Warren Murphy: Date with Death

As per instructions, Donner delivered each load to an isolated airstrip south of Santa Fe. There the women were picked up and flown to an abandoned monastery in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. There were more than 180 women up there now, and there was no danger that any of them would escape. A combat-hardened veteran named Deke Bauer saw to that.

Bauer first came to Quantril's attention sometime around the end of the Vietnam War, when Bauer— then an army major— was tried and convicted of war crimes against foreign civilians. During the ensuing flurry of press coverage, it came out that Bauer amused himself during lonely jungle vigils by decapitating young children from both North and South Vietnam. He also mutilated old women, conducted mass hangings of entire villages, and was rumored to have cut off the fingers of the enlisted men under his command when they failed to execute his orders to the letter. Unfortunately, none of the military victims lived to testify against him.

Bauer was Quantril's kind of man. Using the vast resources of Dream Date to bring the major up for retrial and an eventual acquittal, Quantril personally met with Bauer upon his release from the penitentiary.

"What do you know about prisons?" he asked Bauer.

The military man sneered. "They're not so tough."

"Make me one that is," Quantril said. "One that can't be cracked. Ever." Then he took Bauer to the monastery in the mountains.

Bauer was as good as his word. Within a month, he turned the old ruin into an unassailable fortress.

Miles Quantril leaned back in his chair. Today the first of the women was going to be delivered to the first of Quantril's unsuspecting recipients. He smiled at the image his mind conjured up. What would the poor bastard do when he found this unique gift stretched out on his bed?

The phone on the desk purred softly. Quantril slowly crossed the room and lifted the receiver. He didn't bother to say hello. Words like hello, good-bye, and thank you were not part of his vocabulary. Or Deke Bauer's.

"The gift has reached its destination," Bauer said.

Quantril gently replaced the receiver. Feeling a tingle of triumph, he sat down and crossed his legs, taking care not to mar the razor-sharp crease in his trousers. The great game had finally begun. Now it was just a matter of time before it reached its inevitable conclusion.

?CHAPTER FOUR

No one knows where the Kanton Indians came from. They simply appeared one day, stepping out of the swirling mists that clung to the upper reaches of the mountain. The first thing their chief did was to borrow a blanket from the startled Hopi shepherd who witnessed their sudden appearance. The chief explained that he hadn't expected it to be terribly cold on the mountain and that he would be sure to return the blanket at first light the next day.

The chief never did get around to returning the blanket. It became the first item in a centuries-long line of unreturned objects and promises postponed for "just another day."

That first night, the Kantons moved into an abandoned campsite and cooked their first meal with pots and food donated by the good-natured Navajo. In the days that followed, it became apparent to all the neighboring tribes that the Kantons had arrived without anything— not even a culture or heritage they could call their own. The Kanton chief kept muttering about "lost baggage" and a great supply of trade goods, precious metals, and gems that were due to arrive in "just another day." But they never did materialize.

So the Kantons kept on borrowing, mainly because the other tribes found it difficult to say no. The Kantons were so charming, so quick to smile and laugh and to break out with the verse and chorus of a recently borrowed song. As the weeks stretched into years, the Kantons continued to raid their neighbors' cultures. Baskets were acquired from the Chacos, weaving and pottery from the Navajo, while the great Anasazi donated an entire pantheon of gods. The Kantons themselves never did much more than sit in the sun. The simple life seemed to suit them, and over the centuries the tribe grew and prospered.

Then one morning the Kantons disappeared as mysteriously as they had come. They were there one moment, and then they were gone, swallowed up by the swirling mountain mists. A few, however, remained behind. There were no more than a half-dozen of the tribe left to carry on the great Kanton traditions. Among that noble six was the woman who would become Sam Wolfshy's great-great-grandmother.

Sam sat on the curb of Harry's Payless service station and garage, tossing pebbles onto the dry ground and occasionally glancing over his shoulder to look at the seatless hull of his jeep.

He was a handsome man in his late twenties. His face was long and angular, with copper-hued skin stretched taut over jutting cheekbones and a prominent chin. There was a mischievous twinkle in his soft black eyes. Hair of the same color brushed the tops of his shoulders while the rest of it was hidden under a ragged-brimmed straw hat. There'd been no customers for three weeks at Harry's Payless, and Sam was bored. The blood of his Indian ancestors stirred in his veins, but he was helpless to follow his instincts.

Where was the adventure of yesteryear? he wondered. Where were the mountain ponies and the bonfires that crackled on the desert breeze? Sam went into the station, prepared to quit his job to explore the unknown wilderness. His uncle sat behind the counter, reading a newspaper.

"What do you want now, fathead?" his uncle asked.

"Uh, Uncle Harry—"

"Want maybe to quit? Here's your salary." The old man rummaged in the cash register and waved some bills in front of him. "Nice countryside out there. Young man like you could find a job if he wanted to."

Sam swallowed. "Well, actually I was just wondering if I could borrow a Coke."

The hopeful smile on his uncle's face withered as he put the bills back in the register. "No guts," the old man muttered. "You're the damnedest Indian I ever seen. You're dumb, and a coward to boot. You get lost walking around the block. Jesus, a blind man'd be more help around here than you."

"About the Coke, Uncle Harry—"

Harry threw a warm can at his nephew. "Get out of here," he growled.

Sam Wolfshy went back to the curb and sat down. Another attempt at freedom squelched. Ah, well, he reasoned, a guy had to have some loyalty to his family. Especially if they were supporting him. He took a deep drink of the warm soda and closed his eyes. Things weren't so bad, he guessed. It was a good day for working on his tan.

Chiun had not stopped complaining since they left their motel room in Santa Fe.

"Lout. It is an insult."

Remo gripped the wheel of the Chevy until his knuckles turned white. "Little Father, I've already told you a dozen times. We can't wait forever in a motel room. That's not what Smitty sent us here for."

"Imbecile. It is exactly what the Emperor sent us for. If we had waited just a few minutes longer, Mona Madrigal would have come. You have ruined everything."

"For crying out loud, Mona Madrigal doesn't even know we're here."

"Pah. In my village, when a Master of Sinanju appears, the whole village turns out to welcome him."

"Santa Fe's not in Korea."

"The Emperor will be mightily displeased. He sent us to this arid wasteland so that Mona could be presented to me. Now we have insulted his graciousness by leaving so rudely."

"Smitty doesn't even know who Mona Madrigal is," Remo shouted. "There are bodies lying all over the desert—"

"A mere ruse," Chiun said with exaggerated patience, wagging his eyebrows up and down. "Can't you see anything? Oh, I should never have accepted a white pupil. You understand nothing."

"I understand that we're supposed to go to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains," Remo said stubbornly. The car produced a series of sputtering, clanking sounds. "That is, if this junk heap will take us there."