Warren Murphy: Date with Death

"Sit down," he said, flashing a smile.

"No thanks. What do you want?"

"I think I'd like a yacht," Donner said dreamily. "A place on the Riviera. A bathroom made of black marble. Maybe a little pied-à-terre in Paris."

"What do you think this is, a quiz show?"

"Do you want to know where Bauer and Quantril are?" he teased.

Remo looked him up and down. "How would you know that anyway?"

Donner lit a cigarette. "They were in the building you came down. Killed the guy who lived in the apartment just so they could watch you two bum up. I heard them planning it. I was outside the apartment door. That's how I know where they're going. And I'll tell you— for a price."

"I just saved your life!" Remo exploded.

"Yes. And don't think I don't appreciate it. But a guy's got to make a living, you know?" He shrugged expressively.

"Break his elbows," Chiun suggested.

"Then I'll never talk. And they'll come after you again."

Remo sighed. The ingrate would talk, all right. But Remo was hot and dirty, and not at all in the mood to break anybody's elbows, even if it was for a good cause. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. "All right. How much do you want?"

"A million dollars," Donner said.

"Here's eight hundred. Take it or leave it."

Donner hesitated only a moment before snatching the money.

"Perhaps you can build a bathroom of concrete blocks with that," Chiun said.

"There's another thing," Donner said as he counted the money. "A promise. You seem like a man who's good to his word."

"I am," Remo said.

"Then I want your word that you won't kill me."

"You mean to get back the money? You got it."

"You promise?"

"We both do," Remo said magnanimously.

Donner stepped back carefully, edging toward the door. "Okay. They're headed for a place called Bayersville, about three hundred miles south of here. It's a ghost town."

"Have you been there?"

"I read about it once in a movie magazine. They used to shoot a lot of low-budget Westerns there back in the fifties. Quantril owns the town now. He uses it for his Dream Date videos."

Donner opened the door to leave.

"Wait a second," Remo called. "Just to satisfy my curiosity… How do you know Quantril?"

Donner smiled. "I think I used to work for him," he said. "Running illegals across the Mexican border."

Remo felt the blood rush out of his face. "Women?"

"The ones I kept were women, yes." He flashed another dazzling smile, then went out, closing the door behind him.

Remo clenched his teeth. He had just found the man who'd murdered 300 people in the desert. And let him go.

?CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The lights of the rented car passed over a weathered road sign. "Bayersville," it announced in peeling, sun-faded letters. "Just Watch Us Grow." In spite of the optimistic prediction, the only growth that Remo could see were the weeds and wild flowers that overran the rutted dirt road.

As they passed over a bumpy rise, the town came into view, shimmering in the moonlight. There were four blocks of buildings, including a church, a bank, a saloon, a few shops. From a distance, Bayersville looked exactly like a fictional town of the Old West. It was only up close that one noticed that the buildings were really false-fronted, weather-beaten structures with no breath of life in them.

As Remo drove past the sagging buildings, the sight of them stirred something in his memory. Suddenly he knew. It was the movies at St. Theresa's.

In the orphanage where Remo grew up, the biggest treats the nuns had to offer were the once-a-month movies. All of the kids would gather in the basement, impatient and restless while Sister Mary Agnes threaded the ancient projector.

The movies they saw were donated by a local theater owner, so they were rarely Hollywood's newest or best. They also had to pass Sister Bridget's rigid code of inspection that made the Hays Office look like a hotbed of libertines and panderers. So mostly they saw Westerns, the old-fashioned kind with Straight Shooters in white hats and Bad Hombres in black ones. The films never had much in the way of plot. It was good against evil, pure and simple. And in the end, although things looked kind of close for a while, good always carried the day. For a time, when he was very young, Remo had believed that that was the way the world actually was, all black and white, with nothing in between.

Vietnam and the Newark police department had put that idea to rest forever. Still, Remo felt a childish delight as he drove through the silent town. There was the saloon where Red Ryder had shot it out with the counterfeiters and, across the way, the stable where John Wayne had leaped into the saddle from the hayloft above. Bayersville was a ghost town, silent as death, populated only by the shadows of yesterday's heroes.

And two other men who were real. And dangerous.

Remo parked the car in front of the boarded-up Empire Hotel. "We might as well start here," he said.

The moment their feet touched the dusty street, they were engulfed in a powerful, glaring light. There was no explosion, just a fizzing sound, like soda being poured from a bottle, to break the silence. The town and everything else seemed to disappear in the pure white light.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished. In its place was total darkness.

"Welcome to Bayersville," a voice called out from the rooftop above. Remo recognized it as Deke Bauer's. "I didn't think you'd be out here, but when I saw the car coming, I figured you two might be coming for a short visit. Real short." He laughed.

You surprised me once, Remo said to himself. It's not going to happen again. "Just keep talking, Bauer."

The major's harsh laughter grew louder. "Honest, I'm glad you came. Now I can finish what I started. That is, unless you brought someone along to throw himself in front of you when the shooting starts. That's your style, isn't it, Williams?"

"Don't—" Chiun began, but Remo's anger was stronger than his reason. He leaped blindly toward the voice. But just as he left the ground, his balance was thrown by a thundering blast of music. It was marching music turned up to an unbearably high level, its brass and drums blaring like the shock waves of an explosion.

Remo slammed into the roof, out of control, and toppled over backward, hitting the bumpy road below. The loud music masked all other sounds. He couldn't see Bauer in the sudden darkness, and now he couldn't hear him, either. He strained to pick out the sound of footsteps, but it was impossible. Everything was drowned out by the crash of cymbals and the high, piercing notes of a dozen or more cornets.

Remo made himself relax, and in a few moments his eyes adjusted to the darkness. But all he could see around him were the car and the deserted buildings. Chiun was gone.

He started to look for the old man, but a sharp jolt of pain stabbed into his shoulder. A fraction of a second later, he heard the crack of the bullet.

"Bauer," he hissed. All of the hate he had felt for the man welled up inside him again.

Don't, he told himself. Don't let him get to you again. The past is gone, as dead as the ghosts in this place. Remember who you are now. Now is what matters. Nothing else.

He felt the sticky flow of blood as it seeped through his fingers. Another shot ricocheted off the car with a metallic whine. As best as Remo could judge, it had landed a few inches right of his head. He rolled, trying frantically to find Bauer's form on one of the darkened rooftops.

It occurred to him then that he might well die in this place. What a stupid way to go, he thought— listening to an army marching song. He winced as air began to work its way into the wound. Why didn't Bauer just finish him off? The arrogant bastard was playing with Remo, gloating over his handiwork. But, then, Remo should have expected that Bauer would play this out for all it was worth. He remembered the bodies on the wire.