Warren Murphy - Identity Crisis

"Look," Remo said impatiently, "this running around can't go on forever. We gotta poop or get off the pot. "

"Yes," chimed in Chiun. "Let us turn these taxidermists into poop, and all our troubles will fade like yesterday's fog."

"They've seized my home. I do not know where my wife is. She is my chief concern now."

"We can look into that. But what about you?"

Smith said listlessly, "I am not important."

"Smitty, stop talking like that. We have unfinished business. I want you to find my father for me."

"It is impossible."

"Like hell it is. My mother-I mean the woman who spoke to me-claimed I knew my father. Look, how many people can that be? You can do background checks on everyone I ever knew. Something will turn up. Until then, you stay in the game."

"I make no promises, Remo. For the life of me, I do not see how we can put the pieces of the organization back together."

"Sleep on it," said Remo, shaking the silent Uncle Sam Beasley. "Let's start with putting this loose end to bed for the night."

As they walked away, Harold Smith could hear Remo scolding Uncle Sam Beasley. "I can't believe you turned out to be such a pill. I was a big fan of yours when I was a kid, you know."

"Even in my humble village," Chiun was saying, "the name of Uncle Sam made childish eyes glow like candles."

If Uncle Sam had any reply to that, Smith did not hear it as he lowered himself onto the narrow bunk. He didn't close his eyes until he heard the clank of a cell door shutting. Then he turned over on his side and he fell instantly asleep.

Chapter 29

In the hours before the sunless dawn of submarine life, Winston Smith awoke like a spark flaring. His hands fished under his pillow, and he turned on the light. He sat reading the sea gram over and over.

"The bastard," he said feelingly. "The cold, mother-loving bastard."

After a while he lit a cigarette and smoked it to a stub. Then he cracked open the door and stuck out his close-shaven head. A seaman was making his way along the corridor.

"Hey, sailor. When do we make port?"

"We're in it."

Smith blinked. Only then did he notice the absence of vibrations and other sounds of a submarine under way. "What port?"

"Search me. It's classified."

"Sounds like my kind of port," said Smith, shutting the door to smoke another Lucky.

This time he used the lit end to ignite the sea gram. It refused to burn until he blew on the smoldering edge. Then it caught, burning briefly in his fingers.

Winston Smith didn't bother to let go when the flames licked at his fingers. He just let the fire run its course and crushed the curled black paper in his unfeeling fist while it was still hot.

"Uncle Harold, you picked the wrongest damn day to do this to your favorite nephew."

He picked up the BEM gun and laid the plastic manual on his knee. There must be something in the specs that would disarm the damn antifiring interlock.

Chapter 30

In the deepest part of the night, Harold Smith heard a familiar voice. It snapped him from his dreamless sleep.

"Harold?"

"Maude?" Blinking, Smith rushed to the locked door.

There was Maude Smith in all her blue-haired matronly glory. Nevertheless, she was a welcome sight.

"Harold, what are you doing here?"

"I am under house arrest. Please do not enter. How did you get past the IRS?"

"That doesn't matter, Harold. I have come to tell you something important."

"What is it?"

"Harold, I have been keeping a dreadful secret from you all these years."

"Secret?"

"Yes. I have been too ashamed to reveal it to you until now. But with all that is happening, I think you should know."

"Go on," said Harold Smith, unable to comprehend what his wife could have on her mind. She seemed incredibly calm under the circumstances.

"You have always been a good husband. You know that."

Harold Smith cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"But you have not always been home. You were away a lot during your days with the CIA. After you came to Folcroft, I thought that would change, but if anything, your absences grew worse."

"I have my responsibilities," Smith said defensively.

"There was a time many years ago when you were away for nearly a year. Do you remember?"

"I remember. I was in the Philippines."

"During that time, Harold, I am afraid I was not entirely faithful to you."

Harold Smith reeled on his feet as if punched in the stomach.

"No," he said, shocked.

"His name doesn't matter. We were younger then. It was brief, passing, inconsequential. But I have suffered pangs of guilt to this very day."

"Why tell me now?"

"Because," Maude Smith said, lowering her voice and eyes, "during that time I had a baby. A son."

"Impossible."

"I know it sounds ludicrous, but it's true. He was a happy little boy with dark eyes and such a winning smile. I wanted to keep him but I knew it was impossible." Maude's faded blue eyes squeezed shut in the frumpy cushion of her face. "Harold, to this day I don't know if he was your son or the product of my... indiscretion. You see, I learned I was pregnant only six weeks after you had left. There was no way to tell by whom I had the boy, so the week he was born, I put him up for adoption."

"A son," Smith said dazedly. "By now he would be grown. An adult."

"Harold, you have no conception of how this has torn me apart all these long years."

Smith touched the glass before his wife's pained face. "Maude..."

"As time went on, I became more and more convinced that he was your son, Harold. I don't know how I knew that. But I feel certain of it. And every day I miss that little fellow more and more."

"I...I don't quite know what to say. What happened to this boy?"

"I put him up for adoption."

"He can be traced. Surely he can be traced."

"I left him on the steps of an orphanage in New Jersey one morning. And I never looked back. I don't know how he could be found now."

"Orphanages keep records."

"This one burned down long ago, Harold. It's a dead end."

Something caused Harold Smith's gray face to pale. "This orphanage, Maude. What was it called?"

"Saint something. A Catholic name. I chose it because no one would think to trace it to me."

Smith's voice grew low and urgent. "Maude. Think carefully. Did you leave a note? Perhaps identifying the baby by some name?"

"Yes. I gave him a made-up name. I guess I thought I might recognize him later by that name."

"And this name?"

"Williams. Remo Williams."

Harold W. Smith stared at his wife as if at a ghost. There was a sudden roaring in his ears.

"You named your son Remo Williams?" he croaked.

"I picked the name off a map of Italy. San Remo. It had such a nice sound. Williams was the name of the college my sister went to."

Harold Smith wore his face loose with shock. He had to swallow twice before he could speak again. Even then, his voice shook and quavered.

"Maude. We cannot speak of this here. Go to your sister's and wait for me. I promise that together you and I will find this boy and determine his paternity. I promise."

"Oh, Harold, you're so good to me. So understanding."

And Maude Smith pressed her pale lips to the glass of the window, leaving a colorless imprint there.

Then she was gone. Harold Smith stared at the faint imprint by the wan light of the corridor for a long time before he returned to his bunk.

He did not sleep the remainder of the night. His mind was working furiously.

And in his tired gray eyes was a new light and a new resolve.

DR. MURRAY SIMON was making his rounds.

He pushed the cart that contained the various generic prescription drugs for the remaining inhabitants of Folcroft's psychiatric wing ahead of him. Normally a nurse dispensed medications. But the nursing staff had been cut to the bone, and the remaining nurses were attending to patients' needs in the convalescent ward.