Killer Watts td-118

by Warren Murphy

  Remo was past the bodies now. Nearly upon Roote. "Don't use either. Don't need either."

  "That's a cryin' shame. Metal conducts best." It was a puzzling thing to say. And between the kid at the airport and General Chesterfield, Remo had already wasted enough time on nutcases today. It was justice time. He let the remark pass, reaching out a thick-wristed hand to Roote.

  He'd do it quick and easy and be on the first flight out of town before the body was even found. Or so he thought.

  His hand was a foot away from Roote's throat when the private's palms opened like desert blooms.

  Remo caught a brief glimpse of what appeared to be thimbles. But for some reason, they looked as if they were buried at the end of Elizu Roote's fingers. It was also obvious that they were the source of the mysterious sparking.

  "Surprise," Roote announced. He grinned maniacally.

  There was a pop of light like a flashbulb going off.

  The sudden brightness took Remo by surprise. Even as the light was registering on his retinas, Remo felt the shock of electricity grab him in the chest.

  The short power surge lifted him off the floor, flinging him back toward the end of the bar. Stools toppled out of his path, spilling over, crashing and rolling against tables.

  Pain gripped his chest like fingers of flame. His heart began racing, pounding in spastic bursts. Lying on his back on the floor, Remo had no idea what had just happened. Whatever it was, it had stopped. He rolled over weakly, looking up at Roote. His heart still thudded angrily in his chest. Roote seemed disappointed. He was leaning against the bar with one hand as he looked at the recessed metal pads of the other.

  "Charge is lower than I thought," he complained. "Sorry, cowboy. There ain't enough for the full treatment."

  Roote lowered only one hand this time. And this time, Remo clearly saw the arcs of electrical energy shoot from the private's five fingertips.

  His system had been practically overloaded the first time. When the second burst came, Remo wasn't even strong enough to roll out of its deadly path.

  The next blast caught him in the chest. His heart immediately began to fibrillate wildly. The electricity surged through his body, flying up his finely tuned spinal cord and racing out to his overloaded extremities. Every nerve in his body screamed in pain.

  As the power flowed, Roote stepped forward, eyes gleeful.

  Not even a body trained to the perfection that was Sinanju could withstand such a direct assault against its nervous system. Remo had seconds to live.

  Flailing on the floor, he grabbed out blindly, desperately seizing something cool and cylindrical at his side. The brass footrest that ran the length of the bar.

  The pain that racked his body was unbearable. Yet some distant, lucid part of Remo's mind told him to clutch on to the footrest. To fight for life.

  He grasped the metal tube with one shaking hand. The electricity instantly coursed through his body and out into the long brass pipe. Dissipating its force. Throwing it from his own ravaged body.

  He didn't know if he'd grabbed the rail soon enough. His body had already taken a beating. Still, he held on for dear life, feeling the current disperse along the footrest even as a cloak of darkness began to pull across the sparking field of blazing synapses that was his mind.

  As Remo lost consciousness, the last vision he beheld was that of Elizu Roote standing above him-eyes crazed, death pouring like hellfire from his fingertips.

  For a moment locked in time, Remo hoped more than anything that a demented Army private with supernatural powers would not be the last thing he would see in life. And then he ceased to care at all.

  The darkness of eternity consumed all conscious thought, and Remo Williams became one with the nothingness.

  Chapter 6

  Behind the locked door of the administrative director's office of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith sat nestled in the wellworn seat of his cracked leather chair.

  The chair had been a gift from his wife on the occasion of their fifteenth wedding anniversary. At the time of the gift close to forty years ago, Smith had just retired from the CIA. He had assumed his duties as the director of Folcroft, and Maude Smith had wanted more than anything to show her husband how grateful she was that he was out of the dangerous espionage business. The chair had been just the thing.

  When his beaming wife had presented the gift to Smith, he promptly tried to return it. Parsimonious in the extreme, Smith had told his wife that there were more than enough chairs at Folcroft already. One more would be redundant.

  But in the few short weeks from the time she had bought the chair and stored it at her sister's house in Connecticut to the time Smith attempted to bring it back, the office-furniture store had gone out of business. With no hope of getting back his thirty-five dollars and ninety-nine cents, plus tax, Smith had grudgingly accepted the gift.

  Though it bothered him at first, over time he had actually come around. After more than fifteen hours of sitting per day, seven days a week, the chair he hadn't wanted now fit him like a comfortable old shoe. The chair was as much a fixture in the Spartan room as Harold Smith himself. They had grown old together.

  Smith had been a relatively young man when he assumed his post at Folcroft. Now, as he typed at the high-tech keyboard buried at the lip of his gleaming onyx desk, the reflection that looked back up at him from the shining surface was eerily reminiscent of his father.

  The unflattering image accurately reflected its subject.

  Smith's bland spirit tinted his entire gaunt being in washed-out, virtually colorless shades of gray. Indeed, the only inaccuracy in the reflection was its failure to properly reflect Smith's green-striped Dartmouth tie. The visual error was forgivable. The green was swallowed up by all-consuming gray.

