Death Check td-2

by Warren Murphy

  Gads! He had no parachute. He was stripped of his chute. Then he felt himself being flipped up and there was the American face-to-face with him as they descended. He was snapping on the buckle over the chest. He was wearing Geoffrey's parachute. He was smiling and still humming.

  Geoffrey saw a khaki bundle thrust toward him. It was the American's faulty chute. Then the American shouted: "That's the biz, sweetheart. Remember me to Henry the Eighth."

  Red and white material sprung out and up from the American's back, and then snapped into a ballooning canopy of an open chute. The American seemed to rise and then become farther and farther away as he swung from the riders in gentle descent.

  Geoffrey Hawkins, late of Her Majesty's Royal Marines arrived at the lush Virginia countryside at approximately the same moment as the faulty parachute. The chute bounced with a whoomph and was usable again.

  Geoffrey Hawkins didn't. And wasn't.

  By the time Remo landed, Doctor Hirshbloom had gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Brewster Forum had supplied Remo with a room in a two-story house, centrally located in the forum's laboratory complex and just as centrally out of sight of any of the private homes. It was called the workers' house.

  "If you get lost, just ask for the workers' house," said the superintendent of the gymnasium.

  "You mean we live here."

  "Not we. I'm a superintendent. I have a home. The lower-level work force uses the workers' house. The cleaning women, drivers, cleanup men, security officer."

  "Okay," Remo had said, "this will be fine." His room allowed him to dress standing up if he stood on the bed, and if he chose, jump right from the shower to his sheets. He could also use the two top drawers of the dresser, the bottom ones being wedged shut by the box springs of the mattress.

  It was not really that the room was so small, but that the bed was so big. It had been a discard from one of the private homes and like all the furniture in the workers' house, was not designed for its room. Remo could do a somersault on the mattress, which he judged would cover three ordinary beds.

  "That mattress alone cost $1400," one of the maids confided to him. "We're always getting furniture and stuff the people don't want. It's real good stuff, only sometimes it looks kind of funny."

  Naturally Remo could not do his more exotic exercises in the Forum gymnasium, assuming that the continued sustaining of peak had not drained his abilities too much to do them at all.

  But he could always exercise in the bed on his back, which might be enough. He stared at the ceiling and set his mind on a long road that had wound around the inside of the walls at Folcroft Sanatorium where he had received his first training. He mentally stepped out onto the black gravel path and felt the wetness of the air coming in off Long Island Sound and smelled the stale after-odor of the burnings of yesterday's leaves and he was off. Five quick miles today.

  Looking at Remo in the bed at Brewster Forum, one would see only the leg muscles twitching and the chest moving regularly with the heavy breathing. In fact, it was the breathing that made the run worthwhile, and when he approached the last lap he began to sprint, pressing his deadened legs, gasping for breath and pushing, pushing, pushing. He had always been able to do the last lap with speed. But this morning the legs were just not there and the energy needed for the sprint couldn't be called up. He did not allow the thought that he might not be able to finish the final lap, although he did not know for sure how he could make it, and the pain became unendurable. He had not had so much trouble since he first began running.

  He never did find out if he could finish. There was a knock on the door of his room in the workers' house of Brewster Forum. Remo heard it and not wanting to open the door in an exhausted condition, went into a recover. Fortunately, he was in bed, the process being a complete nothing. Abandon all nerves, senses and muscles, drop all controls. Become a vegetable. The effect on the body was like an electric shock in water. The trick was to do everything simultaneously, because the heart could miss a beat, and if the rest of the system were still coursing through heavy exercise, it might not pick up that beat.

  But it did, and Remo, sweat-drenched, but breathing like he had just awakened from a sleep, answered the door. He knew that the normal breathing, the lack of a heat-flushed appearance, would make the perspiration appear like water.

  The man in the door was late middle-age, but his face was fleshy with hard lines, strangely unbroken by his round metal-framed eyeglasses. He wore a dark summer suit with white shirt and black tie, and offered a truly mechanical smile, the non-joyous likes of which Remo had not seen since the last Presidential campaign.

  "Excuse me," said the man, with a polishing of gut in his voice. "I am Martin Stohrs, your chess instructor. I did not realize you were in the shower. I am sorry."

  "No," said Remo. "I was trying to unstop the sink."

  "And it exploded?"

  "In a way."

  "I don't imagine you can invite me in?" He was looking

  at the bed-filled room. "More like a bed with a room

  around it, no?"

  "Yes."

  "Terrible. Terrible. A man of your talent and abilities living in a room like this next to the servants."

  "It's okay with me."

  "Terrible. This should be outlawed. Security work in every place in the world is an honoured profession requires the highest of abilities and courage and discipline. And they put you here. I will speak to Brewster about this."

  "He put me here."

  Stohrs changed the subject. "I came to invite you to my house for the honour of a game with you, and if you would also honour me, I would appreciate your company at dinner. I had mentioned the game the other day when you had finished with those motorcycle swine, but you probably did not hear me."

  "Thanks anyway, I have a date."

