By the time he returned to the clubhouse, most of his good humor had returned. He tipped his caddie a generous $1.25, adjusted for inflation from his old golfing days. As the young man muttered curses under his breath, Smith carted his own clubs up the stairs to the big shaded patio that stretched out at the rear of the main clubhouse.
Tables under umbrellas were arranged around the deck. Most were filled by patrons of the club's restaurant.
Through the patio doors was the more formal dining hall. To the left was the lounge.
Smith was passing the bar on his way out to the main lobby when he heard the disturbance.
A man at the bar was choking. At least he seemed to be. Hands clutched tight at his throat.
A club staff member-Smith noted that it was the same woman who had tried to help him earlier-was slapping the man on the back, a worried look on her pretty face.
A few others came to help.
Smith was going to ignore it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was attract attention to himself.
He was passing into the hall next to the lounge when he heard a terrible sound-a soft, animal growl. The noise was followed quickly by a woman's scream.
Turning, Smith found the choking golfer leaning back at the waist, hands raised and clutched like claws.
Smith watched amazed as, with a swat, the golfer threw back one of the men who had come to his aid. It was an incredible display of strength. Far greater than should have been possible for a man that size.
The golfer spun on the female. Baring a mouthful of yellowed, middle-aged teeth, he sprang on her, knocking her to the floor. Sprawling on top of her wriggling body, he lunged at the screaming woman's throat.
There was panic in the lounge. And in that moment of panicked, paralyzed hysteria, no one seemed to know what to do. No one except one man.
The enraged golfer attacked purely on instinct. But so too did Harold W. Smith.
From his ancient golf bag, Smith grabbed a driver. Like a tired knight charging into the bloody fray, he ran back into the bar. Hauling back, he gave a mighty swing.
The club struck the woman's attacker hard in the back of the head. A swing that strong outside would have sent Smith's ball sailing nearly to the green. Here, it appeared to barely phase the growling man.
The golfer wheeled on Smith, wild-eyed. Blood dribbled down his chin, staining his white collar. He had ripped a gushing wound in the woman's neck. The look in his eyes was purely animal. He made as if to lunge.
Smith swung again.
The club cracked the side of the man's head. This time there was a reaction. A soft crack of bone. The man growled, wobbling. Still he came. Another swing. The golfer seemed finally to feel the combined effect of the three blows. His legs fell out from beneath him, and he toppled groggily to the floor.
When he finally dropped to his knees, the others in the lounge seemed to finally find their courage. The crush of heavy men fell on the semiconscious man, pinning arms and legs in place. Beneath the pile, the demented golfer whimpered like a wounded animal.
The club director Smith had earlier spoken to had raced into the bar for the end of the battle. A bartender had already called 911. Waiters from the restaurant held linen napkins to the injured woman's throat.
"What happened?" the white-haired club director panted. He stood next to Smith, surveying the terrible scene.
"I don't know," Smith replied. But there was a troubled edge to his acid voice. As he spoke, the pager on his belt buzzed to life. He checked it, noting the Folcroft number.
"Thank God, Dr. Smith," the club director was saying. "I mean- My heavens, thank God. If you hadn't stepped in, I don't know what would have-"
When he glanced over his shoulder he found he was alone.
The ancient bag of golf clubs was gone. So, too, it seemed, was the mysterious Dr. Harold Smith. Breathless, the club director hurried to attend the injured woman and await the ambulance. On his way, he nearly tripped on an empty Lubec Springs water bottle.
Scowling, the club director angrily kicked the offending bottle beneath a nearby overturned bar stool.
Chapter 12
Remo was sitting anxiously at one of the squad-room desks in the South Precinct Midtown station when the phone before him rang.
"Report," Smith said, his voice more tart than usual. It was as if his larynx had been soaked in lemon juice and had dried two sizes too small.
"We think it's Judith White, Smitty," Remo said. Around him paramedics were still tending to police injuries. One officer was being carried out on a stretcher. The pandemonium of half an hour before had been replaced by mostly grim silence, interrupted by soft whispers.
