Unnatural Selection td-131

by Warren Murphy

  The young FBI man didn't say a word. He turned away from the office, heading back down the hall. The older man followed close behind him, deep in thought.

  "Wait," the cop said. "What do we do about the ones outside?"

  "Fill a paddy wagon with bananas and drive them to the monkey house," called back the FBI agent, who in the end wasn't really quite as helpful as the SDPD captain had originally hoped.

  Chapter 38

  Mark Howard switched on the light in his small office in Folcroft's administrative wing.

  It was his first day back in three weeks.

  After Remo had brought him back from Maine, Mark had spent nearly two weeks in the special security corridor in the basement. The effects of Judith White's genetic tampering had worn off near the twelve-day mark. Then came the chills, sweats, vomiting. And the nightmares.

  Once he had regained enough strength and was able to keep down solid foods, he'd been released. Mark ordinarily came to work earlier than nine o'clock. But Dr. Smith had insisted that he take it easy at first. Half days only for the next few days. He still felt weak. Thanks to heavy sedatives and an intravenous diet, Mark had lost sixteen pounds in the past twenty-two days. He had always been thin, with a broad face. But his face had now lost its fleshiness. A strong jaw and angular cheekbones had emerged from the lost layer of fat.

  Setting his briefcase to the floor, he took his seat at his desk. The chair felt strange. As did the desk, the office, Folcroft. All of it. Everything felt wrong.

  He didn't turn on his computer. He just sat in his chair. Staring.

  When he heard the sound of a clearing throat nearby, Mark didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He looked to the door.

  Harold Smith stood in the doorway. There was a hint of concern on his face.

  "How are you feeling, Mark?" the CURE director asked.

  "Fine," Mark said. "Good morning, Dr. Smith. I was going to check in with you in a little- I'm fine."

  Smith nodded. "I made an appointment for you this afternoon with one of our staff physicians. Just a routine physical. They'll be taking some blood just to be sure. According to your last tests, everything is normal."

  At another time in his life Mark might have laughed at Smith's ludicrous use of the word normal. But the world had become so strange and wrong. He merely nodded.

  "How's Mrs. Mikulka doing?" Mark asked.

  "Very well," Smith said. "Given her age and physical condition, her recovery has been slower than yours. As you might know, she has a son who lives with her who is looking after her. I spoke with him yesterday, and he told me she hopes to return to work next week. Until then I've rotated in a woman, Kathleen Purvish, from the regular sanitarium staff to fill in. She used to work as my secretary years ago and has sometimes filled in during Mrs. Mikulka's vacations, so things should run smoothly."

  "Good," Mark Howard said. "That's all ...good."

  Smith hesitated. For an awkward moment, he seemed to be wrestling with some inner dilemma. He finally seemed to reach a decision.

  "Mark, what was done to you was horrific," he said. "But it was not your fault. None of it."

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Checking the hallway, the CURE director shut the door with a quiet click.

  He spoke without preamble and without inflection. "Back during the Second World War, I was captured by German forces on the island of Usedom," Smith began. "There was a Gestapo officer there, one Josef Menk. I'm not sure why he tortured me. I think he was insane, but then so many were in those days. The war was coming to an end. There wasn't much information that any one OSS agent could have had to turn the tide. Yet, for days-day after day-he had his man beat me, cut me, whip me. They hung me from a rafter. No food, no water. It was unspeakably brutal. To this day when the weather changes I feel the results of what they did to me in my joints and bones. Except for my superiors in the OSS, I never told anyone this before. Not my wife, not Remo or Chiun. It is of a personal nature and not something that I feel is appropriate to share."

  Smith took a deep breath before continuing. "Years later, an enemy here in America learned of CURE. I was kidnapped and tortured then, as well. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I was older then and felt the effects far more severely." Before Smith had begun to speak, Mark Howard had gone back to staring blankly at the wall. But now the older man could see that he had drawn his young assistant out.

