Never Say Die

Chapter 16

Remo had some time to kill, but he didn’t enjoy the thought of driving back to Louisville and sitting in the motel room while Chiun stared sullenly out the window. Instead, to play it safe, he phone from a public booth.

Chiun answered on the second ring. His normally singsong voice was flat. “Hello.”

“It’s me,” said Remo.

“Me who?”

“Don’t start, Chiun. I just called to say I won’t be back for supper.”

“You are doubtless too busy busting ghosts.”

“You know this might go faster if you helped out instead of sulking,” Remo said.

“We will never know.”

Chiun hung up on him, the dial tone buzzing like a wasp in Remo’s ear. Frowning, he slammed the handset in its cradle. Some things never changed.

The booth was situated near a Monarch filling station, on the edge of town.. He crossed the asphalt minidesert to the station, went inside and got directions to the public library. It was a long shot, but with spare time on his hands, he had nothing to lose.

The Brandenburg librarian was in her early forties, ash blond hair pulled back and tied off. Her baggy slacks and sweater tried to hide a body that, in Remo’s estimation, would have made most men look twice. He pegged her as a competent, no-nonsense hand, when she was on the clock, but guessed she might cut loose and let her hair down after hours.

She directed Remo to the corner where a filing cabinet held back-issues of the local newspaper on microfilm. The reader was a vintage hand-crank model. Precise dates would have narrowed down his search, but none such were available, so he selected rolls of microfilm for 1983 through ’85, relieved to find the local paper was a weekly.

Remo scored in April 1984. The paper didn’t tell him what his quarry had been doing in the nearly-three years since he left Eugenix Corporation, but it trumpeted the plans for Dr. Radcliffs clinic, calling him an “imminent” physician and geneticist. The typo brought a smile to Remo’s face. The author of the piece, one Reuben Sprock, would never know how right he was.

The article laid out an overview of Radcliff’s plan to build a family-planning clinic in the neighborhood of Brandenburg, with no specific mention of a site. Considering the neighborhood and local politics, friend Sprock had made a point of finding out that no abortions would be offered at the clinic. Three short paragraphs about the doctor’s background and the anguish of infertility wrapped up the piece.

They broke ground on the clinic two months later, with an article and photos on page two. Another five months, and the clinic’s opening was featured on page one, below the fold.

And that was all.

Reporters came around when buildings were erected, and again when they burned down or were demolished, but between times, it required some newsworthy event to bring them back. A strike or lawsuit, major accidents, a juicy crime committed on the premises, complaints from patients or the staff. In Radcliff’s case, there had been nothing of the sort, and he was left alone.

Remo pegged Chelsea somewhere in her early thirties, which meant she was barely out of college—probably still working on her doctorate— when Daddy opened Family Services in Brandenburg. It was a sweet gig, stepping out of grad school into an established job, with no one but a parent supervising. Some of that depended on the parent, though, and Quentin Radcliff didn’t seem like anybody’s candidate for Father of the Year. That might be totally unfair, of course, based on a fleeting interview, but Remo was a decent judge of character.

He spent the afternoon in Brandenburg, ate rice at a little mom-and-pop cafe for lunch and introduced himself—complete with phony press credentials—to a dozen downtown merchants who looked old enough to have some detailed memory of Brandenburg before the clinic came. Eleven of the twelve knew the clinic existed, and nine were capable of giving him directions to the site, but only five had any real idea of what went on behind the clinic’s walls. Those five agreed unanimously that the clinic was a good thing for the town of Brandenburg. One knew a girl who worked part-time for Radcliff, making decent money, while the others allowed with approval that “Doctor” always paid his bills on time. So much for small-town amateur detective work.

It struck him as the kind of town where nothing much went on. Perhaps a little craziness on Friday night or Saturday, when good ol’ boys got liquored up, along with some wife-bashing from time to time, a few wild young ones on occasion and a fair amount of petty theft, but nothing weird. Much like the quiet towns in old B movies, where the aliens or vampires scored an easy victory with simple, sometimes simpleminded, folk. The kind of town he might have picked to hide in if he had a secret to conceal.

