Murder Ward Read online

  Remo fell back onto the couch. “I’ll wait.”

  “It’ll be worth the wait,” she said, leaving the room.

  He watched her trim buttocks swish away. At times like that, he really understood how shameful it was that Chiun had robbed him of the pleasure of sex. Sex was just another discipline, another skill to be learned. Remo had learned it, and now he had trouble staying awake. He probably could fall asleep during the act if it weren’t for the noises of passion generally made by his partners. Looking at Kathy Hahl, he decided it was a double shame now because in a different time, place and setting, he would have liked to meet Ms. Hahl.

  Remo was remembering long-ago pleasures when two men walked into his room pushing a wheelchair. It was the black-haired Freddy, and the blond-haired Al, whom he had met in the lab that morning. If they recognized him without his doctor’s gown and black sunglasses, they gave no indication.

  “Mr. Williams?” the dark-haired one asked.

  Behind him, Remo saw the blond man lock the door to the room.

  “Yeah.”

  “We couldn’t find any shoes in your size, so Ms. Hahl said to bring you up in the wheelchair.”

  Remo got to his feet and strolled toward the chair, trying not to laugh aloud at the clumsy trap. How stupid did they thick he was?

  “How come you couldn’t find any shoes in my size when you didn’t know what my size was?”

  “Errrr. Actually, we didn’t have no shoes at all anymore. So hop in here and we’ll take you up.”

  “Sure thing,” said Remo, cheerily, wondering what they were up to.

  He plopped into the wheelchair. “Hey, I never rode in one of these things before. Can I turn the wheels?”

  “As much as you want,” said the dark-haired man, moving around behind him. “He sure can, can’t he, Al?”

  The blond man at the door chuckled. “Sure. Anything he wants.”

  Remo sat back in the chair, put his arms on the arm rests, and closed his eyes. “Home, James,” he said.

  “You’re home,” the man behind him said. “Wise guy.”

  Remo had been careless. He hadn’t paid attention and now he felt a needle jam into the muscles of his shoulder. Dammit, he thought. It might be poison. What a stupid thing to do. Suddenly his head began to hurt.

  “Biggest dose yet,” said the blond man at the door.

  Remo’s head was splitting. He tried to rise, but felt something brush against his face, something made of cloth. Then he felt his hands being raised. His arms were jammed into sleeves. He felt his arms being drawn around his body and they seemed to be locked into place. It was a…a something…what was it? A straitjacket. They had put him into a straitjacket.

  The two men hoisted him to his feet. If only his head would stop hurting. “What is that stuff?” he said thickly.

  “You’re not old enough to know about that,” one of the men said. “Yet,” he added with a chuckle.

  Remo felt himself thrown roughly onto the sofa and then heard the rubber-tired wheelchair squeak as it was moved from the room. He heard the door lock shut behind the two men. His head felt as if it had ballooned to twice its normal size. The pain behind his eyes was racking. His mouth was dry and he felt a chill shudder his body.

  He had to get out. The locked door would stop anyone from looking in on him. He was lying on his stomach, his arms crisscrossed in front of his body, pinned down by his own weight.

  He strained to roll over onto his back. Each movement brought a new hammer of pain to his head. The hurt was spreading now from behind his eyes into the center of his skull, into the brain.

  What had they dosed him with? The aging drug. But what could he do about it?

  Exhausted, he was on his back. He lay there momentarily, hoping to regain his strength, but he could feel his strength draining away as if it were water flowing out an open faucet.

  He could not wait. He tried to ignore the pain, to reach deep into his essence for new strength, but the pain was overpowering. Remo sighed and made one last effort to draw on whatever reserves he might still have. He managed to turn his right hand over, so that the fingers were facing upward, away from his body, toward the ceiling. Against his curled fingertips he felt the rough coarse threads of the straitjacket. No room to move. No way to do it. No. Keep trying. He pulled his right hand back, pressing it hard against his left hip, buying a half-inch of room inside the sleeve of the jacket. With all the force he could rouse, he drove his fingertips upward against the material of the jacket.

