Warren Murphy - The Ultimate Death

"Chiun! "

Remo cleaved the ancient door in two with a single downward stroke and burst into the apartment beyond.

A living room piled high with clutter greeted his anxious eyes. Remo wasted no time there. The breathing had come from farther back in the apartment.

Another door. This one he wrested apart on its hinges, as if it were moist paper. Door fragments spun through the air like shrapnel, embedding themselves in the walls on either side of the inner room.

Remo saw the body on the floor. Its back was to him, and it was curled in the fetal position, but Remo recognized the emerald dragon design woven on the back of the silver kimono.

"Chiun!" he breathed.

The thin figure from the street knelt above Chiun. The one who had warned them of the female gyonshi.

He looked up at Remo, his eyes those of the most vile demon from hell.

"The one you look to for guidance will help you no more, gweilo," he laughed. "The hour of the Final Death is come."

Bile rising in his throat, Remo fell upon the Taoist. Hands flew in a furious blur. Arms pounded with pneumatic precision. In seconds, the Chinese had been reduced to a quivering cone of jelly encased in its own black shroud.

When the body fell still, Remo drew the Taoist's own gyonshi fingernail across what had been his neck. In the shimmer of the candlelight, a puff of orange smoke rose and vanished.

He dropped to his knees beside the Master of Sinanju, holding the fragile head delicately in his lap, and said, "Not again, Little Father! I swear I won't lose you again!"

Tears squeezed from the corners of his pained eyes, as he gathered up his frail burden and bore him out of the bric-a-brac-littered apartment and down to the street below.

No one attempted to stop him. They all saw the expression on his face.

Chapter 16

It was a unforgivable breach of security, but Remo had threatened to take Folcroft apart, brick by brick, if Harold Smith did not comply with his demand for an immediate medevac.

The Coast Guard emergency rescue helicopter touched down on the widest, flattest roof in Chinatown, where Remo stood, holding the Master of Sinanju in his arms.

Less than thirty minutes later it alighted on the sloping lawn of Folcroft Sanitarium, near the decrepit docks on the edge of Long Island Sound.

Smith realized that medevacing a patient from lower Manhattan, at a time when the police were trying to clean up a gangland massacre, would be difficult to explain. He hoped he would not find himself in that position as, stooping, he met Remo under the sweeping helicopter blades.

"I have been trying to reach you all day," Smith said, by way of greeting.

Remo glared at him. "Congratulations," he said flatly, pushing past the CURE director.

The medical technicians had already been instructed how to carry the old man on the stretcher. They were not to drop, jostle, bounce, shake, or drag the old man. They were to do nothing that might cause the old Oriental any further injury. The young man named Remo had explained all this to them on the way from the city. When one of them told the young man not to tell them how to do their jobs, he informed them that they hadn't been listening properly and explained the entire procedure over again, this time dangling one of them out the open door of the rescue helicopter by his ankles to focus their attention.

When they climbed off the helicopter in Rye, the technicians carried the old Oriental as if he were a gossamer chrysalis, not a mere human being.

Smith followed a grim Remo Williams across the broad lawn. He was having difficulty keeping up with the young man. His belt hung loose, for his stomach still pained him.

"What happened?" Smith demanded.

"Poison," Remo shot back.

Smith paled visibly. "He did not eat chicken?"

"He did not," Remo snapped.

"Good."

"This is a thousand times worse."

"Remarkable," Dr. Lance Drew said, shaking his head in amazement.

"What is it, doctor?" Smith asked.

Dr. Drew started, as if surprised by the reminder that there was someone else in the room with him. He had forgotten, he had been so caught up in his work.

"It's simply incredible, Dr. Smith!" he said. "This gentleman is obviously terribly, terribly old, yet his reflexes are those of a man in-" He paused. "Actually, they're not like a man's at any age at all. His reflexes are astounding. Pulse, heart, respiration. He's a phenomenal example of human longevity." Dr. Drew peered down at Chiun's motionless form. "No doubt a strict vegetarian," he added.

Smith and Remo stood on the side of the bed opposite the doctor. Remo watched in tight silence, rotating his thick wrists absently, as Chiun's thin chest expanded and deflated with each breath.

"Yes, of course," Smith said, steering the doctor to the point. "But we are more concerned about his prognosis."

The doctor stood upright and heaved a sigh. "Coma," he said, simply. "The patient has been exposed to some form of toxin, I suspect. I can't be certain. See this?" He indicated a tiny pink mark on Chiun's throat. "That is the site of the infection. Has to be. When did this happen?"

"About an hour ago," Remo said, looking up. His deep-set eyes were filled with concern.

The doctor shook his head. "Impossible," he said. "That is scar tissue. The scab has already fallen off. The puncture must be at least a week old."

Smith cleared his throat. "That will be all for now, Doctor," he said hurriedly.

Dr. Drew took the hint and began to leave. "I don't know what this poison would have done to a person not blessed with his constitution," he said, indicating Chiun. "It's his nervous system that has been attacked." He shook his head slowly as he stared into Remo's pleading eyes. "There's nothing I can do for him. I'm sorry."

Smith closed the door after the doctor and approached Remo cautiously. "I, er, know what he means to you, Remo," he said, nodding at Chiun.

"Don't start, Smitty!" Remo snapped. "You don't have a clue what he means to me! So don't even bother!"

Smith cleared his throat again. The action still gave him considerable discomfort. "There is also the matter of the poisoned chickens," he said.

"You mean ducks. And how'd you know about them?"

Smith frowned. "I have had no reports about ducks having been tampered with. Only chickens. The death toll now stands at nearly two thousand individuals. What kind of madman would attempt wholesale poisoning?"

As this sank in, Remo's face twisted in anger.

"Damn! This is all your fault, Smith!"

"I fail to understand," Smith said vaguely.

"Houston? Fifteen years ago? That ring a bell?"

"Not quite . . ." Smith said.

"Houston General Hospital," Remo explained. "That's where I put the Leader fifteen years ago. Remember the Leader? Old? Wizened? Blind? Out to poison all meat-eaters, because he belonged to an ancient Chinese cult of blood-drinking Chinese vegetarian vampires?"

"My God," Harold Smith said hoarsely. "Of course, it is the same pattern. Only this time it's chicken instead of beef."

"You were supposed to underwrite his medical bills," Remo continued in a biting tone. "Well, you obviously let that tiny responsibility go to hell for a few measly bucks. That's the only explanation. You would have known he escaped, otherwise."

"If you will allow me to get a word in," Smith said frostily.

Remo went on, as if unhearing. "You did this, Smith. You did it to all those innocent people.

"This"-he pointed a shaking-with-rage finger at the Master of Sinanju-"is your fault. All because you were too freaking cheap to pay to clean the Leader's bedpans."

Smith's usually unflappable personality began to flap. "The Leader?" he muttered, his tired gray eyes blinking furiously.

"He escaped the hospital, and he started his 'Final Death' crapola all over again," Remo said flatly.