Dark Horse td-89

by Warren Murphy

And as long as Barry Black, Junior remained in his pyramid, safe from assassins.

  Chapter 19

  Remo Williams had tried every Barry Black for Governor campaign office in San Francisco.

  All were under police guard, and all were deserted.

  At the third deserted storefront, Remo presented a UPI press pass in the name of "Remo Cannon" to an SFPD sergeant and asked, "Did Black pull out of the race?"

  "Not that I heard," the sergeant said.

  "So where are his campaign people?"

  "Hunkered down in bomb shelters, from what I hear."

  "I thought the attempt was on Black's life?"

  "That's what everyone says, but the only ones who died were campaign staff. Now the bomb threats are pouring in."

  "Bomb threats?"

  "Every campaign office received one. When the staffers heard that, they went home. A lot of them quit outright. Guess they decided it was too much trouble to give the Glowworm a third shot at Sacramento."

  "Thanks," Remo said, returning to his rented car.

  At a phone booth, Remo called Folcroft.

  "Smitty, I can't join the Black campaign."

  "Why not?" "Because there is no campaign."

  "He pulled out?"

  "No, his organization did. They all got bomb threats and decided to call it a day."

  "Peculiar," said Smith.

  Ignoring an intermittent whistling in the background, Remo said, "I think it's interesting that Black's people got hurt, but he wasn't."

  "You do not think Barry Black has engineered this entire charade?" Smith said, his voice rising.

  "Why not? He was taking a beating in the polls. Esperanza was pulling ahead of him. This was his way of recapturing sympathy."

  "A little while ago," Smith pointed out, "you suggested that Rona Ripper might have engineered the attempts on Esperanza's life."

  The whistle came again. It sounded different. But when Remo turned around, he saw only passersby minding their own business.

  "I haven't ruled her out yet," he said. "For all we know, she was on Nogeira's payroll."

  "Speaking of Nogeira, I am receiving ongoing reports of undocumented aliens pouring into California from other states, with the purpose of applying for amnesty and citizenship."

  The whistling continued. Remo changed ears. "So?"

  "They are registering to vote in record numbers."

  "What's that got to do with Nogeira?"

  "Before he was deposed, Remo, General Nogeira was heavily involved in smuggling illegals into this country, primarily from El Salvador and other Central American republics."

  "You saying this could be part of Nogeira's master plan, if there was one?"

  "Esperanza's call for undocumented aliens to come forward and take advantage of these programs has been picked up only by the California media. I cannot imagine how the word is spreading, unless the ball had been started even before the campaign began."

  "By Nogeira?"

  "By Nogeira."

  "Well," Remo said, switching ears again, "I'm going to take Barry Black by the scruff of the neck and shake him a little."

  Smith's voice became chilly. "Remo, that man is a registered gubernatorial candidate. You are not to molest or intimidate him in any way."

  "What if he's guilty of subverting the process?"

  The line hummed. Remo stuck his finger in his free ear to keep out the annoying whistles. It was a moment before Harold W. Smith spoke again.

  "We are in the business of upholding the Constitution whenever we can," he said firmly. "Political assassination is a line CURE has yet to cross in any meaningful way."

  "There's always a first time," Remo said flatly.

  "My instructions stand."

  "How about I just talk to Black?"

  "I will accept that."

  "Good, because I hope you have his home address. He's not in the book."

  "According to the latest reports, Black has gone into seclusion. But he is believed to be in his Pacific Park home. At least, the local media believe that. They are virtually laying siege to the house."

  Remo groaned. "Oh, no."

  "What is it?" Smith asked.

  "That means Cheeta Ching is sure to be there, yapping at the head of the pack," Remo said unhappily.

  "I am sure you will find a way to avoid her," Smith said dryly.

  "Count on it," Remo said, hanging up.

  On his way to the car, Remo was accosted by a thinvoiced young man, with a kerchief hanging out his back pocket and another one loose about his throat.

  "Hello, sailor," he said, smiling. "Going my way?"

  "If your way is what I think it is, not in your lifetime."

  "How about a detour?"

