Child's Play td-23 Read online

CHAPTER TWELVE

  So it was, that without notifying Dr. Smith, Remo, Chiun, and a reluctant Sashur Kaufperson headed for Fort Bragg, North Carolina. They arrived in a rented car in mid-morning, and the new army military policeman at the entrance to the post, deciding that the hard-faced white man and the elderly Oriental that General Haupt had labeled as secret assassins were obviously not the same as a hard-faced white man, an elderly Oriental, and a good-looking woman with big boobs, waved them through after only a perfunctory look at Remo's identification which listed him as a field inspector for the Army Inspector General's Office.

  They found General William Tassidy Haupt inside a field house, where he was inspecting his troops for the benefit of the photographer for the post newspaper, this being Clean Uniform Month in the new army.

  General Haupt stood inside the big barn-like building, facing a line of forty men. A small squad held M-16s at the ready. Clusters of grenades were clipped to their belts. Another squad held rocket launchers. Next to them were four men holding flamethrowers.

  "I think you men with the flamethrowers ought to get on the other end," General Haupt called out. He wore an immaculate khaki gabardine uniform. His trouser legs were tucked into the tops of his highly polished airborne boots. On his head he wore a white helmet with two gold stars stenciled on it. On his side he carried a .45 pistol in a brown leather holster that matched exactly the color of his boots.

  "We get better symmetry if we've got the tall flame-tossing junk at one end and the tall rocket things at the other end," he said.

  The four men with flamethrowers dutifully moved to the far right side of the line. The major in charge of the squad wondered if he was being moved to get him into a position from which he could easily be cropped from the picture. What had he done, he wondered. He would have to keep an eye on General Haupt, just in case he had somehow made the general's crap list.

  In the center of the forty-man line stood assorted squads with hand weapons, two-man bazookas, mortars, rifles, and automatic weapons.

  The captain in charge of a four-man bazooka detail said, "General, should we get on an end too?" The major from the flamethrowers smiled to himself. That's why the other officer was only a captain, volunteering to put himself in a bad position.

  "No," replied Haupt. "Stay where you are. This way we've got a tall element at one end of the photo and a tall element at the other end and a semi-tall element in the center. That lends balance to the picture. I think it's going to turn out real well."

  "Major, how long are we going to have to hold these heavy things?" a master sergeant, sweating under the load of a flamethrower, asked the major.

  "Don't worry, corporal. It's just a few more minutes and we'll have you right back at your personnel desk."

  "I hope so," pouted the sergeant. "It's sergeant, sir, not corporal."

  "Right. Sergeant."

  "I don't know why I get all these details anyway," the sergeant said.

  "For a very simple reason," the major said. "You're six feet tall and you weigh one-hundred-ninety pounds. The general wants people just that size for this picture. Sort of a Graeco-Roman ideal. There's a good chance this picture might be used across the country. Billboards. Recruiting posters."

  "If it is, do I get residuals and modeling fees?" asked the sergeant.

  "Afraid not. This is the Army."

  "I'm going to ask the union anyway," the sergeant said.

  "All right, men," General Haupt called, facing the line of troops. "Time to look alert now."

  General Haupt turned to the man from the post newspaper, a corporal in gabardine uniform who stood holding an old Speed Graphic camera.

  "How does that look?" the general asked.

  "Fine."

  "What are you going to shoot at?"

  "I thought F 5.6 at a hundredth."

  "I don't think there's enough light in here for that," said General Haupt.

  "Well, I've got slave strobe units on both ends of the line."

  Haupt mused for a moment. "Yes, Corporal, that might do it. But be sure and shoot a couple at a fiftieth too."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right. How do you want us?"

  "I'd like to shoot from behind you, General, at the line of men."

  "Will you be able to see me?" asked Haupt.

  "Part of your profile," the photographer said.

  "Okay. Then shoot from my left side. My left profile's better."

  "Hey, general," called a voice from the ranks. "Is this almost a wrap? This rifle is getting heavy."

