was saying. He was just relieved that the man in bed didn't speak French. Had he, he would have just cost a Folcroft doctor his life.
"Thank you, Dr. Edgerton," Smith said authoritatively. "That will be all."
The doctor hid his agitation at the Folcroft director's tone. Draping his stethoscope around his neck, he left the room. Smith closed the door behind him and immediately dragged a chair over close to the bed.
The patient's eyes rolled in Smith's direction as the older man sat down. He continued to mumble in soft, rolling tones. Smith had to tip an ear to his mouth in order to make out what he was saying.
It was clear now what language he was speaking. Yet other than a few words here and there, it was one Smith did not understand.
"Who sent you?" Smith asked, hoping the patient understood English.
But the injured man continued to mutter in his foreign tongue. His hands clasped and unclasped weakly below his wrist straps.
Lips pursing unhappily, Smith stood. He would have to wait for Remo and Chiun to return. The Master of Sinanju would be able to translate.
He was heading for the door, ready to give the on-duty staff strict orders not to enter this room under any circumstances, when he heard a new word from behind him.
This was said louder than the rest, and was uttered with naked fear.
Hearing the word, Smith turned slowly back.
What little color he possessed drained from his gray face like sand from an hourglass.
The man was pulling at his wrist straps, still mumbling the same word over and over. Each time he said it, he seemed to grow more afraid.
Shaken, Smith quickly exited the room. He found a copy of Westchester County's Journal News at a nursing station beyond the locked doors of the security wing. On the front page was a story he had read that morning before coming to work. Ignoring the glances of curious staff, he returned to the empty security corridor. The man was still tugging at his wrist straps when Smith reentered the room.
"Is this what you are referring to?" he demanded. He held a front-page photograph up to the patient's nose.
When the man saw the picture, his eyes grew wide. He began spouting a stream of terrified words, none of which-beyond the one he'd noted earlier-Smith recognized. Not that it mattered. The CURE director now understood exactly what the man feared. As well as who was behind the unsuccessful attacks against Remo.
As the man cowered from the newspaper, Smith flipped it around, examining the black-and-white picture.
It was something that had been of great interest both in Westchester County and nationally for more than a year now.
The above-the-fold picture showed a house with a high fence. Superimposed over it in one corner was a large photo of a man and woman. They had been moving into the home for what seemed like forever. In just two more days, it would become official.
Smith tucked the paper sharply under his arm. As the patient continued to babble the chillingly familiar woman's name, the CURE director walked briskly from the room.
REMO HAD TO SKIP to one side to avoid slipping on the brains that were spread like a gray oatmeal paste on the floor of the New Orleans Raffair office.
The Master of Sinanju's hands were slapped firmly on either side of Tommy Rovigo's head. The pressure he'd exerted had forced the man's brain up through his balding pate like a spitwad through a straw.
With fussing fingers, he tossed the gangster away. Tommy Guns thudded to the floor, an angry red cavity where his gray matter had been.
"Call your shots, Little Father," Remo said, irritated. He danced across a cerebellum minefield, loafers searching out a clean spot.
Chiun wasn't listening. He was moving away from Remo, sweeping like a kimono-clad typhoon toward Fondi Bisol.
"Don't shred me!" Fondi shrieked in terror. He flung his gun away and threw up his hands.
As Fondi cowered in fear, Remo felt another gun zero in on his back.
"Oh, great," he groused. "A shoeful of brains, and now we're gonna get shot at again. Told you we should've come in the back," he called after Chiun.
"If you are just going to stand there and complain, you may wait in the car," the tiny Asian retorted.
Remo opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say was lost in an explosion of gunpowder.
Twirling on one heel, he dodged the bullet that had just been fired at his back. In a heartbeat, he was face-to-face with a very startled Angelo Tanaro.
"I mean, it's not like you get treated any better when you come in the front. Am I right?" Remo demanded.
Tanaro seemed stunned that the bullet hadn't found its mark. This time, when he aimed at Remo, he held the trigger down.
Remo danced around the hail of lead. Pockmarks erupted in the wall behind him.
"See?" Remo insisted. "It ain't all champagne and peeled grapes with the front. We're always getting shot at. But does he ever listen to me? No."
Behind him, he heard Chiun's gangster scream. Before him, Tanaro was trying to track him with his gun.
He fired left; Remo moved right. He fired right; Remo twirled left. He fired right again; Remo vanished.
"Missed me," a voice said very close to Angelo Tanaro's ear.
When he turned, he found he was looking into the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.
"Say good-night, Guido," Remo said.
Pivoting on the ball of one foot, he sent a pointed toe into Angelo's throat. There was a pinch of pain at the mobster's Adam's apple. It was followed by the most horrible sucking sound Angelo had ever heard.
When Remo's foot swung away, it was trailed by Angelo Tanaro's esophagus. Ghastly and elongated, it splattered against the office wall like a slippery red snake.
The gangster fell to his knees, clutching the dimesize hole in his throat. Remo finished him off with a pulverizing heel to the forehead.
