Warren Murphy: Death Therapy

The ship quivered and pitched over lightly on its side, a sputtering, frustrated behemoth emplanted in an island. On the island, park personnel ran about wildly in confusion and shock.

Admiral James Benton Crust left the control room on the dead run, heading for the engine room, far below in the hull of the ship. Seamen were running around in panic, ignoring him.

Some had already jumped overboard onto the island, even though the ship was in no danger of sinking. The whoops of boat sirens could be heard in the air as pleasure boats, then tags and other commercial vessels in the area began to ply toward the scene to offer help.

Admiral Crust raced through the now tilted corridors, oblivious to the excitement, humming to himself, occasionally waving at seamen he recognized.

He entered the engine room.

"All right. All hands, abandon ship."

Seamen began to scurry toward the door.

"You will leave in an orderly manner," the admiral ordered angrily. They slowed their run down to a trot.

The lieutenant senior grade in charge of the engine room saluted: "Admiral, sir. Can I be of assistance?"

"Yes, get out of here."

"Aye aye, sir. And the admiral?"

Crust was even now shoving the lieutenant through the bulkhead door. "The admiral is going to show you jug-heads of the Modern Navy how a real seaman dies with his ship."

He locked the bulkhead door, spinning the wheel lock, until it was secure. Then, humming to himself, he began to open the sea valves.

Oily black muddy water began to pour into the engine room. Clouds of oily putrid steam arose as the water engulfed the huge diesel motors and they sputtered and stopped. Admiral Crust giggled.

"Give me sail, every time, lads, give me sail. Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum."

The young lieutenant pounded on the bulkhead door.

"Admiral, let me in."

Inside, James Benton Crust shouted: "I know what I'm doing. It's the Navy way."

The lieutenant kept pounding for several more minutes. But then there was no one left to hear.

Admiral James Benton Crust, Annapolis '42, was face up, against the metal ceiling of the engine room compartment, the water pressure mashing his face against the steel ceiling plates.

The last thing he did in this world was hum.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The phone intruded on Remo. He rolled over and pulled his pillow over his head but still it intruded, an incessant squawking that seemed to get louder with each successive ring.

"Chiun, get the phone," he grumbled. But Chiun had already left their room at the Human Awareness Laboratories for his morning exercise, which consisted primarily of picking flowers.

So Remo rolled over and snatched the receiver from its cradle.

"Yeah," he snarled.

"Smith here."

"You gone bananas? What the hell are you calling me on this open phone for?"

"It might not matter much longer anyway if we don't get some results. Did you ever hear of an Admiral Crust?"

Remo slid up into a sitting position in bed. "Yeah, I heard of him. Why?"

"This morning he rammed a battleship into the Statue of Liberty. Then he drowned himself in the engine room. He was humming all the way."

"Poor bastard," Remo said. "I was with him last night. I wanted to warn him but I was too late. They had already hooked him."

Remo got to his feet now and was pacing back and forth. Smith said, "With luck, I'll know this afternoon about the bidding."

"Good," Remo said. "I'll call you. I've got some garbage to put out."

"Don't be emotional," Smith said. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful," Remo said, slowly replacing the phone on its stand.

It had been a good trap, he thought, and he had fallen right into it. Sent to kill Admiral Crust; sent into a trap from which he was not supposed to escape. And then Admiral Crust being triggered to run amok. Lithia had not been in her apartment last night when Remo returned. Probably out celebrating the death of Remo Donaldson. No doubt, she believed he was dead… as soon she would be. Remo Williams was finished playing games.

He was still wearing the salt-stiffened clothes of the night before. He changed rapidly into a fresh shirt and slacks, stepped out into the hall.

It was still early and there were no people in sight. Remo rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. Lithia Forrester's secretary was not yet at her desk and Remo walked past her empty chair, and without knocking, pushed open the large oak door to enter Lithia Forrester's office.

Her office was bathed brightly in morning sunshine pouring through the overhead dome. But the office was empty. Remo saw a door on the far wall and went through it, into a plush chrome and glass living room. That too was empty.

Remo's trained ears picked up a sound off to the right. He passed through another closed door and was in a bedroom, done all in black. The rug was thick and black; so were the bedspread and drapes. Not even a slice of yellow sunlight slithered into the room around the heavy, lined drapes; the only illumination came from an antique Chinese figurine lamp on the dresser.

The sound he had heard came from the bathroom off the bedroom, the sound of water from a shower and, merged with it, the sound of a woman singing.

Her voice was melodic and tuneful as she sang the melody: "Super-kali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious." She sang the one line over and over again in a high, good-humoured kind of chant.

Remo sat on her bed, his eyes toward the slightly-opened bathroom door, waiting, thinking that butchers always seemed to enjoy their work. And Lithia Forrester was a butcher. There had been Clovis Porter and General Dorfwill and Admiral Crust. The CIA man Barrett. And how many others had died because of her? How many had Remo himself killed?

Lithia Forrester owed America at least her own life. Remo Williams had come to collect.

The sound of the shower stopped, Lithia Forrester sang more softly to herself now in the bathroom. Remo could imagine her towelling the tall rich body that instilled in every man a satyr's dreams.

He began to whistle the melody. "Super-kali-frag-il-istic-expi-ali-docious."

He whistled it louder. She heard it, because she stopped singing and the bathroom door flew open.

Lithia Forrester stood there, naked and golden, the bathroom light from behind her casting an aura around her flaxen hair and peach body.

She was smiling in anticipation, but then she saw Remo sitting on her bed, only eight feet away, and she stopped. Her eyes widened in horror and fright. Her mouth hung open.

"Expecting someone else?" Remo said.

Then she was embarrassed. She turned her body slightly away from Remo and thrust an arm across her breasts.

"Too late to be shy," Remo said. "Remember? I turned off your lights last night? I've come to do it again."

Lithia paused, then dropped her arm and turned her full body toward Remo. "I remember, Remo. I remember. You did turn off my lights. And it was never better. I want you to do it again. Right now. Right here."

She walked forward until she was only inches from Remo. His face was at the level of her waist. She reached behind his head and pulled him forward until his face was buried against her soft, still-damp belly.

"What did you do last night, Remo?" she asked. "After you left me."

"If you mean did I kill Admiral Crust as you told me to, no. Did I fall into the trap you set for me and get killed by Crust's men, no. Did I stop Crust from ramming his ship today into the Statue of Liberty, no." He spoke softly as if confiding a secret to her stomach. He reached his hands slowly around her back, resting them on her firm smooth cheeks, and then he reached both hands up and grabbed two handfuls of long blonde hair and yanked her head back with a snap.

He jumped to his feet and spun Lithia Forrester around and tossed her onto the bed.