  "How about you suck your thumb?"

  "Not what I had in mind."

  Remo tapped the man's right elbow, forcing him to grab his funny bone, but the words sputtering out of his mouth weren't funny.

  Remo quieted the man by inserting one of his own thumbs into his mouth and freezing his jaw muscles closed with a paralyzing tap.

  "You don't know 'til you try it," he said.

  Remo left him sucking on his thumb while walking in circles, trying to shake the pins and needles from his arm.

  He still wondered what that whistling was.

  The Pacific Park home of Barry Black, Junior could be seen clearly from the foot of the hill where Remo had parked his car.

  It was a sprawling Victorian that was equal parts Bohemia and Addams Family. The house was painted a pumpkin-orange, with jet-black shutters. There was a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign over the front door. The weathervane sticking up from the chimney pot was in the shape of a yin-yang sign, and seemed to have rusted one day when there was a brisk east wind blowing.

  The house must have been a hundred years old, but the peaked roof was a modern mosaic of solar panels, spaceage satellite dishes, and ordinary Plexiglas skylights.

  The steep street leading up to the house was lined with microwave satellite vans. Most were empty. Remo could see the front walk of the orange-and-black monstrosity. That was where the local press had camped out. A few were skulking through the hedges, which had been sculpted, apparently, in the shapes of endangered species. At least Remo thought he recognized a dodo.

  Remo also recognized Cheeta Ching. The Korean anchor was at the cellar door, trying to detach the padlock with her teeth.

  Spying the van belonging to the local affiliate of the network that employed her, Remo slipped up to it. He was in luck. There was a driver sitting behind the wheel, looking bored.

  Remo tapped on the glass. It was rolled down.

  "Yeah?" asked the driver.

  Remo smiled. "I'm with the medical lab," he said brightly.

  "What medical lab?"

  "The one Cheeta Ching uses. I got good news for her. The rabbit died."

  The driver's bored eyes got unbored. "That is good news! In fact, it's great news! She'll probably be on the first jet back to New York after she hears this."

  "You wanna deliver the message?" Remo asked.

  "A pleasure," the driver said, bolting from the van.

  Grinning, Remo retreated to the backyard of an adjacent house to await developments.

  "This ought to be great," he said to himself.

  To his surprise, the driver didn't even try to look for Cheeta. Instead, he jumped into the milling mass of media representatives and began spreading the joyous news.

  "Cheeta's gonna drop one!" he howled.

  The pack broke in all directions.

  "Everyone loves good news," Remo chortled.

  And as he watched, Cheeta Ching was pounced upon.

  The questions flew fast and furious.

  "Miss Ching, is it true?"

  "Is what true?"

  "That you're with child."

  "Who said that? My husband?"

  "The lab said the rabbit died."

  Cheeta turned predatory. "It did? What's your source for th
at? Did the rabbit have a name? Did he suffer?"

  "Your driver told us. He just heard the word."

  "I'm preggers!" Cheeta shrieked, throwing up her hands.

  Then a strange look came over her flat face. Like an Asian Gorgon, Cheeta Ching lowered her sticky-haired head until she was looking up from under her perfect viper eyebrows into a ring of minicam lenses.

  "Everybody better not be filming this," she hissed.

  "Why not? It's news."

  "It's my news. It's my body. It's my story, and I intend to be the first to break it!"

  "Too late," a chipper voice called out. "You gave us the quote. Remember the First Amendment."

  "Remember that if any of you have careers after today, you'll have to deal with me. Somewhere. In some city. In some station."

  "Are you planning on taking maternity leave, Miss Ching? " a reporter asked pleasantly.

  "Cut it out!" Cheeta howled.

  "Do you have any ovulation tips for aging baby-boomers who want to be mothers?" another wanted to know.

  "Do you have a favorite position for procreating, Miss Ching?" demanded a third.

  "The first person to break this story," Cheeta Ching said in a venomous voice, "I will publicly name as the father."

  "Then I guess the story's mine," said a bright female voice.

  "Who said that?" Cheeta shrieked.

