Unnatural Selection

Destroyer 131: Unnatural Selection

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

Chapter 1

In the last hour Burt Solare's intestines still worked; while his heart still pumped blood, his lungs and other organs toiled in concert-while all that comprised the inner workings of Burt Solare remained hidden inside his delicate flesh shell, as nature had intended-Burt Solare found he had a problem somewhere along the miles of compressed tubing that was his intestinal tract.

"Dammit, this ulcer's gonna kill me." Check that. Make it two problems.

"Helen? Dammit, Helen, where the hell's the Maalox?"

At 220 pounds, five foot six inches and standing on tiptoes on a fragile rattan chair, Burt was a looming figure pawing through the cabinets in the upstairs bathroom of his Lubec, Maine, home. Given his size and disposition, he looked like a hungry bear rummaging for food in an abandoned vacation cabin.

"What's with all the hollering?" Helen Solare said as she stomped into the big room, the pink fur fringe of her satin dressing gown swirling around her thick ankles. She stopped dead near the Jacuzzi.

A mouth surrounded by too much Purple Sunset lipstick dropped open in horror the instant her eyes, decorated with Mediterranean Midnight Blue, saw the boxes of spare toothpaste and Gold Bond powder that had been dumped on the floor near the buckling legs of Burt's chair. A flung box of cotton swabs nearly struck her midpermanent.

"What the hell are you looking for, you maniac?" Helen demanded, ducking below the box. It struck the aqua ceramic tile behind her, exploding on impact. Q-tips flew everywhere.

"The Maalox! The goddamn Maalox, Helen. Where the hell did you hide it this time?"

Burt flung a fistful of unused toothbrushes over his shoulder. They clattered into the porcelain basin. "Stop it!" Helen screeched, flinging up her hands. "Just stop where you are!"

On his chair Burt wheeled on his wife. His eyes were bloodshot and black-rimmed. In his right hand was a jar of blemish cream. In his left, a can of hairspray-one of dozens Helen went through every month.

"Where?" he barked.

Sandals flapping angrily against her pumiced heels, Helen marched over to the medicine cabinet. Ripping open the door, she stuck a handful of Lee Press-Ons inside. They reappeared clutching a familiar blue bottle.

"Next time try looking under your nose," she snapped.

"Give it here." Burt scurried down to the floor, snatching the bottle from Helen's hand.

He popped the lid and dumped the Maalox down his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed gratefully as the chalky liquid rolled down into his burning belly. "You could ask before you throw one of your fits," Helen complained as she surveyed the bathroom. It looked as if a hurricane had blown through the cupboards.

"I wouldn't have to ask if you left the damn stuff where it belonged," Burt panted between swigs.

As he gulped, Helen stooped to pick up a toothbrush. Halfway to the floor, she changed her mind. Straightening, she planted two fists on her ample hips. "No. I am not picking this up."

"Big surprise," Burt grunted. Burping, he capped the bottle. Wiping blue gunk from his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, he headed out the door.

"I'm not kidding," Helen warned, storming into their bedroom after him. "You made that mess. You can pick it up."

"Have Mrs. Parkasian do it."

Burt dropped onto the edge of their queen-size bed. He began pulling on a pair of white athletic socks. "Oh, no. I'm not letting that old bat see that mess. She'll tell everyone in town I'm a slob. That's all I need. They already look at me like I'm goddamned Zsa-Zsa."

"What do you care, Helen?" Burt said as he stuffed his feet into his sneakers. The antacid wasn't working. His belly still burned. "In a month you'll never see anyone in this town again."

Helen dropped into the chair at her dressing table. "You're still going through with this?" she asked morosely.

"Yes," Burt said firmly.

"Only an idiot runs away from a million-dollar business," she suggested.

"Then sue me, Helen. I'm an idiot."

Burt pushed himself from the bed. On heavy feet he trudged across the room. At the door he stopped. One hand rested on the doorknob as the other gripped his potbelly.

"Geez, it feels like something's eating my guts for lunch."

"Why don't you get medication for that thing?" Helen said impatiently. "They've got stuff that'll get rid of ulcers now."

"They'd put me on pills or something." Burt winced. "It's not natural."

"Oh, and I suppose it's natural to bail out of a million-dollar business?" Helen hollered as he headed out the door. "Is that natural, Burt? Tell me, because I'm dying to know."

And rather than argue with the cause of fifty percent of his ulcer, Burt Solare quietly shut the door.

ALTHOUGH BRISK, there was finally a tiny hint of warmer weather in the Northeast. Burt left his jacket unzipped as he headed down his front walk. Damp pine needles stained the slate.

He was on his way to visit the cause of the other fifty percent of his ulcer for what would be the last time.

The air was refreshing. Beyond the gate he took a few deep breaths into the pit of his ailing stomach. A sudden cold breeze tipped the tall pine trees.

Burt cut across the driveway and struck off down the rutted dirt road.

The surrounding forest made him feel as if he were the only man on Earth. As he walked along, he concentrated on the solitude, trying to will his flaming ulcer to heal. After all, that was part of the reason he had moved here in the first place.

Burt hated cities. Despised crowds. Detested the thought of those teeming masses of humanity pressing against him, smothering him. It was a phobia that had nearly paralyzed him in his younger days. The worst thing back then was how his own life had trapped him. His living was made off those same teeming masses he so abhorred.

Burt had run a successful ad agency in New York for more than ten years. In those days he had been driven. His goal was to make enough money by the time he was forty to leave the squalid city of his misspent youth forever. The greatest day of his life was when he finally achieved his goal.

When he came home to his humble Bronx apartment with the news more than ten years before, Helen had been livid.

"Are you out of your mind!" she snapped.

"Helen, I've been talking about this for fifteen years."

"Talking, shmalking. I figured that was all it was with you. Talk. I'm not going."

"Fine. Stay."

Helen was surprised by his indifference.

Although she pretended nothing was changing the entire time he was selling his agency and transferring funds to Maine, three weeks after his announcement she could stand it no more. She finally asked a question.

"So where are we moving? Not that I don't think you should be moving to the rubber room, you're acting so crazy."

"A beautiful small town called Lubec."

"I hate it."

"Did you ever hear of it?"

"No, but I hate it."

"Don't come."

There it was again. Such firm indifference. Burt had never acted that way toward her before. Not only that, he looked different.

"Are you feeling okay?" Helen asked, a hint of genuine wifely concern in her shrill voice.

"Never better," Burt insisted.

"You look funny. Not as pale. And you're standing different. Straighter."

"My ulcer's almost gone. A month in Maine and I'll be a new man."

"I'll say. You'll be a schmuck who gave away a million-dollar business."

But Burt wouldn't be dissuaded. He dumped all of his New York business interests and moved everything he owned to Maine. A year after, he sold his last stock, severing his ties to New York forever.

With the clarity afforded by hindsight, Burt realized that his life hadn't truly started until his big move. And in spite of the fact that Helen had accompanied him to Maine, his ulcer nearly healed. Everything was going along swimmingly until the day the well ran dry. Literally.

"You've got two hundred acres here," Burt's neighbor, Owen Grude, had drawled. Among other things, Grude drilled wells for a living. "Lubec's known for our water. Shouldn't be a problem finding another source around here."

It turned out his neighbor was right. Owen found water on the first try. Not only that, it was the sweetest water either of them had ever tasted.

Owen sent a sample away for testing. The lab confirmed that it was purest water in a state filled with pure water.

"You should bottle this," Owen Grude suggested when he brought the test results to Burt Solare's rural home.

"Why?" Burt asked. "In case of drought?"

"To sell," Owen had replied. "City folks'd pay a pretty penny for water this pure."

"You mean like a business," Burt said levelly.

Owen nodded. "Could be good for us both. I see you wandering around here, nothing to do. A man should do something."

"I'm not sure, Owen," Burt said warily. "How big are we talking?"

"Small operation. Couple of fellas. You won't even have to do much, unless you want to. But like I said, you don't have much to do now. Aren't you bored?"

Like many people in that part of the country, Owen Grude was a lot more savvy than he let on. In his quiet, backwoods way he had cut to Burt Solare's heart.

The truth was, Burt was bored. He was more fit than he had ever been in his life, but with nothing to occupy his days he was beginning to feel as if he were stagnating.

Owen's suggestion came at a time of perfect weakness. It didn't take much convincing. That very afternoon, Burt Solare accepted his new partner's proposal. After that, everything happened in a blur.

There were trucks and buildings-at Burt's insistence, confined to the woods on the other side of his land. Owen had underestimated the number of people they would need to hire. The employees numbered in the dozens at the Lubec plant alone. Soon the cacophony of the outer world began to intrude on Burt's rural life.

Within two years, Lubec Springs water blanketed the East Coast. In five it had exploded nationally. The next year the tidal wave spilled into the international market.

By the time his fiftieth birthday rolled around, the solitary existence Burt had longed for was long gone. Rather than remain the silent partner he had hoped, Burt had taken an active role in the growth of the business. The success of Lubec Springs was largely due to the advertising skills he had developed in New York. But, as had happened in New York, Burt's health suffered in inverse proportion to the health of his business.

He was fifty-five now. Rich several times over.

And with a gnawing wound in his gut that refused to surrender to all the medications he poured into it. For Burt it was finally enough.

For the second time in his life, he was going to chuck it all. He'd sell his home, his land and his interest in Lubec Springs. He would move farther up into the wilds of Maine, and if success came sniffing at his door this time, he'd shoot it, bury it and move to Canada. Hell, he'd take a dogsled to the North Pole if he had to. This time enough was absolutely, unequivocally enough.

The decision had been made a few days before. It was now just a matter of summoning the strength to tell Owen.

When he had first moved up to Lubec more than a decade earlier, the only twisting path through these woods was his own long driveway. Now a half mile from his house was an electronically controlled gate. On the other side was another road, this one paved.

During the week, trucks drove back and forth along that isolated path. Fortunately it was Saturday. The sounds of wretched civilization would not return until Monday.

Burt slipped around the gate that separated his private property from that of his business.

Someone had sneaked in during the night again. Green-and-pink paper from the local copy center had been nailed to dozens of the trees. A picture of a curled blob that looked like a bumpy comma was in the center of each page. Below were the letters S.O.L. The papers rattled in the breeze.

When Burt saw the papers, he shook his head in disgust. His hand searched for his burning belly. Amid all the fluttering papers beside the paved road was a small sign. It read simply Lubec Springs. "May you burn to the ground and your ashes scatter to the four winds," Burt grumbled at the sign. Feeling the fire in his belly, he headed up the road to the bottling plant.

SINCE ITS FOUNDING a decade before, the single-story Lubec Springs bottling plant had expanded from a small wooden shed to a sprawling complex nestled amid the lonely pines.

The main plant was a cinder-block affair that had been erected hurriedly several years previously. Tucked around back, barely visible from the road, a few Lubec Springs trucks sat idle near concrete loading platforms.

Jutting from the front of the larger building was a clapboard addition that housed the main offices.

A car was parked out front. With a frown, Burt noted the out-of-state license plate. He had told Owen this meeting was business-related. Burt hoped his partner had sense enough not to bring guests to the plant. The last thing he wanted was to wait another day to tell Owen he was calling it quits.

Wearily he climbed the three wide steps and pushed open the front door. Walking down to the offices from the reception area, he found Owen behind his desk. The cofounder of Lubec Springs was not alone.

"Oh," Burt said, irritated. One hand gripped the door frame. "Owen, we had a meeting, remember?" Burt glanced at the three strangers in the room. Two were men in their late thirties or early forties. The third was a woman. When he saw her, Burt's irritation bled away.

She was gorgeous. The woman's hair was as black as a raven's wings. Her eyes were quick and sharp. Her skin was cream. She stood with a confident grace that announced to the world she owned whatever room she was in.

As the woman fixed him with a cold stare, Burt gulped.

"I, uh... Sorry. We can do this later, Owen."

"No," Owen insisted. "You said you had something important to tell me." His voice was a deep growl. It sounded strange. Stronger than normal. Burt tore his eyes away from the woman.

Owen was stepping out from around his desk. He was even walking differently. Owen Grude was forty pounds overweight. He usually stomped and wheezed when he walked. But this day he seemed to glide. The other two men fell in behind him.

"No," Burt insisted, suddenly clenching his molars with fresh pain. His ulcer was flaring again. "It can wait. You have company. We can talk tomorrow. Nice to meet you," he said, nodding to the woman.

Silent until now, the woman seemed distracted by the men. A hint of disapproval creased her brow. "Please wait, Mr. Solare," she said to Burt.

In the doorway Burt paused. "Yes?"

"This is so awkward," she said with a cool smile that indicated it was anything but awkward. "Mr. Grude wasn't sure how to tell you this himself, so I'm just going to tell you. He has signed his fifty percent of Lubec Springs over to me. I'm your new partner."

For a moment Burt didn't know what to say. The pain in his belly was forgotten. "Owen?" he asked, confused.

His partner just stood there, brow hanging low over sharp eyes. Burt had eaten supper at Owen's house enough over the past ten years to know that look. Owen got that same look when he was drooling over a plate of pork chops.

"Your water is very pure," the woman announced. Owen and the other two men snorted softly-pulling in soft, inquisitive breaths. Like animals sniffing prey.

"That's true," Burt Solare said slowly. "Okay, Owen, what is all this?"

"Business, Burt," Owen said. "Thanks to you, we're in every convenience store and supermarket in the country."

As he spoke, his nostrils flared, sniffing the air. He circled around Burt.

"Down," the woman snarled suddenly. She sounded like an obedience trainer scolding a bad dog. "Helen already called to tell me you were quitting, Burt," Owen said from behind, his voice a quiet growl. "It came as quite a shock. I've got one for you, too."

"No," the woman commanded, taking a step for Owen.

Too late.

Burt felt someone grab him from behind.

Owen. Owen had gone crazy. Selling the business without telling Burt, dragging strangers in off the street and now assaulting Burt in his own offices. That was it. To hell with it all. Burt was going to quit already, but now he'd do it with a song in his heart and not look back.

Burt had played high-school and college football. He still outweighed Owen. He'd flip his demented expartner to the floor and then leave Lubec Springs for good.

Burt intended to tell Owen all this. But then a funny thing happened. He suddenly couldn't speak. He felt pressure on his throat. Felt a sudden jerk and twist of sharp pain. Pain far worse than his ulcer. Pain more excruciating than anything he had ever felt before.

Burt gasped. Bubbles came. Red and frothy.

Burt staggered back, grabbing at his throat. His hands clutched a glistening hole. And then Burt Solare saw the ragged remnants of his torn-out throat. They were dangling from the blood-streaked mouth of Owen Grude.

Burt tried to run. The other two men were on him. With hands and teeth they attacked Burt's soft belly. Screaming silently, he hit the wall and fell to the floor. They came in a pack. He tried to knock them off. His weak blows scarcely registered.

When he glanced up in horror, he found that one man's face had disappeared inside his abdomen. He reappeared an instant later, sharp teeth dragging a bundle of glistening viscera.

With a tip of his head and a few quick gulps, the man slurped up the ulcerous part of Burt's intestine like a string of bloody spaghetti.

Another shadow. A face frowning deep disapproval.

The woman. Burt saw her through his pinwheeling gaze. Pouncing, she fell in among the men, grabbing shoulders and arms, flinging them away. For someone so small and graceful, she was inordinately strong. When she gripped Owen by the back of the neck and yanked, Owen became airborne. He soared across the office, slamming hard against the wall. The particleboard buckled beneath him.

With uncharacteristic delicacy, Owen righted himself as he dropped to the floor. Flipping, he landed silently on the rug. His face was enraged, yet he made no move on the woman. The other men prowled near him.