  "So soon?"

  "Well, it's sort of business. One of the staff. Doctor Hirshbloom."

  "Ah, Deborah. Surprising. She rarely sees anyone. Unless when you consider that this is a think tank, and what fills the tank mostly is words and more words." He seemed charmed by his joke.

  "I'm not sure what this is."

  "Hah, no one else is either. I like you. We must play."

  "Thanks again, but some other time. I'm on my way to see someone now."

  "Ach. Excuse me, most assuredly. The invitation is open."

  Remo thanked him again and shut the door. He dressed

  in a pair of white chinos and a blue sports shirt. His two

  suits hung in the bathroom, the closet door not having

  room enough to open.

  Stohrs was waiting downstairs. He was apologetic. He had not wished to intrude on Remo Pelham. He was not the pushy type like some people. He was not the pushy type for the mile and a half walk to the circle of cottages. He made that clear several limes.

  "You see, I come from a culture that appreciates privacy just as it appreciates the true role of the policeman. You have violence in this country today because the police are not respected. Order is not respected. Now, in my country, no policeman would ever be forced to live in the servants' quarters when a golf instructor lives in a house. Yes?"

  "Yes, what?" asked Remo, noticing how the night came unexpectedly fast for the summer. Or was it his imagination or even worse, the losing of touch with time and senses and feeling. He did a toe walk so smoothly that he knew Stohrs did not notice and thus reassured himself that he could still do special things and therefore need not worry about his senses. It was the night.

  "Yes, do you agree with me?"

  "Certainly," Remo said. He began working his fingers, in a dexterity drill, playing speed. You separated the coordination of the hands, then played finger tip against fingertip, with the nails of the hand just touching, then retreating. Done quickly enough, it looked like nervous praying.

  "These are terrible times we live in. No?"

  "It's always a terrible time."

  "Not always. And n
ot everywhere."

  "You could say that."

  "You must like this place. And to like this place you must come from a place that is not so nice, yes?"

  "Are you asking me where I'm from?"

  "No, no. Of course not. I mean unless you wish to tell me."

  "I don't particularly."

  "Good. You will find that I am not the prying type. I am just one who respects excellence. I respected your chess play. Where did you learn to play?"

  "From Delphurm Bresky, a lawyer in Jersey City," Remo said, making up a name he knew couldn't exist.

  "Then you are from Jersey City. A wonderful town."

  "Jersey City, a wonderful town?"

  "Well, it's gone down since that wonderful mayor you had."

  "Who?"

  "Francis Hague."

  "That bum was a dictator."

  "Yes. A terrible man. You worked long in Jersey City?"

  "No."

  "A short tune?"

  "No."

  "Ah. You never worked there. Well, I am not one to seek a person's resume the first time I meet him. Especially not someone I like and respect, who has been abused by the powers that be. I am here only to offer my help."

  Remo worked the shoulders and neck, using Stohrs as a foil. If he could do the control exercises just beneath Stohrs' level of awareness, it would be a good feedback check.

  "You know, there are some civilizations that adore men

  of violence."

  "Yeah. Most," Remo said. "The others become vassal states."

  "Right. You are a man of the world," Stohrs said, slapping Remo's back in joy. It was unfortunate that Remo at the time was doing rapid mental jump push-ups during his stroll. Remo's was the first back Stohrs had ever slapped that slapped back.

  "You look surprised," Remo said.

  "No. Nothing. I just thought that my hand hurt."

  "That'll happen if you go around slapping people on the back."

  "It was a sign of respect. It is terrible today that we do not have respect where we should have respect. In my country, we always have respect. That is what makes my country great. Always great, no matter what."

  "What country is that?"

  "Switzerland."

  "A fine country. The best foreign policy in the world."

  "Yes. Its mountains are its foreign policy."

  "Very well put," Remo said.

  Stohrs shrugged it off as a nothing.

  "Strange," Remo said, "but mountains act as barriers and water as a conduit. Look at England. A little island that chose not to use its water as a barrier but as a vehicle to carry empire. Now, they're pretty much back on their island."

  "The Britishers are overrated."

  "They did pretty well at one time. For a small island."

  "Well," Stohrs said, his voice rising. "Well. Who the hell did they ever beat? Napoleon? He was a sick man. A dying man. They beat him when he was dying. No. The Britishers get others to fight for them."

  "They did pretty well in World War I and II."

  "They didn't win those wars."

  "They didn't lose them."

  "They had almost nothing to do with them. America and Russia won those wars. The British were like the French, little toadies currying your favours. You are being used by the British. They laugh at you behind your back. Don't you see that?"

  "I was never aware that America was laughed at."

  "Laughing stock of the world. Of course, nothing per

  "Of course not," Remo said. "It must be nice to come from a country protected by mountains, a country that neither gives aid nor receives it, a country whose only function is to be the world's counting house."

  "It's a nice little country," Stohrs said. "Not a great country but a nice one. I am proud to call it home."

  "What brings you here?"

  "This is a lovely job and place to work. A good environment for me to raise my daughter. Lovely. That is, if you are not a policeman, no?"