  He did it again. And again. Each time his fingertips hit against cloth, it felt as if his skull were being hammered. The fingertips stabbed, his head screamed out. His head was being ripped open. He could hear it being torn.

  No. It was the fabric. It was giving under the insistent hammering of his fingertips. Then he felt it collapse and the three middle fingers of his right hand were through the cloth. He curled his fingertips around the cloth, trying to grab as much as he could, as tightly as he could. He slowly contracted the bicep of his right arm. His arm began to raise, bending at the elbow. The fabric ripped. He exerted more pressure and finally his arm came free, tearing upward through the heavy twill fabric.

  Exhausted, in agony, Remo rested. The headache was worse now. His entire head felt pumped full of air. No time to waste resting. He jammed his free right hand into the fabric near his right hip, twisted his fingertips and wrenched. The jacket ripped loose with a loud squawk. His left arm could move now. He could move. Now he would get up, unlock the door and call for help. He started to rise to a sitting position, propped up by his hands placed behind him.

  The movement made the pain too great to bear. Remo dropped back, then he felt a powerful sleep wrapping itself around him…he hoped the sleep would be deep enough to make him forget the pain in his head and convinced himself that a little rest was all he needed to make himself a new man, as his head dropped limply to one side and he plummeted into unconsciousness.

  · · ·

  “It’s done,” the dark-haired man said to Kathy Hahl. “Where is he?”

  “We locked him in his room,” Al, the blond man, said. “He’s not going anywhere. Not with that dose. That’s ten times whatever’s been used before.”

  Kathy Hahl smiled. “It’ll be interesting. Go back in about twenty minutes and see what’s happening to him. But be careful. I’m going back to my office.”

  The two men grinned at each other, looked at her retreating figure, long, leggy and lush, then grinned at each other again, anticipating the very special kind of reward that Kathy Hahl was best at providing.

  Kathy Hahl, however, had other ideas. Williams had come too close, and now his death would bring in other government people, very nosey, very efficient. It was time for Kathy Hahl to take her new discovery and leave.

  · · ·

  “Remo.”

  What was that sound? It was a voice. But he didn’t want to talk to anybody now. He just wanted to sleep, to forget that awful headache.

  “Remo.”

  He would not answer. No matter who called him, he would not speak. He would just ignore that voice. If he didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away. Remo just wanted to sleep.

  “You can’t sleep, Remo. I will not let you.”

  But you’ve got to let me sleep. I hurt. Please let me sleep, whoever you are.

  “You are hurting, Remo, but that is the proof that your body lives. You must let your body fight. You must use your will to give your body a reason to fight. Tell your body to fight, Remo.”

  It was Chiun. Why don’t you go away, Chiun? I don’t want to fight. I just want to sleep. I feel so tired. So old.

  “No one grows old who will not grow old, Remo. Only you can stop that. You must will yourself young again. I will help you, Remo. Squeeze your right hand into a fist.”

  Maybe if he squeezed his right hand into a fist, Chiun would go away. Just go away, Chiun. Later we’ll talk.

  Remo squeezed his right hand
into a fist.

  “Good,” came the voice. “Now your left hand. Keep your right hand tight.”

  Right hand. Left hand. It was awful being confused by Chiun. Why did he always do that to Remo? Poor Remo. Poor Remo.

  Remo squeezed his left hand into a fist.

  “Now you must open and close your hands rapidly. It will hurt but I will do it with you. I will accept your hurt. Remo. Open and close your hands.”

  Anything, Little Father, if you will be quiet. No yelling allowed on the Feast of the Pig. All I want is peace and quiet. And rest.

  Remo opened and closed his hands several times rapidly.

  “Good. See, Remo, you can live. You must live because your body wants to live. You have given it will to live. You want to live, Remo, don’t you?”

  I just want to sleep, Little Father.

  “Now your stomach, Remo. Think of your stomach. Concentrate all the essence of your force on your stomach. The way I taught you many years ago. We must make the blood run to the stomach. You can feel it coursing in your veins, Remo. It will make the pain go away, Remo, if we get your blood to your stomach.”

