Warren Murphy: Murder's Shield

"I mean, up on the bar," Remo persisted.

"I see our friend is moving. See how well I kept my promise on his staying alive?"

"Chiun, admit it. Perfection."

"Does my saying perfection make it perfection? If that is required, then the act itself was less than perfection. Therefore," said Chiun with a high happy note in his voice, "I must say that it was less than perfect."

The circus owner groaned and rose to his feet.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I decided not to try any tricks in the dark and climbed down," Remo said.

"You ain't getting your money back. You rented the place. If you didn't do your tricks, it ain't my fault. Anyway, you're lucky. Nobody ever did a four-somersault. Nobody."

"I guess you're right," Remo said.

The circus owner shook his head. "What happened to me?"

"One of your seats collapsed," said Remo.

"Where? Which one? They look good to me."

"This one over here," said Remo, touching the metal bottom of the seat nearest to Chiun.

When the circus owner saw the crack appear before his eyes, he attributed it to the fall he had taken. Otherwise he would have had to believe that this nut who'd chickened out on the high-wire tricks, had actually cracked the bottom of a metal seat with his hand. And he wasn't about to believe that of anyone.

Remo put on his street clothes over his dark tights, a pair of flared blue flannel pants and a clean blue shirt with just enough collar not to appear stodgy. His dark hair was trimmed short and his angular features were handsome enough to belong to a movie star. But the dark eyes said that this was not a movie star. The eyes did not communicate; they absorbed, and looking into them gave some people the uneasy feeling of staring into a cave. He was of average build and only his thick wrists belied any superior strength.

"Didja forget your wristwatch?" asked the circus owner.

"No," said Remo. "I don't wear one any more."

"Too bad," said the owner. "Mine's broken and I've got an appointment."

"It's three forty-seven and thirty seconds," said Remo and Chiun in unison. The owner looked puzzled.

"You guys are kidding, right?"

"Right," said Remo.

Seconds later, outside the tent, the owner was surprised to find that the time was three forty-eight. But the two men were not around to be asked how they could tell time without wristwatches. They were in a car on their way to a motel room on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas, zipping along a highway strewn with beer cans and the bodies of dogs-the victims of Texas drivers who believe head-on collisions are just another form of brakes.

"Something is bothering you, my son," said Chiun.

Remo nodded. "I think I'm going to be on the wrong side."

Chiun's frail parchment face became puzzled.

"Wrong side?"

"Yes, I think I'm going in on the wrong side this time." His voice was glum.

"What is a wrong side? Will you cease to work for Doctor Smith?"

"Look, you know I can't explain to you who we work for."

"I've never cared," said Chiun. "What difference would it make?"

"It does make a difference, dammit. Why do you think I do what I do?"

"Because you are a pupil of the Master of Sinanju and you perform your assassin's art because that is what you are. The flower gives to the bee and the bee makes honey. The river flows and mountains sit content and sometimes rumble. Each is what he is. And you, Remo, are a student in the House of Sinanju despite the fact that you are white."

"Dammit, Chiun, I'm an American, and I do what I do for other reasons. And now, they've told me to get up to a peak right away, and then I find out I'm going in against the good guys."

"Good guys? Bad guys? Are you living in a fairy tale, my son? You sound like the little children yelling things in the street or your president on the picture box. Have you not learned of our teaching? Good guys, bad guys! There are killing points, nerve points, hearts and lungs and eyes and feet and hands and balance. There are no good guys and bad guys. If there were, would armies have to wear uniforms to identify themselves?"

"You wouldn't understand, Chiun."

"I understand that the poor of the village of Sinanju eat, because the Master of Sinanju serves a master who pays. The food of one tastes just as sweet as the food of another. It is food. You have not learned fully, but you will." Chiun shook his head sadly. "I have given you perfection, as you demonstrated this afternoon, and now you act like a white man."

"So you admit it was perfect?"

"What good is perfection in the hands of a fool? It is a precious emerald buried in a dung heap."

And with that, Chiun was silent, but Remo paid no attention to his silence. He was angry, almost as angry as he had been that day a decade before when he had recovered from his public execution, waking up in Folcroft Sanitarium on Long Island Sound.

Remo Williams had been framed for a murder he did not commit, and then publicly executed in an electric chair that did not work. When he recovered, they told him that they had needed a man who did not exist to act as the killer arm for an agency set up outside the U.S. Constitution to preserve that Constitution from organized crime, revolutionaries, and from all who would overthrow the nation. The crime-fighting organization was CURE, and only four men knew of it: The President of the United States, Dr. Harold Smith, head of CURE, the recruiter, and now Remo. And the recruiter had killed himself to prevent himself from talking, telling Remo that "America is worth a life." Then there were only three who knew.

That was the moment when Remo decided to take the job. And for a decade, he thought he had long since buried the Remo Williams he used to be-a simple, foot-slogging patrolman on the Newark Police Force. It was so long ago that he had been a cop; and that cop had died in the electric chair.

So Remo had thought… Until now. But now he realized that the policeman had not died in the electric chair. Patrolman Remo Williams still lived. His stomach told him. It was churning at the thought of his new assignment-having to kill fellow cops.

CHAPTER THREE

There was some question whether Representative Francis X. Duffy, D-13th C.D., N.Y., could be buried in Church-sanctified ground. Suicides were not welcomed in holy ground, for to take one's own life was a grave offense against God who had given that life.

Yet, in the strictness of the Church was a humble demand for accuracy, a realistic knowledge of the limitations of man's perceptions. What served as proof to the police department of Seneca Falls, N.Y., and the national news media, was hardly sufficient for the Church.

There were powder burns on Francis Duffy's temple. The paraffin test showed that his finger had pulled the trigger. The police said the bruises occurred when he fell. He had been despondent and drinking heavily. His closest friend, Inspector William McGurk of the New York City police department, told the Church in confidence that his friend had been drinking secretly for over a year, very heavily. He had become more paranoid as alcoholism progressed. McGurk also told this to the U.S. Attorney General who had asked that he keep their meeting quiet

"Did he tell you about a suspected conspiracy?" asked the U.S. Attorney General.

"Conspiracy?" asked McGurk, lifting an eyebrow in his round moon face.

"Yes, conspiracy."

"Which one?"

"You tell me, Inspector."

"Okay, he said the police were banding together to execute criminals and they were going to get him next because he knew about it. Farmers planned to burn him alive in his home because he was going to prove farm parity was a plot by Protestants to hurt Catholics. The Knights of Columbus had been taken over by the Mafia. The United Jewish Appeal had gained secret control over Alcoholics Anonymous in order to ruin the liquor industry or something, and that was why he couldn't go to A.A. There was the doorman in his New York apartment building who reported on his empty bottles and was working for his political opponent. Sir, this is very unpleasant. Frank Duffy was my closest friend."