  It was not the daily work of Folcroft that had kept Smith here so late into the autumn of his life. If sanitarium business had been the only reason for Smith's tenure behind the ivy-covered walls of the venerable institution, he would have packed up his chair when he'd reached sixty-five and headed off into well-earned retirement.

  No, the thing that kept Smith toiling in his waning years could be summed up in a single word: America.

  Smith was the product of a time when being an American meant something. Before coarseness and flagrant lying took the place of public discourse; before depravity and cheap titillation took hold of the popular culture; before America began its slippery slide into narcissism and hedonism, Smith had learned right from wrong.

  It was his black-and-white grip on reality as much as his keen analytical mind that brought Smith to the attention of a young President years before.

  A new agency was being formed. Its mission was to safeguard the Constitution by flouting the very laws that existed in that monumental document. That agency-called CURE-needed a director. It was Harold W. Smith's unflagging love of country that had been the deciding factor in the clandestine contest for agency head.

  His "retirement" from the CIA was a pretense for the work that would consume the rest of his life. Director of CURE.

  Over the years, CURE's mission had changed. It had branched out from domestic threats to address international challenges. The greatest change came when the agency was sanctioned to use assassination as a tool to achieve its ends. But the two things that seemed never to have changed completely were Smith and his beloved chair.

  As Smith typed at the capacitor-style keyboard, he scanned the information on the monitor.

  He had been checking on the New Mexico situation for the past ten minutes. It now seemed more problematic than he had originally thought.

  The news was leaking out. It seemed almost as if the military had been strong-arming the local authorities to downplay the number of deaths. For people who had lost loved ones, this could only work for so long. It appeared as if the dam had broke.

  An Alamogordo newspaper had carried the headline story that morning. The names accompanied the text.

 
; Smith scanned the list of confirmed dead. There were twelve names in all, alphabetized as they would be for a telephone directory.

  Twelve people dead.

  It could have been any number of things. Although authorities were suggesting a lone killer, the paper speculated that he might have accomplices. They further theorized involvement of a cult or gang. In New Mexico no one would be surprised if the deaths were drug related.

  When he had been dispatched to the area, Remo hadn't been concerned. Smith did not share the casual attitude of CURE's enforcement arm. The names on Smith's computer screen belonged to innocent Americans. It was his duty to see to it that whatever was behind their murders did not become a menace to the nation at large.

  Smith left the news story with its accompanying roster of murder victims and shifted his attention to the electronic files of nearby Fort Joy.

  Although the base appeared to be heavily involved in the search for the lone suspect in the murders-at least according to what he had been able to glean from local police sources-very little information was being transferred via its computers. To Smith, this was suspicious. It was almost as if a computer blackout had been initiated at the base. Why would they not enter data into their computer network? Did they fear that their quarry was computer literate and might access the database from a remote source? If this were the case, would it not be wiser to enter false information, thus steering the suspect into a trap?

  It was all quite puzzling.

  As he reentered the base computer system, Smith was surprised to find some information posted.

  Those in authority must have realized that the facts had begun to leak out to the public. It was pointless not to list that which was already known.

  He scanned the lines, finding only the driest details that had already been covered in both the local police files and the Alamogordo press. There was nothing new.

  Smith was about to exit the file when something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his attention back to the screen. There was something not quite right.

  The list of names was there, as it had been in the newspaper. But it seemed longer on the base computer.

  As he passed over the lines, his attention was unerringly drawn to one name in particular. Smith froze.

  It was an add-on. The twelve-name list was now up to thirteen. The new name had not appeared in the papers.

  As his flat, gray eyes passed slowly over the name, Smith felt his mouth go dry as desert sand. Remo Halper.

  The cover identity Remo was using while in New Mexico.

  His mind raced. A million thoughts vied for supremacy as he read and reread the name.

  Was it even possible? Had Remo fallen victim to the same unknown force that was killing innocent people near Fort Joy?

  Smith managed to pull himself back together after a moment of dull inactivity. No. It was no use speculating until he had all the facts.

  He cleared the cobwebs from his brain, looking down at the ten characters with new eyes. It was only then that he saw the asterisk at the far end of the column. A quick scan proved that Remo's was the only name so noted.

  Hands shaking, Smith hit the page-down key. He found the asterisk again, this one followed by a few brief lines of sanitized text.

  Government agent. Suspected CIA. Great interest expressed in Shock Troops project. First victim to survive encounter with subject Roote. Complicity? Agent taken to Ft. Joy infirmary. Condition: critical.

  There were initials typed at the bottom of the report. "Gen. DXC."

  Smith already knew that General Chesterfield was the base commander. But there was much in the report that he did not comprehend-the references to the Shock Troops and subject Roote, as well as the alarming and erroneous suggestion that Remo was connected with the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Smith forced self-control. Adjusting the rimless glasses that were perched in perpetuity atop his patrician nose, he took a steadying breath.

  Anything he might venture about either Remo's condition or the goings-on at Fort Joy would be academic. There was only one way to find out for certain what was happening there.

  The time of hospitalization listed beside Remo's name was 11:45 a.m., Mountain Daylight Time. He had been alive then. Smith had no reason to believe his condition had changed.