  Anything to make the pain go away. Chiun would not let him sleep. Maybe if Remo did what he wanted, Chiun would let him sleep.

  He concentrated his will on his stomach.

  “Good, Remo. Force it. More and more. The blood of your body must run to your stomach, must carry the poison to your stomach.”

  Yes, Chiun, yes. Must carry the blood to the stomach. Away from the head. No more headache if I get the blood to the stomach. Smart, smart Chiun.

  Remo felt the blood moving to the center of his body; he felt warmed there; his hands still clenched and unclenched rhythmically.

  “Do you feel it, Remo? Do you feel the blood in your stomach?”

  “Feel it,” Remo said faintly. “Feel it now.”

  “Good,” said Chiun, and then Remo felt a steel-hard rock-compact fist slam into his stomach. What a dirty trick. Chiun had punched him in the stomach. His stomach, knotted, uncurled, knotted again, then spastically, it convulsed and Remo felt the vomit run up his tubes and it was in his mouth and he was rolling to his side, throwing up onto the rug of the hospital room. Wave after wave of convulsions racked his stomach as he retched its contents onto the floor.

  Dirty bastard, Chiun. Dirty Chinese bastard. Hit me when I’m sick.

  His body trembled with the convulsions as he heaved. Then…it seemed like hours…he stopped. His spat to clean his mouth.

  The headache was gone. The sore tiredness had vanished. There was only pain in the stomach area where Chiun had punched him.

  Remo opened his eyes, winced at the late afternoon sunlight glinting into the room and turned to Chiun.

  “Damn it, Chiun, that hurt.”

  “Yes,” said Chiun, “it hurt. I hurt you because I hate you. I want to cause you pain. It is of no consequence to me how much pain I cause you. That is why I punched you in the stomach, instead of letting you just lie there and die quietly. I never realized before how much I hated you, Remo. I will punch you in the stomach again and again. Because I hate you.”

  “All right, Yenta. Knock it off, will you?”

  Remo rolled up into a sitting position and then felt the tattered straitjacket on his shoulders and chest. He looked down at it.

  “Christ. I forgot,” he said.

  “It was a game for Truth or Consequences, right? You let someone come in and strap you in this madman’s coat. It is a very appropriate garment for you, Remo. Very becoming. You should wear one all the time.”

  Remo stood up, ripping off the shreds of the jacket. “It was the aging drug, Chiun. It nearly had me. I could feel myself getting old and tired.”

  “And now you know the killer?”

  “That Kathy Hahl woman who runs the hospital. She set me up. I’m going to see her now,” he said.

  He took a few steps toward the door, gingerly, then stopped. The door hung broken, ripped off its hinges as if by a bartering ram. Remo turned to Chiun. “You were in a hurry to get in, I see.”

  “I thought I had left the soup cooking,” said Chiun. “Go.”

  Remo found he could walk perfectly well. He slipped on his shoes and went out into the hall.

  Kathy Hahl’s office was down the corridor from the research labs. Remo saw the laboratory doors open and ducked into a stairwell just a fraction of a second soon enough. The dark-haired man and the blond passed by him, heading down the corridor for Remo’s room. Inside that room, the Master of Sinanju turned on his television set and prepared to review the day’s diet of soap operas, an act which always brought peace to his soul, despite the violence and ugliness rampant in the world.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  REMO DECIDED TO STOP in the research lab first, in case Kathy Hahl was there.

  As he walked toward the double iron doors, he saw that the lock had been replaced with a new one.

  “Beg your pardon, sir. You can’t go in there.”

  Remo turned to the speaker, a nurse working on the desk there.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be sure to mention it in my report.”

  He moved toward the door and did not bother this time to fake using a key. He curled his fingertips into a tight fist, then shot his hand out against the door. It shuddered and opened.

  Inside, he closed the door behind him.

  “Kathy,” he called.

  “She’s not here,” came a woman’s voice from inside one of the offices to the left.

