Warren Murphy: Unnatural Selection

"Thanks, Dr. Smith." His voice was soft.

Smith gave a crisp nod. "There is one other thing," he said. He reached into his pocket.

When his hand reappeared, he was holding a small, flat tin case. It was smaller around than a half dollar and less than a quarter-inch thick. He handed the container to Mark.

"I told you of Conrad MacCleary, my old associate who died not long after Remo came aboard CURE," Smith said. "After his death, his personal effects were sent here. He had no family and this was his last known address. He had a cover as a former Folcroft patient. There are only a few small items in a strongbox in the records room downstairs. That was included in the items returned by the hospital."

Mark had examined the container for a moment, rolling it over in his palm. It had a tiny hasp on one side. When he popped it, it opened like a locket. Inside was a small white object. When he saw it, Mark looked up at Smith.

The CURE director's face was unreadable. "Because of the nature of his injuries, MacCleary was not able to use it. Keep it with you at all times."

Smith checked his watch.

"I have work to do," the CURE director said. "Don't forget your appointment this afternoon." With that, Smith left the office.

Alone, Mark Howard looked back at the pill that sat inside the small container. It was identical to the pill Harold Smith carried in his vest pocket. Unlike Smith's, the skull-and-crossbones symbol was not worn with age.

With a click, Mark closed the locket and slipped it in his pocket. For some reason it gave him strange comfort.

Mark found the recessed switch that turned on his computer. When the monitor and keyboard rose up from their hiding spot beneath the desk's smooth surface, he was grateful for the distraction.

With grim resolve, the assistant CURE director threw himself back into his work.

Chapter 39

"You haven't been able to find her?" Remo asked. He was on the kitchen phone of his Connecticut town house. Beyond the breakfast bar, the patio doors off the small dining room were open wide. Summer had finally arrived. The Master of Sinanju sat in the small garden outside, parchment face turned up to the warming rays of the midmorning sun.

"No," Smith's voice replied. "She is either lying low or has changed her pattern of behavior. In either case she has slipped back below our radar. But now that we know she is out there, I have set the mainframes on a continuous search using the data Mark assembled. It is only a matter of time before she reveals herself."

"I hope you're right, Smitty. Any luck with the people from that lab she was using?"

"Unfortunately, no," Smith replied somberly. "She did not use the temporary version of the formula on the scientists of Genetic Futures. They are being cared for, but they are human in physical appearance only. They are incapable of speech and will not change back. We can safely assume that she was covering her tracks. I assume, as well, that the simian DNA was her sick attempt at humor. Reversing the human evolutionary course, as it were."

"Yeah, she was a regular Ruth Buzzi," Remo said. "Whatever she was up to, at least we know she didn't get what she was after from me."

Smith had gotten the test results on the second liquid-nitrogen sample the day after Remo and Chiun had returned from Maine. The specimens had been dead. The same was true of the first vial, which had turned up in a search of the San Diego lab.

"That is good news only to a degree, Remo," Smith cautioned. "The fact that she wishes to procreate will likely not change because of her failure with you. She will no doubt move on to another candidate."

"Just so long as it's not me," Remo said. "She can go back to Maine. She probably still has a hundred of those things stomping around in the woods up there."

"Not any longer. Most have turned up, bedraggled and malnourished. The rest have probably died by now. You frightened them away from inhabited areas, so the death toll in the ensuing weeks was low. And it seems the majority survived the ordeal without any lasting physical harm."

"Shh." Remo held the phone out. "Hear that, Smitty?" he said in a stage whisper. "That's the sound of a hundred shrinks revving up their notebooks and pens."

He hung up the phone.

Remo went out to the patio to where the Master of Sinanju sat cross-legged on the flagstones. The old Korean still wore his robes of black, gathered up around his ankles.

"I've been thinking, Little Father," Remo announced.

"If I give you a shiny nickel, will you think with your mouth closed?" the Master of Sinanju replied. His eyes were closed as he faced the sun.

"No, listen," Remo said. "That prophecy you told me the first time we met these tiger things. 'Even Shiva must walk with care when he passes the jungle where lurk other night tigers.' I'm not sure it meant what we thought it meant."

At this did Chiun open his eyes. "Yes?" he asked. "We were thinking physical harm. Like I'd get killed or something. But maybe I had to walk with care for another reason. Maybe when the Great Wang uttered that prophecy he meant I should look out for horny tigresses."

"Perhaps," Chiun said. It was evident by his tone that he had been considering the same possibility. "Well, at least it's over now. We passed through the jungle where they lurked and came out more or less intact."

Remo sank cross-legged to the ground. He looked at the spot on his bare forearm nicked by Judith White's fingernail.

It had been such a tiny thing. It had long since healed, leaving no trace of a scar.

"You were right, Little Father," he said all at once.

"Of course," Chiun replied. "What about?"

"About my invulnerability. You kept thinking it was just because of my becoming Reigning Master, but it wasn't only that. When we were in Sinanju a few months back, I had that Shiva moment. It was like ...I don't know. I was connected. To the past, present and future. Then I became Reigning Master and everything came together. It sort of made me feel like I didn't really have anything to worry about. I guess I was stupid."

"Do not guess," the Master of Sinanju said, "for I am here to tell you when you are. You were."

"On the other hand, if I hadn't been so worried about how pissed you'd get at me for killing Bugget, I wouldn't have hesitated at all," Remo pointed out.

"Excuses, excuses," Chiun said. "And do not think I forgive you for eliminating the troubadour who was to compose the hymn of glorious me for the beauteous Wylander. Of course, you could make some of it up to me if you were to wear the appropriate garments of celebration, sparing me from traipsing around in these rags for the next year of my life. Which, I might add, at my age could be my last."

"Guilt me no guilt, Little Father. I am not wearing black pajamas for six months. Smitty would have a fit. Assuming, that is, we haven't quit before then," he muttered.

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "Why would we do that?"

"I'm not going to easily forget what he did to me, Chiun," Remo warned. "He froze my wigglies for thirty years. If he'd just kept the temperature a few degrees colder, maybe he'd have given Judith White exactly what she wanted."

The old Korean waved a bony hand, erasing Remo's complaints from the air. "Whatever wrongs you think Smith committed against you in those days, they predate your becoming Sinanju and therefore have no bearing on Sinanju contracts. However, if this is a grievance you feel you must pursue, you may bring it up at our next contract negotiations."

Remo shook his head. "Ah, it's probably just as well. One year is a long way off. I'll be over all this by then."

"Actually, our current contract is slightly longer than the standard one year."

Remo noted his teacher's sly tone.

"How much longer?" he asked, suddenly worried. Chiun stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. "Five years," he admitted. "Give or take."