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  Blood Lust

  ( The Destroyer - 85 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Remo surrenders to a sex goddess armed to seduce and destroy the Destroyer.

  "Arms Race To The Finish Line"

  Normally Remo didn't care how evil enemies were armed. The Destroyer could take on everything from brass knuckles to H-bombs. But now he faced a foe equipped with arms that even he couldn't overcome. For the many arms of the goddess Kali were attached to the most fabulous body in the universe of love. And with Chiun trapped in the spirit world, Remo's flesh turned weak as his iron will melted down in the arms of a female who had the fate of the world in her many fiendish hands.

  Destroyer 85: Blood Lust

  By Warren Murphy apir

  Chapter 1

  Allison Baynes was very, very worried about little Kimberly. "It's not drugs, is it?" Norma Quinlan asked, her froglike voice cracking. She winced. Her heart skipped a beat. But inside, she couldn't wait to tell Beverly and Kathleen. She might even start speaking with Ida MacDonough again, just to see the look on her stuck-up face when she told Ida that poor Kimberly Baynes had become a drug addict. She tonged a sugar cube into her tea.

  "No, it's not drugs," Allison Baynes said in a hushed and age-quavered voice. Her eyes went to the window, as if the neighbors were listening. In a way, they were. Through Norma Quinlan, the gossip queen of Aurora, Colorado, a suburb of Denver. "I almost wish it were. If it were only drugs, I could send her to Betty Ford."

  "Do they take them that young?" asked Norma, deciding that a second sugar cube was called for. She would need her energy for all the phone calls she would be making later.

  "Perhaps not," Mrs. Baynes said worriedly. Her plump face wore a motherly frown. She balanced her china saucer in one age-spotted hand. The other held the fine china cup suspended a micro-inch over the saucer, as if both would shatter if they met. She raised the cup to her unlipsticked mouth thoughtfully, frowned, and sipped. The cup returned to its hovering position, and Allison Baynes resumed speaking.

  "She's only thirteen, you know."

  "That young? Why, I saw her only the other day. She looked like a high-school girl in that . . . dress."

  "She's wearing lipstick now too."

  "I guess she's at the age, then. You know, they become more sophisticated at a much younger age than we did," said Norma Quinlan in a proper voice, shoving into the furthest recess of her mind the half-buried memory of the day she let Harvey Bluestein grope her at the drive-m. That, after all, had been the sixties. The late sixties. People did those things then.

  "It is true, isn't it?" Mrs. Baynes said ruefully, looking at the coppery liquid steaming in her cup. Her hair was a silveryblue halo that might have been spun by a platinum spider. She sighed.

  Norma Quinlan reached for a raisin scone, knowing that the moment of truth was almost at hand. The sigh was her clue. They always sighed before unburdening themselves. And she was such an attentive listener.

  "She's been gaining weight, you know."

  "The dress I saw the other day was a positive tent," Norma said quickly between nibbles of the scone, which was dry. "But her face was so thin. And so pretty. She's very pretty."

  "Like a little doll," agreed Allison Baynes with grandmotherly pride. "You know, she adjusted very well. After the unpleasantness."

  "Unpleasantness?" asked Norma, masking her interest with an innocent tone. She knew very well about the unpleasantness, but wanted to hear it directly. In case new details slipped out. They often did.

  "You know that Kimmo's parents died tragically several years ago."

  "I've heard that," Norma said vaguely. "Somewhere."

  "Her mother was found strangled in Paris. It was perfectly horrible. They never found the killer."

  Norma nodded attentively. She knew that.

  "A.H., my son, met a similar fate. They found him dead in his Rocky Mountain vacation home, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Just like my daughter-in-law."

  "No!" said Norma, who knew that too.

  Mrs. Baynes contemplated the steam rising from her cup with oracular intentness. "What I'm about to tell you is strictly between the two of us."

  "Absolutely," Norma said sincerely, deciding right then and there that she would call Ida, after all.

  "They found them both with identical yellow scarves around their necks."

  "My God!"

  "It's true, I sold A.H.'s place, you know. Wouldn't even step into it."

  "Places like that are often haunted," Norma said sagely.

  "True."