  Remo stepped forward. In the third office, there was an elderly woman sitting at a desk, her pencil poised over a long yellow pad on which were written strings of figures. She was looking at the doorway.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said when she saw Remo. “Visitors aren’t allowed in here.”

  “I’m not a visitor,” Remo said. “I’m from the AMA. Doctor Shiva. Ms. Hahl said you’d tell me about the aging drug.”

  “Oh, you know. Well, I’m very happy to meet you.” The woman stood up and came toward Remo. “I’m Dr. Hildie. I developed the drug, you know.”

  “How does it work?”

  The woman walked by Remo out into the laboratory. She picked up a stoppered test tube half-filled with a clear heavy oily liquid.

  “This is it,” she said. “And these are some of the results of our work,” she added, waving toward the animal cages. For the first time since he’d entered, Remo heard the animal chatter.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “Freddy and Al showed me the other day. But how does the drug work?”

  “If you remember, Doctor Shiva, about a year ago, some scientists discovered an unidentified protein in the bodies of the elderly. That protein was not to be found in the bodies of the young. It occurred to me that if aging produced this protein, perhaps the protein could produce aging. We were able here, with Ms. Hahl’s help and funding, to make the protein synthetically and greatly intensify its strength.”

  “And it’s worked?”

  “It certainly has, as these animals show.”

  “What about human experiments?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “We’ve never had any of those. And what would be the purpose anyway? There’s value in learning how to bring animals to maturity more rapidly, but not humans. Oh, no.”

  “How is the protein given?” Remo asked. “By injection?”

  She nodded. “First we tried it in food, but that was too slow. The best way is to inject it into the bloodstream. The absorption rate of the fluid,” she said, holding up the test tube, “is very great. It can be absorbed by any soft body tissues. Injection is fastest.”

  “But if I rubbed it, say, on my arm, it would work?”

  “Yes,” she said, “though the tough skin covering off the arm would slow down its effects. But, for instance, your tongue would absorb it much more rapidly. Any soft, open tissue.”

  “I see,” Remo said. “Well, thank you, Doctor Hildie. You don’t mind if I look around for myself, do
you?”

  “Of course not. I’ll be inside if you need me.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll call you.”

  Doctor Hildie returned the test tube to its holder and walked back toward her office. Poor thing knew nothing, Remo thought, and had no idea how her great discovery was being used. He waited until she was out of sight, in her office, before he picked up the test tube carefully and stuck it into the chest pocket of his shirt.

  Then he headed back toward the door. Kathy Hahl’s office was down the corridor to the left.

  They were so surprised to see the back of an old man, sitting on the floor watching television, that Freddy and Al failed to notice the torn straitjacket on the couch when they entered Remo’s suite.

  “Williams?” said Freddy.

  Chiun turned slowly, his leathered face lit in blue from the flickering light of the TV tube.

  Freddy, the dark-haired one, looked at him and giggled. “I knew there was something wrong with Williams. The eyes were a giveway. He’s part Chink.”

  Chiun looked at them, still saying nothing.

  Al shook his blond hair from his eyes. “It’s eerie,” he said. “Look at him. Only about a half hour, it took.”

  “How do you feel, Williams?” asked Freddy. “Headache go yet? Do you know what you look like? Like Confucius. You’re ancient. But don’t worry, man. Not much longer. Pretty soon, different parts of you aren’t going to work any more and pretty soon after that, you’ll be dead.” He giggled again. “Sound like fun?”

  “You two imbeciles were the deliverers of the poison?” Chiun asked. But it wasn’t really a question, more a statement of fact.

  “See? Your memory’s already starting to go. You don’t remember us, do you?” Freddy said.

  “No,” Chiun said. “But you will remember me in the few moments you have yet to live.”

  Freddy and Al moved into the room.

  “Oh, you frighten me to pieces…old man,” Freddy snapped sarcastically. “Doesn’t he frighten you terribly, Al?”

  “Oh, heavens to Betsy, yes. I’m pissing my pants.”

  “It is the way with untrained babies. And beasts,” Chiun said.