"Stay," she commanded firmly to all three. Although they clearly didn't want to obey, the three men stayed back. Blood and saliva drooled from their open mouths.

Burt lay in a bloody heap, weak hands clutching belly and throat. The rug was stained red. Every thready heartbeat sent more blood gurgling from his open wounds.

The woman crouched beside him. Her nose crinkled unhappily as she studied his wounds.

She had stopped them. Maybe she could save him. If she called the police, the hospital. Burt pleaded with his eyes.

Her mouth thinned. "He's too far gone," she announced.

No! Burt wanted to shout. Call 911! Help me!

Did she hear his unspoken plea? The woman turned her attention back to his gaping stomach wound. Yes, I'm alive. I'm fighting to live. Save me!

She reached for him. Did she know first aid? And then the horror returned full-blown.

Hands thrust inside his ripped-open belly. Grabbing either side of his rib cage, the woman twisted.

Burt heard his sternum crack.

Baring fangs, the woman proceeded to stuff her face deep into his exposed chest cavity. With a lick and a snap, fangs pierced the left ventricle of his feebly beating heart.

And in that instant of horrific pain, Burt Solare had an epiphany. The blinding realization came clear as glass in that last moment of his weak, frail mortality. Maybe I should have stayed in advertising.

WHEN SHE WAS THROUGH feeding, she allowed the males to eat. They chewed greedily, Owen more than the others. This was his first. The hunger was strongest the first time.

When the males finally finished, she was lying on Owen Grude's desk, her rough pink tongue licking gently at the last hints of sticky blood on her long fingers.

They padded over to her, faces smeared red from their feast. The two males yawned contentedly. Owen Grude mewled apologetically. She continued to lick her fingers.

"You behaved recklessly," she said, not looking up.

"I couldn't resist."

She turned her eyes lazily, fixing him with a glare. "A word from the wise. Next time? Resist."

The threat was clear. Owen nodded obediently. Pulling herself to a squatting position, she looked at the other two. "He has a mate," she said, nodding to the half-eaten carcass of Burt Solare. "Kill her." No more instruction was needed. With barely a sound, they slipped from the office.

Pushing from her haunches, she bounded to the floor. Her bare soles touched silently.

"Show me the bottling plant," she commanded, prowling past Owen.

He hesitated. "What about him?" he asked, lingering near the desk. He nodded to the body of his partner. Burt's glassy eyes stared up vacantly in death.

She paused. "Oh, do you want a human funeral for your dear, dear friend?" she asked with mock sympathy.

"No, of course not," Owen said. "I don't see him as I did. He used to be important to me. Now he's just-"

"A meal?"

Owen nodded. "I'm just afraid someone might find him."

She padded up to Owen, pressing a firm hand on his shoulder. She growled. Flecks of red gristle clung to the spaces between her flawless white teeth.

"Don't try to think too hard. Now, we have a lot of work to do. The fun is just beginning."

With catlike grace, Dr. Judith White prowled out the office door.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and it wasn't that he didn't want to squash a few more cockroaches. His only problem was the wrong man was asking him to do the squashing.

"Let me talk to Smith," Remo said.

"Dr. Smith isn't here," Mark Howard explained. Howard was assistant director of CURE, the supersecret organization for which Remo worked as enforcement arm. That is, on those days Remo was actually working. At the moment, as Remo stood on the sidewalk in Little Rock cradling the pay phone between ear and shoulder, it wasn't one of those days. "No offense, Junior," Remo said to Howard, "but I don't scrunch cockroaches for you. Put Daddy on the phone."

A few students from nearby Philander Smith College strolled down the sidewalk chatting loudly. Like most college students of the past forty years, these seemed to have an abundance of loud opinions and a lack of actual textbooks. Remo watched them as they walked through the historic Quapaw Quarter of the city's downtown.

On the phone there came an exasperated exhale.

"Remo, you know Dr. Smith leaves the office at five on Tuesdays and Thursdays now," Mark Howard replied, his youthful voice straining to be patient. "He said you can talk to me."

"Talk to, yes. Take orders from, no. You want to talk about the weather?"

"No."

"See you in the funny papers." Remo hung up the phone.

The receiver rang the instant he broke the connection. Remo had to hand it to Mark Howard; the young man was quick on the ol' keyboard. He picked up the phone.

"Joe's Porn Palace. You can't spell coitus without us."

Howard's voice was growing irked. "Remo, please."

"Sorry," Remo said sweetly. "Still not the right guy for me." He hung up once more.

This time the pay phone fell silent.

While he waited, Remo whiled away the minutes counting the birds that flew overhead. He was up to thirty-one when the phone finally rang again. He scooped up the receiver.

"Hi, Smitty," he announced.

The lemony voice on the other end of the line was not that of Mark Howard. Where Howard's voice was young, this voice was older, more tired and infinitely more irritated.

"What is the problem?" announced Dr. Harold W. Smith, the director of CURE.

"No problem," Remo said. "Except that I don't take orders from your helper monkey. Why are you whispering?"

"I am in my bedroom on my briefcase phone. My wife is downstairs and I don't want her to overhear. What's wrong? Mark says you are having trouble with the assignment."

"No trouble. I don't even know what it is. You know the rule, Smitty. I'm Sinanju. Sinanju gets hired by an emperor. You're my emperor. I work for you."

He could almost see Smith wincing on the other end of the line. "Please don't you start calling me that, too."

Remo was the Reigning Master of Sinanju, the original martial art. Born in blood on the rocky shores of North Korea, Sinanju was the sun source of all the other, lesser martial arts. For millennia the Masters of Sinanju had rented their services as assassins to rulers throughout the world. Remo's teacher, who had been Reigning Master until Remo's ascension to that position a few months before, had refused to admit to working for anything less than a true tyrant king, and so had long before dubbed Harold W. Smith "emperor." It was an honorific Smith didn't embrace. And it was definitely something he didn't wish to see carried through into Remo's fledgling Masterhood.

"Whatever you call it, you're the boss," Remo said. "Tradition says I can't start taking orders from the kid. And I happen to agree with tradition here. What if Smitty Junior goes nuts and starts giving me whacko assignments, like maybe I should make him President or pope or something? Or he tells me to start assassinating petunias 'cause they give him the sniffles? Or what if he orders me to kill you?"

"At the moment I would consider that a blessing," Smith said tightly.

"You're not out of it that easy, Smitty," Remo grumbled. "If I'm stuck with Howard, you are, too."

"Yes," Smith said dryly. "Just so you know, Remo, I do not consider myself stuck at all. Mark has helped lighten my load considerably. Two nights a week now I am able to have dinner with my wife. And might I remind you, Mark has also saved both our lives."

Remo's face darkened at the memory. There had been a terrible battle back in the village of Sinanju. On that dark day months before, it was Mark Howard's timely intervention that had provided insight that might have turned the tide.

"Maybe," Remo admitted. "The jury's still out on what would have happened back then if he'd butted out." He frowned with a sudden thought. "What do you mean both? You weren't in the line of fire back then."

Smith cleared his throat. "Er, yes. Can we get on with this? My wife nearly has dinner ready."

"Fine. Sue me for wanting to hear your dulcet tones," Remo said. He drummed his fingertips on the steel phone-book tray. "What's the deal? More cockroaches, right?"

As Smith quickly sketched out the details of that night's assignment, Remo's fingers continued to drum a hollow staccato on the pay phone's metal tray.

After a few moments, Smith stopped suddenly. Bored, Remo was back to counting birds.

"What is that noise?" the CURE director asked abruptly.

"What noise?" Remo asked.

"I don't know. It sounds like a jackhammer." Remo glanced around. He didn't see any jackhammer. In fact, he saw no road construction whatsoever. He did see a few more college students. They were staring at him as they walked past. More accurately, they were staring at his hand.

Remo glanced down.

Four deep hollows in the shape of drumming fingers pitted the otherwise smooth surface of the stainless-steel phone-book tray. It looked as if the metal had superheated and melted into four neat pockets.

"It stopped," Smith said over the phone.

"Yeah," Remo grunted, stuffing his hand in his pocket. "Can we just finish this up?"

Smith seemed to sense something was wrong. "Were you even listening?"

"Sort of listening, mostly bored." He sighed. "Sorry, Smitty. I've got a lot of stuff on my mind lately."

It was true. He had been preparing nearly all of his adult life to take over as Reigning Master of Sinanju. He thought it would be a snap once he finally accepted the position. He had come to find out that there was no way to be completely ready for so awesome a responsibility. All the training in the world had not prepared him for the new reality of his life. Once he actually became Reigning Master, it just felt different than he had expected.

Remo was surprised by the CURE director's sympathetic tone.

"I understand," Smith said. "Even when one knows it is coming, it still takes time to come to grips psychologically with the burden of great responsibility. There has been some research into the subject. If it would be helpful, I could send some published papers on the topic."

"Pass. But feel free to quiz me on the state capitals. Better yet, ask me the boons granted to past Masters of Sinanju. For instance, did you know Master Cung managed to bamboozle three hundred armfuls of silk, a skepful of Sui dynasty myrrh, twenty golden flagons of rice wine, forty she goats and thirty pheasants from the Chinese? Chiun says they were peasants, but I think he's misreading the scrolls."

"Yes," Smith said thinly. "In any event, the target is across the Arkansas River and up Route 161 near Furlow. Did you get enough of the rest?"

"Enough. I've already got my squashing shoes on."

"Good, Please report back to Mark when you are finished. Sinanju rules do allow that, don't they?" There was a hint of thin sarcasm in his voice.

"Yes, that's kosher," Remo sighed.

"I don't understand why you've become so prickly lately in regard to Mark. I thought you had worked through your difficulties with him."

"I've got nothing against the kid, Smitty. I just liked it better when it was you, me and Chiun. Although right now Chiun isn't that much of a help."

"Is there something wrong with Master Chiun?"

"Nah. He's just being Chiun again. He came with me to Little Rock, but now he's sitting in a hotel room. He said he was contemplating his place in the cosmos or something. As if being the pain in my neck wasn't full-time job enough."

"Very well," Smith said. "Just remember, Remo. Nothing stays the same forever. Things change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not, but change is inevitable."

He was interrupted by a distant voice.

"Harold," Smith's wife called. "Dinner's ready."

"I have to go," the CURE director said. "Good luck. "

With a soft beep, the line went dead.

Remo held the cold phone loosely in his hand. He stared down at the permanent marks imprinted in the steel tray.

"Preaching to the choir, Smitty," he said softly. He hung up the pay phone.

THE TWIN-ENGINE CESSNA had flown up through the Gulf of Mexico. Staying low to avoid radar, the small aircraft hugged much of the shared border of Louisiana and Texas, finally breaking out across the Ouachita Mountains in southwestern Arkansas. It hummed into the Arkansas River Valley on the way to its evening rendezvous.

When it first appeared out of the cool, late spring night, it was as a sound rather than something visible to the eye.

The lone man waiting at Furlow's small airport heard the noise. Behind him, a red, white and blue banner slung from the side of a tin hangar advertised the Happy Apple Pie American Patriotic Flight School And Good-Time Hotdog Stand.

The man on the ground had come up with that name himself. The secret world in which he lived had become far more treacherous of late. Everything was about being inconspicuous now. Faysal al-Shahir was as proud of the very inconspicuous, very American-sounding name of his business as he was of his own false identity.

Faysal al-Shahir had cleverly picked his American cover name at random from a telephone book. He was now known as John Smith. That was much better than the first name he had cleverly picked at random out of the phone book. His contact in the radical al-Khobar Martyrdom Brigade had read him the riot act when Faysal al-Shahir had requested a false driver's license and credit cards under the name Jiffy Lube.

But that teeny mistake had been months ago. Faysal had learned much about fitting in since then.

He had been forced to shave his beard. His dark hair had been colored with blond highlights. Gone were his midnight-black eyes, disguised with blue contact lenses. His forearms had five-o'clock shadow from daily shaving.

Even Shahir's clothing had been Americanized. His first week in the hated den of vipers that was the devil West, Faysal had been delighted to find a store that sold typical American clothes at a price that would not break his allowance. His first trip there he had bought a garbage bag full of beautiful clothes. Now, months later, decked out in his Salvation Army Thrift Store finery, Faysal al-Shahir was as wholly inconspicuous as the next puke-green leisure-suited, bell-bottomed American flight-school instructor.

Although day had bled away, the rim of the twilight sky was still colored in shades of pinkish gray. It was out of the gloaming that the plane finally appeared.

"They are here," Faysal announced in Arabic. Three other men had been sitting on wooden crates inside the door of the hangar. Like Faysal, they were dressed in decadent Western garb. With fat lapels on ghastly colored polyesters, they looked like a 1970s prom band.

At Faysal's announcement, the men hurried outside.

It took several more minutes for the plane to reach the airport. By the time the Cessna came in for a landing, shades of gray had seeped into enveloping blackness. In darkness, guided only by soft runway lights, the plane touched down with a shriek of rubber. It sped toward them.

Faysal offered a wicked grin. "It begins," he said. He was turning to roll the hangar doors wide when one of his companions spoke.

"What is that?" the man hissed.

Faysal glanced back. The man who had spoken was pointing a wholly inconspicuous, mood-ring-disguised finger down the runway.

The Cessna was rolling toward them, slowing as it came.

When Faysal saw what his associate was pointing at, his eyes grew so wide he nearly popped his blue contacts.

A man had appeared from the dark woods next to the plane. He loped along in the wake of the small aircraft.

Faysal felt his stomach tighten.

"Who is that?" he demanded, wheeling on the others.

"I do not know," his men replied in chorus. Faysal looked from the men to the runway. The stranger was gaining on the Cessna.

"Should we shoot him?" one man asked. Rifles and handguns were already being raised. "No!" Faysal snapped. "We cannot risk hitting the plane. Besides, are you forgetting there are houses beyond the woods? We cannot draw the authorities to us. Not now."

Light from the plane and runway enabled Faysal to glimpse the stranger's face. It was cast in cruel shades. Above high cheekbones, the eyes were blacksmeared sockets. It was more a vengeful skull than a human face.

He ran with a gliding ease that seemed slow, but which propelled him forward ever faster. As Faysal watched, the stranger caught up to the left wing. Hands attached to abnormally thick wrists reached out for the shuddering tip.

"What is he doing?" asked a fearful voice in Arabic.

"It does not matter," Faysal hissed.

Faysal's mind was finding focus. All was not lost. After all, this was just one man. He was certainly not from the American government. The United States came at you as polite agents in suits who worried about search warrants and due process and extending civil liberties to terrorist noncitizens. They fretted over how their behavior would look to Amnesty International, the CBS evening news and the editorial board of the New York Times. Real U.S. government agents were so panicked about doing what all these groups considered to be the right thing that they forgot that the right thing first and foremost was protecting their fellow countrymen from maniacs who would blow up buildings and murder innocent Americans.

No, Faysal knew with growing certainty, this man running toward them up the runway and about to touch the tip of the Cessna's wing-heaven knew what he intended to do once he reached it-was not with the United States government. He was just an average American. And in this holy war, all Americans were targets.

"He is just some harmless fool," Faysal said. "When he gets close enough that there is no risk of hitting the plane, shoot him. Use a silencer. We will dispose of the body in the woods."

Faysal tightened his jaw, which, despite a morning ritual of Nair and painful home-hair-removal strips, was still speckled with the dark stubble of a Riyadh street beggar.

Faysal was certain all would still go exactly according to plan. He was certain of this straight up until the moment the running stranger ripped the wing off the Cessna.

The cluster of Arabs near the hangar blinked, stunned.

It was true. Their eyes had not lied.