"A strong possibility," Smith agreed tightly. "There was an incident at my golf club a few minutes ago."
"Anyone hurt?"
"Not seriously," Smith said. "The assailant was subdued. However, he displayed behavior consistent with the victims of genetic tampering that we've encountered before."
"We've got a bunch more here," Remo said. "Chiun's downstairs questioning them. I doubt he'll have any luck. They're like last time. Just worried about filling their stomachs. We're up to our armpits in half-chewed corpses."
"I don't get this," Mark Howard's voice interjected. "Dr. Smith, your own files list this woman as dead."
Remo could tell by the hollow tone of the signal that Smith had his assistant on speakerphone. He pictured the young man sitting at earnest attention on his usual creaky wooden chair before Smith's desk.
"There was a body found after Remo's encounter with her," the CURE director explained. "It was badly damaged, but the assumption at the time was that it was that of Judith White. And it still could be. Judith White was not the first to use her formula. Perhaps she had a protege."
"Maybe," Remo said. "We haven't met the big puss herself. But this has her paw prints all over it. Manhattan looks like freaking Lion Country Safari."
"How is this possible?" Mark Howard asked. "I read some of the information in the CURE database on this before you got back here, Dr. Smith, but I don't get how they're able to effect changes like this in people."
"If we are correct in this, Mark, they are not people," Smith said gravely. "I cannot impress this on you enough. They might look human, but it is a deadly mistake to think otherwise." He took a deep breath before continuing. "As for the broad details, two decades ago a geneticist in Boston developed a gene-altering formula that allowed for rapid splicing of DNA from one species to another. She was able to lift specific characteristics from any animal and recode the existing DNA of another to incorporate the new genetic material. She was the first test subject, albeit accidentally. The resulting creature walked and talked and gave every outward appearance of a human female, but was something else entirely."
"Mostly tiger," Remo supplied. "That was what was in the goop she drank. And can we get the lead out, Smitty? You and the kid can do story time once I'm off the phone."
Smith was not dissuaded. "After several deaths in the Boston area, we managed to eliminate that woman. I had assumed that the case was closed. However, more than three years ago, a similar rash of killings took place in Boston."
"Judith White," Howard supplied.
"So we came to learn. She had discovered the old formula and improved on it. Although she infused her DNA with primarily tiger genes, she had also included traits from several other species. Strength, speed, coordination were all enhanced. Her ultimate goal was to replace man as the planet's dominant lifeform."
"And if she hadn't been such a whack-job, she might have succeeded back then," Remo pointed out.
"That is true," Smith replied darkly. "The method by which she intended to spread the formula into the general population was diabolical. She hid the gene-altering material in the DNA of a laboratory-created transgenic creature, ostensibly designed to eliminate world hunger. Those who consumed the tainted meat would have, over time, become like her."
"I remember reading about that at the
time," Howard said. "But all those animals were destroyed."
"Yeah," Remo said vaguely. "All destroyed."
"That's true," Smith agreed. "Since the meat of the creatures was never consumed by anyone, the formula is being introduced in some other way."
Over the line, Remo heard the electronic beep of Smith's computer.
"One moment, Remo."
The rapid drumming of the CURE director's fingers on his keyboard ended in a rare, soft curse.
"I take it it's not good news?" Remo asked.
"The crisis is spreading," Smith said. "There are now reports of similar incidents occurring in other parts of New York, as well as two in Connecticut and one in New Jersey."
"Swell," Remo said. "Smitty, I called you hoping for some good news."
Smith gave a thoughtful hum. "Perhaps I can give you some small comfort," he said. "We cannot be certain it is her, but if Judith White did survive her encounter with you, she will not be what she once was. You did remove a limb, after all. That handicap alone will make her easier to find. I will begin a search. And with any luck the fall caused even greater damage. She may be an invalid. While able to direct things behind the scenes, hopefully she will not pose a personal threat to you or Master Chiun."