And what of Chelsea Radcliff? Was the lady Ph.D. a conscious part of Daddy’s machinations—whatever they were? She would have been an infant when Eugenix Corporation purchased Thomas Hardy’s corpse, but that did not exempt her from suspicion in more recent incidents.

Slow down.

It was entirely natural—well, at least not unnatural—for children to pursue a parent’s line of work, to some degree. The fact that Chelsea Radcliff went to work in the family business, so to speak, did not necessarily incriminate her, in and of itself. She was protective of her father and the clinic, obviously, but that didn’t mean a damn thing, either.

Not unless he found a way to play connect-the-dots and link her to the contract murders Smith had sent him to investigate.

He went to check Antonio’s a full two hours before his date with Chelsea, drank a Coca-Cola at the bar and used the men’s room, casually checking out entrances and exits.

He could always dazzle them with footwork if it came to that, but he didn’t believe that Chelsea Radcliff would be bringing guns to dinner. Rather, he imagined she would want to feel him out—his mind and motives, anyway—to see if he was leaning toward a straight report on the Family Services Clinic, or angling for a hatchet job.

For Remo, it would be an opportunity to do some feeling of his own. He wore the same maroon T-shirt and tan chinos he had worn out to the clinic. A quarter hour early on his second visit to Antonio’s, he waited in his car until a black Infiniti G20 pulled into the parking lot, with Chelsea Radcliff at the wheel. She parked nose-in against the west side of the building and was climbing out with keys in hand before she noticed Remo standing close beside her.

“God!” She jumped and dropped her keys. “Don’t do that!”

“What?”

“Sneak up on people, dammit!” When she bent down to retrieve the keys, her skirt rode up and offered him a glimpse of golden thigh.

“I’m sorry.”

“Where’d you learn that, in reporter school?”

“The orphanage,” he said. “Stealth was useful, sometimes.”

Chelsea stared at him. “You grew up in an orphanage?”

“Let’s say I came of age.”

“I never actually met someone who— Never mind. I’m sorry,”

“Ancient history,” he told her, meaning it.

“Shall we go in?”

“They don’t have car hops.”

“Ah, a sense of humor.”

Chelsea watched him closely as he held the door to let her pass. “You sound surprised.”

“I never know what to expect,” he said. “New people. To be honest with you, the psychologists I’ve known were pretty humorless.”

“You never, met Bob Newhart, then,” she answered, smiling.

“Not until he changed his name and opened up the inn.”

“A TV fan.”

“My father’s hooked. I get it by osmosis.”

“Father? But you said—”

“Adopted,” Remo told her. “Late in life, you might say.”

“Ah.”

A teenage hostess greeted them and showed them to a small booth in Antonio’s nonsmoking section. Checkered tablecloth, red vinyl on the seats, a stubby candle in some kind of goblet with a plastic net around it, like a fishing buoy: They held the conversation in abeyance while a forty-something waitress took their order—for Remo, some water, and for Chelsea some Chianti—before leaving them to scan the menu.

“I can recommend the veal,” said Chelsea. Remo frowned, Even the thought of eating beef in any stage of development repulsed him. And he certainly wouldn’t choose it—not unless he had no choice. One thing, though, with his body so perfectly attuned now, eating the odd unorthodox meal did not seem to harm him. It was a big difference from his early days of the Sinanju life, and he hadn’t been certain why his body would be more tolerant. But Chiun had laughed at him when he’d asked why.

“That is the world of difference between the glorious East and the rapacious West,” he said, his eyebrows flung high. “Learn a rule, and they never know when to make an exception. Even you, with your smidgen of good blood from Korea.”

When Remo had cocked his head and looked at him askance, the Master of Sinanju held his long-nailed index finger up, like a scolding schoolteacher.

“A superior man, Remo, that is what Sinanju produces, when rightly lived and practiced. But think! How superior is a creature when it can never vary its food? What happens if his environment changes, if the usual foodstuffs become scarce? It dies, Remo, that is what happens. It is not superior, but weak in one aspect.

“So, when you were nearly new to Sinanju your body knew you had to respect the rules—and reminded you when you did not. Now you do it effortlessly, and your body will forgive the occasional lapse because it is not made in wrong-headed error.”