"There," Remo announced, spinning to the Master of Sinanju. "No mess to slip on. Nice and neat."
"Stop your childish prattling," Chiun insisted from across the room. He sounded distracted.
When Remo saw what his teacher was up to, he rolled his eyes. "Oh, not again," he exhaled. There was a large paper shredder in the corner of the office. The Master of Sinanju stood beside it, a puzzled expression on his face. As he studied the device, he stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. Kneeling on the floor at his feet was Fondi Bisol. The gangster's hands had been crushed flat and stuffed into the paper slot.
"God, please, no," Fondi wept.
"Can we speed this up, Little Father?" Remo complained, c
oming up beside the old man.
"I cannot find the On switch," Chiun frowned.
"It's broke," Fondi blubbered. Tears rolled down his dark cheeks.
"You stay out of this," Remo warned. "Chiun, let's go."
A deeply displeased expression took root on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face. His scowling eyes darted to the four corners of the room. They lingered for a moment on the idle coffeemaker before he shook his aged head.
"Pah!" the old Korean snapped.
His hands became vengeful blurs. Daggerlike nails hummed through muscle and bone. A final scream from Fondi Bisol died to a croak in his throat.
When Chiun stepped away from the body a moment later, Fondi lay in tattered strips on the floor. His severed arms hung slack from the mouth of the paper shredder.
"And the fates conspire to rob yet another spark of pleasure from a kindly old man's life," Chiun said, glowering at the remains.
Remo nodded agreement. "Let's get going," he said. "We've still got miles to go before we sleep." Chiun didn't argue. Leaving the bodies where they lay, the two men slipped from the office and out into the mild New Orleans night.
Chapter 30
"When did they hit New Orleans?"
"Coupla hours ago, Don Anselmo. Took out everybody. It was a big mess, what I hear." Anselmo Scubisci couldn't even remember who was in New Orleans. He thought maybe Tommy Guns was there.
Not that it mattered. Whoever was there was dead. Four offices had been hit so far, all around the country. There were only three left.
In more optimistic times, Don Scubisci would have considered the remaining Raffair offices to be three more chances to stop the enemies who were out to destroy him. But hope had fled when he heard what happened in Chicago.
According to his mother, the men who were doing all this were coming after him. For now, his greatest hope was that they'd continue jumping from state to state. The longer they spent going after the individual Raffair offices, the more time they gave him.
"I talked to Skins Moletti just like youse asked, Don Anselmo, sir," said the deeply reverent voice on the phone.
Holy Pauli Pavulla still sounded awed to be speaking personally to the legendary Manhattan Don.
The first phone call the day before had stunned him. Pauli had been pretty much shunned by everyone else in the Scubisci Family ever since the Miracle of the Cheerios. He thought they'd only come around once he heard back from the Vatican. But then, whammo! From out of the blue, a call from Don Anselmo Scubisci himself.
Such an important event was this in Pauli Pavulla's life that the letters and photographs he'd sent off to St. Peter's months ago were forgotten. After all, the Pope was all well and good, but Don Scubisci was the capo of them all. Pauli might be called crazy as much as he was holy, but even he knew which ring to kiss first.
"You tell Skins to get moving faster," the Don ordered. The more nervous he got, the more he rasped. "The way they're moving, there's not much time left."
"Sure thing, Don Anselmo. He says he can be ready for eleven tomorrow morning."
"Six," Don Anselmo insisted.
"Uh, Skins says there's a lot to do," Holy Pauli said.
"Tell him to get it done!" Don Scubisci snapped. His angry words echoed through the dark prison. Somewhere distant, a sleepy voice yelled for quiet. Don Scubisci huddled farther into the phone. He had bribed a guard for these phone privileges. Of all times, he didn't want to have them revoked now. "What did he think all that money was for?" Anselmo whispered sharply. "For this. Now you tell him to get it done, or I swear on my mother's eyes it'll be the last thing he doesn't do."
Holy Pauli gulped. "I'll let him know, Don Anselmo," he vowed.
"And you don't stop off at church first, Pauli," Scubisci warned. "You call Skins as soon as you hang up from me. Six o'clock sharp. I don't care how it gets done. You screw up on this, you join Skins, capisce?"
"Yes, sir, Don Anselmo, sir," Pauli promised. "But don't worry so much. Ain't the Gabinetto brothers down in Miami?"
Don Scubisci thought of the four hulking Gabinettos. They were throwbacks to some early stage of man. At any other time, Don Anselmo Scubisci wouldn't have questioned the outcome of a contest involving the Gabinettos. Now he only hoped they lasted long enough to buy him the time he needed.
"I'll call back in an hour," he said, his voice flat.
"Don Anselmo?" Holy Pauli asked before the Mafia leader could hang up.
"What?"
"Youse want I should say a prayer for you, Don Anselmo?" Holy Pauli offered hopefully. Anselmo Scubisci pictured Pauli Pavulla kneeling at his kitchen table, a dozen flickering votive candles arranged around a bowl of curdled milk and Cap'n Crunch. Eyes already dead, he hung up the phone.
