Death Sentence td-80 Read online

  "I dream dreams that seem more real than when I'm awake," Remo said in a baffled monotone. "My head feels heavy. I can't think straight. What the hell happened to me?"

  Naomi came to her feet and approached him, her face suddenly tender.

  "Look, don't try to sort it all out at once. You're here. You're with me. And you're safe. I'll help you sort the pieces. Just, let's take our time. I have more questions. "

  "Okay, okay," Remo said irritably, allowing himself to be led into the living room and onto the couch. He frowned when he noticed Naomi lift a pencil to her ever-present notepad.

  "Let's start with your sex life," she began eagerly.

  "What sex life?" Remo growled. "I've been on death row so long I forgot where to put it."

  Naomi wrote "Crude" on her notepad. Reading that, Remo folded his arms angrily.

  "Before you went to jail, then," Naomi went on. "How did you do it?"

  "What kind of question is that? I just did it."

  "I'm only interested in the courship and precopulation rituals you relied upon."

  "The what? Look, dingbat, get this through your head: I'm an ordinary guy. I don't do it any differently than anyone else. Better, maybe. Not different."

  Naomi inscribed something unreadable on her notepad and asked, "I don't suppose you happen to know how long your penis is?"

  "I never thought to measure it," Remo said acidly. "Why?"

  "As man developed from the primitive stage, his sex organs have enlarged and become more specialized. As the next stage in human development, it's important to know if there have been any further ... specializations."

  "Important to whom?" Remo asked sourly.

  "Science," Naomi stuttered. "This is the pursuit of knowledge. If I can codify the traits that make you unique, we would be able to identify others on the vanguard of evolution, and if they can be persuaded to mate, a new, improved race would emerge generations earlier than otherwise."

  "So?"

  "So then we can study you and your kind."

  "Lady, it wouldn't work that way. It would be the Europeans and the Indians all over again. Someone would win and someone would lose. Why push it along any faster? Let it be."

  "You don't understand science."

  "I don't want to. I'm trying to understand my life."

  "Does that mean you won't let me measure your penis?"

  "Good guess. I'm an escaped felon, remember?"

  Naomi smiled. "I find that extra-exciting."

  Remo rolled his eyes. "You would."

  She leaned closer. "You interest me," she breathed, her mouth smelling of coffee yogurt.

  "I'm a killer," Remo reminded her.

  Naomi inched closer on the sofa. She tossed back her hair and lowered her face so that she had to give Remo an up-from-under look. She pushed her glasses up onto her forehead.

  "You probably haven't had sex in twenty years," she said.

  "I definitely haven't had sex for twenty years," Remo said.

  "Well," Naomi Vanderkloot said with what she hoped was a sexy smile, "now's your golden opportunity. "

  Remo Williams' glance took in the foolish smile that came over Naomi Vanderkloot's thin face, went down to her flat chest, lingered on her whalebone hips, and decided beggars couldn't be choosers.

  "You're on," he said, taking her by the hand. Remo led her to the bedroom, unaware that her other hand still clutched her notepad and pencil.

  "What are you doing with that?" Remo asked moments later. Naomi Vanderkloot lay under him, her face flushed, one hand reaching down to his crotch. The hand clutched a pencil.

  "Umm. Nothing," she said absently.

  "You're holding a pencil against my tool," Remo pointed out in a reasonable voice. "I don't exactly call that nothing."

  Naomi withdrew the pencil and used it to scribble a single-digit number onto the notepad by her pillow. "Are you through?" Remo demanded. "Can we get on with this?"

  "Absolutely." Naomi closed her eyes. Remo noticed she folded her hands over her stomach as if steeling herself for an ordeal. He entered her slowly, watching the play of expressions on her narrow face. They began with concern, softened to delight, and tightened up again as Remo fell into a slow, building rhythm.

  Just when Remo was getting into it, Naomi's right eye peeked open. Remo stopped in mid-stroke. "What are you looking at?" Remo wanted to know.

  "I wanted to see if your body was flushed. It's a sexual response found only in the higher primates."

  "And?"

  "Looks normal."