"It's not her I'm worried about, Smitty. By the looks of it, she's building an army for something."
"Yes," Smith agreed. "No matter her condition, our greatest concern is with the creatures she is creating. We need to find out the delivery method for the formula."
"Maybe Remo could follow a trail, Dr. Smith," Mark suggested. "Maybe one of these ... things can lead him back to the source."
"That's a swell idea, kid," Remo said. "I'm gonna go out right now and stand in the middle of Times Square with a leash and a box of Meow Mix on my head."
"That would not work anyway, Mark," Smith interjected. "It is not as if these creatures have a homing instinct."
"So we're back to square one," Remo complained. He spied another stretcher being carted into the squad room from the rear stairwell. This one was draped in a white sheet.
The Master of Sinanju appeared in the wake of the two morgue attendants who were carrying the body of the dead officer. His wrinkled face was thoughtful.
"Look, now that you know what's going on, maybe you can find out something from there," Remo said. "I'll keep looking around. Maybe I'll get lucky."
"We will try to find something from this end," Smith promised. "Call if you learn anything new." The line went dead. Remo was hanging up the phone as Chiun padded up.
"Anything?" Remo asked.
Chiun shook his head. "I questioned a few of the beasts, but they are mindless mockeries of humanity. They do not know what made them thus."
Remo leaned back against the desk, arms folded.
"Great," he complained. "Without a lead we're dead in the water."
The words had no sooner passed his lips than there came the sound of a sudden commotion behind them. A scuffle followed by a startled shout.
"Jimmy, knock if off. That ain't funny."
The two Masters of Sinanju turned to find Sergeant Jimmy Simon slowly circling Jeff Malloy at the precinct's main desk. The portly desk sergeant's nose was in the air, tracking a scent. Drool rolled down his chin, staining his collar.
"Oh, balls," Remo muttered just as the first inhuman growl rolled up out of the throat of Sergeant Simon.
THE TINT of high blood pressure on Simon's broad face had lightened to a mask of cold calculation. He bared his teeth at Sergeant Malloy.
"That's it, Jimmy," Malloy snapped, grabbing for his gun. He was too slow.
Simon sprang, cuffing Malloy on the side of the head. The stunned officer lost his gun. Bouncing off the side of his desk, he dropped to the floor. Jimmy Simon pounced on the stricken body. With a fearsome growl, he drew back his head, eager to bury fangs deep into the exposed throat.
He never got the chance.
Just as his head was snapping down, a strong hand grabbed a clump of sweaty hair at the back of his head. With a yank, he was off Sergeant Malloy's body and spinning in air. He came nose to nose with a very annoyed Remo Williams.
"Mr. Whiskers shouldn't play with his food," Remo said.
Growling. Sergeant Simon lashed out at Remo. Remo was holding the officer at arm's length. He dodged the swinging paw.
" Kitty go night-night," Remo said.
Frowning, he drove a pair of hardened fingertips deep into Sergeant Simon's jiggling neck. Consciousness drained from Simon's body and he grew limp in Remo's hand.
By now, other uniformed officers had rushed over to help. Remo passed the unconscious desk sergeant off to them.
"Lock him up with the others," he ordered. "And if you don't want his liver pateed before he comes to, you'll give him his own room."
When he turned back around, Jeff Malloy was dragging himself shakily to his feet.
"What happened?" Remo demanded.
"I don't know," Sergeant Malloy said, panting. "He was just sitting there and he went nuts. He was still winded from downstairs. I told him to take deep breaths. I thought he was having a stroke. Then he just dropped his water and came after me."
Remo and Chiun looked down.
The disposable cup from which Jimmy Simon had been drinking was under his desk. Splattered water had turned the dirt on the floor muddy.
And, as one, they recalled the water dispenser standing in the corner of the Vaunted Press break room.
"It's in the water, Chiun," Remo announced, turning.
The Master of Sinanju was no longer beside him. He saw a blur of black robes. The old Korean flew like a flash across the open squad-room floor.