  The Master of Sinanju would have to be informed.

  As one arthritis-gnarled hand snaked toward the blue contact phone, the nimble fingers of Smith's free hand were already booking passage on two flights to New Mexico. One ticket was for Chiun. The other, for Harold W. Smith.

  THE MASTER OF SINANJU had just completed the four thousand nine-hundred and ninety-ninth verse of his second favorite Ung poem. Rarely was he given the opportunity to go through one entire Ung without interruption, but with Remo away he had not only completed the classic spider poem in peace but had moved on to the near-classic melting-snowflake poem.

  Through the recitation of both poems, he had achieved a level of joy unparalleled in the years he had spent in the wasteland of America.

  Chiun was basking in the afterglow. He sat in full lotus position on his simple reed mat, eyes closed, face relaxed. The many wrinkles of his parchment skin were drawn into lines of pure rapture. There was almost an angelic cast to his wizened features.

  The air of this heathen land had never smelled sweeter to his delicate nose. The sounds of traffic in the street outside were almost soothing.

  He was completely at peace.

  Even the bray of the telephone which had been going on for the past ten minutes, was not enough to disturb his placid mood.

  Remo had left the phone on the hook after talking to Smith. Typical thoughtlessness. It no longer mattered, however. Aside from the current incessant jangling, the phone had not rung during the entire time he had spent reciting.

  To Chiun, the ringing phone was almost a sign to not become too at peace in this godforsaken land.

  Chiun rose from the floor like a puff of steam. He padded down the hall to the kitchen. He had not yet opened his eyes as he pressed the receiver to a shell-like ear.

  "Though unworthy even to hear my voice, you have reached Chiun. Speak, but do not annoy."

  "Master Chiun, there has been an incident in New Mexico," Smith's voice blurted.

  Chiun's eyes remained closed. "Knowing of the severe case of Anglophilia that grips this land, I understand the reason for the upstart provinces of Hampshire and York. But I have been to Mexico, Emperor Smith. Why would you wish to evoke the image of such a squalid land within your borders?"

  "That is irrelevant," Smith insisted. "Remo has gone on assignment to New Mexico."

  At Smith's sharp tone, Chiun opened his eyes. "This I know," he said evenly.

  "According to what I have learned, he has been injured. He has been taken to the hospital." While Smith spoke, the sound of his rapid typing sounded in the background. Chiun did not comment on this rudeness.

  "I have just accessed the computers of the Fort Joy infirmary," Smith continued. "They have not entered details of his condition. However, it appears that they have put him in the intensive-care unit."

  Chiun let Smith prattle until he sounded as if he was through. Only then did the Master of Sinanju interject.

  "I appreciate your concern, O Emperor, but I assure you that Remo is in good health. We both remain robust of heart and stout of soul, the better to serve your regal self."

  "It is Remo," Smith insisted. "Something has gone terribly wrong. I have booked you on a flight out of Logan. A cab will be there to collect you shortly. My flight leaves Newark airport before yours. We will rendezvous near the U.Sky terminal in Roswell."

  "Forgive me, Emperor-"

  Chiun was not given time to complete his thought. The coarse hum of a dial tone grated on his delicate eardrum.

  Slowly, he replaced the phone.

  Smith had sounded agitated. More so than usual. Chiun was not unused to this level of disquiet in his employer. Indeed,
it seemed to be his lot in life to deal with the vicissitudes of Mad Harold.

  Of course, there was nothing wrong with Remo. During the course of his last assignment, Remo had been wounded by a uniquely dangerous foe. Because of this, Smith must have now decided that every hoodlum with a boom stick could injure the Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju.

  It was doubtless some other lout with Remo's name who had been injured. But that explanation would never work for Smith. To try to give a reasonable rationale to an unreasonable mind was to invite further madness. If he had attempted to explain the reality of the situation to Smith-that nothing was nor could go wrong with Remo-surely some of Smith's insidious madness would escape into Chiun in the process. In the end, for all his futile efforts, Chiun would wind up as crazed as Smith.

  No, the old Korean knew from experience that it would be best to satisfy this latest insane whim of his Emperor.

  Alone in his kitchen, he frowned. He would not need to bring all fourteen of his steamer trunks with him. Two would be sufficient. After all, he would undoubtedly dispense with this crazy white errand in short order.

  That decided, Chiun left the kitchen to pack the few things he would need for his trip to Upstart Mexico.

  Chapter 7

  General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield was doing the one thing that put him head and shoulders above all the other military men he had ever met-passing the buck.

  "I can see where you're a-comin' from on that, sir, I really can," he said into the phone.

  He fell silent during the five-minute reply from the other end of the line.

  Chesterfield sat behind his desk in his Fort Joy command barracks. His red moon face had begun to take on shades of sickly orange not long after the beginning of the call. Drops of sweat as big as dimes collected on his forehead. They rolled down in icy rivulets to his bull neck, soaking his starched uniform collar a darker shade of green.

  "Absolutely it was them, sir," Chesterfield said when a break finally came in the monologue. "I don't have the actual physical proof yet, but one of their own agents is flat on his back in my infirmary right now."