  "Hooray for higher primates," Remo muttered. "Can we resume now, or would you like to take my temperature?"

  "I already know your temperature," Naomi said archly. "You're hot. Like me."

  "Thank you." Remo started again. He was just getting his concentration back when suddenly Naomi's eyes flew open and her hands clutched his naked chest.

  "Oh, my God. You've been in prison!"

  Remo stopped. "Is that just dawning on you?"

  "You could have AIDS. I forgot all about it."

  "What's AIDS?" Remo asked seriously.

  Naomi frowned. "Don't tell me you never heard of AIDS."

  "Never."

  "Get off."

  "I was just getting started."

  "Get off! We'll finish later," Naomi said in a brisk, businesslike voice. She gathered up her pad and pencil and assumed a seated position on the futon. With a disgusted look on his face, Remo did the same.

  "AIDS is a sexually transmitted disease," Naomi said officiously. "It's the biggest news story of the last ten years. And you never heard of it."

  "Never," Remo said solemnly. He raised his right hand for effect, hoping to get this over with quickly.

  "What if I told you that Ronald Reagan was president?"

  "I'd ask of what?"

  "The United States of America," Naomi said flatly.

  "When did that happen?"

  "Ten years ago. He's out of office now."

  "Can't be. I know who's president. It's . . ." Remo stopped.

  "Never mind. Who is Pee-Wee Herman?"

  "A baseball player?"

  "What does the phrase 'Made in Japan' mean to you?"

  "A joke."

  "You are out of touch."

  Remo felt his manhood shrink as the questions came on. Finally Naomi looked up from her pad. "You say you've been on death row for twenty years, but you don't know some of the most basic facts of American social life that have occurred over that span of time."

  "We don't get to read much on death row," Remo said defensively.

  "How much do you remember of your time at Trenton?"

  "Stuff. Different people. It all kinda runs together. You live in the same cell most of the time. What's to remember, except the walls?"

  "Tell me every concrete memory you can dredge up," Naomi prompted.

  Remo sighed. His responses were slow, halting. When he was through, Naomi looked at the fragmentary answers inscribed in her notepad.

  "Your memory has been tampered with," she said firmly. "You have some kind of weird amnesia. I'm no psychologist, but you seem to have memories of things that may never have happened, yet at the same time, you don't remember things that you obviously were doing."

  "How can that be?"

  "I don't know," Naomi Vanderkloot said, looking down at Remo's lap with one eye closed and her thumb and forefinger poised like a pincer.

  Remo looked down at himself. "What are you doing?"

  "Measuring it. It's called Anthropometry."

  "You already did that."

  "That was tumescent. This is flaccid."

  "This is crap," Remo said, getting to his feet. He drew on his black guard's pants and T-shirt.

  "Wait! Where are you going?" Naomi cried.

  "To Folcroft. I'm not getting diddly here."

  Chapter 21

  For the Master of Sinanju, the long journey ended at the closed gates of what was known in the scrolls he maintained as
Fortress Folcroft, wrongly believed by some to be a lunatic asylum.

  The taxi stopped at the gate under the brooding faces of the stone lion heads that looked down from the wrought-iron gate.

  "Why do you stop here?" Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, demanded querulously.

  "The freaking guards won't open the gate," the cabby complained.

  Chiun lowered his head to see beyond the driver's witless head. He saw that the wrought-iron portcullis was closed. Two guards stood beyond it, their weapons raised.

  Chiun's wizened visage pinched up in surprise. These were true guards, not the feeble old men Smith had formerly employed. Had some threat to his emperor reared up in his absence?

  "I will speak with them," Chiun told the driver. "Remove my belongings from the trunk."

  The Master of Sinanju stepped from the back and strode, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his saffron kimono, to the locked gates.

  "I am Chiun," he said sternly to the hard-faced guards. But within his heart he was pleased. Smith had obviously doubled the guards during his absence. It was a tribute to his emperor's regard for the services of the Master of Sinanju.

  "Are you a patient?" one of the guards asked.

  Chiun drew himself up haughtily. "I serve Harold Smith."

