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Warren Murphy: Dr Quake

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Dr Quake: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Forber isn't a mad scientist, he's a tectonic technician with a touch for terror who goes by the name "Dr. Quake". California's touchy San Andreas Fault is in danger of being professionally provoked. But it's not Dr. Quake's fault, for someone has split with his earthquake machine. If this dastardly deviant doesn't get a million dollars in cold hard cash he is going to shake down Southern California for a whole lot more. Luckily, shakedowns and natural disasters are just what the doctor ordered for Remo Williams, Korean death master Chiun's trained killing machine, because when it comes to finding weapons of mass destruction, it takes one to find one. After our Destroyer sifts through the blackmail and terror it's the pompous perpetrator who won't be left standing.

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The motel owner was standing by the suite when Wyatt reached it.

"Stay out. My deputy will have questions for you."

"Uh, sheriff. I don't know how to say this, but, you know, I recognize one of the victims. They didn't pay in advance. They had American Express and now there's no one to sign."

"What do you want from me? He's one of your kind."

"I'm Armenian," the owner said.

"That's Jew, ain't it?"

"No. You see. ..."

"You look Jew."

"I'm not."

"Tough titty, baby, 'cause you sure look it. Now you stay outside of this suite. I'm going in. You see the bodies?"

"Yes."

"Pretty horrible, huh?"

"When there's no one to sign, it's very horrible. You see the Cowboy Motel is a marginal business...."

Sheriff Wyatt shut the door behind him. And there they were on the bed with the massager still running. Both of them naked, like two fruits. Who would have thought it of Feinstein? Sure, Sheriff Wyatt called him faggy, but not faggy like that. Not faggy nude in bed with the young fellow who according to the ID card was Silas McAndrew, a geologist for the Department of the Interior. The fellow Wyatt had talked to the day before.

Sheriff Wyatt kept focusing on the knees and groins to keep from looking at their mouths. He didn't want to look at their mouths or their heads. He looked at the water that soaked the bed near the men's waists, and then his eyes strayed up to their heads and he ran from the room again.

What he had seen was two men with their intestines squeezed out through their mouths, like they had choked on their own stomachs, dark red balloon organs squeezed like toothpaste from the bowels of their bodies.

He had been warned there could be deaths like that. One could even await him. But he hadn't really believed it. Not until now.

Wyatt lurched into the men's room again and made it to the urinal but there was nothing left and he just stood there, leaning into the flowing water. Naturally, he had parked his Stetson on top of the plunger before surrendering to his stomach.

The bathroom door opened again and the deputy came in mumbling something about looking for the sheriff again because the photographer was here to get the pictures of the two bodies.

"Go ahead. Take 'em."

"Should I question the owner too for a report?"

"Yeah."

"Then remove the bodies, sheriff?"

"Yeah. Bodies."

Sheriff Wyatt gasped for air.

"Sheriff?"

"Yeah?"

"Uh, some of the fellows just got a bag from Binky Burger and we got an extra goulash here with sloppy joe sauce if you want it."

"Get the bodies out of the motel," said Sheriff Wyatt, who did not fire his deputy on the spot only because he was too weak to do so.

Out in the San Aquino sun, looking down the hillside at the rising spruce and the valley beyond that and the mountains beyond that, with the homes dotted here and there, clean and fresh and sprawling, not cramped like some other places, Sheriff Wyatt regained his breath and his composure, then ambled across the gravel shoulder to his official car parked there. Even on an investigation, he would not park the official car in front of the Cowboy Motel lest there be nothing there to investigate and someone should later remember seeing the red bubble and the sheriff's gold stars on the black and white Plymouth. Then the rumours.

Rumours could kill an elected official.

Sheriff Wyatt plopped himself into his front seat, drew another breath, then drove to the offices of the First Aquino Trust and Development Corporation, Lester Curpwell IV, President, marched across the neat conservative gray rug, past the two secretaries with their polished wood desks, and into a panelled office where he waited for Lester Curpwell IV.

Curpwell was there in five minutes.

"Harris Feinstein is dead," Wyatt said as soon as Curpwell entered.

Curpwell sat at the brown leather chair behind his wide desk, without looking up, just staring vacantly at the desk. He sat under a larger-than-life-sized portrait of the first Curpwell, and like the portrait, said nothing.

Wyatt fingered his Stetson some more. He shifted his weight.

"Oh, no," said Curpwell, bleakly. "What happened?"

"Damned if I know. Harris and this guy from the Interior Department were found about twenty-five minutes ago, dead in the Cowboy." Sheriff Wyatt did not bother to say Cowboy Motel. Everyone knew the Cowboy was the Cowboy Motel. "Naked as the day they was born. I spoke to this McAndrew fellow just yesterday. He talked to Feinstein and I guess he came back with him for a look-see. Beats me why they came to the Cowboy to play fag games."

"Not a word of this must get in the papers," said Curpwell. "Have you notified Mrs. Feinstein?"

"Well, gee, not yet, Mr. Curpwell, I came here as soon as...."

"Good, I'll do it."

"I don't know about the papers. There's been a lot of talk, a lot of people at the motel, and. ..."

"You don't have to report he was found nude, with a man."

"No sir. He had the guts sucked outa him. Both of 'em."

"Is that how they died?"

"Must of. It was bad."

"In your coroner's report, you will have them ... have them...." Lester Curpwell paused.

"Found in bed with women?"

"No. You'll have them die of ptomaine. Probably from a bad meal back in Washington."

"Shoot, no. I mean, you're a Curpwell and everything but I ain't going to commit no felony for you."

"You're going to do what you're told, Wade Wyatt, and now get out of here."

Sheriff Wade Wyatt stood for a moment in glum protest.

Then he got out of there.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Silas McAndrew and Harris Feinstein had left a gift to America.

The gift was simply a memo to McAndrew's superior in the Department of the Interior. This was the chap who was always interested in anything unusual or in cases of corruption. He was the man who had asked for reports on the peculiarities out in California-specifically the geological ones.

The memo McAndrew wrote said he had corroborating evidence from a Harris Feinstein that indeed someone had found a way to tamper with nature to produce-or prevent-earthquakes. Not a hoax, McAndrew said. Could mean major scale destruction for the state. He was going to California. He meant to discuss the problem with a certain professor out there.

So that was the memo. The superior who had been curious about what was going on out there in California did not file the memo. He sent it along to the people who had told him what in general to look for and recently had expressed great interest in California geology. He didn't mind sending the material to the people who asked for it. They gave him $400 a month non-taxable spending money and arranged for him to be promoted faster than his colleagues.

He thought they were the FBI or the CIA or something.

McAndrew's superior did not know whom the information ultimately reached, for if he knew, that organization's main mission would have failed; a mission that had been given by a young President to an operative of the Central Intelligence Agency who quickly went on the retired list.

The mission was part confession. The United States Constitution did not work. To follow it meant chaos in the future. To abandon it meant a police state. Crime was winning, and so the young president created the new organization-CURE-a name never written on a memo and which only three Americans would ultimately know: The President, the chief of CURE, and the enforcement arm, a young former policeman named Remo Williams, who as the legend grew, came to be known by the Oriental name, Shiva, "The Destroyer."

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