  "I have heard of others who revolve their lives around the worst things that have ever happened to them. I don't see the use. These things that happened to me were merely days out of my life-they were not my whole life. For the most part I put those events out of my mind. But I am glad at other times to have those memories. You should be, too. Don't forget what happened to you, Mark. Use it. Use it when you need focus or in those moments of doubt. Remember what was done to you. Remember the evil that it represents and use it to understand why it is we do what we do."

  Mark absorbed the CURE director's words. Slowly his head began to nod. When he looked up, his eyes were moist.

  "Thanks, Dr. Smith." His voice was soft.

  Smith gave a crisp nod. "There is one other thing," he said. He reached into his pocket.

  When his hand reappeared, he was holding a small, flat tin case. It was smaller around than a half dollar and less than a quarter-inch thick. He handed the container to Mark.

  "I told you of Conrad MacCleary, my old associate who died not long after Remo came aboard CURE," Smith said. "After his death, his personal effects were sent here. He had no family and this was his last known address. He had a cover as a former Folcroft patient. There are only a few small items in a strongbox in the records room downstairs. That was included in the items returned by the hospital."

  Mark had examined the container for a moment, rolling it over in his palm. It had a tiny hasp on one side. When he popped it, it opened like a locket. Inside was a small white object. When he saw it, Mark looked up at Smith.

  The CURE director's face was unreadable. "Because of the nature of his injuries, MacCleary was not able to use it. Keep it with you at all times."

  Smith checked his watch.

  "I have work to do," the CURE director said. "Don't forget your appointment this afternoon." With that, Smith left the office.

  Alone, Mark Howard looked back at the pill that sat inside the small container. It was identical to the pill Harold Smith carried in his vest pocket. Unlike Smith's, the skull-and-crossbones symbol was not worn with age.

  With a click, Mark closed the locket and slipped it in his pocket. For some reason it gave him strange comfort.

  Mark found the recessed switch that turned on his computer. When the monitor and keyboard rose up from their hiding spot beneath the desk's smooth surface, he was grateful for the distraction.

  With grim resolve, the assistant CURE director threw himself back into his work.

  Chapter 39

  "You haven't been able to find her?" Remo asked. He was on the kitchen phone of his Connecticut town house. Beyond the breakfast bar, the patio doors off the small dining room were open wide. Summer had finally arrived. The Master of Sinanju sat in the small garden outside, parchment face turned up to the warming rays of the midmorning sun.

  "No," Smith's voice replied. "She is either lying low or has changed her pattern of behavior. In either case she has slipped back below our radar. But now that we know she is out there, I have set the mainframes on a continuous search using the data Mark assembled. It is only a matter of time before she reveals herself."

  "I hope you're right, Smitty. Any luck with the people from that lab she was using?"

  "Unfortunately, no," Smith replied somberly. "She did not use the temporary version of the formula on the scientists of Genetic Futures. They are being cared for, but they are human in physical appearance only. They are incapable of speech and will not change back. We can safely assume that she was covering her tracks. I assume, as well, that the simian DNA was her sick attempt at hu
mor. Reversing the human evolutionary course, as it were."

  "Yeah, she was a regular Ruth Buzzi," Remo said. "Whatever she was up to, at least we know she didn't get what she was after from me."

  Smith had gotten the test results on the second liquid-nitrogen sample the day after Remo and Chiun had returned from Maine. The specimens had been dead. The same was true of the first vial, which had turned up in a search of the San Diego lab.

  "That is good news only to a degree, Remo," Smith cautioned. "The fact that she wishes to procreate will likely not change because of her failure with you. She will no doubt move on to another candidate."

  "Just so long as it's not me," Remo said. "She can go back to Maine. She probably still has a hundred of those things stomping around in the woods up there."

  "Not any longer. Most have turned up, bedraggled and malnourished. The rest have probably died by now. You frightened them away from inhabited areas, so the death toll in the ensuing weeks was low. And it seems the majority survived the ordeal without any lasting physical harm."

  "Shh." Remo held the phone out. "Hear that, Smitty?" he said in a stage whisper. "That's the sound of a hundred shrinks revving up their notebooks and pens."