The stranger's fingers had seemed to barely brush the surface of the wing. With a shriek of metal, it tore away from the main body, leaving ragged strips on the fuselage.

As the gathered men watched in growing shock, the wing and its suddenly dead engine fell back on the runway. The Cessna, coasting forward with one wing engine, began to spin away from Faysal and the rest.

"What manner of man is this who can tear a plane apart with bare hands?" one of the men near the hangar breathed.

Faysal barely heard. He was listening to a new sound.

Over the crashing of the tumbling wing and the spluttering of the Cessna's one dying engine, Faysal al-Shahir heard a terrible sound that froze his very marrow. It was the sound of a man whistling. Strong and confident, it carried across the small airport.

During his time in America, Faysal had deliberately stayed out of the sun to keep his skin as light as possible. But at this moment, that particular precaution proved unnecessary. As he watched the plane roll out of control and heard the first strains of that sweet, terrifying song, the color drained from the face of Faysal al-Shahir, leaving behind a sheet of ghostly white.

"That is no man," Faysal whispered with certainty, his voice laced with doom.

Faysal al-Shahir knew well of Heaven. For their coming sacrifice on Earth, he and his fellows in the Martyrdom Brigade had been promised an eternity of palaces and plentiful concubines in the next life. And Faysal knew equally of Hell, home of torment for the unworthy. For its wealth and power in this world, America had made a pact with Satan. And before Faysal was the proof.

For many months, throughout the al-Khobar movement there had been rumors of an agent from Satan's realm who had come to Earth. America's unholy bargain with the prince of the underworld had come with a protector, a creature in the shape of a man who struck without warning and slaughtered without mercy. On the soil of Asia and Europe and America had this creature trodden. And death had followed.

While the troops grew fearful, the al-Khobar leadership tried to squelch these tales of the unstoppable devil who wielded an invisible sword in the name of the hated West. Faysal had never believed the stories. Until this night.

When the awful melody started-the whistling song described by witnesses to horrors beyond human comprehension-Faysal knew with certainty that it was all true. And if rumor could be trusted, no force of man could stop this creature. Death was coming for them all.

Helpless in the chilly Arkansas night, Faysal al-Shahir could only stand and listen to the approaching song of America's Hell-summoned demon.

AS HE TORE the left wing off the speeding Cessna, Remo Williams continued to whistle a peppy version of "La Cucaracha." He was still whistling as he let the wing slip from his fingertips.

As the wing banged and spiraled away behind him, Remo was already ducking under the belly of the plane.

The crippled Cessna whipped around in a 180-degree arc.

Remo came up on the other side. A sharp hand caught the leading edge of the second wing. The momentum of the plane sliced around his stationary hand.

The second wing plopped off into his upturned palms. He caught it with a tidy flourish and a click of his heels.

"La-la-la-la-la-la-la! Ole!" Remo sang as he flung the wing with its dead engine deep into the dark woods.

The Cessna rolled to a dead stop. As it did, the small door popped open and two furious men sprang to the tarmac. With shouts of angry Arabic, they aimed rifles at Remo.

"U.S. health inspector," Remo announced to the men, ignoring the guns leveled at his chest. "We had a tip at HQ there'd be a cockroach incursion tonight. And what do you know? Here you are. Prepare for fumigation."

The two new arrivals sized up the thin young American in his black T-shirt and matching chinos. They seemed to regard him more as an annoyance than a threat. They shouted to the men over at the hangar.

The men who had been awaiting the plane were already racing over. Only Faysal al-Shahir remained rooted in place.

All five men surrounded the thin young man who had torn the Cessna to shreds, seemingly with his bare hands.

"Who do you work for, American?" asked one of the new arrivals, a higher-up in the al-Khobar organization.

"Funny you should ask," Remo said. "I've just spent half the day sorting that one out. But I think Upstairs has gotten the message now. Technically I'm a free agent who hires out to one guy at a time. One boss, one set of orders. Simplifies the chain of command, don't you think?"

"Who is, as you say, 'Upstairs'?" asked one of the al-Khobar agents, prodding Remo with a rifle barrel. "Is this American slang for CIA?"

"Didn't you hear? We decided we didn't need the CIA anymore. That is, until we got attacked and needed something to give the politicians a fig leaf for blowing our spy budget on daffodil stuff like measuring cow farts and making sure little Timmy gets a free lunch at school. And what's with that anyway? In my day parents were able to master the complexity of smearing peanut butter and jelly on two slices of bread."

Obviously the terrorist wasn't satisfied with this response. His gun barrel jammed harder into Remo's ribs. Or at least it tried to. To the terrorist it felt as if Remo's rib was hinged. It swung out of the way of the barrel.

"What are you doing here?" the al-Khobar leader asked.

"I told you, I was sent to crunch cockroaches. My boss is wired in to this stuff. Don't ask me how he does it. But he figured out what your plan was. How next week you were going to blow up a couple of little bridges out in the middle of nowhere. Then with the authorities distracted in the heartland, how a few hours later you were going to fly planes loaded with explosives into commodities exchange buildings in big cities. Chicago, Atlanta, wherever the hell they are around the country. He even found out that you'd gotten smart this time and bought your own flight school here, rather than run the risk of taking lessons somewhere else. And he knew a couple of big shots were coming in to oversee the final stages of everything. That's you. I've already taken out the rest of your teams. You fellas are the last."

As Remo spoke, the two new arrivals glanced at each another with growing shock. Their latest scheme was only supposed to be known to the upper echelon of the al-Khobar terrorist organization. Yet this American had just recited all of the broad details.

To insure secrecy, the various al-Khobar cells around the country operated independently of one another. It would take hours to track them through channels to find out if they had indeed been dismantled.

In the meantime, there was one thing that could be done.

The time for questions was over. Exchanging tight nods, the two newest men promptly opened fire on the American agent. The other terrorists fumbled with their guns and followed suit. Barrels flashed and bullets screamed through the night.

Remo danced around the volley of lead. "Now, you've probably noticed that I don't have any cans of pesticide," he said as the men continued to fire. "That is because I am an environmentally friendly, completely organic exterminator. Spraying is for sissies. For dealing with the really big cockroaches like yourselves, we enviro-organo-exterminators adhere almost exclusively to the bang-crunch method." He held up a finger. "Observe."

He vanished.

The stunned terrorists stopped firing.

When they twirled around to look for Remo, they found that he had somehow reappeared ten feet from where he had been standing, directly behind one of the baffled terrorists. The man had only an instant to wonder why all of his companions were suddenly staring directly at him.

Remo grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. "Abra cadaver," he announced.

And with that, the terrorist was airborne. A human missile, he zoomed at the crippled Cessna. When he hit the fuselage, the plane went bang and the head went crunch.

As the dead man crumpled to the runway, the remaining terrorists wheeled back on Remo.

"Of course, if you don't like bang-crunch, we've got other options," he said.

"Kill him!" an al-Khobar leader screamed.

The men opened fire once more. Stray bullets peppered the tail of the plane, somehow missing the thin American who was even now advancing on the group of desperate terrorists.

"There's pop-splat," Remo said.

Blurry hands found the sides of a terrified terrorist's bleached head. A single squeeze and the dome of his skull went pop. The splat came a few seconds later when his cannon-launched brain hit the roof of the distant hangar.

"Or maybe crack-crack-whomp."

A twirling toe took out the kneecaps of one man with successive cracks. A nudge as Remo darted by sent the tumbling terrorist to the ground with a whomp so powerful it shook the near runway and collapsed the man's skeleton to a formless lump encased in a shroud of purple polyester.

"Or thump-bong."

A thump from an unseen heel sent a head sailing from a set of shoulders. The decapitated head landed in a trash barrel near the closed hotdog stand with a rattling bong.

All told, it took no more than ten seconds. When Remo was through, there was only one al-Khobar terrorist left alive on the runway. The man stood in shock, gun hanging slack from his shaking hands, as he stared down at the dismembered, flattened corpses that had been the pride of the al-Khobar Martyrdom Brigade. He dropped his gun.

"I surrender," he cried in English, falling to his knees. "See, I love America, in all her sinful decadence." To prove it, he pressed his lips to the ground.

As he gave the ground a sloppy, wet kiss, a shadow cut between the al-Khobar leader and the nearer runway lights.

Remo loomed above, his face now grave. "But you know," he said, not listening to the terrorist leader's words, "if you want to know my personal preference for cockroaches like yourself, there's nothing in my book that beats just plain old squashing."

He put his heel on the al-Khobar leader's head, just behind the ear. Very slowly, so that the man could feel every fused section in his skull separate, Remo proceeded to squash the man's skull. The terrorist screeched and howled in what was the most excruciating minute of his life, but which was only prelude to his eternal punishment.

When he was done, Remo cleaned the sole of his leather loafer on the dead terrorist leader's shirt.

He turned his cold eyes toward the hangar.

Faysal al-Shahir was on his knees. Rooted in place, he had watched the horror from afar.

Remo walked over to him.

"You heard of me?" Remo asked.

Faysal nodded. "You are the devil's minion."

"No," Remo said coldly. "I'm the soul of America. I'm every crippled tourist you bastards push off a cruise liner in the name of religion. I'm every Marine you blow up while he's sleeping. I'm every stockbroker with two kids and a mortgage who just sat down at his desk to eat a jelly doughnut only to have the building blown out from underneath him. I'm America. And I'm pissed." He fixed his dead eyes on Faysal, boring through to the terrorist's dark soul. "Today is your lucky day. You get to live. Tell all your brother cockroaches America is coming for them. And we will show them no mercy, for they have earned none."

And Remo was gone.

Faysal didn't try to track the dark stranger with his eyes. A ghost of vengeance could not be followed. He was alone once more. And in the suddenly chill night air, Faysal heard a voice in the wind, but it was not the voice of one, but the voice of millions united. And he knew in his heart that the end would come and that when it finally did, it would not be the end that had been promised.

On his knees at the small airport, surrounded by dark woods, Faysal al-Srahir buried his face in the ground of the nation he had been taught to hate. And wept.

Chapter 3

In social situations whenever anyone asked Elizabeth Tiflis what she did for a living, her response was always the same. She'd vaguely say she was in publishing and then would promptly change the subject.

On those occasions when the hint wasn't taken and she was pressed for details, she would put a hand to her forehead, feign a headache and quickly excuse herself. After that it was the street, her car and home. One time she had even climbed out a bathroom window in order to avoid a particularly stubborn interrogator.

The truth was, Elizabeth liked talking about work about as much as she liked having a tooth drilled. To Elizabeth, her job was a necessary evil. It was just something embarrassing she had to do to pay the bills. If she could find other work, she would. It was just that the industry had gotten so cutthroat in the past decade. It was hard to get a break, especially with her background.

It was her own fault. Fresh out of college, she had taken the first offer that had come her way. How was she supposed to know that it would poison the well for future employment? But it had, and so she was stuck as copy editor at a New York publishing house. Her mother had told her time and time again it wasn't like she had anything to be ashamed of. After all, she didn't exactly work for Hustler.

"It's worse than porno, Mom," Elizabeth would lament. "I work for Vaunted Press."

"I know, dear," her mother would reply. "And I'm very proud of you. They're famous. I see their ads in the backs of all my favorite magazines."

Elizabeth had long ago stopped trying to explain to her mother that legitimate publishing houses don't advertise for clients alongside astrologers, at-home tanning beds and term-paper 800 numbers.

Vaunted Press was what was known as a vanity press. One of many self-publishing houses around the country, Vaunted would, for a fee, publish anything that came its way.

It was a lucrative market. Everyone with a word processor and fingers fancied themselves a writer. They couldn't wait to send their manuscripts to Vaunted for a "professional critique."

Although she held the title of copy editor, Elizabeth mostly just read over-the-transom manuscripts. In that she was little more than a rubber stamp. Unless it came in on a wet Kleenex, very little was rejected by Vaunted.

Elizabeth would scan a few grimy pages that spilled out of each ratty manila envelope. A little pen tick in the corner of the cover letter signified Vaunted's interest in the book.

Those whose books were greenlighted would be sent back an enthusiastic form letter stating Vaunted's interest. In a few short months after acceptance, men and women whose work had been previously unpublishable would be allowed the giddy thrill of seeing their words in print.

"As well as the thrill of being bilked seven grand," Elizabeth muttered as she walked down the main hallway of Vaunted's Manhattan offices.

"What?"

Elizabeth blinked. She'd been daydreaming again. She glanced over at the young woman walking alongside her.

"Sorry," Elizabeth said. "My mind's gone. What were you saying?"

Her companion shook her head. "Is your job bugging you again?" asked Candi Bengal. Candi was twenty-five, a secretary and had a body that was equal parts boobs, bleach and Botox. "If you ask me, you shouldn't be so bothered by it. You're doing something that makes people happy."

"And poor."

"There you go again. You think too much, Lizzie. You shouldn't think so much about work. Take me. I dance nights and weekends at that club I told you about. You think I care what people think? Hell, no. My boyfriend-the bouncer I told you about? With the snakes?" She patted her stomach.

Elizabeth didn't need to be reminded about Candi's boyfriend's snake tattoos. Candi told her anyway. She was talking about body art and weird skin rashes when the two of them reached the break room.

A delivery man was just leaving, wheeling a cart filled with empty plastic jugs. The clear blue containers bore the same waterfall logo as the man's jacket and cap.

"Morning," he said, holding the door open with his heel.

"Thanks," Elizabeth said, grabbing the door. Humming, the man pulled his cart down the hallway and out of sight.

"See, that's just the kind of guy I can't stand," Candi proclaimed as she stepped over to the small fridge. "Treating us like a couple of grandmas. You want a Loco?"

Elizabeth was barely listening. Rather than trail Candi to the fridge, she made a beeline for the opposite corner.

"No, I'm all set," she said, taking her Powerpuff Girls coffee mug from the shelf.

"I thought you didn't do morning coffee," Candi said.

"I don't. My mom lost nine pounds cutting out soda. Thought I'd give it a try."

Candi scrunched up her nose. A few men and women were filtering into the room. Most headed for the coffee machine.

"You're not gonna stop at just nine pounds?" Candi asked, tipping to get a look at Elizabeth's thighs.

"We can't all be exotic dancers," Elizabeth said thinly.

She took her mug to the watercooler and thumbed the blue tab. The tank burped as she filled the coffee mug.

"I suppose," Candi conceded. She held up her soda can. "But this is diet."

And because she was in a malicious mood, Elizabeth shook her head. "That stuff's poison in a can," she insisted. "This-" she held up her mug "-is one hundred percent natural."

A young man was waiting behind her at the cooler. She sidestepped him, joining Candi at their usual table.

"Is it really that bad?" Candi asked, concerned. "It's practically all I drink."

"Mmm," Elizabeth said, sipping from her mug. The water was just what the ads claimed. Cold and clean.

She almost wouldn't have cared if the soda was poisoned. Elizabeth cared about as much about Candi, her choice of soft drink and her biker boyfriend as she did about her own job. At thirty-five, Elizabeth Tiflis was suffering a major bout of career stagnation.

Depressed, Elizabeth took another sip of water. It was good. Powerfully so. It seemed to quench some primordial thirst she never knew was there.

"Phosphoric acid," Candi said. She hadn't drunk her soda yet. She was studying the label. "Acid? Isn't that, like, the stuff from chemistry class?"

She looked up worriedly.

Elizabeth had finished her water. She had slurped the rest down as if her throat was on fire. The empty mug was lying on its side on the table. Elizabeth gripped the table's edge. She stared at the wall, eyes blank.

Candi looked back at the label.

"'Phen-yl-ket-on-nur-ics,'" she read with deepening concern. "Ooo, that sounds even worse." When she looked up this time, she found Elizabeth was no longer looking off into space.