  "Did they ever find the killers?"

  Mrs. Baynes sipped delicately. "Never. I think they stopped looking. You see, before they died, A.H. and Evelyn-that was my daughter-in-law's name, Evelyn-joined one of those horrid . . . cults."

  "I didn't know that," Norma said, spilling tea on her lap. This was better than she could have imagined. She could hardly wait to get to that phone.

  "What kind of a cult?" she asked, her voice steady.

  "I was never clear on that," Mrs. Baynes confessed. "And frankly, I have no interest in knowing. Looking back, it seems all so unbelievable. Like something that would happen to common people back East. After all, A.H. was the president of Just Folks Airlines."

  "Too bad they went bankrupt like that," Norma said sympathetically. "Their fares were so reasonable."

  "I had to sell the company, you know. And the new owners simply ran it into the ground."

  Norma nodded. She neglected to mention that Mrs. Baynes had attempted to run the company for a year. Her freefares-for-senior-citizens offer had put Just Folks into receivership. She was forced to sell her stock. A year later, Just Folks was just a memory.

  "So you think they were victims of this cult?"

  "They had to be. I think they hypnotized A.H. into joining. He was a graduate of the Cambridge Business School, you know."

  Norma made a mental note of that.

  "After the funeral," Mrs. Baynes continued, "Kimberly came to stay with me. She was very unstable at first. Forever chanting childish nonsense. I guess she picked that up from the horrid cult environment. But Kimmo came out of it after only a week."

  "A week!" Norma clucked. "Imagine that. Children are so resilient. It's really a blessing."

  Mrs. Baynes nodded. "A blessing. She hasn't spoken of her mother or father since the funeral. Not even about Joshua."

  Norma's teacup quivered in her hand. "Joshua?"

  "Her brother. She had an older brother. I buried him with A.H. and Evelyn."

  "Not strangled?"

  "No."

  Relief washed over Norma Quinlan's face.

  "He was blown up," Allison Baynes said matter-of-factly, sipping her tea.

  "Blown . . . up?" Norma was aghast.

  "The cult had a van. Joshua was riding in it with some others. It exploded somehow. The police told me it might have been the work of a rival cult."

  "You poor dear! What you've been through! And now this business with Kimberly," Norma said solicitously, steering Mrs. Baynes back to the topic at hand.

  "I told you that she's been gaining weight."

  "The onset of puberty will do that with some girls."

  "I first noticed her developing three years ago."

  "And you say she's thirteen?"

  Allison Baynes nodded. "At ten."

  "I read an article in Ladies' Home Journal once that said some girls start developing as early as nine. Or was it eight?"

  "My Kimmo blossomed into a tiny woman almost overnight. One day she was playing with dolls, the next she was in a training bra and putting on makeup."

  "They grow up so fast. My Calvin enters college
next month. Law school. Tulane. I wouldn't let him go to an eastern college."

  Mrs. Baynes let the veiled dismissal of Cambridge Business College go by without comment.

  "I didn't think much of it at the time," she said reflectively, "but I noticed the statue grew overnight as well."

  "Statue?"

  Allison Baynes stared into her tea for a thoughtful interval, watching the concentric ripples created by the subtle tremor in her aging hands. Abruptly, she replaced the cup in the saucer and the saucer on the coffee table.

  "I shouldn't do this but . . ." She stood up decisively. "Let me show you something."

  They tiptoed up the carpeted steps-Mrs. Baynes because she had learned to tiptoe and speak softly in her own home and Norma because Mrs. Baynes was doing it.

  Mrs. Baynes led her down a cream-colored hallway to the closed door at its end.

  "She sometimes locks it," Mrs. Baynes explained, testing the doorknob. Norma Quinlan took advantage of the stubborn doorknob to peek through the half-closed door to the other bedroom. The expensive damask bedspread lay on the bed as if enameled to it. The open bathroom door, on the other hand, showed a slovenly array of unhung towels. Norma wrinkled her nose as if at an offending odor, but deep inside she was pleased. Allison Baynes put on such airs. It was comforting to see that she was not the world's greatest housekeeper, as some busybodies thought.

  The doorknob rattled uncooperatively in Mrs. Baynes's hands and Norma's heart sank. She really wanted to see this statue.

