Warren Murphy: Unnatural Selection

"And, Remo?" Smith called. When Remo turned, the CURE director's face was fraught with fatherly concern. "Please try your best to bring him back alive."

Spinning on his heel, he ducked through the fire door. His gaunt frame disappeared inside the murky stairwell.

If Remo didn't know better, he would have sworn Harold Smith's flint-gray eyes were moist.

Chapter 33

Smith hurried alone through the darkened corridor of Folcroft's administrative wing. Cautious eyes studied every shadow as he made his way to his office suite. His secretary was not at her desk.

Assuming she'd finally gone home for the evening, he hurried into his own inner sanctum. Settling into his chair, he did a quick security check of CURE's computer system.

It had only been a few minutes since he'd been summoned downstairs. Smith had assumed there wasn't enough time for Mark to access the system so soon after his escape. Still, he was relieved to find everything in order. CURE's files remained untouched.

Setting to work, Smith quickly altered the security protocols, changing passwords and initiating lockouts. It took only a few moments. With the changes he instituted, he was confident the mainframes would be safe.

Sliding open his top drawer, he grabbed up his special set of keys.

Before getting out of his chair, Smith cast a glance at his closed bottom drawer. Under the circumstances he would ordinarily have taken his automatic with him. But the cigar box in the back of the drawer was empty.

He had given the gun to Mark for protection. The old .45 had sentimental value to the ordinarily emotionless Smith. In more than fifty years he had never loaned his service weapon to another soul. Mark Howard was the first. And now Smith needed it to defend himself against the assistant he had hoped to protect.

Feeling a chill up his rigid spine, Smith dropped the keys in his pocket and hustled out into the hall. In all probability, animal instinct had compelled Mark to flee the sanitarium grounds immediately. He was likely miles from Folcroft already. Still, just in case, on his way to the basement Smith crept past Mark's office.

He wasn't sure what he would do if he encountered his assistant. In his current condition Mark would be more than a match for unarmed Harold Smith.

Fortunately the door was locked and there was no sign of tampering.

Breathing a small sigh of relief, the CURE director hustled to the basement door at the far end of the hall. Smith fought to keep his anxiety under control as he climbed down the stairs. His normally ordered mind swirled with competing thoughts. None of them good.

He had faced many disasters in his day, but this ranked up with the worst.

One of CURE's own had been turned.

Of course Smith understood that it wasn't Mark's fault. Judith White's twisted tampering had not only drawn out the young man's animal instincts, it had suppressed his sense of duty, honor and loyalty. But although Mark wasn't to blame for what he had become, that didn't lessen Smith's concern.

Smith had invested much in his assistant. From the start the young man had showed great promise. More than anything else, Mark Howard had given Harold Smith hope. For CURE, for America. For the future.

Presiding over CURE had been Smith's mission and his alone from the very start. Oh, for the first few years he'd had some help. But Conrad MacCleary, Smith's right hand in those formative years, was more a field agent. MacCleary tended to blank out when it came to the mundane day-to-day aspects of running the secret organization. In a very real sense, Harold Smith had always been alone.

But over the past few years, Mark Howard had given Smith hope that the agency would continue after his own death. That knowledge had given the older man great relief. After all, when Smith was gone, America's problems wouldn't end. The nation would still need CURE. Mark was their best bet for the organization to continue.

But now he was gone. Lost to the enemy. Worse, the secrets in his possession could damn them all. Jaws clenched tight, Smith hurried across the basement.

The cabinet with the tranquilizer guns was in the corner opposite the stairs. Walking briskly, Smith was reaching in his pocket for the keys when he heard a sudden noise.

He stopped dead.

For a moment he just stood there, uncertain of the sound, unsure if he had heard anything at all.

He strained to hear, but the basement was silent. Thinking he had imagined the noise, he was about to take another step when he heard it again. A soft rustling.

Only then did he notice the scrap of yellowed paper on the floor.

It was the note he had taped to the storage-room door years before. The Scotch tape was brittle from age. There were pieces overlapping from where he'd had to replace them over the years. But the note had never fallen before.

When Smith craned to look around the boiler, he saw that the steel door was ajar.

A shadow in human shape spilled from inside the room. A scuffling footfall sounded from within. Smith became aware of the pacemaker in his chest. He noticed it only in moments of extreme anxiety. Holding his breath, he tried to will his heart to slow.

Pulling in a lungful of air, Smith pressed his back to the wall. He stayed there a moment, unsure what to do.

He could not possibly reach the tranquilizer guns. The cabinet was too far away, beyond the open door. He would have to pass in full view of the storage room. Even if by some miracle he made it past, he was certain he couldn't get his keys out and open the cabinet without being heard.

He contemplated turning back. He might be able to catch up with Remo and Chiun. Get help.

But whoever was in the room wouldn't stay inside forever. If Mark had come down to hide until he felt it was safe to bolt, he might be gone by the time Smith returned.

Smith was given little choice.

On the wall nearby hung a rack of old lawn tools that had for years been used by Folcroft's elderly groundskeeper. When that man retired back in the 1980s, Smith had hired a professional landscaping service. He was happy now to have saved the gardening equipment.

Hands veined from age took a pair of shears down from a hook. They were rusted shut. No matter. Fingers tight on the twin grips, Smith crept for the open door. He held the blades out before him, ready for anything that might lunge at him through the door. As he approached, the shadow that came from the open door made little movements.

And then, abruptly, it stopped.

Smith worried that whatever was inside had sensed someone creeping up from outside.

He was almost to the door. He raised his makeshift weapon. Ready for attack, ready to plunge the blades home.

A soft scuffle. Something stepping out from the storage room. The shadow congealed into a familiar shape.

It wasn't the figure he had expected. Startled, Smith felt the tension slip away. "Mrs. Mikulka," he gasped, lowering the blades.

"Dr. Smith?" Eileen Mikulka asked, glancing at the shears. There was no alarm in her voice or on her face. Smith's secretary seemed to take in stride the fact that she had just nearly been assaulted, by her employer in a lonely basement in the dead of night. "Is something wrong?"

"I was-" Smith said. He cleared his throat. "That is, I heard a noise. I forgot you were still here."

"I'm nearly finished," she promised.

"Finish whatever you have to in the morning," Smith said. "It is not safe for you to stay here by yourself. "

"Oh, dear. Is something wrong?"

Smith considered telling her about Mark Howard but decided against it. Mrs. Mikulka was fond of Smith's assistant. Having her standing around all night fretting would merely complicate an already difficult situation.

"A dangerous patient has escaped," Smith replied. "I'll see you safely to your car. Please lock the records room. I'll be with you in a moment."