  "Yeah," came another voice. "I've got to work out the PX entertainment schedule for the next week. I can't stay here forever."

  "Almost ready, men. Just stay with it a while."

  Remo, Chiun, and Sashur stood inside one of the large double doors of the fieldhouse, watching the troops shuffling into the right positions.

  "Is that him?" Remo asked Sashur.

  "That's him. I'd recognize that voice anywhere."

  "All right," Remo said.

  "Carefully, my son," said Chiun.

  Remo walked across the highly polished basketball floor of the fieldhouse to the general and stood behind him. The photographer, eye to his viewfinder, swore. Who was this person breaking up his picture just when he had it composed correctly?

  "General Haupt," said Remo.

  The general turned. The look of concerned alert vibrancy that he had carefully constructed on his face for the photographer's benefit disappeared.

  "You," he said.

  "Right. Me. A little matter about murders."

  Haupt looked at Remo's face for a moment, then jumped back. He grabbed the camera from the photographer and threw it at Remo. If he got him, that would do it. He knew that kind of camera would hurt, because once he got hit by an Associated Press .35mm camera with a .235 millimeter telephoto lens, and it was real heavy because it went down to F 2.8.

  The camera missed.

  "Use your men," Sashur Kaufperson shouted from the corner of the room where she had sidled away from Chiun and stood watching.

  But General Haupt had already thrown the only weapon he knew how to use. He began to back away from Remo. Over his shoulder, he called to the major at the end of the line:

  "Call someone from a combat battalion."

  "The combat battalions are off for the day, General," the major yelled back. "Remember, you gave them the day off for finishing second in the inter-Army shoe shining contest?"

  "Oh, yeah. Hell," said Haupt.

  He was now backed against the wall. Remo stood in front of him.

  "Use your troops," Sashur Kaufperson yelled again.

  "Troops," General Haupt yelled. "Protect your commander." He got those words out just as Remo dug a thumb and two fingers into Haupt's collarbone area.

  Back in the line, the major with the rocket launchers asked the captain next to him "Do you think we should call the police?"

  The captain shrugged. "I don't know if the police will come on the post. Federal property, you know." He turned to a young lieutenant from the judge advocate's office who stood in combat infantryman's garb, holding an M-16.

  "Freddy, can the city police come onto the post?"

  "Not without express permission from the commander."

  "Thanks." The captain looked at General Haupt, who was writhing against the wall, his face contorted in pain.

  "I don't think he'd want to sign a paper now inviting the city police in."

  "No, I don't think so," the major agreed. "Maybe we could call the Marines. Marines are federal."

  "Yes, but the nearest Marine base is far away. They couldn't get here in time."

  General Haupt was on the floor now. Remo knelt alongside him.

  "I wish violence was my classification," the lieutenant from the judge advocate's office said. "I'd like to put a stop to this."

  "Yes," said a captain in the middle of the line. "I would too but I don't know how human relations would apply to this situation." H
e was a psychiatrist.

  A lieutenant with a mortar suggested wrapping Remo up in telephone wire. He was in communications.

  The major at the end said, "Perhaps we'd better wait for further orders."

  The officers nodded. "Yes. That's probably best," the captain said. He felt sorry that there was nothing in the manuals to cover this situation.

  Remo knew something that wasn't in the manuals either. He knew that when you wanted to get someone to talk, fancy wasn't important. Pain was. Any kind of pain, inflicted any way you wanted. Beat them with a stick. Kick them on the knee until it was puffed and bruised. Anything. Make them hurt, and they would talk.

  He was inflicting pain now upon General William Tassidy Haupt, but the general was still not talking to Remo's satisfaction.

  "I tell you I don't know anything about any children killer squads," he gasped. "The Army's minimum recruiting age is eighteen."

  "They're not in the Army," Remo said, twisting the bunched mass of nerves just a little tighter.

  "Ooooh. Then what would I have to do with them? Why did you pick me?"

  "That woman over there. She identified you." Remo jerked his head toward the door.