  Out from the pack of reporters bolted Jade Ling a local San Francisco anchorwoman of Asian descent. She made for her van.

  Cheeta gave chase, crying, "You Jap tart! Come back with that footage!"

  The cameras followed them down the steep street on Pacific Park, filming every shriek and threat Cheeta Ching vomited from her leathery lungs.

  While they were sorting out broadcast rights, Remo circled around to the blind side of the house and mounted the gingerbread and nameless wooden decorations to the roof. Amid a forest of satellite dishes, he found an unobstructed skylight and peered down.

  He saw a bare attic, with Navajo blankets hanging from the rafters. In one corner there was a squat, featureless pyramid, which looked like it had been formed of concrete.

  Remo looked around for a catch or fastener and, finding none, simply popped the Plexiglas from the skylight mounting. He simply pressed down on the bulbous top, until the caulking surrendered and the Plexiglas jumped up into his hands.

  Remo set it in a handy satellite dish and dropped down.

  As soon as his feet hit the bare flooring, he froze.

  His Sinanju-trained senses instantly detected a heartbeat, and the slow, shallow inhale-exhale of human lungs.

  There was no one in the attic. In fact, there was no thing in the attic. Except the pyramid.

  Remo slipped up to this. The sound of respiration grew louder. There was someone inside the thing.

  Remo looked for an opening. There was none. He decided to knock anyway.

  "Anyone home in there?" he called.

  "Who are you?" a suspicious voice demanded.

  "Secret Service. You Barry Black, by any wild chance?"

  "Chance," said Barry Black, "has nothing to do with how I got to be Barry Black."

  "I'll buy that," Remo said quickly. "I have a few questions for you."

  "I am not answering questions today," said Barry Black.

  "You have to."

  "As long as I'm in my personal pyramid, I don't have to do anything I don't want to."

  "Okay," Remo said lightly, reaching down and grasping the base of the formstone. He straightened.

  The pyramid was lifted off the squatting form of Barry Black, like a witch's hat coming off her head. Remo kept it high.

  Barry Black, Junior sat in a lotus position on a tatami mat, his hands loose on his knees and his eyes closed. His brow was furrowed in concentration.

  "Come out, come out," Remo called.

  Barry Black opened his eyes. He seemed surprised to see Remo.

  "You don't look like a Secret Service agent," he said meekly.

  "I'm in disguise," Remo told him.

  "Show me some ID."

  "My hands are full right now," Remo pointed out, indicating with a tilt of his chin the pyramid suspended over Barry Black's graying head by Remo's bare, ramrod-straight arms.

  Barry Black looked up. His chipmunk face grew worried. "Don't drop that. It's imported from Ceylon."

  "Says 'Made in Mexico' on the base here," Remo said.

  "Oh my God!" Barry Black squealed in horror. "I've been hiding in a counterfeit pyramid! I could have been killed!"

  Remo set the pyramid down. It cracked in three places, and the apex fell in like the crown of a broken tooth.

  "Now that we know the awful truth," Remo said lightly, "it's time to come clean."

  "It is?"

  "I know all about it."

  "What 'it'?"

  "Every it," Remo said. "You don't think you can hide this kinda stuff from the Secret Service, do you?"

  "Just because I'm bucking the establishment doesn't give you Washington insiders the right to harass me," Barry Black said in an indignant tone.

  "Who's harassing? I'm just saying that the jig is up."

  Barry Black, Junior folded his arms. "Then its up. So what? You can't prove anything."

  "Wanna bet?"

  "Until I announce, you can't prove anything."

  "Announce what?"

  Barry Black, Junior compressed his lips and said, "For all I know you're wired for sound. I will not incriminate myself."

  "Okay," Remo told him. "Then by the powers vested in me by the President of the United States, your Secret Service protection is hereby revoked."

  Barry Black looked stricken. "It is?"

  Remo nodded firmly. "I quit."

  And to make sure the point was driven home, Remo gave the formstone pyramid a careless kick. It collapsed in a clatter of rubble.

  Barry Black, Junior, seeing this, lost his composure.