He had looked at Remo, his eyes twinkling, then wagged his finger. “But no corn!”

Remo suppressed a grin at the memory, then looked across the table at Chelsea, waiting to see what he’d choose. “I’m more a duck man, myself,” he said.

“The fetuccini’s always good.”

“Duck,” he said firmly.

Moments later, she had her wine in front of her, he had his water, their orders had been taken and their waitress had retreated to the kitchen.

Remo said, “I’m glad you came.”

“You thought I’d stand you up?”

“Agreed to come, I mean.”

“I’m interested in seeing that the clinic gets a fair shake in your article.”

“We aim to.please.”

“I’m sure.” She didn’t sound convinced. “It is a tabloid, though, am I correct?”

“Of sorts. We don’t run articles about a UFO attacking Moscow or the vampires in Manhattan dropping dead from AIDS.”

“But bad news sells.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just like at NBC, the New York Times, and CNN.”

“You won’t find any scandal at my father’s clinic,” Chelsea said.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Really.” Skepticism heavy in her voice.

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Remo said, “but trashing total strangers isn’t half the fun it’s advertised to be. I like to tell the truth, from time to time. It helps me sleep at night.”

“A newsman with a heart of gold?” she asked.

“No halos here,” he said. “But I don’t thrive on being sued for libel, either.”

“That should be ho problem, if you always tell the truth.”

“Oh, you can still get sued,” he said. “The plaintiff may not win, but it’s a hassle, either way.”

“You speak from personal experience?”

“I’ve been around,” he said. “Yourself?”

“Lawsuits?” She looked confused as Remo shifted gears.

“Professional experience,” he said. “I’ve tried to guess your age—”

“A lady never tells.”

“—and any way I run the numbers, it appears you joined your father’s clinic shortly after leaving school.”

“That’s true. Before you start in with the nepotism thing, though, I should tell you that I’m fully qualified.”

“I never doubted it,” said Remo.

“Oh?”

“It’s not my field, of course,” explained Remo, “but you sound a little paranoid.”

“Defensive, maybe.” Chelsea took another sip of wine, attempting to relax. “Like any other scientist, my father has detractors.”

“At the moment. I’m more interested in you,” said Remo.

“Why?”

“The subject of our interview, remember?”

“I assumed—”

“That I’d be pumping you for dirt about the clinic?”

“Elegantly put,” she said. “But, frankly, yes.”

“But you can see, I’m not.”

“It’s just as well,” she said almost defiantly, “because there isn’t any dirt. My father is devoted to the work of building families, or giving them a second chance. Besides the clinic, he encourages adoptions through a home for unwed mothers, up in Indiana, and provides his services at no charge to a boys’ home several miles from here, at Ekron.”

“Boys’ home?” Remo felt the light go on above his head, as if he were a cartoon character.

“That’s right. You sound surprised.”

He tried to cover with a shrug. “Well, I assumed that he confined his work to treating infertility.”

“By no means. He—”

The waitress interrupted Chelsea as she set their plates in front of them. They took a break from talking for the next few minutes, Remo chewing pensively on his duck, watching her as she ate her veal.

“If we could just get back to you,” he said at last.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“I disagree.”

Suspicion lingered in her eyes, but she was warming up a little. Remo spent a moment thinking what it would be like to heat her up a lot, then put the thought behind him.

Stick to business.

“You’re in no position to judge me,” Chelsea said. “Much less my father or his work.”

“I’m a reporter, not a judge,” he replied.

“Is there a difference?”

“I should hope so.”

“Maybe in a perfect world,” she told him, sounding dubious.

“I take it you’ve had some unpleasant run-ins with the media,” he said.

“In my experience, reporters pander to their audience. They crave approval. Give the people what they want—or what they think they want—instead of what they need.”

“It’s hard to do a fair job from the outside, looking in,” he said, “especially when the blinds are drawn.”

“My father has his reasons for the secrecy,” she responded.

“Such as?”

“You mentioned one yourself. The whole genetics field is frightfully competitive. Some so-called honorable men of science aren’t above stealing from a genius and putting their names on his work. Failing that, they will do anything within their power to smear him and misrepresent his work.”

