Warren Murphy: Market Force

On the screen were printed the flashing words "You will not change the channel."

As Remo passed by, he paused, frowning at the words of command on the screen.

"You come all this way on Christmas vacation, presumably on daddy's dime, and all you do is sit and watch TV?" Remo asked one of them. "What's the matter with you? Why aren't you drunk and getting herpes like normal college kids?"

The nearest student turned to Remo. He was ghostly white and could have benefited from a few hours in the sun. By the looks of it, he'd been in front of the television his whole Cancun vacation.

"Shh," he insisted, pointing to the television.

On the screen Becki had just confided to an offscreen interviewer that her alliance with Jojanna was just a scheme to get Curt voted off the show, where he would have an inevitably short-lived career as a cheesy product spokesman or B-list actor. At least this had been the most common career for most of those dismissed from the popular survival program.

"It's days like this," Remo mused, "when I actually see what I'm out there protecting, that I almost wish it wasn't my job to keep Western civilization from collapsing around all our ears."

When the chorus of "Shut ups" came, Remo had already vanished out the hotel's front revolving door.

Chapter 3

As he hurried through the snow, the wind from Long Island Sound sliced Harold W. Smith to the bone. The tails of his overcoat blew out behind him like a gray cape.

The well-tended grounds of Folcroft Sanitarium were surrounded by several acres of pristine woods. At one time a hiking path through the woods had been maintained for patients. However, so few of Folcroft's residents had used it, Smith eventually ordered the groundskeeping service to let it fill in. In the warmer months it was overgrown with brush, but by this time of winter the rough outlines of the old trails slowly reappeared.

The old path was covered with a foot of snow. The footprints of the police who had gone before were clearly visible, broken through the snow's crusted surface.

It was slow going for Smith and Detective Davic. Each man held a tranquilizer gun.

The CURE director could see that the Rye police officer was anxious. Every few feet the middle-aged detective would switch his air gun from one hand to the other, wiping perspiration from his palm onto his trousers.

Smith's palm was bone dry. He held his own air gun loose in his hand. Clenching the weapon as if it were some sort of magic talisman was pointless. When the time came, Harold Smith would be ready. Not that he had any delusions about the certainty of success.

There was every possibility they would fail. The man they were looking for was possessed of abilities like no one else on the planet.

No. Check that. There were two others, but at the moment they were far away. Smith had seen to that. As they made their way through the woods, the CURE director wondered if he had made the right decision in not calling Remo directly back to Folcroft. The moment the self-doubt came, Smith banished it.

The police were here. On the grounds of Folcroft. It was not a CURE matter that had brought them here, but their presence raised the omnipresent specter of discovery.

Smith had lived with the risk of exposure for many years now. Most times it lurked at the fringe of conscious thought. It was a canker sore. Sometimes you missed it for a time, but it could never be entirely forgotten.

At other times risks to CURE's security had almost brought about the end of the secret organization. This situation was threatening to become one of those times.

No, Remo couldn't be involved in this. At least not until the police were cleared out. CURE's enforcement arm had never been as cautious as he should. To bring him here could raise even more questions.

"Here," Davic announced all at once. His breath was labored, his cold-seared lungs scarred by years of smoking.

A fork split the path. The heavy footprints they were following broke to the left.

Smith and Davic followed the left fork. It carried them away from the Sound and toward the road. As they trudged along, Smith thought of the events that had brought him here.

He had known long before today that the escaped patient they were looking for was dangerous. Yet Remo and his teacher had refused to eliminate him. Something to do with some silly superstition that Smith had never fully understood. Despite his misgivings, the CURE director had acceded to their request that the patient be allowed to live out his life in a perpetual medicated coma in CURE's isolated security wing.

A mistake. Smith's fault for allowing it. And it wasn't the only mistake. After the events of that morning, there was another that would soon need to be addressed.

More than a year ago circumstances had deposited Remo and his teacher on Smith's doorstep. The two men had been living at Folcroft ever since. No more. It was just too risky. Once this was over, that arrangement would have to end. He would bring it up with them at the earliest convenient time. Assuming, that is, Smith survived the day.

The path they were on angled up a small hill. Long Island Sound was barely visible through the tangle of trees. In the past few minutes, the weak winter sun had begun to break through the bleak cloud cover. Just a few glimmers of yellow morning light could be seen on the white-capped waves. As they climbed the hill, the water disappeared, obscured by brambles and bushes and thick woods.

Smith saw the body the instant they crested the hill. It was lying in the snow, surrounded by four other men. Three were uniformed police; the fourth was a detective.

Smith and Detective Davic hurried over to the body.

The uniforms stood around Detective Wayne as he crouched over the body. When Davic's young partner saw the gun in Smith's hand, he glanced questioningly at Davic.

"This is Dr. Smith," Davic explained, breathless. "He offered to help, and at this point I'm not refusing. What have you got?"

Detective Wayne turned his attention back to the body. "Young male," he said. "Looks to be around the right age. The only man missing is your assistant, Dr. Smith."

The dead man was the right build for Mark Howard. His face was pressed in the snow where he'd fallen. The man had been stripped of his clothes.

Whoever had taken them had failed to disturb the crusted snow around the body.

"Let's see him," Davic ordered.

Detective Wayne gently turned the head to give Smith a better look. They all saw the blood for the first time. It wasn't as it had been back inside Folcroft. There was barely any here. Just a small stain of red in the clean white snow.

Smith's features were pinched as he glanced at the dead man. The youthful face was familiar.

But it was not the one he had expected to see. "That's not Mark Howard," Smith said. He exhaled a relieved cloud of bile-scented air.

Davic seemed disappointed. "Do you know who it is?"

"Yes," Smith said, nodding. "He's the grandson of Mrs. Sudbury, one of our patients. He frequently stops by in the mornings to bring his grandmother pastry."

"Perfect," Davic grumbled. "Our boy's got street clothes now. Wayne, get back to the building. See if anyone there saw this guy this morning. What he was wearing."

With a sharp nod, Detective Wayne turned. "C'mon, Javez," he barked at one of the uniformed men.

The two officers headed down the path.

"See if his car is still here," Smith called after them.

Davic nodded. "Right. You know what he drives?"

"I believe it is a red Ford Explorer."

"Red Ford Explorer," Davic shouted after Wayne. "Check with the guard at the gate. Javez, search the lot while he's asking."

He turned to Smith. "No offense, but I've talked to your security guard. He ain't exactly Columbo."