  The other guard looked at the one who had asked the impertinent question. They nodded in unison, gazes locked.

  Chiun allowed a pleased smile to overtake his wrinkled face. They understood.

  The gates opened automatically. It was another new security innovation, another tribute to the esteem in which America held Sinanju.

  Chiun turned to the taxi driver, who was heaving his luggage from the taxi trunk with huffing sounds. "Have a care with my property, white," he warned. Then he felt an unmistakable preattack warning. He turned in a swirl of kimono skirts to behold the unbelievable sight of the two guards bearing down on him with hostile intent.

  Chiun allowed them to feel the fineness of his kimono for a brief space of time as they attempted-and this was the truly unbelievable part-to take him in their naked, weaponless hands.

  "There now-" one of them started to say.

  And then he fell silent as he tried to clutch his own offending hand. The other guard's eyes went wide. Pain signals must have become confused in the first guard's tiny brain, for he attempted to grasp his uninjured hand with the other, not realizing-until he lifted to his shocked face the erupting red stump it had become-that he no longer had fingers with which to grasp.

  Both guards stumbled off in silent fright. Chiun turned to the driver, who had witnessed none of this.

  "Return my luggage to your vehicle," he commanded.

  "What? You change your mind?"

  "No. The guards did. They have graciously consented to allow your vehicle to enter these walls." Unhappily, the driver restored Chiun's steamer trunks and got behind the wheel. He drove through the gates, unaware that the splintering sounds under his wheel were not branches, but finger bones. Seated in back, Chiun decided that the guards were not a token of esteem after all. The physical presence of the Master of Sinanju was not necessary to deter enemies. Merely the knowledge that Sinanju stood by a kingdom was enough. Chiun would so inform Smith-after he scolded him for the rudeness of his new and unnecessary guards.

  The lobby-reception-desk person was also new. He declined to allow the Master of Sinanju to see Dr. Smith.

  "Dr. Smith isn't allowed visitors," he said firmly. "Unless you are family, which I can see you are not."

  "What! Smith denies me!" Chiun flared. "I, who have been like a father to him." The Master of Sinanju waited for the functionary's reaction. It was a white expression he had heard used to good effect on daytime television dramas in the days when they were worthy of his attention.

  "You can't be serious," the functionary said.

  The Master of Sinanju had heard that expression on TV as well. It was usually followed by the laughter of unseen people-the same ones who laughed at every bad joke yet sat silent during the truly humorous portions of certain offensive programs called sitcoms.

  Chiun decided that this person was unimportant and glided past him to the elevators. The functionary called out the word "Guard!" once and Chiun listened to the yelling of the converging guards as the elevator door closed on his stern visage. Something was amiss at Fortress Folcroft. Smith had much explaining to do.

  Emerging on the second floor, Chiun was pleased to see the same woman holding forth at Smith's reception desk. She was known as Smith's secretary, an odd designation, Chiun thought, for she knew none of Smith's secrets.

  "Hail, servant of Smith. Please inform him of my arrival."

  "I ... that is ... you haven't heard. I mean-"

  "Why do you babble so, woman? Do this!"

  "One moment." She stabbed at an intercom button and said, "There is a ... person here who is asking about Dr. Smith. I believe he's a former patient. "

  "Yes, I have been expecting him. Allow him to enter, Mrs. Mikulka."

  Chiun's parchment wrinkles scattered at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Before the woman could rise from her seat, he hurried to the door and closed it behind him so rapidly it seemed to Mrs. Mikukla he melted through the unopened panel.

  "I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju," Chiun announced in a cold voice. "And if you do not present to me a certain document, I will lay your entrails at your very feet."

  The fat man sitting behind Dr. Smith's desk lost his composed expression. Tiny globules-that was the only word for them-of sweat erupted from his corrugated brow.

  "Yes. Of course. I have it right here," he said quickly.

  The Master of Sinanju accepted the proffered document. His hazel eyes glanced over it; then he returned to the fat man.

  "What has become of Smith?" he asked, stiff voiced.

  "I am Norvell Ransome. I am the new director of Folcroft. "

  "And I do not care. Where is Smith?"