  "No," said Remo who had finished his mental sit-ups and now saw that the light was on in the Hirshbloom cottage. "Good night and thank you for walking with me."

  "It's an honour. I respect you. Watch your step. There is evil here. That tragic Hawkins' accident. I am glad we now have a real man as security officer.

  "Real man?"

  "Yes. I do not like to dishonour the dead, but McCarthy was just... well, a clerk. You need a man for the job. Good night. We must play soon."

  "We will."

  And Remo would not see him again until he would defeat him at the chess table with only a king and queen, against a queen, a king, two knights, a rook and a bishop. It would be a brilliant move, one that no chess master could ever perform as well.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The man once known as Dr. Hans Frichtmann sat in one of the foam-contoured seats of the Brewster Forum auditorium watching the weekly amateur show. They changed the program from week to week. Last week, it was Father Boyle on guitar; the week before that, Professor Ferrante in elegiac poetry. They never called it an amateur show and at first had attempted to sell tickets. The first week they sold eight, the next week six, and then they stopped charging.

  He could see that the new director of security and Dr. Deborah Hirshbloom were among the missing. Well, that was something. It was undoubtedly a better performance than Dr. James Ratchett, his magic, and now his hypnotism.

  He was frankly worried. The business with the motor-hoodlums was one thing. But how had he escaped the fall from the plane and managed to kill Hawkins in the process? He wished only that his job were finished. That he could leave this accursed place.

  His attention was brought back to the stage by Ratchett's voice.

  Dr. Schulter was sitting in a chair at center stage. Ratchett's lardy body was frozen before the seated figure. It had taken six minutes to put Schulter under, and the boredom of moving bodies coughing and sighing could be felt, as only courtesy tethered the forum personnel to their seats.

  "Black longing pools of opalescent nights and the deepest of deep escapes. You are moving down, black-ward, into darkness and restful slumber," Ratchett's voice purred. A few coughs brought a haughty condemning glance from Ratchett and back to the gibberish. Strange that a theoretical chemist, surrounded by great psychiatrists and psychologists, would seek to entertain them with hypnotism. And such amateurish hypnotism.

  Oh, well. The dangers of espionage this decade varied. Death by boredom was a possibility. He heard Ratchett call for a return to horrible times. What were horrible times? Let's see. The surrender was bad, the Russian occupation worse. The removing of testicles from tremmen with forceps? Not bad at all, especially when that Jew professor stood before him. The Jew professor who had attempted to expel him from medical school in Hamburg because of alleged sadistic practices. What was wrong with sadism? Really. If you didn't look at it in the sloppy Jewish sentimentality, or through the rose-colored filter of Jewdom's whore child, Christian ethics. Sadism was good. It was the extension of natural hostility, to a point where it had its own meaning, its own beauty. The Nazi Party knew it.

  The Nazi party. The only healthy, honest force in his mind. And the way these scrawny, hairy youngsters dared call the American government fascist and Nazi. How dare they? The American government, nothing but hypocritical flotsam, mealy-mouthing its way through history, obsessed with domestic well-being and international public opinion. How dare they call that Nazi? He could show them NAZI. They should see NAZI! They should see that Jewish professor. Why didn't that Semitic scum scream? That was the bad part. He didn't scream. Yes. That was a horrible time. Horrible. As on stage.

  Schulter was searching, in his hypnotic past, for a horrible time. Then he jumped to his feet, dancing around the stage. Skip and a hop. And his jacket flew to the floor, followed by his shirt, his undershirt. Unzip the pants and step out. Then down on his bony knees. The white stage-light reflected blue off his perspiring back. "The whip," he cried. "The woman with the whip. Whip. Wh
ip."

  Ratchett was panting heavily. "The whip," he chorused. "The whip," making little sucking noises through his puffy lips.

  The staff was not sure what happened next. Nobody could recall exactly. But when the new director for security asked around the next morning, the story was this:

  1) The hypnotism show had touched off something that was better not talked about and really none of Remo Pelham's business.

  2) Dr. Nils Brewster snapped both men out of their trance by jumping on stage and mimicking Ratchett's voice.

  3) Everyone was strangely disturbed by the episode, and really, stop bothering people.

  They would be bothered though-even more, when they discovered the awesome price Doctor Ratchett would have to pay for his dramatic success.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Having been thrown out of a plane while trying to talk to Dr. Hirshbloom, there was no price too great for Remo to pay to see her. He would even talk to Nils Brewster.

  Brewster was arrogant, almost as if that tragic accident to the sky-diving instructor had been Remo's fault.

  "No," Nils Brewster had said, through bandaged nose. "No request from Doctor Hirshbloom. Why are you so interested?"

  "Why is there joy in your voice?"

  "Don't answer a question with a question. They tell me that's how you carry on a conversation."

  "Four out of five department heads want to talk to me.

  The fifth doesn't. Why?"

  "That's your answer?" Brewster asked.

  "Yes," said Remo.

  "I told you you'd never understand about us."