Elizabeth was staring directly at Candi. A strange expression had come over her face. Her eyes were wide. It seemed as if the irises were bigger. And they were now brown. Candi always thought they were pale blue.

"Elizabeth?" Candi asked cautiously.

Elizabeth continued to stare. She was looking at Candi in the same way as her strip club's patrons. Candi shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't think they'd sell it if it was bad for you," she said, picking up her soda can. She tipped it to sip, exposing her long neck.

When Candi looked over again, she thought there was a bit of drool at the corner of Elizabeth's mouth. She wasn't quite sure, distracted as she was by the low, inhuman growl that suddenly rumbled up from deep in the pit of Elizabeth's stomach.

Candi frowned. "Rude much?" she complained. She lifted her soda can. Elizabeth slapped it from her hand. It splattered against the break-room wall. "Hey-" Candi began. It was the last word she would ever speak.

Before Candi knew what was happening, Elizabeth had leaped up on the table. Without a word, she lunged.

As Candi screamed, Elizabeth buried sharp fangs deep into her soft neck. The scream became a wet gurgle.

Candi tried to struggle. Elizabeth swatted her to the floor with a single paw swipe. She threw herself on the young woman, pinning her to the floor.

By now more screams filled the break room. Others had followed Elizabeth. Animal roars filled the room as bodies fell. A woman managed to run screaming into the hall for help. Elizabeth didn't care. For the first time in a long time, she didn't have a care in the world.

She tore a mouthful of stringy flesh from Candi's throat. The young woman had long since stopped fighting. Her legs twitched feebly as death overtook her.

Lifting her head once, Elizabeth sniffed the breakroom air. She was more aware of everything than ever before. Nostrils twitched experimentally as she absorbed all the new scents floating around her.

Around the room, those like her were gnawing at bodies. One of the males raised his head. Instinct told him he was being watched. Elizabeth smiled at him, face slick with blood.

"I've been wondering for a year how to shut her up."

Jaws wide, she stuffed her face back into Candi's throat, tearing off a huge chunk of flesh.

And in the corner of the room, the Lubec Springs watercooler burped quiet approval.

Chapter 4

With the eye of memory he watched the heavens begin to burn. The fire started there, to the left. In the ink-black sky a white star flashed yellow. Another followed, then, quickly, another and another.

The blaze raced through the sky, connecting the dots of the flaring night stars.

The ring formed as star after star ignited. When it was complete it began to descend, trailing fiery streams.

On the ground he watched with upturned face. The bleak landscape around him glowed with eerily flickering light.

As fast as it appeared, it was on him. Enveloping him.

The fire touched skin, but it did not burn. And then the fire became the skin, as well as bone and heart and brain. Then it was thought. A coursing consciousness that flowed through his veins and into his soul. And he was one with the fire and the fire was him.

And then came the knowledge. It came to him in a flash, but it was too much to understand, even for him. As the fire flared bright, he strained to grasp fully the truth.

But he wasn't ready. Not yet.

The fire flashed and burned away. And he was left with the memory and a hint of what would be. Chiun, former Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju-until recently main guardian and benefactor of the small fishing village that bore the same name as his discipline, and custodian of the five-thousand-year tradition that was the glory of Sinanju-was alone once more.

The hotel room was sliced by deep shadow. The morning light that rose over Little Rock slipped through the open blinds. Though dust danced in eddies of air around the room, not a single speck alighted on the solitary figure.

Feeling the memory of the warmth of fire on his skin, the elderly Asian puckered his lips in mild irritation.

In the gloom of the unlit room, Chiun gave the appearance of a frustrated mummy.

If not for the fact that he breathed, it would have been easy enough to mistake the old Korean for a mummified corpse. His dry skin was like wrinkled parchment. Twin tufts of yellowing-white hair sprouted above shell-like ears. A thread of beard found root at his sharp chin. Hands like knots of bone rested atop folded knees. He didn't move.

The old Korean wore a simple robe of black. He sat on a woven tatami mat, his rigid spine at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the floor. Before him a bowl of incense glowed dull orange. Arranged around it were five fat white candles.

He had sat this way through day and night in a vain attempt to force answers. Dawn had broken beyond the dirty blinds, and still he sat.

It was a foolish thing to do, he knew. The universe unfolded on its own time, not man's. Yet he had been granted a gift, and he wanted so much to understand it.

It had happened months ago back in his native Korea, in the wasteland far outside the desolate village of Sinanju.

The ring of fire had come to Chiun from the heavens. Though shocking, it wasn't unprecedented.

The same event had transpired one time before in the history of Sinanju, the original martial art. The first time had been to the greatest Sinanju master of all, the Great Wang himself. The fire had bestowed the essence of Sinanju on Wang, but-as legend had it-understanding of what Wang had been given had taken a lifetime to fully grasp.

Chiun was more than one hundred years of age. He had turned over his awesome responsibilities to a suitable heir.

Remo was now officially Reigning Master of Sinanju. But these were unprecedented times.

Since Chiun was still actively plying the trade of assassin, he had assumed the seldom-used honorary title of Reigning Master of Sinanju Emeritus. As such, he retained in all but the most formal circumstances the title of Master of Sinanju.

"Won't that get confusing?" Remo had asked months earlier. "Two Reigning Masters of Sinanju at one time?"

"You will actually be Master of Sinanju," Chiun had explained. "I will merely hold the title of Master of Sinanju. Or do you wish to deny a dying old man the respect he has earned? Especially given all he has had to endure training a certain title-grubbing white lump who shall remain nameless."

"You don't look like you're dying."

"Says nameless you."

"I don't know, Chiun. I thought the passing of title was part of the job. Can we do this?"

"Ah, I see the truth. You wish to keep the title all to yourself. I understand. I have heard on the television broadcasts, Remo, how some very small men need big titles to prove to themselves that they are worthy." Thus spoke Chiun, wise former Master of Sinanju.

"Stop watching Oprah," suggested Remo, peeved current Master of Sinanju.

"We can call me something else. Something easy for inadequate you to remember. How about 'Old Nuisance Who Has Given Me Everything, But Who I Continue To Not Appreciate And Treat Like Something The Cat Buries In The Sandbox'?"

"Nah. For one thing it'd spill off the mailbox."

"Then I will simplify it for you. Henceforth I shall be known as 'Hey You.'"

"Okay, I give. You're Master of Sinanju. That's fine. You happy? Now get off my case."

"Good."

"Good."

"Good."

"Chiun?"

"Master Chiun to you."

"What am I going to be called?"

"Whatever it is you want to be called," Chiun had said. "Numskull works for me."

The retention of title had been necessary for the old man who had been chosen to break with tradition. This should have been Chiun's time of retirement and ritual isolation.

Fate had chosen a different, new course for the last Master of the pure Korean bloodline. Chiun understood some, but the rest was still a mystery to be discovered.

In his mind's eye, Chiun had brought himself back to that moment in the wilderness many times. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of something unseen until now. But it was no use. He would have to wait for full understanding to come. He had journeyed to the memory of that day for the last time.

Eyes closed, Chiun had just come to his reluctant decision when he heard the elevator bell down the hall. His hypersensitive ears detected the familiar, confident glide approaching down the long hotel hallway.

When the door opened and the room lights came on a moment later, the Master of Sinanju was still motionless. Ancient eyelids were pressed tightly shut when the ill-mannered braying began.

"Pee-yew. What are you, burning cats again? And why is it so dark in here?"

Chiun's vellum lids fluttered open over youthful hazel eyes. Remo was kicking the door shut with his heel.

The ring of fire was forgotten. It would be understood in its own time and not before. The Master of Sinanju set it aside.

"Finally he returns," Chiun said, his voice a squeaky singsong. "I am starving. Or is that your plan? Did you want me to starve? Is that why you abandoned me all night?"

The Master of Sinanju leaned forward, drawing a sharp hand over the tops of the burning candles. The vacuum of his sweeping hand doused the five flames.

"I didn't abandon you. You were the one who said you didn't want to come with me this time. In fact, your exact words were-and I quote-'I have killed enough Arabs for that madman Smith in recent months to populate a New Baluchistan. I'm staying here. You do it.' End quote."

"That does not sound like me," Chiun said.

"You also said your robes reeked of camel's milk cheese and bread flaps and that you were sending Smith and Saudi Prince ibn bin al-Gaspot McSomething the cleaning bill."

"Perhaps it sounds a little like me," Chiun conceded.

"And you could've eaten without me," Remo said. With a frown, he noted the old man's clothes. "What's with the celebration outfit?"

"None of your business, O breaker of tradition."

"Fair enough. I've got to report back to Smith." Remo headed for the phone. "I'm going to be ordering trout for breakfast. Trout okay for you?"

"Of course, when I say it is none of your business, I am only being polite. It is entirely your business. Which is to say your fault."

"Well ring-a-ding-ding, it's my fault you're celebrating," Remo said. "Hey, when I'm done checking in with Upstairs, you want me to order brown rice or white? Won't matter. Kitchen will screw up both."

Chiun's face became a displeased pucker. He had put up with many things from his pupil over the years. Disrespect, clumsiness, stubbornness and that abusive tongue--oh, how Chiun had withstood that. But worse than anything was lack of interest. It was for the Master to not care what the pupil had to say, not the other way around. But, of course, Remo did care. How could he not care what Chiun had to say? This was just a trick, this feigned indifference.

"Stop pretending you don't care," Chiun accused Remo's back.

"I do care," Remo called over his shoulder. "Just not enough to do some verbal dance to beg you to tell me what you want to tell me and probably will tell me anyway."

"Stop talking about this," Chiun insisted.

"I've already stopped." Remo picked up the phone.

"Fine," the old man said, quickly throwing up his hands before his pupil could dial. "I was not going to tell you, but since you refuse to drop the subject..."

With a sigh, Remo replaced the phone in the cradle. "Okay, what's the story?" he asked, turning. Across the room, Chiun rose from the floor in a single, fluid motion. His hands were spread out to either side, extending ten daggerlike talons, the better to display his outfit.

The black robes were shorter than normal, hanging down to just above the ankle. A pair of black trousers-tight at the ankle-peeked out from below. The cloth was far more plain than the Master of Sinanju's usual brocade kimonos. Gone were the shimmering colors of embroidered peacocks and fire-breathing dragons. This was simple black cotton.

"If you must know, Nosy One, I wear the garments of celebration because a new day has dawned for the House of Sinanju. Thanks to your ascension to full Reigning Masterhood and my retention of title, we have entered a new, unprecedented age." He brushed imaginary wrinkles from the skirts of his simple black robes.

"That doesn't sound so bad to me. Where does 'it's all my fault' come in?"

"Since you stubbornly refuse to wear the proper attire of an assassin, I must do so for both of us during this ritual. Thanks to you, my time in these garments is doubled. I have been forced to pack away my robes for the duration of this time of celebration."

Remo looked the old Korean up and down. "I am not wearing an outfit like that one, Little Father," he warned.

"Of course you are not, Remo. Why would you? After all, I want you to. Why would you do anything I want? Why break a perfect thirty-year record now?"

"Chiun, they look like Broom Hilda's pajamas."

"And when I sleep in them, I will dream I have a son who treats me and the traditions of his village with respect."

Remo felt his resolve weaken for just a moment.

After all, he was the Master of Sinanju now. Maybe if it was just for a couple of days he could do it. Stay in the hotel. Order room service. Yeah, it was doable. And it would maybe be nice to give in to Chiun on the kimono thing this time. Maybe it would buy the old codger out of nagging him about his clothes for a few more years.

"How long would I have to dress like that?" Remo sighed.

Chiun's face brightened. "Six months."

"So you want trout, or what?" Remo said, turning away. He dropped his hand back on the phone.

No sooner had he touched the receiver than the phone rang. He quickly answered.

"Perfect timing, Smitty," he said.

"Remo?" the tart voice of Harold W. Smith asked. "Is everything all right? You were supposed to check in with Mark last night after your assignment."

"I walked back to the hotel," Remo said. "I've got a lot on my mind these days."

"Do not listen to his lies, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju called. "His mind is as empty as his promises."

"I never promised anything," Remo said.

"See?" Chiun shouted triumphantly. "More lies." Robes swirling, he marched from the room. He slammed the door with such ferocity that balcony windows cracked four floors in either direction.

"Is something wrong?" asked Smith, who had heard the slamming door over the phone.

"The usual," Remo replied, exhaling. "Everything is my fault, even the stuff that isn't. Anyway, last night went fine, Smitty. I left one cockroach alive to carry the message back to his pals and squashed the rest."

"Good. The way they operate, it is difficult to track all these cells. Our best hope beyond simply eliminating the ones we find is to make the rest fear attack."

"In that case, consider it mission accomplished."

"Very well. You and Chiun may return home." Home for Remo these days was a town house in a new development in southern Connecticut. He had spent the past two weeks breaking up small al-Khobar cells. Remo was looking forward to getting back to his condominium.

"Okey-doke. Talk to you soon."

"One moment, Remo." There was the sound of fingers drumming as the CURE director accessed his computer. "Hmm. I know this is soon after last night's assignment, but when you land in New York there is something I'd like you to look into. There have been a few strange incidents in Manhattan this morning. They started about forty-five minutes ago."

"Al-Khobar?" Remo asked.

"No, not terrorists. At least I do not think so. The first was at some kind of publishing house. I might have ignored it if the computers hadn't found five more incidents since then. The people involved have been reduced to some sort of feral state, snarling and biting like animals."

"Sounds like New Yorkers fighting over a cab."

"This goes well beyond the norm, Remo. I suspect there might be some new form of drug at the center. People are being mauled. Some reports even suggest there is cannibalism involved, although that obviously seems ludicrous."

"Cannibalism? Smitty, you've got to stop getting your intelligence reports from the Weekly World News."

"As I've suggested, things are still sketchy at the moment. But- Oh my." Smith paused. "There is a report here of a senior credit analyst at a bank suddenly going berserk and tearing out his supervisor's throat. Please check this out, Remo. I'll arrange a flight. Call me for the information when you reach the airport."

"Can do, Smitty."

He hung up the phone.

"Smitty wants us back home, so we're going to have to eat breakfast fast," he called to the Master of Sinanju's closed bedroom door. "You want trout?"

"Carp," the old Korean's voice replied.

"I'm still getting trout," Remo warned. "Don't go getting all pissy saying you wanted trout, too, when it comes."

"Carp," Chiun said. "And I'm not talking to you."

"I should be so lucky," Remo grumbled as he reached for the phone.

Chapter 5

The plump, middle-aged woman on the flight from Little Rock thought that it was ghastly, just ghastly, that the old Asian gentleman's son had forced his elderly father to travel to New York in his pajamas. When Chiun explained that the black robes were mourning garments, she grew puzzled. The sad little man had insisted his garments were his murderous son's doing. She asked who died.

"My dreams. My hopes. My eternal, burning desire that a son to whom I have given the world would show me a mere ounce of gratitude for all he has had bestowed upon him."

"Knock it off, Chiun. Those robes are celebration. White is mourning."

The moon-faced woman turned her quivering jowls toward Remo. Green eyeshade rose haughtily on her broad forehead.

"You, sir, are a monster."

"Said Swamp Thing's grandmother," Remo said as he looked out the plane's window. He usually found the clouds pretty. They didn't seem very pretty today.

The woman's face became a mask of jiggling horror.

"You're right," she said to Chiun. "He's a brute. I'm going to report him the instant we land."

"Others have tried," Chiun said pitifully. "But he is as wily as he is cruel. He has escaped punishment for the many crimes he has committed against me and others. Even now he travels in luxury at the expense of your government."