  "Dr. Smith is ill. I have taken his place by presidential directive, as that letter implies. I was informed by the Harlequin's captain that you had returned to America prematurely. May I inquire why?"

  "No, you may not. I will see Smith."

  "That is quite impossible right now. As your superior, I must ask you-"

  "You are my superior only in body fat, gross one," Chiun snapped.

  "I beg your pardon!" Norvell Ransome exploded. Indignation sent spittle spewing out of his round mouth.

  "I do not serve you. Only Smith. No Master of Sinanju is permitted to serve a succeeding emperor, lest it be thought that Sinanju arranged the downfall of the first emperor. Now, I ask again: Where is Smith?"

  "I promise you that you will see him shortly. And I have not succeeded Smith, as you so quaintly put it. I am merely replacing him until he is well. I believe that gets around your ancestral injunction against succeeding, er, emperors, does it not?"

  "One does not get around correct thinking," Chiun sniffed. "One follows it. Now, Smith."

  "As you please," Ransome said nervously. "Come with me."

  The Master of Sinanju followed the corpulent man to the elevator, up to the third floor, and to a hospitalroom door.

  "Please wait here while I see if Smith is presentable."

  "Be warned, I will not wait long."

  "I'll only be a moment." And true to his word, Ransome returned shortly to open the door for the Master of Sinanju. The man's body reeked. Every pore exuded mingled food odors that each movement renewed.

  Chiun drifted to the bedside of his emperor. At a glance, he could see that Smith was dying. The deathliness of the skin. The ragged breathing.

  "The doctors say his prognosis is quite good," Ransome purred.

  "The doctors are wrong," Chiun snapped. "He is failing. "

  "Oh, dear. I sincerely hope not." Ransome's voice was plaintive. "I have a very important assignment for you, which must be undertaken immediately."

  "I will honor my contract," Chiun said simply. Ransome's jowl
y face perked up. "While Smith lives," he added.

  Ransome's face sagged like taffy under a heat lamp. "I wish a few moments with Smith," Chiun said.

  "Why?"

  "Respect. A word you should commit to memory."

  "I shall be outside," Ransome said aridly.

  After the man had gone, Chiun lifted the oxygen tent and felt Smith's neck artery. The pulse was thready. He noticed the shower cap over Smith's sparse hair and wondered if a brain operation-a barbarism whites practiced because they lacked knowledge of the correct herbs-had been performed on Smith. Pushing the plastic back, Chiun saw no marks of bone saw or suture. Only a plastic bandage on the forehead with the words DO NOT RESUSCITATE inscribed in ink.

  The Master of Sinanju removed the Band-Aid before he replaced the shower cap. He laid a bony hand over Smith's heart. Its muscles beat very close to the ribs. Enlarged. There was a gurgle in each beat, indicating damaged chambers.

  Chiun laid both hands over Smith's heart. He closed his eyes, moving his fingers exploringly. When he found a certain vibration, he struck. His fist lifted, fell. Smith's body jumped. Chiun's eyes flew open. He lifted one of Smith's eyelids. His expression registered disappointment.

  He laid an ear to Smith's heart, and then, his face sad, he replaced the oxygen tent. Solemnly Chiun returned to the corridor.

  "He is gravely ill," Chiun intoned.

  "He is receiving the best of care, I assure you," Ransome said. "Now, shall we conclude our little get-acquainted session in my office?"

  Back in Smith's former office, the Master of Sinanju stood in silence as Ransome pulled a copy of the National Enquirer from a drawer. He displayed it so that the likeness of Remo Williams faced the Master of Sinanju.

  "I believe you know what this means," he said. "It means that Smith's mania for secrecy does not sleep with him."

  "No. The woman who's responsible for this outrage called Folcroft only hours ago, asking questions. We don't know what she wants. Or how much she knows about CURE. With Remo still on assignment, you are my only resource."

  "Remo's assignment. It is not going well?"

  "There are some problems. I believe I explained in my first message that Remo had gone undercover in a prison."

  "That message was from you?"

  "Ah, yes. I signed it 'Smith' so you would not be concerned."