  Finally the door surrendered. Mrs. Baynes pushed it in. She looked in with more than a trace of fear on her face, Norma saw. She stepped aside for Norma to enter.

  Carefully, still on tiptoe, Norma Quinlan did just that.

  She gasped.

  "She calls it Calley," Mrs. Baynes, said, as if speaking of the family dog.

  For once, Norma Quinlan was speechless. The thing in the room was grayish-white, like a weather-beathen skull. It squatted-that was exactly the word for it-on a child's toy chest. It was nearly four feet tall, and fairly broad. The face was a malevolent mask. Norma blinked, realizing there were three faces. Two others framed the central one. But most arrestingly, it had four arms. They were upflung in spidery, arcane gestures.

  Draped between the lower pair was a yellow silk scarf.

  "It's . . . it's . . ." Norma began, groping for words.

  "Hideous."

  "My thought exactly."

  "Kimberly made it. Herself."

  "She must be very . . . good with her hands," Norma Quinlan gulped.

  "It started as a little Play-Doh figure," Mrs. Baynes explained in a faraway tone. "She made the first one not long after I took custody. It had four arms. But she kept adding new ones. They sprouted from the chest, the legs, even the headdress. Until it made me think of an angry spider."

  "I'd prefer a spider myself," Norma said, aghast. So aghast she right then and there decided not to mention the statue to any of her friends. Where would she find the words to describe it?

  "One day I mentioned to Kimmo that perhaps she should stop adding arms, that the statue was pretty enough as it was. And do you know what she said to me?"

  "What?"

  Mrs. Baynes fixed Norma Quinlan with her steady sad gaze. "She said she didn't make the arms. Then she asked for another cat."

  "Yes?" Norma said slowly, not seeing the connection.

  "It was the fifth cat I had gotten her. The others had all run away."

  "No!"

  "She cried so much, I brought her a nice tabby. A week later it was gone. I mentioned this to Kimmo and she didn't seem very sad at all. She just asked for another cat. I didn't get her another cat. This time I got her a puppy. They're more stay-at-home."

  "Dogs are a sensible pet, I'll agree. I remember when we had our Ginger-"

  "The poor puppy wouldn't sleep in her room," Mrs. Baynes continued distantly. "It wouldn't even go upstairs, no matter how much Kimmo tried to coax it. It just sat at the foot of the steps and looked up. Growling."

  "How odd."

  "One night Kimberly came home with a leash and dragged that poor dog up the stairs. The next morning it was gone."

  Norma's hand flew to her scrawny chest.

  "My goodness. You don't think Kimberly had anything to do with that?"

  "I called the dog officer," Mrs. Baynes said. "The highway department. The city. Everyone I could think of."

  She stared at the grotesque statue a long time, her hands clutching one another.

  "You know," she resumed in a too-calm voice, "they found that poor animal by the side of the road, its tongue hanging out, strangled. There was a yellow scarf around its neck. Just like that one. Just like the ones that killed Evelyn and A.H."

  The coincidence registered on Norma Quinlan's thin, witchy face.

  "Perhaps we should leave now," she said quickly. "You know how teenagers are about their privacy."

  "You're right," Mrs. Baynes said, closing the door. It wouldn't quite shut, so she left it slightly ajar.

  They descended the carpeted stairs in uneasy silence.

  "More tea?" Mrs. Baynes asked when they were back in the homey living room.

  Norma Quinlan hesitated. Their little chat had taken a nasty turn. She felt positively queasy. Gossip was one thing, but this could give a person nightmares.

  As Norma debated her answer, the back door banged.

  Norma started. Fearfully, her eyes went to the kitchen.

  "Is that you, Kimmo?" Mrs. Baynes asked calmly, as if speaking to a normal child, not a strangler of innocent pets.

  "Yeah," said a frowning girlish voice.

  Norma stood up. "Perhaps I should be going now," she said nervously.

  In from the kitchen came Kimberly Baynes. She wore a flowing yellow dashiki that almost matched her fluffy hair. It hung from her small but womanly body like a tarpaulin on a Christmas tree. She stopped when she saw Norma. Her bright blue eyes flashed with veiled danger. That anger went away quickly and in a thin voice she said, "Hi."