"I know a thing or two about government," the woman insisted. "My cousin is a United States senator." She unclamped her handbag and rummaged inside, producing a small pad and a gold pen. "Give me your name," she demanded of Remo.

"Alfonse D'Amato. I'll let you figure out where you can shove the apostrophe."

The appalled woman immediately summoned a flight attendant, who in turn called the pilot.

The pilot was a pleasant-faced man in his late forties. He was muscular with a shock of black hair that was turning gray at the temples. In his shirtsleeves, shoulders marked with civilian captain's insignia, he picked his way through the cabin to the source of the commotion.

"Is there a problem?" he asked the woman who sat clucking like an angry hen between Remo and Chiun.

"I want police on the ground when we land," the woman insisted. She aimed a sausage-thick finger at Remo. "This man is guilty of elder abuse. I want him arrested and thrown in jail for what he has done to this poor, sweet man."

The pilot glanced from Remo to Chiun. "Sir, is this man mistreating you?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.

"He is wicked in both thought and deed," Chiun responded fearfully. "Just recently he locked me in a cell while he went off gallivanting for days on end."

"I was only gone a couple hours," Remo said.

"He shouldn't be left alone for one minute at his age," the matronly woman snapped.

"He locked you in a cell?" the pilot demanded.

"That cell had cable TV and a door that locked from the inside. He could have escaped a hundred times."

"My hands were too feeble to work the door handles," Chiun said weakly. "He even forced me to eat carp when I wanted trout."

"You poor, poor dear," the woman said. She patted Chiun's hand. The Master of Sinanju nodded morose appreciation at the small kindness.

"Quit it, will you, Chiun?" Remo snapped.

"Leave him alone, you tyrant," the woman barked.

"I've seen enough," the pilot said. "The authorities are going to want to question you when we land, sir."

"Oh, come on," Remo said. "I didn't do anything."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

"Look what you did," Remo groused at Chiun.

"Can't you lock him away somewhere for the rest of the flight?" the plump woman whispered loudly to the pilot. "He seems unbalanced."

"I'll give you unbalanced, Aunt Bee," Remo snapped.

Quick as a flash, two hard fingers shot into the woman's doughy wattle, pressing into her throat. False eyelashes flickered, and the woman suddenly could not refuse the urge to sleep. Her head slumped forward.

"Peace and quiet. All I ever want," Remo complained.

As the woman began snoring, the pilot tried to flee. Remo grabbed him by his dangling tie and reeled him in.

"They need you to land this thing?" The pilot shook his head.

"In that case, nighty-night."

Remo sent the pilot to slumberland. He dumped the pilot's face in the lap of the sleeping woman, then called over a flight attendant.

"Oh, my God!" the woman exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Beats me," Remo said.

"He did it," Chiun said.

"Put a sock in it, will you?" Remo said. "When's the in-flight movie start?" he asked the stewardess. The bodies were quickly cleared away. While the cleanup was going on, there was a lot of whispering Remo didn't like the sound of.

When the plane reached La Guardia twenty minutes later and was immediately cleared for landing, Remo knew he was in trouble. There were police on the ground. Remo saw them out the window.

"This is all your fault," he groused, unbuckling his seat belt.

"Of course," Chiun said. "Blame the innocent, defend the guilty. The very underpinnings of white culture."

"Shake a leg, Johnnie Cochran," Remo insisted. He hurried up the aisle. The Master of Sinanju followed.

They found the flight crew hiding out in the galley. The crew was dismayed at Remo's appearance through the curtain.

"Please return to your seats," a flight attendant commanded.

"Believe me, I'd like to. No rest for the weary." Remo stuffed the man in the rest room. When others protested, he stuffed them in, too.

"You missed one," Chiun pointed out blandly as the navigator tried to flee.

"Thanks a heap," Remo said, collaring the man. There was no room left in the bathroom. He jammed the man in a cupboard.

By the time the plane rolled to a stop, Remo had locked away pretty much everyone but the copilot. "Great thinking for you to start this stuff up again now," Remo complained as he shoved a few loose arms and legs into a particularly cramped closet. "Calling attention to us on a plane flying in to New York. Smitty's gonna love this."

"I did nothing but make a friend," Chiun sniffed. "You introduced violence. That is your way. Violent and hostile. You should enroll in one of those classes that teaches people like you how to manage your anger."

"Take my word for it, I'm managing it."

All potential witnesses were now safely locked away. The passengers were still oblivious.

The plane had reached a dead stop by now. The police would rush inside the instant the door was opened.

In the middle of the galley, Remo banged the floor with the heel of his shoe. When he found the sweet spot, he hopped into the air, landing hard on both heels. The welded steel plate beneath the carpet broke loose, rising like a teeter-totter and tearing up a long strip of rug.

"You coming?" Remo asked as he slipped down into the newly made trapdoor.

Chiun frowned. "Will the indignities never cease?"

The two Masters of Sinanju disappeared through the narrow opening. Through the belly of the plane, they made their way to the aft cargo hold.

As SWAT teams stormed the plane above, Remo was standing on an American Tourister suitcase and kicking open the big cargo door. The two men jumped to the ground.

"Welcome to New York," Remo muttered.

A moment later they had vanished amid the growing confusion.

Chapter 6

By midmorning word of the bizarre murders had spread like prairie fire through lower Manhattan. In a city now conditioned for particular types of attack, this was something new.

New York was a target of terror and the home of murder, rape, drive-by shootings, gang wars, pimps, whores, drug dealers and all of the seven deadly sins, plus a million more unknown to theologians. But the one fear New Yorkers had never been prepared for was wholesale cannibalism in Manhattan's steel-and-glass canyons.

So far, more than two hundred people had been affected. As many as that and more were dead. Since the killers seemed to not be in control of their own actions, police had been ordered to use guns as a last resort. The NYPD was armed with Tasers and animal tranquilizers.

Bronx Zoo officials had been brought in as advisers on the capture of the most dangerous of prey: animals with the capacity of human thought.

Although civilian authorities were doing their best to deal with the situation, there was no clue yet as to the cause. By late morning the number of attacks continued to increase with no explanation in sight.

By the time Remo and Chiun arrived by taxi at the Second Avenue home of Vaunted Press they could sense the fear hanging heavy in the air.

The streets were virtually empty. A dozen cruisers had converged on the building six hours earlier. Only two remained. Since early that morning, the isolated incident at Vaunted Press had become epidemic.

The two Masters of Sinanju met not a living soul as they crossed the sidewalk and entered the lobby. They took the elevator to the fourth floor.

"I guess we should have seen this coming," Remo said as the car rose. "Cannibal chic. Probably started in the Village."

Chiun was watching the floor lights. "Do not drag Sinanju into this perversity," he sniffed.

"Different village, Little Father," Remo explained. "And from where I stand, tongue studs and navel piercings are a hop, skip and a jump to rampant workday cannibalism."

"The lesser races have a history of playing at the edge of anarchy," Chiun agreed. "It has always been the yellow man's burden to keep the savages in line. Still, when I pass from this life and join my ancestors in the Great Void, I will now owe my grandfather a gold coin. He always said you Americans would be the first to start eating one another."

"You bet against us?" Remo asked, surprised.

"Of course. There are still French in the world." The elevator doors opened on the lobby of Vaunted Press.

The police officers whose patrol cars were parked downstairs were nowhere to be seen. Sensing a cluster of heartbeats far down the hall, Remo and Chiun struck off in that direction.

They found a group of eight men and women hiding out in a small office. Tense, black-rimmed eyes looked up fearfully when Remo and Chiun entered the room.

"Who are you?" one trembling man asked.

"FBI," Remo said, flashing false ID. "Why are you people still here?"

The man exhaled. "We were witnesses. Most everyone went home, but we had to stay. Then it got worse out there and they advised us to stay put."

Remo stabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "You know where it happened?" he asked.

The man nodded. "I was there," he said sickly.

"How about giving us the nickel tour?" Reluctantly the man pushed himself out of his chair. The rest remained behind as he followed Remo and Chiun out into the hallway.

"So what exactly happened here?" Remo asked as they walked down the long hall. The lights were on in all the silent offices they passed.

"I don't really know," the man said. "Four people went crazy this morning. They were like animals. I was lucky to get out alive. Then the police arrived, and we found out it was going on all over town."

"Where are the police now?" Remo asked. "We saw the cruisers downstairs."

"They're around here somewhere. Some of them had to leave on other calls. It's crazy." They had reached a short hall. "Down there," the office worker said, pointing.

Yellow police tape hung at the dead end of the corridor. A few rooms opened onto the hall. Remo and Chiun smelled the heavy scent of human blood in the recirculated air.

Remo lifted the tape for Chiun and the office worker to pass. The man waited outside the first door, averting his eyes. "In there." He pointed.

Remo thought he'd be prepared. After all, he had seen much in his life. But the gruesome scene inside the Vaunted Press break room was far worse than he had expected.

The floor was painted in sticky, drying blood. There were only a few clear spots here and there. Police and morgue attendants had barely been able to navigate across the mess. Dried blood clung to the walls, splattering the refrigerator, coffee area and watercooler.

"Where are the bodies?" Remo called out the door.

"They took them," a voice replied from outside.

"We'll have to take a trip to the morgue, Little Father. The victims might be able to give us a clue." The Master of Sinanju nodded. He was standing in a clear patch, examining the floor with an experimental toe of his sandal. When Remo looked, he saw that Chiun was tracing deep furrows in the linoleum. They looked almost like claw marks.

"What are those?"

"It appears to be the work of an animal," Chiun said. "See the depth of scarring. There was strength behind this blow. You are certain the things that did this were human?"

"People did this, right?" Remo shouted out the door.

"Yes," the Vaunted employee said. "Well, they were people. I don't know what came over them."

"You know if they were hepped up on goofballs? Snorting Liquid Plumr? Anything like that?"

"I don't think so. You could ask them." Frowning, Remo stepped back into the hallway. "I thought they were dead."

The office worker shook his head. "Two of them are. The police had to shoot them. They were like animals. But they captured the others."

"Beats questioning a corpse. I guess our next stop is the police lockup, Chiun."

The Master of Sinanju had just padded out into the hall, a troubled look on his leathery face.

The three men were heading back to the police tape when a low sound caught Remo's attention.

He stopped dead, listening. The Master of Sinanju paused at his side.

"What is it?" the old Korean asked.

After a silent moment, Remo shook his head. "I thought I heard something."

Shrugging, he started up the hall when the soft noise floated to him once more. This time the Master of Sinanju heard it, too. They shared a tight glance.

"What's wrong?" the nervous office worker asked when the two men turned abruptly away from the yellow tape.

"Don't know," Remo said, pitching his voice low.

"But, hey, I've got a fun idea. Why don't you run back as fast as you can and hide with the others?"

The man blinked. "Um..."

"Lock the door," the Master of Sinanju added darkly, his button nose upturned and sniffing the air. The office worker did not need to be told again. He turned and ran, snapping into two neat halves the thin plastic police tape. He was out of sight before the yellow ends had fluttered to the floor.

Remo and Chiun headed in the opposite direction. Senses tuned to the soft vibrations of the building around them, they swept stealthily down toward the end of the hall.

They felt it now. It had been far and weak. So weak that even their highly tuned senses had failed to detect it.

A dying heartbeat.

No matter what Chiun thought about the marks in the break-room floor, the sound was distinctly human. The thready thump came from the last office.

Like sharks honing in on a single droplet of blood in an ocean of water, they tracked the noise.

The door was slightly ajar; the room beyond was dark. Dusty blinds had been twisted shut on the latemorning light.

Gently Remo nudged the door open. Eyes trained to see in darkness drew in enough ambient light to illuminate the room.

The body was sprawled on the floor, head propped at a painful angle against the wall. The stomach was ripped open, exposing curved bones of a broken rib cage. The man wore the tattered uniform of a New York City police officer.

As Remo and Chiun watched, the exposed heart of the dying cop offered a feeble beat.

Wincing, Remo began to step toward the dying man. A strong hand held him fast.

"Look," Chiun whispered. With a long nail, the Master of Sinanju pointed at the shadows.

A second uniformed policeman had been dragged behind a desk. Craning his neck, Remo saw the other man had suffered the same fate as the first. He was luckier than his companion. The second man was dead.

Remo shook his head, confused.

"I thought they rounded them all up," he whispered. "What the hell is loose in here?"

Chiun's face was a troubled mask. "Whatever it is, my son, walk with care."

Stepping across the room, Remo knelt next to the living man. To his right beside the desk, a door was open to an adjacent room.

The police officer was too far gone. There was no way to revive him even for a moment of questioning. Cruel face darkening in disgust, Remo used a sharp temple blow to kill the officer swiftly and mercifully.

When he turned, he found the Master of Sinanju standing at the second body. Chiun was examining the man's injuries.

Remo was surprised to see a strange look on his teacher's parchment features. If Remo didn't know better, he would almost say it was fear.

"Chiun?" he asked, taking a step toward the old Korean. And in the fraction of slivered time it took him to speak his teacher's name, there came a soft growl at Remo's back.

It shouldn't have been there. It was too close. His senses should have detected anything living. Yet there was something alive. Breathing warm down his neck. Shocked, Remo had barely time to twist around.

The creatures sprang. Like shadowy lightning they launched from the murky recesses of the adjacent office.

With fangs bared and a jungle roar, the two remaining New York police officers flew at the exposed throats of the two Masters of Sinanju.

Chapter 7

Though they had the outward appearance of men, the two leaping creatures seemed possessed with the strength and speed of wild beasts. They moved on instinct and rage. Animals, not humans.

At the last moment, one soared past Remo in a blur, head tipped to one side. Sharp teeth sought the scrawny neck of the Master of Sinanju.

Strong arms extended, the second attacker flew for Remo's chest.

A primitive urge compelled him to knock his prey down. Ease the kill.

But while these animals that wore the flesh of men attacked on primal instinct, their prey were much more than mere men. They were Sinanju-beings trained to the very peak of mental and physical perfection.

Behind Remo, Chiun's right hand lashed out. A sure stroke behind the ear separated bone from bone. Flesh and muscle split apart before the old Asian's slicing nails.

Chiun did a little pirouette and the creature flew past, wind whistling through the empty space where a moment before his jaw had been. The severed jaw dropped to the floor.

The shocked animal tumbled to the floor, scrambling to right himself near one of the dead police officers. A long tongue flapped in empty air. The creature whimpered in pain and confusion.

Chiun sent a hard heel into the animal's forehead. The creature that was a grotesque mockery of man collapsed onto the gutted corpse that had been his last meal.

In the split second Chiun was removing his attacker, Remo was dealing death to his own.

When the hurtling beast was an inch away from ramming Remo's chest, Remo moved. He fell with the blow, lower spine bending at an impossible angle until his back was parallel to the floor. His startled attacker flew over.

The creature slammed against the nearby wall, snarling confusion.

He was back up in an instant. Twisting with remarkable speed, he launched himself on powerful legs back at Remo.

But this time, the instant before he could make contact with his prey, the creature suddenly stopped. He landed in an alert crouch, sniffing the air suspiciously.

A new scent wafted to his nose, carried on eddies of fetid office air. Fresh blood.

Sharp eyes located the source.

Two yards away, Remo held up one hand. A single drop of crimson glistened on the index fingernail. Remo flicked it off. Slowly lowering his hand, he used the same finger to point at the animal's stomach.

At the same instant, the man-beast felt a strange yawning sensation in his belly.

The creature glanced down just in time to see the meaty sacks of his own internal organs spilling from a razor slit in his abdomen. He was still staring down in utter incomprehension as Remo sunk a loafer toe in his downturned forehead. The beast dropped to the floor.