  "I'll do anything!" he said. "I don't care anymore! The voter anger out there is more than I can stand!"

  "The truth," Remo prompted.

  "It's true. Just as you suspected. I have a secret scam-I mean, plan. Once I'm elected, I'm switching back."

  Remo blinked. "Switching what back?"

  "Is that a trick question?" asked Barry Black, Junior.

  "Yes, and you'd better answer it truthfully."

  "Switching back to the Democrats. I knew I couldn't get elected as a Democrat, so I switched to the Republican party, even though they wouldn't have me on a popsicle stick. Once I'm elected, I'll just switch back."

  "That's crazy," Remo said.

  "It worked for Buddy Roemer in Louisiana."

  "Buddy Roemer had his head handed to him," Remo pointed out. "He got trounced in the primaries."

  "That was Louisiana. This is California. People understand creative politics out here."

  "And that's it? You're running as a Republican, but you're not?"

  "Brilliant, isn't it?"

  "In a goofball kind of way, I suppose. What about the attempts on your life? Who's behind that?"

  "I have no idea. Probably the Republicans."

  "I doubt it," Remo said dryly.

  "Then the Democrats. They probably see me as a traitor. "

  "I think they're probably happy to be rid of you."

  "Then I don't know who's trying to get me," Barry Black snapped.

  "Then neither do I," Remo said glumly.

  At that moment, feet came pounding up the stairs.

  "They're coming for me!" Barry Black said, jumping to his slippered feet. He got behind Remo, who wondered aloud, "What's this?"

  "You're Secret Service, right?"

  "Right."

  "It's your job to take the bullet meant for the candidates, right?"

  "Normally, yeah," Remo admitted.

  "They're yours. Every bullet. With my best wishes for a happy next incarnation."

  Frowning, Remo made for the door and threw it open, one second before the m
an on the other side could take hold of the cut-glass knob. Losing his balance, the other man fell forward. Remo caught him and pulled him into the room.

  "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "Who the hell are you?" the other shot back.

  "Remo Drake. Secret Service."

  "Where's your ID?'

  "I answered that one already," Remo said.

  "It's true," Barry Black said helpfully. "He answered that question. Remo's okay. Except that he knows about my secret plan to get elected."

  "Well, then he's one up on me, and I'm in charge of this campaign," said the campaign manager.

  "Trust me. You're better off not knowing," Remo said.

  The Black campaign manager turned to his candidate and said, "Barry, they're reporting that Rona Ripper was just shot."

  "Is that good or bad?" Barry Black asked, face warping as the brain behind it attempted to assimilate this bizarre turn of the Karmic wheel.

  "She's alive."

  "Where is she?" Remo demanded.

  "They rushed her to St. John's in Santa Monica."

  Remo started for the door.

  Barry Black, Junior started after him, his voice anguished. "Wait, where are you going? You promised to protect me."

  "Consider yourself protected," Remo growled, slipping down the stairs. "Reality won't ever touch you."

  Chapter 20

  When he reached him by phone, Remo Williams was surprised at the lack of concern in Harold W. Smith's lemony voice.

  "Yes, I know about the Ripper shooting," he said crisply. "Regrettable."

  "The third candidate shot in almost as many days, and that's all you can say?"

  "You obviously did not catch the follow-up reports," Smith said dryly.

  "I didn't catch any reports," Remo retorted. "I was in The Twilight Zone with Barry Black when his campaign manager came charging in with the news."

  "Remo, Rona Ripper suffered a bullet wound at the hands of one of her personal security guards."

  "Huh?"

  "When the Black campaign was hit," Smith explained, "Miss Ripper ordered members of her entourage to arm themselves. One was cleaning his weapon in her presence, and it discharged. Rona Ripper suffered a flesh wound."

  "So it wasn't an assassination attempt?"

  "The weapon was a .22-caliber, and the projectile lodged in Miss Ripper's . . . ah . . . posterior."

  "Rona Ripper was shot in the butt?" Remo said in disbelief.

  "The security guard has apologized. Miss Ripper is suing him in return."