  "Hello, Kimberly," Norma said, mustering a sweetness that had fled her voice years ago. "Nice to see you again."

  "Same thing," said Kimberly casually. "Gramma, any calls for me?"

  "No, dear."

  The tentlike dress fluttered disquietingly. "Darn."

  "What is it?"

  "Robby Simpson's cat had kittens and he promised me one," Kimberly explained. "Remember when we used to have kittens?"

  "Distinctly," said Mrs. Baynes, her eyes going to Norma. Norma looked as comfortable as an Israeli in Mecca.

  "I have to go now," she said quickly.

  "I'll see you to the door," Mrs. Baynes said.

  Norma beat Mrs. Baynes to the front door by eight seconds. She flung it open herself. Stumbling out onto the walk, she stuttered breathlessly, "Very nice talking to you, Mrs. Baynes."

  "We must do it again," Mrs. Baynes called after her. "Soon. There are so many things I haven't told you."

  "Oh, please . . ." Norma Quinlan muttered under her breath as she stumbled across their adjoining lawn to the sanctuary of her own home.

  Norma Quinlan hurried inside. She tore right past the telephone and pulled a dusty cookbook off the pantry shelf. She was going to make Fred his favorite dish tonight-Lava Chicken. She hadn't made it for him in years. Not after she put a stop to his little fling with that cheap Calloway hussy. But tonight she would serve him Lava Chicken.

  Now that she understood precisely what lived next door, she appreciated him in a new way.

  Mrs. Allison Baynes was clearing the living room when Kimberly came storming down the carpeted stairs, her yellow dress fluttering excitedly in symphathy with her agitated arms.

  "You've been in my room! How could you?"

  "I know you like your privacy, Kimmo," Mrs. Baynes said, unperturbed. "But this is my home too."

  "Don't call me Kimmo, you old bag!" Kimberly said with such elemental vehemence that Mrs. Baynes allowed the sterling-silve
r tea service to slip from her startled fingers. It clattered to the Oriental rug.

  "Oh, look what you made me do," she said without rancor.

  "And you let that gossip in, too!"

  "Mrs. Quinlan is a very nice woman. Could you help me?"

  "Why? Why did you let her into my room?"

  "Nonsense, Kimberly," Mrs. Baynes said, her voice growing chilly. "What makes you think I would do such a thing?"

  "She told me."

  "She?"

  "And She insists on her privacy."

  "I hope you're not referring to that hideous statue. I thought you'd have outgrown it by now."

  Kimberly's eyes grew hard and reflective. "Maybe it's the other way around."

  "If you won't help me," said Mrs. Baynes, getting down on her hands and knees with difficulty, "then at least take these things into the kitchen as I hand them up to you. I'm not young anymore."

  "Maybe She's outgrown this house," Kimberly said, advancing slowly. "Maybe I have too."

  "Nonsense. You're only thirteen. Would you take this service into the kitchen for me, please?"

  "Sure," Kimberly said lightly. "Glad to."

  Ignoring the offered service, Kimberly stepped around her kneeling grandmother.

  "What are you doing, Kimberly?" Mrs. Baynes asked.

  There was no answer. Only sudden strong hands on her shoulders. Their grip was quite firm.

  "Kimmo, what are you doing?" Mrs. Baynes repeated.

  "Hold still, Gramma," Kimberly said, pushing down hard.

  Alarmed, Mrs. Baynes tried to rise. But the strong hands only pushed harder. They were irresistible.

  "Kimberly," Mrs. Baynes said, dread flooding her voice. "Are those hands yours?"

  Then there came a tremendous ripping sound, like a sail in a storm. She couldn't imagine what it was. But the remorseless hands on her shoulders shook in frantic sympathy.

  That really alarmed Mrs. Baynes. She struggled to regain her feet, the tea service forgotten. It clattered to the rug.

  And while she struggled, a flash of bright yellow crossed her field of vision, and she found it increasingly hard to breathe.

  She touched her throat. Mrs. Baynes felt something silky, and her thoughts flashed to the yellow scarf that had been in Calley's clay hands.