  He hung up the phone.

  Remo went out to the patio to where the Master of Sinanju sat cross-legged on the flagstones. The old Korean still wore his robes of black, gathered up around his ankles.

  "I've been thinking, Little Father," Remo announced.

  "If I give you a shiny nickel, will you think with your mouth closed?" the Master of Sinanju replied. His eyes were closed as he faced the sun.

  "No, listen," Remo said. "That prophecy you told me the first time we met these tiger things. 'Even Shiva must walk with care when he passes the jungle where lurk other night tigers.' I'm not sure it meant what we thought it meant."

  At this did Chiun open his eyes. "Yes?" he asked. "We were thinking physical harm. Like I'd get killed or something. But maybe I had to walk with care for another reason. Maybe when the Great Wang uttered that prophecy he meant I should look out for horny tigresses."

  "Perhaps," Chiun said. It was evident by his tone that he had been considering the same possibility. "Well, at least it's over now. We passed through the jungle where they lurked and came out more or less intact."

  Remo sank cross-legged to the ground. He looked at the spot on his bare forearm nicked by Judith White's fingernail.

  It had been such a tiny thing. It had long since healed, leaving no trace of a scar.

  "You were right, Little Father," he said all at once.

  "Of course," Chiun replied. "What about?"

  "About my invulnerability. You kept thinking it was just because of my becoming Reigning Master, but it wasn't only that. When we were in Sinanju a few months back, I had that Shiva moment. It was like ...I don't know. I was connected. To the past, present and future. Then I became Reigning Master and everything came together. It sort of made me feel like I didn't really have anything to worry about. I guess I was stupid."

  "Do not guess," the Master of Sinanju said, "for I am here to tell you when you are. You were."

  "On the other hand, if I hadn't been so worried about how pissed you'd get at me for killing Bugget, I wouldn't have hesitated at all," Remo pointed out.

  "Excuses, excuses," Chiun said. "And do not think I forgive you for eliminating the troubadour who was to compose the hymn of glorious me for the beauteous Wylander. Of course, you could make some of it up to me if you were to wear the appropriate garments of celebration, sparing me from traipsing around in these rags for the next year of my life. Which, I might add, at my age could be my last."

  "Guilt me no guilt, Little Father. I am not wearing black pajamas for six months. Smitty would have a fit. Assuming, that is, we haven't quit before then," he muttered.

  Chiun raised an eyebrow. "Why would we do that?"

  "I'm not going to easily forget what he did to me, Chiun," Remo warned. "He froze my wigglies for thirty years. If he'd just kept the temperature a few degrees colder, maybe he'd have given Judith White exactly what she wanted."

  The old Korean waved a bony hand, erasing Remo's complaints from the air. "Whatever wrongs you think Smith committed against you in those days, they predate your becoming Sinanju and therefore have no bearing on Sinanju contracts. However, if this is a grievance you feel you must pursue, you may bring it up at our next contract negotiations."

  Remo shook his head. "Ah, it's probably just as well. One year is a long way off. I'll be over all this by then."

  "Actually, our current contract is slightly longer than the standard one year."

  Remo noted his teacher's sly tone.

  "How much longer?" he asked, suddenly worried. Chiun stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. "Five years," he admitted. "Give or take."

  "You signed on with Smith for five more years?"

  "It was during our time in Sinanju. My last official act as Reigning Master was to negotiate our contract."

  "Five freaking years?" Remo demanded.

  "You said yourself in one year you would forget what Smith had done. Knowing your wandering mind, one month would probably suffice. Think of how much more you will have forgotten it in five years." He held up a hand, halting Remo's protests. "Best of all, our current contract gives us our loophole."

  "I keep telling you there is no loophole," Remo groused. "Sinanju tradition forbids a Master from serving his Emperor's successor. According to that rule, we can't work for Howard if Smith goes belly up. End of story."