“Sounds more like Washington or Hollywood than the frontier of science,” Remo said.

“There’s precious little difference.”

“You’ve shattered my illusion.”

“A reporter shouldn’t have illusions, Mr. Washington.”

“Touché. Your father must have something pretty special going on to generate that kind of animosity.”

“I really can’t discuss it any further,” Chelsea said.

“Not even off the record?”

“I’m supposed to trust you now? A perfect stranger?”

“No one’s perfect,” Remo said.

“In any case…”

“I’d think your father would be glad of the publicity. I mean, once his discoveries are down in black and white, it would be much more difficult for anyone to rip him off.”

“You are naive,” she said.

“Enlighten me.”

“My father’s work is more than just original,” she explained, “It’s revolutionary. He—”

She caught herself about to cross the line, and stepped back from the precipice. A slight blush added color to her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Chelsea said.

“What for?”

She shrugged and forced a smile. “For rambling. I get carried away sometimes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with passion,” Remo told her. “But I have a problem putting it across on paper, if I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I understand,” she said. “But after everything my father’s been through, he can be a little—”

“Paranoid?” suggested Remo.

Chelsea stiffened, glaring at him. “No! There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s brilliant. You have no idea how much his work—his dream—has cost him.”

“So, enlighten me.”

“What’s the point?”

“Assume that my reporter’s curiosity won’t let me drop the story. If you freeze me out, you’ve got no input on the final product, nothing in the way of quality control.”

“That’s blackmail, Mr. Washington.”

“Not even close,” he said. “I’m interested in truth, and I’ll pursue whatever sources I can find. You know I’ve done my homework on your father’s background, as it is. The people who refuse to talk with me have no legitimate complaint when I omit their point of view. I don’t read minds.”

“And I don’t care for threats,” she said. “Not even when they’re phrased politely.”

“I’m not threatening your father, Chelsea. I have no stake in attacking him or making him look foolish. As for confidential details of his work, most of my readers wouldn’t understand it, anyway. Some kind of plain-folks summary is all I’m after.”

“Something that will sell your magazine,” said Chelsea.

“Absolutely. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Depends on how you do it,” she replied.

“You’re absolutely right. I give celebrities a boost from time to time and I’ve been known to comment on their shortcomings, but hatchet jobs are not my style.”

“So you say.”

He shrugged. “You have to trust somebody, sometime.”

“Why?”

“You have to ask. I’d say there’s more at stake here than your father’s academic standing with his peers.”

“Psychology’s my field, remember? Spare me the analysis.”

“I’d like to know where all that bitterness comes from.”

“None of your business,” Chelsea snapped.

“Okay. Just let me get the check, and we can hit the bricks.”

“Hang on,” she countered. “I thought they taught persistence in your average journalism school.”

“They do,” he said, “but beating a dead horse is something else.”

“So I’m a horse, now?”

“Chelsea.”

“Listen, this is difficult for me, all right? My father’s not the only one who’s suffered losses, following his dream.”

“I’m listening.”

“My mother left him thirteen years ago. She couldn’t take the arguments, the isolation, the back-stabbing office politics. She found somebody else, and six months later she was dead. A car wreck. I was still in junior high school.”

A car wreck? Remo thought of Mrs. Jasper Frayne, and said, “I’m sorry, Chelsea.”

“Not your fault. Nobody’s fault, in fact. Stuff happens, right? You need to understand that he’s been there for me, no matter what. As for his work…well, dammit, there I go again.”

“If you could only give me some idea…”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.”

“Try this for size—suppose I got you final editorial approval, put it down in writing. Let your father set his own parameters for any technical discussion. Think you could convince him?”

She thought about it for a moment. “I’ll ask, all right? No promises. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Fair enough.”

They finished up with small talk, over coffee. Remo paid the check and walked her to her car. She offered him a cautious smile before she drove away, and left him standing in the twilight, watching as her taillights disappeared.

It would not qualify as any kind of major breakthrough, nor could Remo even claim to be closer to the truth, but he was certain that the lady and her father had a secret. Now, all he had to do was try to find out what it was.