Warren Murphy: Death Sentence

Mrs. Mikulka didn't ask questions. She grabbed her purse and ran.

The Master of Sinanju took the lead. He found the door locked. He placed both palms to the panel and exerted what seemed to the others like testing pressure.

In response, the door groaned metallically and fell inward.

Remo rolled Smith over the horizontal panel, remarking to Chiun, "You really have a way with doors, you know that?"

"It is Sinanju," Chiun returned. "Something obviously beyond your white mentality."

Once inside, everyone fell silent as they absorbed the sight of Norvell Ransome collapsed behind the desk.

Remo smelled the air. "Smells like burning hair."

"That is one result of death by electrocution," Smith said while Dr. Dooley placed a hand over Ransome's fat-sheathed heart. Feeling nothing, he shifted to the carotid artery. He looked up.

"This man is dead," he said hoarsely.

Noticing that Ransome clutched a half-melted telephone receiver in one hand, Remo asked of Smith, "What happened to him?"

"He dialed the wrong number."

"Yeah?" Remo said slowly. "I don't suppose this has anything to to with that lever you had me throw?"

"It armed the telephone."

"Armed?" Remo said blankly. "How do you arm a telephone?"

"By pushing the little lever, of course," Chiun said impatiently. "Emperor, shall I remove the garbage?"

"How can you talk of garbage at a time like this?" Remo asked.

No one answered him. The Master of Sinanju stepped behind the desk. He plucked something from one voluminous sleeve and lifted Ransome's slack face up by the hair. Chiun affixed a Band-Aid to the still-steaming forehead. Written across it were the words Do NOT RESUSCITATE. He pushed the leather chair away and into a closet, Norvell Ransome's corpulent body-still clutching the half-melted receiver-jiggling with an almost boneless animation.

"Looks like he got the same medicine he tried to feed me," Remo said as the closet door was shut on the corpse.

At Smith's signal, Chiun pushed the wheelchair behind the desk. Smith wordlessly opened a drawer and pulled out a red telephone. He lifted the receiver and waited.

Presently he said, "Mr. President, this is Harold W. Smith. I am calling to inform you of the accidental death of my temporary replacement, Norvell Ransome." Smith paused. "He was electrocuted attempting to tamper with areas of our computer systern he was not authorized to access.... Yes, it is regrettable. Yes, I am prepared to resume my former responsibilities if you will sanction continued CURE operations."

Smith listened as he waited. "Thank you, Mr. President, I will report as soon as all the loose ends are cleared up."

Smith hung up, grim-faced.

"Master Chiun," he said coldly. "How compromised are we?"

"The woman named Vanderkloot knows of Folcroft, but not of CURE."

"I see."

Smith's gray eyes fell upon Remo Williams. "And you, Remo. Who knows you still exist?"

Remo considered. "Naomi. Haines. He's the guy who executed me once and almost got a second chance. The prison warden. And I'd say, oh, maybe two thousand hardened convicts, give or take a few." Remo's smile was dark and taunting.

"Hmmmm," Smith was saying. "Other than Haines, how many of these know you were executed years ago?"

"Just Haines, as far as I know. Why?"

"Because all serious security risks must be neutralized as rapidly as possible," Smith said. He was looking past Remo. Remo turned around. Dr. Alan Dooley stood helplessly, his eyes sick.

"Chiun," Smith said quietly.

"As you wish, Emperor," the Master of Sinanju said, advancing on Dr. Dooley.

"What's he going to do?" Remo asked anxiously. Dr. Dooley shrank back against a wall.

"Wait, you can't do this. I helped you, Smith. I saved your life."

"No," Chiun corrected. "I saved his life. I imparted new strength so that his heart could heal itself."

"But I'm on your side, Smith!" Dr. Dooley whimpered. He was afraid of the old Asian. He didn't know why. He was ancient. Frail. But those oblique hazel eyes filled him with dread.

"Wait a minute," Remo said, horrified. He addressed Smith. "How can you kill him? What did he ever do except help you out?"

"Make it quick and painless," Smith said, "even though the man is a child molester."

"A defiler of children!" squeaked Chiun. He was standing before the cowering doctor now.

"But I helped you!" Dooley screeched. "All of you!"

The Master of Sinanju's hands, nail-headed hydras, transfixed Dr. Alan Dooley. One homed in on his staring face. It filled his vision. He never saw the other hand disappear. It drove in once, into his heart, and pulled back so fast the nails were clear of blood. Dr. Dooley's face registered uncomprehending shock. He looked down. Over his heart, five bright scarlet dots grew into spots and spread in all directions, forming an unstoppable red stain.

Dr. Alan Dooley crumpled at the Master of Sinanju's unconcerned feet.

"Jesus Christ!" Remo said, turning on Smith. "You are the most cold-blooded son of a bitch I've ever seen outside of the can. That guy saved your butt. Or doesn't that count for anything?"

"He knew too much. And he had been targeted for exposure and probable prison. This was a better fate than prison would have been, don't you agree?"

"Whatever happened to due process?" Remo wanted to know. His fists were clenched in anger.

"Sometimes circumstances force us to make exceptions," Smith told him sadly, "so that due process can be maintained for the majority of Americans. That is the purpose of CURE. Ransome, for all his access to our secrets, missed that point. He thought CURE was an acronym. It is not. CURE is simply that -a cure for America's ills. If our work is allowed to continue to its ultimate end, CURE will cease to exist because the need for CURE will have ended. That is our goal. No one must be allowed to stand in the way of that goal."

"So what about me?" Remo said angrily. "Back to prison-or are you going to snuff me too?"

"Chiun," Smith said tonelessly, looking Remo in the eye. "You know what to do."

"Not without a fight," Remo warned. He whirled. He never completed the turn. A hand at the back of his neck squeezed and his vision clouded over like a fast-moving line squall....

Remo awoke suddenly. He was strapped down in a big steel-and-leather chair studded with dials and cables. And looking at him with clinical detachment, sitting in his wheelchair, was Dr. Harold W. Smith.

Oh, Christ, he thought. That bastard Smith is going to fry me himself. Remo tried to turn his head. When it wouldn't move, he became conscious of a band of metal encircling his neck, restraining him. He frowned, wondering what kind of electric chair went around the neck, not the temple.

"See you in hell, Smith," he grated. Smith gestured in such a way that Remo became aware that there was someone beside him, hovering at the edge of his field of vision.

Then the neckband popped. Remo jerked his head free. Someone reached over and lifted the domelike helmet that had covered his head. It was an unfamiliar man in hospital green. A doctor. Wordlessly he undid the straps that pinioned Remo's wrists, biceps, and ankles.

Remo looked around. The room was filled with complicated electronic equipment, computers, and wheeled control stations. Everything, it seemed, was connected to the chair by coaxial cable or wiring.

Chiun stood off to one side, watching him with the cocked head inquisitiveness of a terrier.

"Please leave us alone with the subject, Doctor," Smith said tonelessly.

The doctor complied and swiftly left the room. Remo got out of the chair, rubbing his wrists. "What do you remember, Remo?" Smith asked dryly.

Remo blinked. It was as if his brain had been cleaned of the foglike heaviness that he hadn't been able to shake since Florida State.