  "I may not work for his successor," Chiun said craftily. "You, on the other hand, are another story. I signed a long-term contract with Smith as my final official act as Reigning Master. Until the moment you assumed Reigning Masterhood, you were technically my apprentice. That is how you are referred to in our current contract, which remains in force as long as I live. Tradition says nothing about a Master's successor signing an all-new contract with the successor of his Master's Emperor. When Smith passes, you may sign with Howard without having defied tradition." Remo opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. He started again, but again he said nothing. Finally he tipped his head, nodding. "Dammit, you old shyster, you found a loophole." Remo sighed loudly. "Still, I don't like to be nailed down for that long. But it's been six months since we were in Sinanju, so that leaves just over four years. I guess I can put up with four more years."

  "Bearing in mind that there are option years built into the contract," Chiun warned.

  "Sweet mother of mercy," Remo said.

  "But when the option runs out, you will get to negotiate the next contract all by yourself."

  "Swell. I'm really looking forward to the year 3000," Remo said.

  "Of course, as Reigning Master Emeritus, I may intervene in the event that you plan to sign something stupid," Chiun warned.

  Remo wanted to laugh. Instead, he sat in silence, staring at his hands. Chiun sensed the disharmony in his pupil.

  "What is wrong, my son?" the old man asked.

  "I don't know," Remo said. "It's kind of odd. It's like for the moment we're right back to where we always are, with contracts and arguing and you telling me I'm stupid. But things are going to be different now. I'm Reigning Master, you've got an eye on that retirement cave back in Sinanju, Smitty's got that kid helping him out. Everything's changing. I kind of don't want it to end."

  At this, a smile cracked the aged face of the Reigning Master of Sinanju Emeritus.

  "End?" Chiun scoffed. "You are worried about endings? So many years have we been together, so many things have we seen. You have had so many days of running hither and yon for your Emperor, so many nights of adventure that you have become jaded, Remo Williams. You think because you have seen much that you have seen everything? You think this is the end? I tell you this. It is only the beginning."

  Remo wasn't convinced. "I guess you're right, Little Father," he said with an uncertain shrug.

  "Of course I am," the Master of Si
nanju insisted. Leaning forward, he smiled knowingly. "Stay tuned."

  And with a sadness touched with hope, Remo turned his face to the morning sun.

  EPILOGUE

  Dr. Jesus Avalos of the Los Angeles Women's Crisis Health Center would have known something was different about this patient even without reading her chart.

  The woman lying on the table in the examining room didn't seem like the usual WCHC patient. Sadly, most who came through the front doors of the free clinic had not achieved much in life, financially or in the way of education. But this particular patient seemed intelligent and articulate. According to the form she'd filled out in the waiting room, she didn't smoke, drink or do drugs and-from what Dr. Avalos could tell-she had no visible tattoos.

  That last one was the biggest miracle these days. As he applied the gel to her exposed belly, he tried to remember his last patient who hadn't risked HIV and hepatitis by taking a dozen trips to the tattoo parlor. In his less politically correct moments, he wondered how it was that people who relied on federal handouts for their daily bread could afford to get permanent ink disfigurements on their ankles and asses. Maybe tattoo parlors had started taking food stamps.

  "You're not from the neighborhood," Dr. Avalos said as rolled the sonogram to the side of the table.

  "No," the woman replied.

  Her voice was deep, rolling and soft all at once. There was something very feminine and just a little dangerous about her. Dr. Avalos felt drawn to her for some reason.

  He tried to keep his mind on work.

  "What brings you to us?" he asked. "Besides the obvious, of course."

  "I'm leaving the country tomorrow and I want to make sure it's safe to fly."

  Dr. Avalos nodded understanding. He pressed the probe to her belly and turned his attention to the monitor.

  "Oh, my," he said after a moment. "This wasn't natural."

  She didn't say a word. Just smiled a knowing smile.

  Dr. Avalos turned his attention away from the monitor. He wore a deeply concerned expression.

  "Is your partner here today?" he asked. These days it wasn't safe to assume a husband or even a gender. "There are some important issues you should consider."