A watercooler sat against the far wail. While Remo waited for Smith's return call he had seen a custodian install a new bottle. A plainclothes officer stood before the tank, raising a white disposable cup to his lips.
Before a single drop of water could touch his tongue, Chiun fell upon him. A vicious swat flung the cup from the man's hand.
"What the hell?" the cop snarled.
But Remo was already there, waving FBI ID. The angry detective wandered off, rubbing the crimson welt that was already blossoming on the back of his hand.
Shooing a few officers back, the old Korean placed a fresh cup beneath the cooler's spout. With a careful press of a solitary nail, he poured a short stream of water.
He brought the cup to his button nose, sniffing deeply. Face clouding, he looked to Remo.
"I detect nothing," Chiun said somberly.
Remo accepted the cup from Chiun's bony hand. He swirled around the crystal-clear liquid, looking for anything suspicious. There was nothing he could see. It was nothing more than a cup of spring water.
When he looked up, his brow was low.
"If we can't see it, either one of us could have drunk this," he pointed out.
"Do not remind me," the Master of Sinanju said. "As it is, you are barely housebroken, and I do not need you soiling the carpets or scratching up my good furniture."
"We'd better get some of this to Smith for testing," Remo said. He found a big aspirin bottle in a desk drawer. Dumping out the last few remaining pills, he poured some water into the bottle.
After Remo was through, Chiun turned to a patrolman.
"Remove these to a lavatory for disposal," he commanded, waving a hand at the boxes that were stacked next to the cooler. "And do the same with any others in this garrison, lest you end up like the beasts in your dungeon."
The officer was one of those who had seen Remo and Chiun pass through the cell block unharmed. He knew enough not to argue. Enlisting help of others, the group hauled the boxes of Lubec Springs water to the men's room for dumping.
"And say a prayer the alligators in the sewers aren't thirsty," Remo called after them.
Chapter 13
The ozone layer was already taken. Hundreds of people had hogged the limelight on that one. Greenpeace had claimed the seven seas for themselves.
> Everything else good between heaven and earth had been laid claim to by someone.
HETA had dibs on animals. The Sierra Club had the trees. Earth First! had dirt. And the Brazilian rain forest was the private domain of one singer so selfish that others in the environmental movement didn't even like to mention his single-word name. Although he had been missing lately. Probably in for more hair plugs or-worse-in the studio recording a new album.
When it came time to decide which great planet-saving cause he would throw his support behind, poor Bobby Bugget was a man without an issue.
"You need something, Bobby," his agent had insisted.
His agent's name was Jude Weiss, but everyone called him St. Jude. Weiss found the nickname distasteful. First of all, he was Jewish. Second, he wasn't really Jewish. Not anymore. He had recently converted to Buddhism--this not long after converting to Poweressence, which had supplanted a deeply held, week-long conversion to Scientology. This was all part of the long-standing Hollywood tradition of religion as fad. If Madonna or Cher told Hollywood's movers and shakers that it was now hip to switch to high-colonic Amish, Jude Weiss would have dashed off to Home Depot for a horse and buggy and a length of garden hose. But one thing he had never been and never would be was Catholic. They actually had rules and, horror of horrors, expected you to live by them. So to Jude Weiss, recent Buddhist (or was it Hindu?) to be referred to as the Catholic patron saint of desperate causes was a grave insult. Unfortunately it was a nickname well-earned.
It had started with that one client. The Englishman with the shy stammer and bedroom eyes. Although he could have had any woman on Earth, he had settled for a cheap hooker in an L.A. alley. His arrest had been national news.
Jude Weiss and Associates had gone on red alert. There had been an all-out media blitz, culminating in a high-profile late-night talk-show interview on which the actor had stammered shyly, batted his bedroom eyes and-by the end of his first seven-minute segment-had made America forget all about his fondness for the French arts and his back-alley patronage of a twenty dollar Puerto Rican artist name Senorita Sugar.
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