As dust began to settle on the body, Chiun was swirling to Remo's side.

"Proof again that I don't need to grow all my nails longer," Remo said tightly. He cleaned his index fingernail-trimmed slightly longer than the rest for scoring glass and metal-on the uniform shirt of his dead attacker.

"Human opponents rarely offer themselves up for slaughter," the Master of Sinanju replied, his voice cold and still. "These things were not men."

Remo was studying the bodies. A memory had already begun to stir in his troubled mind, like an old fear awakened from a long hibernation.

"They have to be," he insisted, more to himself than to Chiun.

But the old Korean was adamant. "You saw with your own eyes," he said. "Men have not the strength or speed of these brutes. And witness their intent, the animal glint in their eyes. I have seen things like these only twice before."

Remo shook his head firmly. "I know what you're thinking, Chiun, but that's impossible." His eyes alighted on the empty stomach cavity of one of the cannibalized victims. "Isn't it?"

Chiun wasn't listening. The old man was examining the nearer creature.

"Okay, I didn't think it was possible the second time," Remo admitted. "But she's dead."

"You are positive?"

"You were there," Remo argued. "You saw her die."

"I saw that creature injured. I did not see it dead. Or perhaps another has taken up that one's unholy cause. In either case, we obviously were too quick to lay the evil to rest."

As Remo studied the hollowed-out body on the floor, he felt the certainty draining from him. The scene in the Vaunted Press office was too eerily reminiscent of something they had encountered before. Something horrible. But his logical mind told him it could not possibly be.

"We should contact Smith," Chiun announced abruptly.

Remo tore his eyes from the body. "Maybe," he said reluctantly. "Still, I don't want to send him into cardiac arrest until we're absolutely one hundred percent sure. The cops have some of these locked up. Let's check them out first."

"These constables were infected," Chiun pointed out. "Others might be, as well."

"Maybe a few," Remo said, "but not all. The two they chowed down on here were cops. We'll be okay."

"Said the mouse to the cat," the old man sniffed. Hems of his black robes twirling near his bony ankles, he swept past Remo out into the hall.

Alone in the office, Remo bit his lip thoughtfully as he glanced at the bodies one last time.

"It can't be," he insisted.

But even he could hear the soft strain of doubt in his own whispered voice.

Chapter 8

The PCP craze back in the seventies had been bad. Back then they'd had to peel angel dusters off the ceiling. Bones in hands and wrists were shattered as fists that could not feel pain pounded over and over against cinder-block walls. One junkie had broken all his teeth trying to chew his way through the iron bars of the lockup.

That was bad.

The rest of the time was regular assorted hopheads, winos and psychos. Some of those were real humdingers. The Bellevue Express hummed night and day from the station filled with your general order of whacko. They were bad, too.

But in his more than twenty years on the force, Sergeant Jimmy Simon had never seen anything like this.

The creatures that had been brought in that morning were not human. Whatever they had sniffed, smoked, shot up or swallowed had turned them into ranting, snarling, growling, snapping animals. Cannibals. Honest-to-God New York City cannibals. These fruitcakes hadn't been arrested; they'd been caged. Booking them in the traditional sense proved impossible. Simon already had two men in the hospital with severe chest and neck lacerations. They had made the mistake of trying to fingerprint one of the original Vaunted Press pair.

They'd all been Mirandized through cell bars. There was no way to mug shot them. A Polaroid was brought to the cells with special instructions to the photographer not to get within an arm's length of the cages.

Sergeant Jimmy Simon had been relieved at the main desk of the South Precinct Midtown station more than half an hour before, but had yet to leave. As the day wore on and the crisis worsened, the order came for everyone to stay put until further notice. Men were being called in from home.

Jimmy Simon had always thought the place was a zoo. But now it was...well, a zoo.

"A zoo. A goddamn zoo," Simon muttered to himself.

Simon sat in a wobbly chair behind the on-duty desk sergeant, filling out paperwork. As he spoke, a terrible roar rolled up from the depths of the station.

The new desk sergeant wheeled, startled at the sound.

"What the hell was that?" Sergeant Jeff Malloy asked.

Jimmy didn't look up from his paperwork. "Must be feeding time," he replied. "They been doing that all day."

The noise came again. A tiger's roar.

Sergeant Malloy felt the short hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "Jesus," he swore.

"Tell me about it," Simon grunted.

Simon doubted he'd ever get used to the sounds that had been coming from downstairs all morning. Every time someone went to check on the more than two dozen prisoners, the commotion got worse. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon and Sergeant Simon still got chills from the roars and snarls that had been rolling up from downstairs for the past three hours.

"A freaking goddamn zoo," he muttered to himself.

Another roar. So loud Jimmy Simon jumped, dropping his Bic disposable.

He couldn't take it any longer. Simon spun in his chair. "O'Reilly, go see what the hell's going on down there," he hollered across the room.

A young officer looked up from where he had been filling out a report. "I told you an hour ago," O'Reilly complained. "They're mostly just sniffing and stretching. They looked at me like I was a T-bone or somethin'."

"Just go," Simon barked. "And watch your Irish ass."

Grumbling, the patrolman got to his feet. O'Reilly was disappearing down the back squad-room staircase when Simon caught sight of a pair of new arrivals coming up the main stairs from the street.

"What now?" he muttered.

One was young, the other ancient.

The Asian looked to be a hundred years old and moved with a gliding shuffle that barely stirred his black robes. The young one wore a black T-shirt and chinos. Wrists as thick as small trees rotated absently as the two of them approached the desk.

The young one was about to speak when the old one bullied his way in front.

"We would see the beasts caged in your menagerie," the Master of Sinanju demanded of Sergeant Malloy.

Jimmy Simon was relieved these two hadn't come in during his desk shift. "Gotta be a full moon tonight," he grumbled.

"Tend your own affairs or invoke the Master's wrath, doughnut gobbler," Chiun spit at the seated man. "Show us the beasts," he ordered Malloy.

Behind the Master of Sinanju, Remo could see the color rise in Simon's flabby cheeks. Before the sergeant could say something he would have plenty of time to regret as a team of surgeons worked to unplug his badge from his sinuses, Remo hastily interceded.

"FBI," he said, waving his phony ID. "We want to see the people you brought in today."

"They are not people," Chiun corrected.

"Yeah? Well, you got that right," Jimmy Simon said from his chair. "But no dice."

"We're just going to take a quick look," Remo said.

"No, you're not," Sergeant Simon replied, standing. He hitched up his belt under his sagging gut. "I've got a city-wide panic going on out there, and those nutcases downstairs are in on it. They're already wired up from missing breakfast. Listen to the roaring down there. You get your ass too close to a cage, and they'll have both of you for lunch. And I'm not mopping up the mess."

He tugged at his belt again. It felt good to throw his weight around. Especially after a day like today. He waited for this FBI agent to argue.

But the Fed didn't argue. He just got a funny look on his face. So did the old coot in the black pajamas. "What roaring?" Remo said.

Sergeant Simon's broad face grew confused. "Huh?"

"That's funny," Sergeant Malloy said. "They stopped." He glanced beyond Simon to the stairs at the rear of the squad room. Silence rose up from below.

Jimmy Simon listened. He heard only the normal bustle of the busy station house.

"That's weird," Simon said.

Remo and Chiun were no longer listening to the police officers. Hearing more acute than any other human ears on the face of the planet was trained on the building's lower floors, filtering out the noise, absorbing the soft sounds. All at once, both men snapped alert.

"They are attacking," the Master of Sinanju snapped.

A sudden blur of movement, faster than the naked eye could perceive.

One moment they were standing in place; the next, both Remo and Chiun had vaulted over the desk. Sergeants Simon and Malloy spun a stunned dance around them as they flew past. Before Sergeant Simon could voice a protest, a fresh sound erupted from beneath his feet.

Gunfire.

"Oh, God," Simon said.

Remo and Chiun were moving swiftly across the squad room toward the rear stairs. Belly jiggling madly, Sergeant Simon sprinted to catch up. His gun was out of its holster.

"I just sent a man down to check on them," he huffed.

All objections to Remo and Chiun's presence were gone. Other officers were running for the narrow stairway.

"How many are there?" Remo demanded.

"Twenty-seven," Simon replied.

More muffled gunshots. Firing wildly. The kind of crazed shooting that indicated panic.

When they reached the basement level, they followed a short, gloomy corridor to a closed steel door. Remo, Chiun and the crush of officers massed outside the door. One man was already there when they arrived. His face was ashen.

The gunfire had stopped.

"What's the situation?" Simon demanded, panting.

"Two men inside," the uniformed officer at the door volunteered breathlessly. "The shooting started once they were locked inside. I don't know what's going on."

A small Plexiglas window sat at eye level in the door. The young officer jumped when a hand abruptly slapped against the glass.

"It's O'Reilly," Sergeant Simon said, exhaling relief. "That's his high-school football ring. Let him out."

"No," Remo snapped, snatching the keys that had been heading for the lock.

"What?" Jimmy Simon growled angrily. "What the hell-" He stopped dead. "Oh, my God," he breathed.

Sick eyes were trained on the door. The red flush of his cheeks paled.

O'Reilly's hand continued to tap against the window. But on closer scrutiny Simon saw now that the fingers were pale and lifeless. And then he saw the other hand holding it aloft, and saw the ragged flesh where O'Reilly's hand had been severed from his forearm. And then Sergeant Jimmy Simon-eighteen years on the force, immune to everything this crummy job could throw at him-was vomiting up his lunch onto the Midtown station cell-block floor.

The face of the man who had been pressing O'Reilly's hand to the window appeared briefly. Eyes wild, fangs bared, the creature took a vicious bite out the patrolman's severed hand before disappearing from view.

"Shit," Simon said, wiping puke on his sleeve. "Sweet Jesus, they're out of their cells." He slumped against the cold wall.

"Can they escape this?" Chiun demanded, waving at the door.

"I don't know. Maybe. There's this door and one way on the other side. They were built pretty tough."

Chiun turned to Remo. "Even now they look for weaknesses in this dungeon's fortifications," the old Korean said. "They must be contained."

"Why is it always us?" Remo sighed. He turned to Simon. "Okay, stand back, Pop 'n Fresh. We're going in."

"Are you nuts?" Jimmy Simon asked. "Did you see what they did? They'll eat you alive."

"Fine with me," Remo grumbled. "Dead is the only way I'm ever gonna get a rest in this life. All the time it's work, work, work."

The police could see by the look of angry resolve on the strange FBI man's face that there would be no arguing.

"At least take my gun," Sergeant Simon pleaded. Chiun swatted gun and sergeant away. The police fell back from the door, weapons leveled should anything try to escape when it opened.

"There's no way you two guys are going to get them back in their cells," Simon called, perspiring on the far end of his Smith And if they charge out of there, you're getting mowed down, too."

"Go deep throat a cruller and let me work in peace," Remo suggested, jamming the key in the lock.

Before he could give it a turn, Chiun touched Remo's wrist. "My son," the Master of Sinanju whispered, "there is something I did not mention to you when last we encountered these creatures." His parchment face was drawn tight.

"I don't think now's a good time, Little Father."

"Listen," the old Korean snapped. "It is important." There was a gleam of furious concern in his hazel eyes.

Remo felt the shudder of urgency pass from the frail little man who had taught him all he knew. He grew still.

"When we encountered the first of these beasts, I told you of the Sinanju legend. Do you remember?"

"That was over twenty years ago. And that time is still kind of fuzzy to me," Remo admitted. "I had the wind knocked out of my sails."

Chiun pitched his voice low. "You are avatar of Shiva-" He paused, waiting for the argument that always came after making this assertion.

But this time-for the first time-Remo remained silent. A shadow of acceptance crossed his brow. The wizened Asian could not take joy in the fact that his pupil had finally accepted destiny.

"While now is not the time to discuss what it is the gods have in store for you, there is more than mere glory with which you must contend. The legend that speaks of Shiva also speaks a warning. You who have been through death before can only be sent to death by your kind or my kind."

"I think I remember that," said Remo, who had been sentenced to die in an electric chair that did not work as part of the elaborate frame-up that had brought him into CURE. He scrunched up his face. "I didn't know what it meant then, and crap if I know what it means now."

"What's going on?" Sergeant Simon called nervously.

"Silence, gaspot!" Chiun shot back.

He spun to Remo. "You are the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju," he said urgently. "Your kind are other night tigers. My kind-now our kind-are Masters of Sinanju. Since you need not fear death from me, if the legend speaks truth, it can come from but one other source."

"Night tigers," Remo supplied.

"Precisely. The legend states that even Shiva must walk with care when he passes the jungle where lurk other night tigers."

Remo considered his words for a long moment. Finally he looked down into the intent hazel eyes of the Master of Sinanju.

"Lucky for me this isn't a jungle," Remo said. And before the old Korean could stop him, he opened the door and passed like a shadow inside.

For an instant, Chiun remained.

Still young. Still arrogant. There had been times in the past when the most hazardous time for a newly invested Reigning Master were those first years as head of the village. The world was never more dangerous than when it seemed to no longer pose a threat.

All this and more did pass through the troubled mind of the Master of Sinanju in an instant. Praying to his gods that his words had had their desired impact, Chiun twirled through the gap in the door and was gone.

Behind, the police who had been tensed for an attack were jarred by the sudden disappearance of the two FBI men, as well as by the sudden sharp slamming of the metal door.

Somehow the keys came to a sliding stop at the feet of Sergeant Jimmy Simon. His eyes strayed from the keys back to the closed door. He shook his head. "When they get through with you, we're gonna need sponges for the remains," he announced.

Struggling over his wide belly, he stooped to snatch up the keys.

THE FETID AIR inside the lockup was thick with the smell of death. Remo and Chiun kept their breathing low. All the cell doors were ajar. The police had thought it safe to put normal prisoners in the lockup as long as they were separate from the more dangerous ones. With the keys taken from the late Officer O'Reilly, the creatures had made a feast not only out of the unlucky young police officer, but out of their fellow prisoners as well.

Greedy chewing issued from the dank corners of some cells. Sharp snaps came as strong jaws cracked brittle bones.

As Remo and Chiun made their way from the door, both men sensed hungry eyes tracking their every movement.

Noses keener than those of mere men fed the scent of fresh prey to watering mouths. Yellow feline eyes stared unblinking from out the shadows.

"You know the story of Daniel?" Remo whispered as they crept along. The cells opened right and left along the long corridor.

Chiun nodded. "Yes," he said. "And do not believe every Bible you pick up off the sidewalk."

A soft growl rose nearby.

"Sue me for finding comfort in a story where a guy who's tossed to the lions gets out alive."

"Find comfort in whatever nonsense you wish on your own time," Chiun commanded. "For the moment your unwillingness to accept the obvious has dragged me into this pit, so pay attention."

No sooner had the old man spoken than Remo felt a sudden displacement of air to his right.

There were six creatures growling within the nearest cell. As Remo and Chiun passed, one launched from the pack.

Until that morning, Remo's attacker had been an investment counselor who had spent an hour every night pumping away on a treadmill. The powerful legs his nightly workout had given him launched him from his jail cell bunk. He flew from the dark, fangs bared.

Outside the open cell door, Remo noted blandly that the man was coming in pretty fast. But for the Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, pretty fast was not fast enough.

Remo watched the man come, gauged his speed and-at the last possible moment-slammed the cell door into the lunging creature's head.

Steel bars went clang, head went crack and the former investment counselor collapsed like a high-tech mutual fund after a lousy fourth-quarter-earnings report.

Instantly the five other creatures inside the cell surrounded the body. One kicked at the unconscious male with an experimental toe. When he didn't object, the five creatures began to nip and claw. As a pack, they began to tear off his clothes. They were growling and devouring chunks of flesh as Remo turned from the cell door.

