Warren Murphy: Death Check

Now he nodded and a follower threw an object-yes, it was a rock, judged Remo, just before it crashed through the window and broke into the natural rhythm of Brewster's nose. Brewster spun and gasped and shrieked and covered his nose. Then he looked at his hands. They were dressed in blood, flowing down his wrists into his tweed jacket.

"Oh, no. The bastards. My nose."

Indeed, the nose was broken, a rapidly-spreading red glob that released large amounts of blood. Broken it was, tragic it wasn't.

"It's broken, that's all," said Remo. "Keep your hands away from it. Only the splinter can be dangerous."

"Oh, no. The pain. The blood. You're security officer. Do something. I order it. I even give permission. Do something. Call the police. Call a doctor."

"Call the oppressive, trouble-creating counterforce?"

"Don't be so smartass, Pelham. I'm bleeding. Go out there and thrash the scum. If you have a gun, use it. Kill the little bastards."

Remo walked to the window. The seven-man gang was growing restive. Their next step would be to walk into Brewster's office, and that might wind up causing damage to Brewster's files and the work of the forum. Remo would have to go out and work in front of witnesses.

"Excuse me," he told Brewster. "I'll only be a mo

He pushed open the door to the courtyard, and stood there a minute telling himself, no matter how many months he had been at peak, he'd better not slip and kill one of these lugs.

The head lug took Remo's momentary hesitation for fear.

"Come over here, you fag bastard," he called.

Remo walked up to him, gauging the distance, exactly three and one half feet away, the precise distance for the toe kick to the kneecap.

"Did you call me, sir?" he said to Six-Foot-Six as the other half-dozen cyclists lined up behind their leader. From left to right in the row, they were carrying, chains, lug wrench, knife, chain, chain and knife.

The leader posed. He brandished his size and weight.

Ratchett was far down the courtyard, masturbating by rubbing his hands inside his pants pockets. None of his colleagues noticed, their eyes were on Remo.

"Yeah, I called you, fag. What do you think of that?"

"What do I think of what, sir?" Remo drew his right hand closer to his side, and slightly turned it palm facing front. The fingernails would be good for two eyeballs when the second row made its move.

"You're a fag. And you like to cheat people at games."

"Very true, sir," Remo said. He bent his left elbow slightly. He must be sure the elbow would hit the nose; an inch too low and the blow could be fatal.

"You like to cause trouble."

"Very true, sir," Remo said. He extended the fingers on his left hand, then pulled his thumb back against the palm, almost like cocking a revolver.

Mister Six-Foot-Six was becoming confused. "You're a fag," he insisted.

"Well, sir," Remo said. "I've really enjoyed our conversation but I must be about my business. Unless there's something else you'd like to ask me."

"You're a faggot. A fairy. A queer. Do you like being that?" Six-Foot-Six was getting desperate now. Time to end the nonsense.

"No, I don't like being that," Remo said. "You know what I like?"

"What?"

"I like being called names by shit-faces like you. Because it justifies all the painful things I'm going to do to you. And these turds that hover around you, like flies around a pig's ass."

Ratchett clutched in awesome excitement at his organ.

"I don't want to have to look at your ugly pimpled face anymore or hear that belching that you call words. Now step forward, shit. Step forward one inch, and I'm going to fix you so that you'll never walk again without the pain reminding you of me. Come on. Just one inch."

The leader laughed. But his followers didn't. They waited, and their silence shouted at him, and accused him, and finally, in frustration, he stepped forward, just one inch, and then he moved himself into something very fast that seemed to plunge a knife into his kneecap, and then there was a wrench, and then the sky, and then that awful tearing, and he was staring at the sky and it became dark, then black, then nothing.

Remo worked the others rather lightly. The right hand fingernails took care of an eyeball each on chain and knife at the right end of the line.

The elbow took care of chain at the left, and Remo was pleased when it neatly smashed the nose like a dried cracker, without slipping off toward the potentially-fatal upper lip. The edge of his left hand cracked like a baseball bat against the forehead of lug wrench, second from the left, and he dropped in a heap.

This wouldn't do. Five of them were down, and Remo still hadn't moved from the spot. All that was left was knife and chain in the middle.

If Remo had raised his arms and shouted "boo," they would have fun. But Remo needed them. He didn't want it to look too easy. He backed up a step, encouraging knife and chain to charge. He moved around between the two of them, lunging, blocking, making it all look very hard, and then suddenly he didn't give a shit who was watching, and he busted an ear drum on each one of them.

So there they were, seven of them groaning on the gravel. Ratchett spent, Brewster, who had come to the door, on the verge of a scream of gratitude, and Remo holding his head. Remo was holding his head because he had collected some blood from one of the seven and he put it on his head to show a wound. Then, still bent over, he forced his mind onto his blood vessels-out, in, circulating strong thoughts of fire, oppression, sweltering sun taking his fluids, and was finally able to work up a sweat.

"I love you. I love you," yelled Ratchett. Then he ran inside, presumably, Remo thought, to change his pants.

"That ode's still bovid," Brewster called through his broken nose. "Kick hib or sobthid."

"You kick him," Remo said.

"I deed a doctor," Brewster said and vanished indoors.

With the exception of their leader whose knee cap had turned suddenly to jelly, the cyclists were capable of driving away. They carried Mr. Six-Foot-Six.

Then something very surprising happened. The staff of Brewster Forum-the faces in the pictures-gathered around Remo like school children. There was Ferrante. And Schulter. There was even the forum's chess instructor, who said something about "a game some time."

But Remo wasn't paying attention. He was looking for one who wasn't there, the black-haired beauty who had vanished into the last cottage as soon as the fight ended.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was noon, and as he did every day, Remo checked Dial-a-Prayer in Chicago. The Reverend Sminstershoop was still in Psalms.

Genesis would have begun a get-ready countdown. Ecclesiastes would have given Remo a day to finish his assignment. Deuteronomy meant all plans out the window, wipe out the place and split.

But Psalms just meant another day at peak readiness. Yea, though he walked through the valley of death, he could not relax, let the tension drain, recoup his powers. He feared only the evil of diminishing every day. Already, if he were to risk the cat fall, he knew he would not just make a sound, he would probably get a concussion.

So he spoke a number into the tape recording. The number was of his telephone booth with the area code placed last, the traditional way of destroying as many links as possible, even if those links were to your own people, monitoring incoming phone calls for people they did not know.

And he hung up, not by returning the receiver, but by leaning his phone arm down on the cradle. He kept it there five minutes while chattering away to no one. On the first buzz before the bell engaged in the first ring, Remo released the cradle.

"It's me," he said, that being enough identification. At one time he had a number, but he could never remember it, and Smith finally told him to forget it. "Look, I spoke with everyone but the woman here. And I don't believe the pictures. Were the photos possibly phonys?"