Chapter 31
General Rolando Rodriguez of the Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionaria had parked his great People's Combat Wagon in front of the darkened Raffair office. The PCW was an '88 Ford station wagon he'd borrowed from his brother-in-law, Alberto, a Puerto Rican exile living here in Miami.
His nervous sweat fogged the car's windows. He was forced to clean away the dew periodically with a grimy T-shirt he'd found on the floor in the back.
After the disaster at MIR headquarters back in San Juan earlier in the week, Rodriguez had been bumped from corporal to general. It was a battlefield promotion he was afraid he'd never live to enjoy. After his multiple failures to eliminate the man who had decimated MIR's ranks, he had but one chance left to succeed. Otherwise, she would have her revenge against Rodriguez himself. The general suspected he'd only lasted this long because she was distracted by other matters these past few days.
Their numbers were far fewer now. The men from the first attacks in New York and Boston were dead. The later assault near Raffair headquarters on Mott Street had resulted in the first MIA soldier in the history of the revolutionary organization. After that soldier was gone, there weren't many left. Which was why the general himself had been forced to lead the last of his troops on this final campaign.
Rodriguez checked his watch. They should be in place by now. If the men he was after showed themselves here-and according to the information she had supplied, they would-the brave soldiers of MIR would be ready for them.
The window had fogged up again. Grabbing the torn Jennifer Lopez T-shirt, General Rodriguez wiped himself a squeaky tactical display field on the front windshield of Detroit's finest People's Combat Wagon.
"HE STILL THERE?" the gruff voice demanded.
"Yeah," said another from the shadows beside the office window. "He's wipin' off the window again."
Inside the Miami Raffair office, the three men were piled against the shadow-drenched wall. Thanks to Holy Pauli, they'd already gotten the word out of New Orleans. With another three Scubisci soldiers dead, the Gabinetto brothers were taking no chances.
The Gabinettos were hulking brutes with broad shoulders and massive fists. Unlike their fellow paisans, there were no nicknames for the four sons of Francesca Gabinetto. A distinctive sobriquet for any of them would have been redundant. To say "Gabinetto" was to say it all.
Their dark, looming shapes were throwbacks to some primordial time in Earth's history. In fact, many who met them thought the Gabinettos looked as if they'd be more comfortable splashing around a Cretaceous swamp. Even their normal mode of communication, which involved a great deal of shouting and hand waving, seemed to be from another age.
This night, the shouts were silenced, the hand gestures stilled. This night, their primitive silhouettes moved with silent purpose within the confines of the warm office.
They peered out the window at the dark shape that sat behind the wheel of the battered station wagon.
"You think he's waiting for this guy?" Emilio Gabinetto whispered. As he spoke, he nodded across the room.
A body lay on the floor near the open door to the rear storage room.
Mark Howard's hands had been tied clumsily behind his back. Dried blood darkened a spot on
his light brown hair. His chest moved up and down rhythmically under his blue sweatshirt. He was unconscious, but alive.
"Don't matter," replied Fabio, the oldest of the Gabinetto brothers and therefore their leader. "I figured if that was the guy what's been whackin' everybody, we'd give him to Don Scubisci for a parole present. Now there's two of 'em, it's too complicated. We'll just kill 'em both."
"Shh!" hissed Jennio Gabinetto. He was still peering out through the miniblinds. "He's almost there."
The other two behemoths peeked outside.
A huge figure was sneaking up on the parked station wagon from behind. They watched in satisfaction as Mario, their youngest brother, crept up to the driver's door.
"We whack him, den dis guy, and maybe we can finally get outta here," Fabio grumbled. He jerked his head toward the sleeping man across the room.
Outside, their brother had reached the car door. A hand as big as a small snow shovel reached for the handle. With a wrench, he tore the door open, swinging up the gun he held in his other massive hand.
Through the picture window, the three waiting Gabinettos heard a muffled pop. Their brother was still standing at the car's open door as Fabio turned to the others.
"Okay, one of youse guys aerate him," he said, pointing to Mark Howard. "I'll get on the phone wit Holy Pauli and tell him it's done."
Fabio hadn't taken a single step toward the telephone when he heard a stunned gasp from one of his brothers. He twisted back to the window just in time to see the big shadow that had obscured the station wagon tumble over backward.
"Dey popped Mario!" Jennio Gabinetto said, shocked.
As he spoke, a figure emerged from the car. The man had pulled on a ski mask. As he stepped over the lifeless body of the youngest Gabinetto, they could see the rifle in the masked man's hands.
"Dammit!" Fabio growled. "Ma's gonna kill me."
The armed man was heading for the front of the office. Fabio was about to order his brothers to shoot through the window when he noticed another figure slip from the shadows behind the car. This one was followed by four-no, five more. All carried rifles braced against their chests. Each man wore a ski mask and jungle camouflage.
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