Warren Murphy - The End of the Game

"Fine, fine, fine, fine," Remo said. "Will you all just wait a minute?"

Finally he gave up and tossed all three weapons into a corner of the room. "Listen," he told the three men. "I put them over there but that doesn't mean you should think you can run over and get one or something because then I'll have to kill you."

Pamela came down the steps into the living room. She covered the three men with her small pistol and Remo noticed that she held it low and close to her hip, the way people did who were expert in the law-enforcement use of firearms, not out in front of her where anyone could slap it away.

"Don't anybody move," she snarled.

"They weren't planning to move, Mrs. Peel," Remo said sarcastically. "Now aim that thing away from me." He turned back to the three men. "Okay, what're your names?"

"Who wants to know?" said the man who had been hiding behind the chair.

Remo upended the brass coffee table behind the couch and twisted one of its legs into a corkscrew shape.

"Next question?" he said.

"Bondini," the man said. "Bernie Bondini."

Remo glanced at the other two men, who were still on the floor, cringing in front of Pamela, whose gun pointed unwaveringly at them.

"Hubble."

"Franko."

"Any of those sound like the voice that's been calling?" Remo asked Pamela.

"I can't tell from just their names," Pamela said. "They've got to say more."

"Who are you?" Bondini asked.

"Will you stop saying that?" Remo said. "All right. Now I want you to take turns. One at a time, repeat this: Four score and something ago, our forefathers brought up--"

"You're getting it wrong," Bondini said.

"Just say it any way you want," Remo said. "I never told you I was any good at history."

"Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon--"

"That's good," Remo said. "You remember that from school?"

"Yes," said Bondini.

"I could never remember it," Remo said. "I kept mixing up fathers and forefathers. I was supposed to recite it on Memorial Day but I kept getting it wrong."

"That's a shame," Bondini said.

"Yeah. They got Romeo Rocco to do it instead. Boy, did he stink. He sounded like that guy who does the fast commercials. He wet his pants in the middle and he still finished the speech before any liquid reached the floor."

He turned back to Pamela.

"Him?" he asked. She shook her head no.

"Okay, you," Remo said, pointing to the bearded man on the floor. "What's your name?"

"Hubble."

"Okay. Recite the Gettysburg Address."

"I don't know the zip code for Gettysburg," Hubble said.

"Very funny," Remo said. "Now will you try for a broken neck?"

"Four score and seven years ago, our fathers something something," Hubble said.

"Him?" Remo asked Pamela.

"No," she said.

"That leaves you," Remo said to Franko. "Recite."

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in--"

"That's enough," Remo said.

"--liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether--" Stash Franko rose to his feet. "-- this nation or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated--"

"I said enough," Remo said.

"--can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield--"

Remo clapped his hand over Franko's mouth. "If there's anything I hate, it's a show-off." He looked at Pamela and she again shook her head no.

"I'm letting you go," Remo told Franko. "If you promise to speak only when spoken to. You promise?"

Franko nodded and Remo released him.

"--of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion--"

Remo straightened out the brass table leg, snapped it from the table, then wrapped it around Franko's neck, tightly enough to frighten him, not so tight that it would hurt him.

"I'll be quiet," Franko said meekly.

"What do you want?" Bondini said.

"Who's Buell? The owner?" Remo asked.

"We just met him once," Bondini said. "Abner Buell. A twerpy-looking guy with plastic hair. I don't even really know him."

Remo looked at the other two men, who shook their heads.

"Why were you going to kill us then?" Remo asked.

"Because I didn't want to beat my mother with a stick," Bondini said.

"And I won't make it with no sheep," said Hubble.

"Or a corpse," said Franko.

It took Remo a while to sort it all out but with Pamela's help, he finally figured out that the three men were counting on getting some money from the owner of the place and they didn't even know who Remo was. He was glad about that because it meant that he would not have to kill them.

"How were you supposed to notify Buell that I was dead?" Remo asked.

"He didn't tell us."

Remo said to Pamela, "That means this place is wired or something. Probably sound and camera."

He turned back to the three men. "All right. You guys can go."

"That's it?" Bondini asked.

"You're not going to turn us in?" asked Hubble.

"Not me, pal. Go in peace."

Franko was silent, gazing out toward the ocean. Finally he said, "There was one thing."

"What was that?"

"The guy who owns this place. I heard him say he had a place just like it in Carmel and he was expecting company. Does that help?"

"Yes," Remo said. "Thanks."

"It's better than making it with a corpse," Franko said as he walked toward the door. He paused in the doorway.

"Another thing," he said.

"What?" said Remo.

"--of this battlefield as a final resting place for those who here gave--" he said, and then ran as Remo started toward him.

* * *

In Carmel, north along the Pacific shoreline, Buell turned off the television monitor and said to Mr. Hamuta, "Get yourself ready. He should be here soon."

"I am always ready," Hamuta said.

"You'd better be."

Hamuta left and Marcia came into the room. Buell graced her with one of his infrequent and emotionless smiles. She was wearing a train engineer's outfit, but the legs of the jeans were cut off almost to her crotch and she had on no shirt and her breasts bobbled back and forth under the overalls' bib front.

"He escaped, this Remo?" she said.

"Yes."

"Who can he be?" she asked.

"Some government spy. I don't know," said Buell.

"Too bad he escaped," she said.

"No, it isn't. He was supposed to, remember? I just wanted him to be on his guard when he gets here. Make it a tougher game for Hamuta."

"Suppose Hamuta fails?" the woman asked.

"He never fails."

"But if he does?" the redhead persisted.

Buell rubbed a hand over his patent-leathered hair. "It doesn't matter," he said. "The whole world still goes up. Boom."

"I can't wait," Marcia said. "I can't wait."

sChapter Ten

"He flew the coop, Smitty," Remo said. "But I know who he is."

"Who?" asked Smith, whose computers had discovered the Malibu house but had not been able to identify its owner.

"Abner Buell."

"The Abner Buell?" asked Smith.

"An," said Remo.

"An?"

"He's an Abner Buell. That's all I know. I don't know if he's the Abner Buell. I don't even know who the Abner Buell is. An. But I think I know where he went. We're going there now."

"We?"

"The girl I'm with."

"Does she know who you are?" Smith asked.

"No. She thinks I work for the post office. No. The phone company."

"Get rid of her then," Smith said.

"She knows Buell's voice."

"And you know his name. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out when you meet him. Get rid of her."

"Okay," Remo said.

"Where is Buell now?" Smith asked.

"I think he's got a place in Carmel. That's in California."

"Let me see if I can find it," Smith said. He fiddled with his computer. "Do you know how I found out the address in Malibu?"