"This might be easier than I thought," he said grimly to the Master of Sinanju.

His reply came not from Chiun but from farther up the cell block.

"Don't bet on it, kitten," purred a female voice. Remo glanced over.

Elizabeth Tiflis stood in shadow two cells away. Her arms were crossed lightly. A knowing smile toyed at the corners of her very red lips.

There was still a gleam of deep intelligence in the eyes of the Vaunted Press employee, unnerving since it was clear she was something far more savage than man.

A few feet away from where she stood, six more creatures paced back and forth. Their yellow eyes stared with a predator's malevolence at Remo and Chiun.

"Who ordered chink food?" one of the females asked, her voice a throaty purr. Her hungry gaze was locked on Chiun.

"Quiet," Elizabeth commanded.

She had seen Remo's speed with the cell door. Elizabeth understood they were dealing with something different here. The creature Elizabeth scolded fell silent.

"Okay, here's the deal," Remo said. "We've had experience with your kind before, and there might be something that can be done to help you. But that doesn't mean we won't stop you if we have to. Now, you're not getting out of here, so why don't you be a nice kitty and get back in your cage?"

The harshness of Elizabeth's features melted into a malevolent, Cheshire-cat grin.

"Who says we want help?" she said. "Besides..." Slowly Elizabeth raised her hand. Around her slender index finger jangled the ring of cell-block keys. "You're fast, sweetie," she said. "But I can let them out as quick as you can lock them up."

This time it was Remo who smiled. "Don't bet on it, kitten."

But even as he spoke he saw the slight nod from Elizabeth. The creatures behind her took the cue. A symphony of furious growls rolled up from six throats as the animals launched from the floor.

Unlike Elizabeth, they didn't view the two frail humans standing stock-still on the concrete floor as anything other than an easy meal. Humans were puny. Humans were weak.

Humans were also-apparently-missing.

The six pouncing creatures landed in the precise spot where dinner had stood only to find that the two men were no longer there. Curious growls rumbled up six throats.

When the nearby voice came, sounding like the voice of death itself, the creatures jumped in fear. "The Master of Sinanju is not a meal, lowly beasts."

The pack wheeled. Chiun was there, already moving.

The old Korean grabbed two creatures by the scruffs of their necks and hurled them deep into an open cell. They tumbled in a heap of limbs onto a bunk.

"Make that Masters," said Remo, who was suddenly among the pack. A pair of elbows found two soft bellies. With a violent expulsion of vile breath, two more creatures flew into the cell, knocking back the first pair, which had scurried to their feet and were heading back for the door.

"Score two for the great white hunter," Remo said. Panicked now, the final two attacked blindly. Jaws snapped viciously, teeth eager to tear flesh.

They chomped down on empty air.

And while their teeth clicked futilely and their bellies grumbled disappointment, the final two creatures felt a sudden jolting pressure to their chests.

They didn't see Remo's and Chiun's feet fly out. They only knew that one moment they had been charging; the next they were airborne.

Howling in rage, the last pair soared inside the cell, knocking over the first four, who were still in the process of scampering to their feet. Outside, Remo slammed the cage door shut. A paw tried to snatch at him through the bars.

"See?" Remo said, hopping clear of the swiping hand. "Only pantywaists use whips and chairs." Chiun was already moving swiftly away from Remo.

"Hurry up, Great White Lunkhead," the old Asian snapped.

He bounded from cell to cell, yanking doors shut. Remo raced along the other side of the block. Until then most of the creatures had remained in their cells, feeding hungrily on the unfortunate junkies, rapists and run-of-the mill murderers who'd had the misfortune of being arrested that day. None had been concerned with the two strangers, assuming they could be picked off easily at their leisure. But the clanging cage doors brought sudden realization. Roaring in anger, the beasts in human form abandoned gutted corpses, bounding across cells.

Too late. As the last of the creatures skidded to a frustrated stop, Remo and Chiun slammed the final two doors.

Snarls and howls of rage filled the cell block. Remo scanned the last few cells for one face in particular. As he feared, Elizabeth Tiflis was nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd the one with the keys go?" he asked. As he spoke, panicked shouting suddenly erupted from the far end of the lockup. Gunfire rattled through the station house.

"This way," Chiun insisted.

The two men flew toward the disturbance.

A second door was around a sharp corner at the far end of a row of empty cages. When they turned the corner, Remo found that he and Chiun had not been entirely successful.

The door had been wrenched open. While the keys worked for the cells, the doors to the outside could only be opened from without. While Remo and Chiun had fought the rest, others had apparently been jimmying open the lockup door.

When Remo and Chiun exploded through the cellblock door, a dozen guns aimed their way.

Sergeant Simon stood with a SWAT team. He was panting and red-faced from his sprint through the precinct house.

"Are they after you?" Simon yelled.

"They're locked up," Remo snapped. "How many escaped?"

Simon didn't hear him. By the look on his face, Sergeant Simon was certain Remo and Chiun wouldn't be alone. Anxious eyes awaited the creatures that had to be chasing down the two FBI men. But no one appeared behind them.

"Where are they?" Simon asked.

"I told you, locked up. How many- Hey, Gunther Toody, will you knock it off and listen?"

Sergeant Simon was listening. Angry howls came from inside the cell block. But they sounded far back. The SWAT team was already streaming past Remo, Chiun and Simon. They darted into the dank cell block.

"How many got out?" Remo pressed.

"Five," Simon panted. Numbly he holstered his gun.

The police had sustained casualties. Two men lay dead. A third was sprawled on the stairs, a row of vicious raking gashes across his chest. He groaned in pain as others tended his wounds, awaiting the arrival of paramedics.

"They could be anywhere by now," Remo said. "I guess we'll have to let the cops track them down again."

Beside him, the old Korean frowned somberly. "Perhaps," he said, stroking his thread of beard. "Do you not find it odd, Remo, that some chose to fill their bellies while others schemed to flee?"

"What am I now, the frigging Crocodile Hunter? Some eat, some run. It's what animals do. What?" He could see his teacher was giving him that look. The "Remo, you're an idiot" look. But try as he might, Remo could not see what he'd said to deserve that look. And the fact that he couldn't see why he was an idiot, and the fact that Chiun could plainly see that Remo couldn't see why he was an idiot, only acted to further cement the expression of irritation on the wizened Asian's face.

"Animals flee as one and eat as one," the old Korean droned.

"And mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy," Remo said. "So what? Hey, where are you going?"

The Master of Sinanju had turned away. Shaking his head in annoyance, he padded up the stairs. "What did I not get?" Remo demanded of Sergeant Simon.

Jimmy Simon was staring down through the open cell-block door. Jungle roars echoed from out the darkness.

"Huh?" the police officer asked.

"Forget it," Remo sighed. "I need a phone." Feet heavy, he climbed the stairs after the Master of Sinanju.

Chapter 9

Mankind was destined for extinction.

No matter what bad human poets said, the end for mankind would not come with either fire or ice. There would be no deep comet impacts or continent-sized holocausts. No massive gravitational or tectonic shifts to alter the geography of the planet over which he lorded his supremacy. Man's Earth would not be swallowed by a massive solar flare or turned inside out by cosmic collision with a spiraling black hole.

The ecologists who perpetuated the pollution myth would be proved wrong.

The climatologists would be mistaken about the bogeyman of global warming.

Even the entomologists and botanists who were predicting lower and lower crop yields with resultant mass starvation due to a dwindling population of pollinating insects would be proved wrong.

In the end, the thing that would doom mankind was something so small it couldn't be perceived by the naked eye. Mankind would be undone by his own vaunted technology.

The ultimate irony for a species that more and more valued science over nature.

The species that was Man would die out because the first female of the species that would supersede mankind as lord of the Earth wished it to be so.

While thinking thoughts of the end of human history, Dr. Judith White used her sharp white teeth to tug the stopper from the mouth of the test tube.

The open end exposed a textured black rubber ball. With long fingernails, she delicately withdrew the eyedropper, careful not to lose a single drop of the brownish liquid that hung from its glass tip. With her middle finger, she tapped the hanging droplets back into the tube.

A charcoal filter rested in a shallow pan of water on the desk before her. With great care, she brought the dropper over the pan and gently squeezed the plunger.

Ten fat droplets of the brown solution plopped into the clear liquid in the pan. The pure Lubec Spring water darkened a deep brown.

Judith quickly replaced the dropper in the test tube, clamping the stopper back in place. Slipping the tube in her jacket pocket, she lifted the pan by the edges. With gentle movements, she swished the dark water around.

When she was satisfied that the compound had dissipated, she placed the pan back on the desk. She stood.

"Let it sit for an hour, then reinstall it," she ordered.

Standing before the desk, Owen Grude nodded understanding. "I think I can handle this now," he offered. "I've seen you do it dozens of times."

Owen was fidgeting. Agitated. As if at any moment he might try to spring in two directions at once. Judith White had seen this sort of behavior in her young before. The cubs always had so much energy. She shook her head firmly. "This is too critical. The filters have to be treated hourly. You're still a cub. At this stage stomach will always come before duty."

As if on cue, the quiet growl of Owen's rumbling stomach filled the room.

"Sorry," he apologized.

He was still trying to control his animal urges. But it was now against his nature.

Of course, Judith did not allow her base instincts to consume her. She had mastered both body and mind-harnessed them into a single, perfect being.

She could summon human intellect when it served her. She had the ability to squelch animal desire. And when it suited her, she could act on instinct better than any creature on the face of the planet.

She alone of all the beasts to ever walk and crawl and swim and run across the Earth had attained utter perfection.

Before her, Owen Grude shifted uncomfortably. He was trying so hard to be strong. But the urges at this stage were nearly overwhelming. Owen had a long way to go before he attained the perfection of Dr. Judith White. But perfection was on the way. Not that Owen or any of the other new mongrels would be around long enough to witness it.

"You have a little time before this is ready. Go feed," Judith commanded.

Owen didn't need to be told a second time. Spinning on his heel, he prowled out of the office. Once she was alone, Judith crossed over to a small, two-drawer filing cabinet. Beside it was a pair of pebbled black cases. She lifted one of the cases, setting it on a computer table below a long picture window. The softly sighing conifers of the deep Maine woods were framed in the window. The beauty of the scenery had no meaning to Judith White.

Fingering the silver tabs on the case, she popped open the lid.

Inside was lined with the gray peaks and valleys of special packing foam. Large glass vials were lined up neatly on the egg-carton foam. There were now as many empty as full. Slipping the test tube carefully from her pocket, she set it delicately in its own recessed compartment.

There was a reason why she would not allow Owen or anyone else to handle the formula. There was simply no way she would ever entrust something so important with one of the others. The compound had to be measured just so.

Too little would take too long to affect the humans, if it worked at all. Too much would be a waste. The process would be accelerated to two seconds from fifteen.

And at the moment she didn't want to waste a drop. She could have more made, but it would disrupt her plan, which at the moment was proceeding precisely on schedule.

The intellectual part of her that remained knew that the odds were increasing in her favor with every passing hour.

"It's nothing personal, mankind," she growled to the whispering woods. "Just survival of the fittest." Purring, Judith White slapped shut the case lid.

Chapter 10

Dr. Harold W. Smith felt good.

For most people, feeling good was a normal sensation. Oh, sometimes it was fleeting, sometimes it lingered, but for the world at large it wasn't terribly unusual to simply feel good. But for the director of the secret agency CURE, feeling good was a strange, alien sensation.

A dour, lemony man, Smith's moods generally ran the gamut from mildly concerned to deeply anxious. Sometimes he was peevish; very rarely he was angry. At times-when his country or agency was threatened-there were moments of full-blown panic or, more likely, steadfast resolve.

Feeling good was definitely not part of his normal emotional repertoire. So on this day, as he steered his car onto the street on which he had lived for the past forty years, he resolved to savor the sensation.

Smith parked his rusted old station wagon in the driveway of his Rye, New York, home. He grabbed his battered leather briefcase from the seat beside him. After locking the briefcase in the back compartment alongside the spare tire, he headed up the front walk.

His wife had heard the sound of the car pulling in the driveway. She was at the front door to meet him. "Hello, Harold," Maude Smith said. She was wiping her hands dry on a well-worn dishrag. Mrs. Smith had been in the process of scrubbing the old copper pots that had been a wedding gift from her longdeceased mother.

"Hello, dear," Smith said, giving the plump woman a peck on the cheek. He headed upstairs. Smith generally stayed at work from before sunup until well after sundown. Seeing Harold home at any other time of day would ordinarily be cause of great concern to Mrs. Smith. But although it was only eleven o'clock in the morning, his wife had not been surprised to see her Harold today.

Smith had told her he would be home at this time. And since he said it, she was confident he would come. Maude's Harold was nothing if not reliable.

In the upstairs bedroom, Smith found his special clothes folded on a chair just where he'd left them. His normal uniform was a three-piece gray suit, which he wore now. Smith changed out of the suit, hanging it carefully in the closet next to six other identical suits. He pulled on the powder-blue longsleeved jersey and green plaid pants. There were some fabric pills on the shirt. Smith plucked them off, depositing them in the trash.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped his feet back in his dress shoes. He was lacing them back up when his wife stuck her head around the corner.

"Are you all right, Harold?" Maude asked, concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine." Smith asked, "Why?"

"That noise you were just making with your mouth. I thought something was wrong."

Smith frowned. "Noise?" he asked. "I don't believe I was making any noise, dear."

He picked up a pair of white shoes from the floor under the chair, just where he'd left them the previous night. Carrying the shoes under one arm, he kissed his wife on the cheek once more and headed back out into the hallway.

As he stepped down the stairs, he was unaware that he had started making the same horrible noise once more.

Behind him, Maude Smith watched from the top of the stairs. As he headed briskly out the door, she saw her husband's lips purse, saw his ashen cheeks puff out.

Maude recognized the noise this time. Her Harold was actually whistling. She shook her head in astonishment

"Will wonders never cease?" she asked the walls with the old white paint that, although long yellowed from age, Harold refused to have repainted. The paint had been guaranteed to last thirty years, which would not be up for another two years. Even though the manufacturer had long gone out of business, Harold refused to pay to have the walls repainted until precisely thirty years had passed. Anything sooner than that would be an extravagance. Like whistling.

Maude heard the awful sound coming from outside. A dog two houses away was howling at the noise as her husband backed his station wagon out of the driveway.

Still shaking her head in amazement, but grateful to the Almighty just the same for her Harold's new outlook, Maude Smith climbed carefully back down the creaky old stairs.

SMITH COULD NOT THANK the Almighty for this morning away from work. Not that he didn't believe. A healthy fear of God had been inculcated in Harold Smith at an early age. But thanks to the requirements of his job as director of CURE, Smith had long before determined that he could not in good conscience involve the Deity in the matters of his adult life. Smith didn't bother God, and when the time of judgment came for him, Smith hoped the Almighty would understand the necessity of his many transgressions.

No, if any thanks were due at all, they went to Smith's assistant.

Mark Howard was a diligent young man who from the start had insisted that he relieve some of his employer's heavy burden. Thanks to Mark Howard, Harold Smith was able to take off two early afternoons every week to enjoy dinner with Maude. And thanks to his assistant, Smith was about to indulge in a guilty pleasure that he had given up long ago.

Smith's house bordered one of the most exclusive country clubs on the East Coast. As he drove along, he caught glimpses of well-tended greens between houses and trees.

Around the block and up through the gates, Smith drove through the main entrance to the Westchester Golf Club.