  Haupt squinted. "What woman?"

  Remo turned. Sashur Kaufperson was gone.

  Chiun was walking slowly toward the line of troops.

  "Well, she was there," Remo said.

  "Who is she? What branch is she with?"

  "She's not with any branch. She's with the school system in Chicago."

  "That settles it then," said General Haupt. "I don't know any school teachers in Chicago. I haven't even talked to a school teacher for twenty-five years."

  Remo twisted again and Haupt groaned.

  "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"

  "Of course, I'm telling the truth," Haupt said.

  Remo looked at the general, then let him go. He knew nothing. And it meant that Sashur Kauf person had lied to him again.

  He left the general lying on the floor and turned back to the line of troops. Chiun was walking up and down the line, inspecting uniforms, straightening a pocket flap on one soldier, adjusting the field cap of another.

  "Shoes," he said to the lieutenant from the judge advocate's office. "Your shoes could be shined better."

  "Yes sir," the lieutenant said.

  "Take care of it before we meet again," Chiun said.

  "Chiun. You about ready?" Remo asked.

  "Yes. I am done. This is a nice army." He turned back to the line of troops. "You have beautiful uniforms. The nicest army since the Han Dynasty. You look very good."

  Remo took Chiun's arm and steered him away.

  "Chiun, where is Sashur?"

  "She said she went to the persons' room."

  "She lied."

  "Of course, she lied," said Chiun.

  "Why didn't you stop her?"

  "You didn't tell me to stop her," Chiun said.

  Remo shook his head. "Did you ever think of enlisting? You'd go far."

  "I do not like armies. They solve problems by killing many when the solution to all problems is to kill one. The right one."

  The MP at the gate told Remo, yes, sir, he had seen the woman leave, sir. A man in a car had come up to the gate, looking for her, had driven inside, and a few minutes later had left with the woman, sir.

  "Who was the man?" Remo asked.

  "Heavyset man. I took his name down. Here it is. George Watkins, sir. From the Justice Department."

  "What'd you say?" Remo asked.

  "From the Justice Department. He had credentials."

  "Thanks," Remo said, driving past the guard booth. It all came together now. George. The Justice Department leak.

  "Where are you going?" Chiun asked.

  "After George."

  "If he beats you up again, do not look to me for help."

  "Hmmmppphhhh," Remo grunted.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Remo's rented blue Ford caught up with George's rented green Ford two miles from the Army post.

  As he drove up close behind George's car, Remo saw Sashur Kaufperson sitting in the front passenger seat swivel her head around continuously, watching Remo as if she were wishing he would somehow vanish.

  Remo planted himself right behind George and began to blow his horn.

  George turned to look. Remo motioned him to pull over. Sashur, with her left hand, turned George's head forward to look at the road. With her right hand, she gave Remo the finger. Up close, he could see her well. Her mouth was working, sputtering. He could imagine the words pouring out of it.

  "Hold tight, Chiun," Remo said, as he swerved left to pull out around George's car on the narrow two-lane road.

  "No," said Chiun. "Hold tight is wrong. Loose is the secret to safety. Loose. Free to move in any direction."

  "All right, already," said Remo. "Hold loose if you want to."

  He was alongside George's car now, riding on the left side of the road. Again he leaned on his horn and began motioning to George to pull to the side of the road.

  He saw Sashur Kaufperson's right hand come up slightly to hold the bottom of the steering wheel in George's hands. Then she gave the wheel a strong counter-clockwise twist. George's car swerved sharply to the left, just as Remo feathered the brake with his toe. George's car shot across the road in front of Remo, hit a low steel guard rail, and bounced along the rail for fifty feet before rolling to a stop.

  Remo pulled his car in behind George, but before he could even turn off his key, George was out of his car, stomping angrily back toward Remo.

  He stopped outside Remo's door.

  "All right," he said. "I've warned you for the last time. Get out of there."

  "Is there anyone you wish me to notify, Remo?" asked Chiun.

