Warren Murphy: Next Of Kin

"Then you'll do them on that island, you stupid old loon," the captain said, pointing to Sint Maarten. "I'm ordering you off my ship immediately."

"May I say it's the most intelligent order you've ever given. And by the way, Vittorelli won't die in the hospital. Ill be there to make sure he stays alive. Remember me— and men like me— when you're dying, Captain." He turned and walked back to his cabin, where a suitcase and a new life waited.

The captain sputtered impotently. Then two women passengers strolled by, nodding and giggling, and the captain resumed his mask of boyish confidence.

He walked briskly to the radio control room. The operator, a swarthy Mediterranean, was eating a salami sandwich. The air in the small room was redolent with garlic. We've been overrun by guineas, the captain said to himself, making a note to replace all foreigners on the ship's crew with good Englishmen. Except the cooks. If there'd been a decent meal to be had in Britain, he would never have left for the sea in the first place.

"Radio St. Rose's Hospital," he barked. The radio operator lifted his headset. "Tell them we're bringing in the wounded man. Then prepare for departure."

The operator's eyes widened. "He's alive? Vittorelli's alive?"

"Yes, yes. Send the message. And air out this cabin, in the name of the Queen."

"Yes, sir." When the door closed behind the captain, the radio operator called in the glad tidings. There was a whoop at the other end as the operator at St. Rose's repeated the message to the staff.

"Good work," the St. Rose dispatcher said. "Get our doctors back here."

"Will do," the ship's operator began to say, when a roar of static over the headphones made him jump out of his seat.

"Giuseppe Battiato?" a flat voice asked from the other end of the transmission. The Italian crossed himself. It was like the voice of fate, booming and authoritative, calling him by name from an unknown source.

"Y-y-y-si?" the operator answered.

"This is a scrambled line," the voice said. "No one on this frequency can hear us. Do you still read me?"

O Madre Dio. "I read you."

?Fourteen

Remo felt as if he were in a dream, floating. Soft white hands of women caressed him. Eager lips brushed his face. He half focused on the small stone cell with its barred window, where he had been brought, screaming in pain, so long ago.

The pain. His leg no longer hurt him. Funny, the pain had been so bad before. He was sure he'd passed out from it, but now he felt nothing.

One of the girls, a voluptuous blonde, found his tongue with hers as she weaved deliciously in front of him. The other girl, a brunette beauty, tackled his belt buckle with deft expertise.

Suddenly there was a loud whooshing of air and a sharp crack. The blonde's smile froze and vanished as she fell backward, a metal dart vibrating in her breastbone. Another thwack, and the brunette slumped dead at Remo's feet.

He shook his head, unbelieving, and turned to look at the tiny prison window behind him. Through the bars, he saw his housekeeper's fat face peering hotly at him, a straw peashooter between her lips.

"Sidonie."

"Get up, fool. The old man need you. Get out of there." She shifted her tremendous bulk in a rustle of skirts and produced a length of iron pipe, which she lowered halfway through the bars.

"You push that way, I push this way. We bend the bars, you get out. Got it?"

"Chiun," he groaned through the fog in his brain. The pipe fell to the floor.

"Pick that up, boy," Sidonie said, irritated. "I walk all the way to de Jeep for that. Now you help me use it to get you out, or I knock your block off with this peashooter, okay? It got poison on de end, so don't try no funny stuff." She puffed her cheeks menacingly.

Forcing himself to alertness, Remo reached up to the bars on the window and pulled them apart with his hands, then hoisted himself through the opening.

"Not bad, white boy," Sidonie said, impressed. "Where Pierre? I still got his money. He come in that?" She pointed to the abandoned Jeep.

"He did. He's dead, Sidonie."

Her mouth turned downward. "That boy have no business coming to Devil's Mountain," she said. She waddled heavily in front of him.

"How'd you get here?"

"I can't keep Fabienne in that house, Mr. Remo. Not and keep us both alive. They coming for her, the Dutchman's men. We leave, they come. I seen them. It bad, Mr. Remo."

"How'd you know we'd be here?"

She smiled ruefully. "I be in the Resistance, boy. I know you ain't no tourists. The Dutchman, he something funny. He your business here, I figure."

"Where's Fabienne?"

"I hide her out in these caves near here—"

A scream pierced the air. "Dat her!" Sidonie puffed toward the brush. Fabienne screamed again.

"Where is she? I can get there faster alone."

"Over there." She pointed toward a molehill of volcanic pockets sprouting out of the earth beneath a large almond tree. Remo ran to the mouth of the largest cave, which seemed to be connected to the others.

"Fabienne?"

"Remo!" the girl shrieked below. There was a scuffle and another scream, followed by a series of unintelligible grunts. Remo blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness as he descended deeper into the cave.

In the distance he saw the mute. "Get to the mouth of the cave!" he shouted to the girl. She scurried away.

Deep in the darkness of the cave, Sanchez turned silently to Remo, a knife flashing as he yanked it from between his teeth and raised it above his head to lunge. Remo dodged him and ran even deeper into an obscure channel of the cave. The air was cool and still here. It reminded him of the Dutchman's castle, except that there was no light at all, not even enough to catch the metal of the mute's knifeblade. It was pitch black. Even Remo's trained night vision was worthless.

He reached a hand up experimentally. The ceiling was low. Long stalactites protruded like icicles above him. He tried to find the walls by touch to locate an avenue of escape.

Suddenly the air split as the mute's blade skimmed close by Remo's chest. He backed off involuntarily, breaking off one of the stalactites with a crash. The blade lunged again. By instinct, Remo moved away from the sound a split second before it would have struck him.

Another arc of sound crashed near his left ear. He twisted toward it, bringing his foot up in a ferocious kick. It struck flesh. The mute snarled and brought the knife down over Remo's neck, but it hit only the hard cave earth below. Remo followed the sound of the knife striking and scooped up the mute in both arms. Before the writhing man in his arms could raise his weapon again, Remo thrust him to the ceiling, where a stalactite speared and held him like an insect on a pin.

The mute emitted a low, guttural moan, his arms and legs stirring the dark air briefly, then was silent again. The air returned to stillness.

"Fabienne? It's all right. Say something. It'll lead me to the entrance."

"This way," her voice called from far away, echoing through the empty chambers of the caves.

"Keep talking."

"Over here, Remo." The sound came from a dozen places at once. Over here, over here, over here.

"Never mind. I can't tell where you are." He thought for a moment. "Fabienne, pick up two stones. The bigger the better. Bring them to the dark mouth of the cave, away from the entrance."

After a moment, she spoke. "All right." All right, all right, all right, the walls echoed.

"Now hit the stones together. Put one on the ground if you have to. Just keep hitting."

When his echo died down, he pitched his hearing low. Now he caught the cave's secret sounds: the slow dripping of lime water in the stalactite chambers behind him, the beating of distant bats' wings, soft as night. Silence, Chiun had taught him, was never silent if you listened carefully enough. He fixed his hearing again, to an even more sensitive level.