Warren Murphy - Identity Crisis

He dropped into an attack crouch. His lips split into a taunting smile.

Remo executed a perfect Sinanju Heron Drop, snapping into the air from a standing start. It took him to a point over the Dutchman's head, both legs coiled under him to deliver a double death blow.

Chiun's shriek of warning came too late.

Legs uncoiling, Remo dropped straight down.

And landed on flat asphalt.

Remo snap-rolled to his feet, turning toward the sound of a beating drum.

Doom doom doom doom...

As he completed his turn, the drum was suddenly behind him. Every time he twisted, Remo just missed his tormentor.

"Face me, Purcell!"

Chiun's voice called. "He is gone, Remo."

"What?"

"There is no one there. Only sounds."

Remo came out of his fighting crouch. His hands relaxed slowly.

The drumbeat faded into nothingness.

The Master of Sinanju padded up to his pupil. "You could have killed yourself with your uncontrolled anger."

Remo frowned. "Come on, Little Father. Let's get to the bottom of this."

Remo turned toward the roof hatch. Poking up was the incredulous face of Big Dick Brull.

"What are you looking at!" Remo barked.

"Nothing," Brull gulped, his head dropping from sight like a gopher retreating into its burrow.

WHEN THEY GOT OFF the ladder, Big Dick Brull and his IRS agents were standing about looking pale and foolish.

"This place is a madhouse," Brull said weakly.

"It is a sanitarium," said Remo.

Harold Smith said, "I could see everything from here. Pterodactyls, were they not?"

"Purple pterodactyls," corrected Remo. "You know what that means."

"I do," said Smith.

"But I don't," barked Big Dick Brull.

"Remo, remove these men while we get to the bottom of this."

"With pleasure," said Remo, abruptly turning. He took Big Dick Brull by the collar and lifted him completely off his feet. Remo set him on the ladder and said, "Either climb up or I'll fling you up there like a bag of manure."

"But-there are pterodactyls up there."

"And there are angry taxpayers down here. Take your pick."

Brull started climbing.

The other agents needed more motivation, so the Master of Sinanju padded up to them and began pinching earlobes between incredibly sharp fingernails.

The unbearable pain sent the IRS agents scrambling up the ladder. The hatch clapped shut.

"Come on," growled Remo.

They went to Purcell's cell.

Remo was saying, "We know Purcell's favorite trick was to create illusions to frighten people. Purple pterodactyls were his favorite. Don't ask me why."

They looked through the window.

Jeremiah Purcell lay on his back staring at the ceiling, unmoving.

"Time to shake him loose," said Remo, lifting the latch bar.

Chiun warned. "Do not harm him, Remo. Remember the legends."

"Screw the legends," said Remo, kicking the door in.

Jeremiah Purcell didn't flex a muscle as Remo moved in on him. His fixed stare never left the high ceiling.

Not even when Remo reached down with both hands to grab the front of his straitjacket.

Remo's fingertips brushed the jacket front and kept going.

"What the hell!"

Chiun leaped to his side. "Remo, what is wrong with your hands?"

"Nothing."

But they had disappeared into the Dutchman's recumbent form as if into a pool of milk.

"An illusion," Remo said after fishing his hands around in the opaque human form. "He's not really here."

"The Dutchman has escaped!" shrieked Chiun. "It is a calamity."

Remo pulled his hands out, saying, "He couldn't have gone far. Not if he's making those images appear. He's somewhere near. We just gotta find him."

They checked every room. The ones that weren't empty held only ordinary patients. Except the cell containing Uncle Sam Beasley. He sat at his drawing desk, pretending to ignore them, but with his head cocked at a tilt that said he was listening to every word.

Remo, Chiun and Smith stood outside that cell, talking.

"Maybe Beasley saw something," Remo suggested.

"That is not Beasley," said Chiun very suddenly.

Remo and Smith looked at him.

"What do you mean?" asked Smith.

"Listen to his heartbeat."

Smith grew puzzled. Remo shut his eyes, listening.

"Normal heartbeat," said Remo. "So what?"

"That is impossible," snapped Smith. "Uncle Sam Beasley was outfitted with an animatronic heart after he was brought out of suspended animation."

"Then that's not Uncle Sam," said Remo.

"If not, then who is it?" asked Smith.

The glass in the cell door suddenly wavered as if it were a TV screen or a porthole shimmering in water.

When it cleared, Uncle Sam Beasley was gone. In his place stood Jeremiah Purcell-the Dutchman. He regarded the three startled faces with his neon blue eyes and began giggling.

"Let me at him," said Remo, lunging for the door.

"No," cried Chiun, blocking the way with his tiny body. "Do not let him taunt you into killing him and thus yourself."

"I remember what he did to me," Remo snarled, face twisting with emotion. "To Mah-Li. It was my wedding day and he took her place, the rat bastard. I stood beside my bride-to-be, not knowing that she was already dead and he had taken her place, using his mind tricks."

"That is the past, Remo," Chiun said, trying to catch his pupil's gaze and hold it.

"Shove it," said Remo. "Look at him. He wants me to come in."

"Yes! In the dimness of his mind he understands that if you strike him dead, you too will fall and he will have his revenge in death. Yours and his."

The Dutchman stood looking at Remo through the window, wild-eyed and expectant. He tittered.

Smith spoke up. "Remo, as your father, I order you-"

"Stuff it," Remo said sharply.

"If you will not obey your true father, stubborn one," Chiun said, "obey your adopted one."

Remo just looked at Chiun and Smith, as if doubting their sanity and his own. The tension began going out of his face.

"We can't leave him here," Remo protested. "He could break out at any moment."

Smith shook his gray head seriously. "If he had that ability, Remo, he would have done it."

"But he did. We hauled him back, thinking he was Beasley."

"Did he resist?"

"Well, no," Remo admitted.

"His mind may be coming out of his autistic phase, but apparently not enough for his Sinanju skills to return."

"Only a matter of time," warned Remo, not taking his eyes off the Dutchman's wan, taunting face.

"All in due time."

"What say we check?" Remo said tightly.

"Master Chiun will examine Purcell."

Reluctantly Remo stepped aside.

The Master of Sinanju strode into the cell. The Dutchman retreated. Chiun stalked him about the room until Jeremiah Purcell found himself trapped in a corner covered by drawings.

A quirk of fear came into the Dutchman's pale face. He trembled from head to toe, setting his long cornsilk hair shimmying.

Without warning, Chiun spun Purcell in place, exposing the brass hasps that pinioned his sleevewrapped arms to his back. A slashing fingernail broke them in a vertical line. The canvas sleeves dropped loosely at his sides.

"Strike me," Chiun dared.

The Dutchman only giggled.

Chiun began weaving lines and circles before Purcell's pallid face. Each feint brought a flinch, but no return blow.

Chiun paused, frowing. When his fingers licked up to squeeze a nerve on the Dutchman's shoulder, there was no resistance, no blocking blow. The Dutchman wilted, unconscious.

"No mind that retains the sun source," Chiun intoned, "would allow the body it controls to be touched in anger."

His arms disappearing into his kimono sleeves, the Master of Sinanju emerged from the cell. "He is harmless, except for his crazed mind," Chiun added solemnly. "Let us go."