  Remo growled and shoved open his door. It hit George square in the midsection and drove him backward over the guard rail. He landed on his shoulders in a small patch of roadside tiger lillies. He got heavily to his feet.

  "That's not too smart, buddy," he said. "You'll pay for that."

  "George," said Remo. "I want you to know that I think you're an asshole."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "Is that right?"

  "That's right."

  "Who says so?" demanded George.

  "You work for the Justice Department, don't you?"

  "That's right, and you better not fool around with me, pal."

  "And you know where the Justice Department is hiding out its big witnesses, don't you?"

  "That's none of your business, buddy," said George heatedly.

  "And for a little nookie, you spill it to that leather-lunged bitch in your car…"

  "Hold it. Hold it right there," George said. "I don't have to…"

  "Yes, you do," said Remo. "I just want you to know why you're going to die." Behind him Remo heard a car's engine racing. "And do you know she's been killing off the government's witnesses?"

  George laughed. "Sashur? My Sashur? Killing witnesses? Really, fella. Now that's too much. Sashur is the kindest, sweetest, most gentle…"

  "George," said Remo. "You're too stupid to live."

  Behind him Remo heard a car pull away. In front of him, George went into a shoulder holster to pull out an automatic.

  Between removing the weapon from his holster and getting it into firing position, an unusual thing happened to George. He died as Remo jumped over the guard rail with an elbow thrust that carried George's enlarged stomach organs before it and mashed them against George's backbone.

  "And besides," Remo said, looking down at George's corpse, "you annoy me."

  "Good, Remo," called Chiun through the open door of the car. "I was afraid he might beat you within an inch of your life."

  "Oh, blow it out your ass," mumbled Remo. He looked at George's body, lying like a large mound alongside the road, and realized he couldn't just leave it there. It was certain to be spotted and to draw attention, so Remo lugged the body back, ove
r the guard rail and shoved it into the rear seat of his car.

  He got behind the wheel, and Chiun pointed a long-nailed finger at the windshield. "She went thataway," he said.

  "Thanks, coequal pardner." Remo found Sashur's car three-quarters of a mile down the road, where the narrow two-lane blacktop road had widened into a four-lane divided highway. The green Ford was parked alongside the highway and was empty.

  As he sat in his car behind the other auto, wondering where Sashur had gone, Remo saw a state trooper's squad car go by in the opposite direction.

  In the back seat was Sashur Kaufperson. As the squad car passed Remo, she turned and looked out the rear window and gave Remo the finger again. And a victorious smile.

  Then, with a whoop of its sirens, the squad car was off down the road at high speed.

  After Remo had followed the car to a nearby hospital, into which a smiling Sashur was aided by two state troopers, he called Smith.

  He told him that George was the Justice Department contact and that Sashur had been in charge of the kids for the killing operation. He told Smith where she could be found, but Smith ordered him not to bother her in any way.

  "Leave her to us, Remo. We should be able to get some information from her that's worth having."

  "All right," said Remo. "And take care of George too, will you? He was a shmuck, but he shouldn't be left to rot in the back seat of a car."

  "Leave the car in the airport parking lot. We will see to George," Smith said.

  Remo hung up, but instead of feeling satisfied over a job neatly wrapped up, he felt disquiet.

  He talked to Chiun about it on the plane back to Chicago.

  "This is all over, completed, finished," he said.

  "If you say so," Chiun said, refusing to interrupt his usual flight routine of staring at the left wing to make sure it was not falling off.

  "Then why do I feel rotten about it?" asked Remo.

  "It has been a complicated matter, with many ends that are loose," Chiun said.

  "That's no answer," Remo said.

  "Then you are not ready for an answer. When you are, you will not need me to give it," Chiun said. "I think that wing is loose."

  "If it falls off, you can float to earth on a cushion of your own hot air," Remo said sullenly.

  "Do not blame me for your ignorance," said Chiun. "There is some learning that must be done alone. No one can teach a bird to fly."