Warren Murphy: Created, The Destroyer

Remo nodded and smiled. "Do you think you might have something in stock for my 1934 Maxwell?"

Before Felton could say anything, Cynthia said: "There you go with that silly Maxwell business again."

Felton looked at Cynthia coldly. To Remo, he said: "I don't know if we would have any parts for your Maxwell. Perhaps you'd like to drive down there with me and see?"

Remo agreed with alacrity, despite Cynthia's protest that they should all spend the night together, getting acquainted.

"No, dear," Felton said. "It would be a chance for Mr. Cabell and me to have a father-and-son talk."

Felton dropped his fork when Remo said: "He's right, dear, we should have a talk alone. And since we're going to be such close friends, perhaps I can even persuade him to call me Remo."

Remo smiled, a good-son smile, and Felton, who had matched Cynthia's prodigious eating ability through the meal, decided he was too full for dessert. Jimmy, the butler, said gruffly, "Shall I remove the plates?"

He had stared at Remo all during the meal, hating him for killing Scottichio and Moesher and, at one time, Remo thought he detected the welling up of a tear in the corner of Jimmy's eye.

"Life is rough," he whispered to the butler. He got no answer.

"I don't feel like dessert," Felton said again.

Cynthia slammed down a spoon. Her beautiful face twisted into a childlike rage. "Well, damn it, I do."

"But, darling," Remo said.

"But darling crap," said the Briarcliff philosophy student.

Felton blinked. "What language!"

"Language, hell. You're not leaving me here."

Jimmy tried to soothe the girl as an old friend. He didn't get a word out of his mouth. His lips parted and Cynthia yelled: "You shut up, too."

"Dear," Remo said.

"If anyone goes, we all go. That's it."

Remo leaned back in his chair, playing with the rim of the full plate. Cynthia had gotten bitchy. All right Fine. He needed a shield. As long as she was with him, Felton would do nothing.

He glanced at the glowering hulk of a man dominating the end of the table. Or would he?

Cynthia had her way. The four of them rode silently down in the private elevator to the basement where they climbed into the Rolls. Remo listened for, but didn't hear, the dryer. Sixty cents didn't go too far nowadays, he thought.

Jimmy drove, Felton sat beside him and Cynthia leaned on Remo in the rear. Before clambering into the car, Felton had peeked in through the window of the black Cadillac, looking for Moesher.

Cynthia kept kissing Remo playfully. Remo could see Felton watching them in the rear-view mirror, his brow wrinkling at every brush of Cynthia's lips against Remo's cheeks.

"You know," she whispered. "I've never seen the Jersey City yard. I'm kind of interested, too. I love you."

"I love you, too," Remo said, staring at the back of her father's head. He could kill them both now. Easy. But Maxwell. They were his lead to Maxwell.

The car bounced along Kennedy Boulevard. The rutted disgrace that was called the county's main thoroughfare. They rolled past slums, past patches of neat two-story buildings, past brightly lit used car lots, into Journal Square, the hub of Jersey City.

At Communipaw Avenue, the car turned right. More dingy buildings, more used car lots, then the car wheeled left, down Route 440.

"We're almost there," Felton said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The car sped along Route 440, suddenly bare of construction. Then, a right turn, and they were on a gravel road, bouncing along in a sudden enveloping darkness.

The car stopped at a corrugated steel gate. The headlights played on a triangular yellow sign which read: "Protected by Romb Detective Agency."

The lights went out. Remo heard crickets in the distance. "We're here," Felton said.

Remo said a silent prayer to one of Chiun's thousands of gods. "Vishnu, preserve me."

He opened the car door and stepped out onto the hard gravel. It made a crunch. The nearby river air bathed him in a chill. The night stars were clouded over. He smelled a faint odor of burnt coffee coming from somewhere. He rubbed his hands.

Behind him, he heard Felton warn his daughter that there were many rats in the areas. Did she want to come? No, she decided. She'd stay in the car. "Keep the windows closed," he suggested.

The doors opened again, then closed.

"Let's go," Felton said advancing on the gate. The butler grunted assent. Remo knew they were both armed.

"Yeah," Remo said. "Let's go."

Felton unlocked the gate and opened it. It groaned, like metal abused by the weather. Remo tried to linger, to be last. But they waited.

"After you," Felton said.

"Thank you," Remo answered.

They walked down the gravel road, Felton in front, Jimmy behind, Remo in the center. Felton went through the motions of explaining the yard's operation, and pointed out where different car parts for different years and different makes were stored.

The crunch of their footsteps sounded like an army advancing. Remo could not see Jimmy, but he sure as hell could look at the back of the head in front of him. Felton wore no hat.

On they marched, through the night, down the road. Remo heard water rippling nearby, the lights pulsing off the river.

The minute Felton's hand went to the back of his head in his giveaway gesture, Remo would move. That was all the leeway he could give.

A dark hulk of a concrete structure loomed ahead like a giant pillbox by the sea.

"That's the heart of our operation," Felton said. Remo moved closer. The pillbox had a concrete ribbon of road leading down an incline into it. A dilapidated car was parked on the ribbon, blocks under the wheels.

"When we finish stripping a car, what's left goes into this processor and out comes a cube of scrap iron that we sell to the steel mills. We made a lot of money during the war, didn't we, Jimmy?"

"Yeah," Jimmy said. He was close behind Remo.

"This is where..." Felton's hand went to the back of his head... "where we keep our Maxwells! Now!"

Remo leaned forward as the slow lazy blow came from the butler. He pulled with it like child's play and crumpled to the ground.

No overconfidence. See what they do. Maybe Maxwell is here.

"Nice hit, Jimmy. I think we got the bastard. We finally got him."

Remo saw Felton's highly polished black shoes move near his lips. Then he felt a sharp crack on his chin. Felton had kicked him.

He did not move.

"I think you killed him." Felton said. "What'd you hit him with?"

"My hand, boss. I still didn't get a good shot at him."

"He's the one," Felton said, with resignation. "He got Scottichio and Moesher."

"I wish he'd a lived to go in the machine." Felton shrugged. "I feel tired, Jimmy. I don't care anymore. Get him ready."

Remo felt Jimmy's large bony hands reach around his rib cage and hoist. He was dragged, his feet scraping, around to the ramp end of the concrete blockhouse. Through half-opened eyes he saw Felton walk to the other end of the building.

The junk car's doors were off and Jimmy rested Remo on his bony knee for a moment, then threw him headfirst onto the floor mat where the front seat had been. Remo heard engines, not car engines, groan. Jimmy removed a block from in front of the car's front right wheel. Walking toward the back of the car, he leaned in to throw one last punch. Remo Williams had waited long enough.

With his left hand he grabbed the large bony wrist and snapped it, silently, swiftly. Jimmy would have screamed if Remo's right hand had not buried itself knuckle-deep into his solar plexis, only a split-second earlier, knocking the air and the sound from him. Remo smashed the nose bone with his left hand and Jimmy went out.

Remo slid out from under Jimmy's limp frame, then pushed Jimmy into the car, in the place intended for Remo. Remo trotted silently to the back of the car and removed another block from behind the rear wheel.