Warren Murphy - Identity Crisis

He could see the thing that was drumming. It was smaller than he expected and very, very pink.

The hot pink creature looked up at him with blank eyes and said, "Hello."

"Did I create you?" Beasley blurted out.

"No."

"Did Maus send you?"

"No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Drumming."

Doom doom doom doom...

"I can see that, you little pink turd!"

"Language, language."

At that, Uncle Sam Beasley decided to strangle the pink creature, if only to stifle that idiot drumming. It was starting to drive him crazy.

But when he reached down for its spindly neck, the creature was no longer there.

Instead, Uncle Sam Beasley found himself looking into a mirror.

It was very strange. He hadn't noticed any mirror. But there he was, looking back at himself.

What was even more weird was that his mirror image was speaking while his own mouth hung slack in surprise.

The mirror Uncle Sam said, "I can help you escape."

"I don't need any help. Especially from a cheap imitation like you."

"They will be looking for you."

"Let them. I have friends on the outside. One phone call and I'm home free."

"I can fix it so they stop looking."

Uncle Sam Beasley blinked his single eye. His icy eyebrows crawled higher on his puckering forehead.

"It will buy you all the time you need," the mirror image said.

"What's in it for you?" Beasley asked, his voice growing warm with interest.

"Revenge."

"I think," Uncle Sam Beasley said, "you and I are starting to speak the same language."

THE MASTER of SINANJU reached the Folcroft lobby by the fire stairs. The door was flung open ahead of him, and he leaped out, keen eyes going right and left.

He spotted Uncle Sam Beasley exiting through the main door.

Chiun's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. The man walked on a clumping leg. He would be easily apprehended.

The only problem would come if the illustrious Uncle Sam chose to fight.

He would be no match for the Master of Sinanju, true. But it would be unpleasant if Chiun had to injure him even slightly. What would the children of the world think of him if it ever got out?

REMO WILLIAMS was creeping around the Folcroft grounds when he heard the first muffled clump. He recognized the sound at once. The rubber cap on the end of Uncle Sam Beasley's silver leg made the identical sound.

"Damn! Hasn't Chiun grabbed him yet?"

Remo veered toward the sound, his face more annoyed than angry. It was, after all, a minor annoyance. How hard could it be to stop a man with an artificial leg?

THE MASTER of SINANJU emerged into the clear night air.

Uncle Sam Beasley had moved with surprising quickness in the few moments when he had been out of the Master of Sinanju's sight. He had almost reached the parking lot, where many cars waited empty of drivers.

Chiun flew after him, saying "Stop!" in a voice that squeaked more than it carried.

Uncle Sam Beasley looked over his shoulder and continued his energetic progress. He was all but running in a lopsided gait that was painful to behold. His entire body convulsed with every step, sending the ruffles at his wrists and throat shaking manically.

Then he turned the corner.

Chiun cleared the intervening space with a flourish of skirts. He popped around the corner, and stopped, face aghast.

The scarlet figure of Uncle Sam Beasley was nowhere to be seen.

Frantic, the Master of Sinanju rushed among the parked cars. He began looking down the rows. Still, there was no sign of Uncle Sam Beasley. It was impossible. Pausing, Chiun peered under the chassis of the neatly ranked cars.

He did not see a prone Uncle Sam or the strange feet of a lurking Uncle Sam.

Straightening, the Master of Sinanju wore his wrinkles like a puzzled web in which his hazel eyes quivered like uncertain spiders.

"It is impossible!" he squeaked.

REMO WILLIAMS took the corner at a dead run and almost collided with the Master of Sinanju.

"Where'd he go?" Remo asked.

"Who?"

"Beasley. He just came this way."

Chiun stamped a frustrated foot. "He could not. I have chased him to this spot, and he has vanished."

"Well," said Remo, looking around, "he's somewhere around here."

"But where?" Chiun squeaked. "He could not elude us both."

"There," said Remo, pointing toward the gate.

The ridiculous buccaneer figure of Uncle Sam Beasley was trying to reach the Folcroft gate on foot. It was absurd. He could never do it, exposed as he was. On the other hand, he was making good time. Even if he was practically hopping like a ungainly red rabbit.

"Let's go," said Remo.

Together they raced after Uncle Sam Beasley, easily overtaking him.

"Give it up," called Remo.

"You cannot escape us," added Chiun, running alongside.

Beasley stopped. He whirled to confront them.

Uncle Sam Beasley smiled his wintry smile, and his skeletal steel hand clenched, fingers clicking as they made contact with his shiny palm.

"I do not wish to harm you, purveyor of cartoons," warned Chiun, his hands fluttering before him uncertainly.

"On the other hand," said Remo, "we don't have time to screw with you."

The hydraulic hand feinted toward Remo.

"Remo, do not hurt him!"

"Don't sweat it," Remo said as he met the steel appendage with a chopping blow that knocked the hand from its stump.

The hand fell to the grass with a surprisingly soft sound. It lay there, whirring, fingers clenching and unclenching like an upside-down steel tarantula trying to right itself.

Remo brought a hard heel down on it, there was a snap, and the whirring just stopped.

Uncle Sam Beasley lost his wintry smile. He said nothing.

"You coming without a fuss?" asked Remo.

Hanging his head, Beasley raised his mismatched arms in abject surrender.

"Guess without your robot hand, you're not very brave," grunted Remo.

Beasley said nothing to that, either. Remo took hold of his good arm and marched him back to Folcroft.

"Well," Remo told Chiun, "this is one thing that's gone well so far."

Headlights blazing, a car roared out of the parking lot and bore down on them.

"Watch out, Little Father!"

Whirling, Chiun broke left. Remo pushed Uncle Sam in the opposite direction, leaping after him.

The car swooshed by, sucking air, grit and dry dead leaves behind it. Its red parking lights vanished through the gate and down the road.

Remo pulled Beasley to his feet.

"Who the hell was that?" Remo demanded.

"I do not know. But he possessed but a single eye."

"You're thinking of Beasley," said Remo, giving the unresponsive Uncle Sam a hard shake.

"Yes, I am thinking of Beasley," said Chiun solemnly.

"But we've got Beasley right here."

"It must have been some other one-eyed pirate," said Chiun suspiciously, giving Uncle Sam a very hard look while stroking his wispy beard.

HAROLD SMITH came off his bunk when the rapping of knuckles on glass came.

Remo's face floated in the door window.

"Remo! Have you seen Chiun?"

"Better than that. Here's Beasley."

The hangdog face of Uncle Sam Beasley was brought into view, held steady by Remo's fingers at the back of his neck.

The Master of Sinanju's bald head came up into sight. "What should be done with this misguided one, O Emperor?"

"Lock him in a cell. He should keep overnight."

"No problem," said Remo. "What about you?"

"Brull was here. He suspects Folcroft of being a CIA front."

"So, let him."

"He's trying to extort money on behalf of the IRS."

"We can convince him of the error of that position," said Remo.

"No. It would not work."

"So what will?"

"I do not know," Smith admitted, his lemony voice dejected.