Warren Murphy: Judgment Day

Holly Broon screamed, "You son of a bitch," and squeezed the trigger. Remo saw the telltale tensing of her knuckles just before her finger squeezed the trigger.

Without bracing himself, and from a full stand, he flipped his body backwards over a large chair, landing on his neck and shoulders on the soft carpet behind the chair. The room was filled with the crack of the bullet from Holly Broon's pistol. Behind him, Remo heard the window crack as the bullet shattered the glass and went out into the rich Connecticut hills, where it would no doubt be stopped by nothing more important than a peasant.

"Son of a bitch," Holly screamed again. "Why'd you kill my father?"

Remo heard her feet pounding across the rug toward him. She would, of course, be holding the gun in front of her. He moved to his feet. When she reached him, she squeezed her right index finger again. Nothing happened. The gun was no longer there. Instead it was between Remo's fingers, plucked from her hand so fast she had not seen his hand move.

Remo examined the gun as if it were a particularly interesting bug, then he tossed it over his shoulder. He put an arm around the woman's shoulders. "There, there," he said. "Tell me all about it." He would calm her down until he could find out how she had learned about him.

Holly Broon balled her fist and punched him in the stomach.

"Ooooph," Remo grunted. She wrenched loose from his protective arm and went diving across the floor for the revolver, her satin robe hiking its way up, around her lush thighs as she did. Her hand was near the revolver when Remo landed on the floor beside her.

He slapped the gun away, this time under a large mahogany chest.

"Now, now," he said. "What's this all about?"

She sobbed in his arms on the floor. "You killed my father."'

"Who told you that?"

"Doctor Smith."

"When'd you talk to him?"

"This morning. He called me. Is it true?"

"Now do I look like the killer type?"

"Then Corbish did it, right?"

Remo nodded, and then because he felt terrible about lying to the poor girl, he made love to her. As he did, he wondered why Smith had called. He really was demented, trying to cause trouble for the new head of CURE that way. Compromising Remo in the bargain. The more he thought of it, the more angry he became. When Remo saw him, he would give him a piece of his mind, he thought. Then he remembered with a chill that when he saw him, he would have to kill him. That took all the fun out of pleasuring Holly Broon although she did not seem to be able to tell the difference. She moved and moaned beneath him, even though he had trouble concentrating.

"Oh, Remo," she said. 'I'm so glad it wasn't you."

"Me, too," he said, since he could think of nothing else to say.

He left her with her eyes closed on the plush carpet of her drawing room, a peaceful look on her face, a smile on her lips. He stood up, arranged his clothes, and looked down at her naked body. Women should always look so happy, he thought. There would be much less violence in the world.

He turned and walked toward the door. Let her rest If she wanted to settle the score with Corbish later on, let her. That was Corbish's problem. And hers. But not Remo's. Thank God, he was out of this one.

As he reached the door and extended his hand toward the knob, the click of a pistol's hammer alerted his senses. He collapsed onto the floor. Right where his head had been, a bullet slammed into the door, ripping out a large chunk of the heavy oak. Remo pushed open the door and rolled through the opening.

In the hall, he was on his feet and running.

Nuts, he thought.

Everybody in the whole world was nuts.

He would hold this view for at least another thirty minutes, while he was driving back to his hotel and saw a large sign reading Folcroft Oaks Golf Course. The sign triggered a memory and Remo recalled that Smith told him once he lived on the edge of a fairway. Yes, he remembered, Smith had a family. A wife and a daughter, just like real people. Just like Remo would never have. And if anyone knew where Smith was, Mrs. Smith would.

Driving along the golf course road, Remo suddenly understood the telegram Smith had sent him. "When are you going to hit a home run?"

It meant Remo should look for Smith at his home. He had been tantalizing Remo all along. But why?

Remo drove the darkened deserted grounds of the golf course until he saw an old English Tudor house with a small sign in front of it: Smith.

Under normal circumstances, he would have sneaked into the house. But a taste for going in front doors had been reawakened in him. He parked his car in the driveway, walked to the front door and rang the bell.

A chubby middle-aged woman in a light blue knee-length dress answered the bell on the third ring.

"I'm looking for Dr. Smith," Remo said. "Is he in?"

"Your name is?"

"My name is Remo."

"Oh, yes, I've been expecting you. Harold called and left a message for you. Now, let's see, what was it? Oh, yes. He said you should go to Washington and rent a room in the Lafayette Hotel under the name of J. Walker and he would contact you there."

"Did he say when I should do this?" asked Remo.

"Oh, my goodness, no. He didn't say. But he sounded as if it was important, so I would guess he meant right away."

"I see," Remo said. "Thank you."

"Are you sure you have it right, Mr. Remo? I'll write it down if you want."

"No, that's all right, Mrs. Smith. I'll remember it."

He started to walk away, but stopped when Smith's wife called:

"Mr. Remo?"

"Yes?"

"Is my Harold all right? He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"Not that I know of."

"Good," she said and her face brightened. "He was sort of abrupt on the phone. Do you work with him, Mr. Remo?"

"I used to."

"Well, I feel better about that, because you're a very nice young man. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

"No. I'd better be going," Remo said.

"When you see Harold, give him my love," the woman said to Remo's retreating back. He turned and looked at her, framed in the doorway, and for a moment he felt jealous of old penny-pinching Smith and ashamed of himself for what he would have to do when he found him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"It is done," Chiun said.

Remo looked blankly toward Chiun and shrugged his shoulders.

"I said, it is done."

Remo shrugged again. Aboard the American Airlines Jet to Washington, Chiun reached over and plucked from Remo's ears the stethoscope-type earphones on which Remo was listening to a stereo music concert.

"What, Little Father?" said Remo, rubbing his ears.

"Nothing," Chiun said.

"It must have been something for you to tear my ears off."

"It was unimportant."

"Okay. Call me when we get to Washington," said Remo. He lowered his body in the seat and closed his eyes as if to sleep.

Chiun stared at Remo's closed eyes. "You will sleep a long time," he hissed, "before the Master of Sinanju speaks to you again."

Remo opened his eyes. "What's the matter, Chiun?"

"My history of the Smith dynasty is complete. Yet do you care? Even though you are in it? Do you care to learn how history will regard you? No. You want to listen to be-bops and to sleep."

"Nobody listens to be-bops anymore," Remo said.

"If anyone could, you would."

"Let me see your history."

"I don't know if I should," Chiun said.

"Then don't," said Remo.

"Since you insist," Chiun said, and he held out the long roll of parchment on which he had written.

Remo sat up straight, took the scroll, unrolled it from the top and began to read. Chiun's handwriting was big and elaborate, decorated with swirls and loops, like a Palmer Penman gone berserk.

Chiun's Mad Emperor