There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot. Smith chose one recently vacated near the clubhouse. He changed into his golf shoes beside his car and took his wheeled bag of clubs from the back seat of the station wagon where he had carefully placed them earlier that morning.

He was whistling again as he headed for the clubhouse.

Although Smith had been paying his yearly membership dues without fail for the past forty years, he had been to the club only a handful of times in the past three decades.

When CURE had first been established by a President now long dead, Smith had been a CIA analyst living in Virginia. He had dutifully accepted his post, moving his family to Rye.

Smith had taken over directorship of Folcroft Sanitarium, a private mental institution and convalescent home in town. Folcroft was the cover for CURE, the agency that didn't officially exist. As part of his own cover, Smith had early on involved himself in his community. Not too much. But in the early 1960s, to be completely removed from one's community affairs was to invite suspicion, he reasoned.

One of the first things Smith did after settling in at Folcroft was join the Westchester Golf Club.

Almost straight away he was invited to be part of a regular foursome. It seemed three other members who happened to play on the same day as Smith-a doctor, a lawyer and a judge-had recently lost their fourth. The new director of Folcroft Sanitarium was more than welcome to join them.

It was perfect for Smith's plan of fitting in. He was the perfectly ordinary director of Folcroft Sanitarium, playing a perfectly ordinary game with perfectly ordinary companions. Nothing suspicious, everything aboveboard.

For almost two years in the early 1960s Smith had played regularly with the same three men. But then, slowly, he began missing dates.

The demands of his work. There was always some crisis that needed attention, always a catastrophe that needed to be averted. For a time the men would call his secretary asking where Smith was. Once or twice Smith did manage to get away to join them. Mostly he refused. Then one day he suddenly realized that it was the 1970s and his old golf companions had stopped calling almost a decade before.

It no longer mattered. Maude was active enough in the community for them both. And, luckily, over the years Americans had become more isolated. Gone were the days when neighbors knew every face on the block and the involvement of business leaders in the community was practically a requirement. As the century wound to a close, it was possible for people to live next door to one another for years without ever exchanging hellos. And the director of a private sanitarium could spend his every waking hour locked away in his office without ever venturing out to attend a city council meeting or to play even a single round of golf.

But things had changed once again-finally, blessedly-and Harold Smith, in the twilight of his life, was once more able to step out into the sunshine of the Westchester Golf Club. And to feel good in the process.

Drawing his clubs behind him, Smith entered the clubhouse. He found a smiling, fortyish woman with short blond hair and a tag on her jersey identifying her as staff.

"Good morning," Smith said. "Could you tell me if Dr. Glass is playing today?"

"Doctor who?" the woman asked.

"Dr. Robert Glass. He plays here every Wednesday."

"I'm sorry, but there's no Dr. Glass here."

Smith raised a thin brow. "You seem quite certain. You didn't even check."

"Actually, I don't really have to," the woman said. "I know everyone who's playing today. In fact, I know everyone who is a member at the club and we don't have a Dr. Glass."

Smith had met this kind of stubbornness before. He had seen it in all walks of life, from government bureaucrats to restaurant hostesses. People loved to see themselves as important and powerful. Obviously this woman's job as gatekeeper to the elite of Westchester County had gone to her head. But she had met her match today, for Harold Smith was in a rare good mood. The kind of mood where he would enjoy bringing an arrogant woman with clipboard delusions of grandeur down a peg or two.

He smiled. An uncomfortable twist of his thin lips. "Young lady, do you know who I am?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, no. Are you a friend of a member?"

"I am a member," Smith said. "Dr. Harold W. Smith. You will find that I have been a member of this club for over forty years. And since it is obvious you do not know me, we can safely dispense with your claim that you know everyone who belongs. Therefore you will concede that it is possible you've made a mistake and that Dr. Glass is a member, as well. Possibly he is even here today. Please check." Smith's acid tone did not allow for refusal. The woman felt a red rash of embarrassment color her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean-"

She quickly checked her reserved list. When she couldn't find a Dr. Glass there, she went behind the counter and checked the computerized membership rolls. Again she came up empty. Fortunately, the club director-a man Smith recognized from years before-happened to be passing by.

The club director had been a young assistant back then. He was older now, with white hair and a dark tan. Deep furrows of laugh lines crimped the corners of his eyes. When he was told there was a problem with a missing Westchester Golf Club member, the laugh lines blossomed, forming deep, sympathetic crevices. He frowned sadly.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dr. Smith," the man said, "but Dr. Glass passed away."

Smith blinked. "Oh," he said.

He was surprised he hadn't heard. His wife generally kept him up-to-date on such matters. Although Smith was the first to admit that as the years passed he found himself paying less and less attention to his wife's nightly reports on their community. Smith was usually distracted by CURE matters and generally tuned out Maude Smith, offering only a few "yes, dears" whenever they seemed warranted.

Obviously he had missed the death of his old golfing companion Robert Glass. He would have to send his widow a sympathy card.

"When did he die?" Smith asked.

The country club director checked his chart. "Ah, 1987," he replied.

"Oh," Smith said again. Perhaps it was too late for a sympathy card. "Is his wife still a member?"

"She moved to Florida. I believe she passed away last year. I could check if you'd like."

"Don't bother," Smith said, clearing his throat. "There were two other men Dr. Glass and I used to golf with. George Garner and Phillip Lassiter. Are they still, er, members?"

He could tell the answer from the fresh deeply sympathetic look that came over the man's face.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. Judge Garner passed on about five years ago." He pitched his voice low. "Actually, it happened here. He'd just played eighteen holes and came back to the clubhouse. It happened in the locker room. He just sort of fell over. Eighty-six years old. In remarkable shape for a man his age. We were all shocked and saddened."

Smith's earlier good mood had long evaporated. "Yes, thank you," he said tightly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." He turned to go.

"Mr. Lassiter is still with us," the club director offered brightly. "An attorney here in Rye, correct?"

"That's right," Smith said, turning back.

"In fact, I saw him here this morning." The country club director's smile of optimism faded behind a somber cloud. "Oh, but you probably meant the father."

"Father?"

"Phillip Lassiter Senior. The name of the firm was changed to Lassiter and Lassiter years ago. The father and son are-were-both lawyers. Have you driven past their downtown offices in the last-oh, twenty years or so? That big sign out front?"

Now that he mentioned it, Smith had seen the name change driving through downtown Rye. He had noted it when it happened and then filed it away and forgot about it. The Lassiter and Lassiter, Attorneys at Law sign was now part of the background of his everyday life-just something he drove past and ignored.

"Yes," Smith said, already knowing where this was going.

"The second Lassiter is your Mr. Lassiter's son, also Phillip. Mr. Lassiter Junior is a member here, but I'm afraid Mr. Lassiter Senior is, well, no longer with us. Lung cancer, I'm afraid. He's been gone almost ten years. A shame, really. Such a gentleman. Never an unkind word for anyone. We all missed him dearly when he passed."

"Yes," Smith said. "Thank you. Excuse me, but I have a tee time."

Turning, Smith headed for the door, pulling his golf bag behind him. The wheels squeaked.

"Your clubs are wonderful, Dr. Smith," the club director called behind him. "Very old. Almost antiques, really. You don't see very many like those around these days."

"Yes," agreed Dr. Harold W. Smith, who, as he headed out the gleaming glass door into the spring sunshine, no longer felt the urge to whistle.

Chapter 11

The ivy-covered brick building that was Folcroft Sanitarium was nestled amid budding birch and lateblooming spring maples on the shore of Long Island Sound. In a small rear office on the second floor of the administrative wing, Mark Howard sat behind his scarred oak desk.

If he leaned over far enough, Mark could have just glimpsed the sparkling waters of the Sound out his office window. Mark didn't look out the window this day.

Intent brownish-green eyes were locked on the computer monitor on his desk. The monitor was attached by cable through the floor to four mainframes hidden behind a secret panel in the sanitarium's basement.

With a concerned expression on his wide face, Mark studied the data that scrolled across his computer screen.

At just under six feet tall, Howard was thin with broad shoulders. His face had the pleasant corn-fed wideness of America's heartland, ruddy at the cheeks. He lent the impression-even sitting-of a man who was always just a few seconds late for wherever he was going.

If some lost visitors were to accidentally step in from the hall, they would be singularly unimpressed by the average-looking young man in a small office. There were millions more just like him in banks and boardrooms around the nation. Bored at the seeming blandness of both man and office, they would have left, never realizing that the man they had so easily dismissed as average was arguably the second most powerful man in the world.

The assistant director of CURE was scanning the latest reports out of New York. He didn't like what he saw.

More cases of strange attacks were coming in hourly.

Dr. Smith had sent Remo and Chiun to investigate early that morning. Their plane had touched down in New York more than an hour ago. By then Dr. Smith had already left the office.

Mark was loath to call the CURE director back. After all, until Remo reported in, there was nothing Smith could do except sit and worry. For now, that was Mark Howard's job.

The assistant CURE director had gladly accepted that particular burden as just another one of his duties. For more than forty years Dr. Smith had worked tirelessly as director of CURE. When Mark had arrived at Folcroft more than two years ago, Smith had been showing all the signs of a man slowly surrendering to life's twilight. That was gone now.

Since Mark had come aboard, Smith had regained his focus and energy. Only a small part of that had to do with having someone now to share the burden he had for so long carried alone. No, the thing that had most reinvigorated the CURE director was his protege. He now had someone from a new generation with whom he could share thoughts, guidance and wisdom. In Mark Howard, Harold Smith was reborn.

Mark had seen the slow metamorphosis in his employer and understood the psychology behind the change. And in every way he could-large and small-he had determined to keep Harold Smith's burden light. America owed the older man that. And Mark Howard would do his part to repay the debt.

Howard pulled his eyes from his monitor. There had been another attack, this one at a delicatessen in Manhattan.

Mark's right eye was starting to ache. Staring at the computer was beginning to take its toll. He had always had better than twenty-twenty vision. Thanks to CURE, a few more years and he would have to think about glasses.

He was rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand when the black phone on his desk jangled to life. Glancing sharply, he noted that it was the contact line. Dr. Smith had had all calls rerouted to his assistant's office while he was away, including the special line.

Mark grabbed up the phone, pressing the blinking blue light. "Hello," he said.

"We've got major problems here, kid," Remo said without preamble. "I need to talk to Smith."

"Dr. Smith isn't here right now," Mark said.

"What are you talking about? It's one in the afternoon. Smith's never not there at one in the afternoon. What is he, counting cotton swabs in the supply closet? Get off your duff and go get him. Now."

"He's not here, Remo," Mark insisted. "He's gone to play golf. He mentioned that he was going to try to hook up with some guys he used to play with."

"Oh, for Pete's sake. Perfect timing, Smitty," Remo grumbled to himself. "Can you page him?"

"Yes," Mark said. "Remo, what is going on there?"

There was an impatient hiss on the line. "You have access to Smith's computer records?"

"Yes."

Remo said only three words: "Dr. Judith White." Mark spun to his computer. Short fingers moved swiftly over the clattering keyboard. In seconds he had pulled up the relevant CURE records.

"Judith White. Geneticist. Worked for a company called BostonBio on the Bos Camelus-Whitus." The stir of memory strained his voice. "Oh, no," Mark said worriedly. "I remember this. It was in the news right around Dolly the sheep. This Dr. White was into bizarre genetic engineering, wasn't she? She went on some kind of rampage three years ago in Boston. Oh. According to this encryption in Dr. Smith's notes, you and Chiun stopped her."

"Not good enough apparently. It looks like she's behind what's going on here."

Mark paused a beat. "Remo, it says here that Judith White is dead. I'm assuming you had a hand in that, too."

"And an arm."

"Excuse me?"

"An arm," Remo said. "As in I ripped her arm out of its socket just before she fell three stories and had a million tons of burning factory collapse on her. Sue me for assuming she'd gone to that great litter box in the sky."

Mark nodded. "Very well, I'll page Dr. Smith." He checked the time in the corner of his computer screen. "It will take him a good twenty minutes to get back here. Stay at this number. We'll call you back."

"Make it snappy," Remo said.

The assistant CURE director hung up the phone. He fished a scrap of paper with Smith's pager number from his jacket pocket. He glanced at his monitor. The blob of a cursor blinked over the J in Judith White's name.

"Sorry, Dr. Smith," Mark Howard lamented. "I hope you enjoyed your first five minutes off in forty years."

Exhaling, he reached once more for the phone.

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, it had not gone as poorly as Smith had imagined.

He was rusty the first few holes, as would be expected. For working out the kinks, he had been generous keeping score-golf had always been the one aspect of his life where Smith's otherwise scrupulous honesty failed completely and utterly. But by the seventh and eighth he felt his game returning, almost as if he'd never given it up. By the ninth he barely had to cheat at all.

By the time he returned to the clubhouse, most of his good humor had returned. He tipped his caddie a generous $1.25, adjusted for inflation from his old golfing days. As the young man muttered curses under his breath, Smith carted his own clubs up the stairs to the big shaded patio that stretched out at the rear of the main clubhouse.

Tables under umbrellas were arranged around the deck. Most were filled by patrons of the club's restaurant.

Through the patio doors was the more formal dining hall. To the left was the lounge.

Smith was passing the bar on his way out to the main lobby when he heard the disturbance.

A man at the bar was choking. At least he seemed to be. Hands clutched tight at his throat.

A club staff member-Smith noted that it was the same woman who had tried to help him earlier-was slapping the man on the back, a worried look on her pretty face.

A few others came to help.

Smith was going to ignore it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was attract attention to himself.

He was passing into the hall next to the lounge when he heard a terrible sound-a soft, animal growl. The noise was followed quickly by a woman's scream.

Turning, Smith found the choking golfer leaning back at the waist, hands raised and clutched like claws.

Smith watched amazed as, with a swat, the golfer threw back one of the men who had come to his aid. It was an incredible display of strength. Far greater than should have been possible for a man that size.

The golfer spun on the female. Baring a mouthful of yellowed, middle-aged teeth, he sprang on her, knocking her to the floor. Sprawling on top of her wriggling body, he lunged at the screaming woman's throat.

There was panic in the lounge. And in that moment of panicked, paralyzed hysteria, no one seemed to know what to do. No one except one man.

The enraged golfer attacked purely on instinct. But so too did Harold W. Smith.

From his ancient golf bag, Smith grabbed a driver. Like a tired knight charging into the bloody fray, he ran back into the bar. Hauling back, he gave a mighty swing.

The club struck the woman's attacker hard in the back of the head. A swing that strong outside would have sent Smith's ball sailing nearly to the green. Here, it appeared to barely phase the growling man.

The golfer wheeled on Smith, wild-eyed. Blood dribbled down his chin, staining his white collar. He had ripped a gushing wound in the woman's neck. The look in his eyes was purely animal. He made as if to lunge.

Smith swung again.

The club cracked the side of the man's head. This time there was a reaction. A soft crack of bone. The man growled, wobbling. Still he came. Another swing. The golfer seemed finally to feel the combined effect of the three blows. His legs fell out from beneath him, and he toppled groggily to the floor.

When he finally dropped to his knees, the others in the lounge seemed to finally find their courage. The crush of heavy men fell on the semiconscious man, pinning arms and legs in place. Beneath the pile, the demented golfer whimpered like a wounded animal.

The club director Smith had earlier spoken to had raced into the bar for the end of the battle. A bartender had already called 911. Waiters from the restaurant held linen napkins to the injured woman's throat.

"What happened?" the white-haired club director panted. He stood next to Smith, surveying the terrible scene.

"I don't know," Smith replied. But there was a troubled edge to his acid voice. As he spoke, the pager on his belt buzzed to life. He checked it, noting the Folcroft number.

"Thank God, Dr. Smith," the club director was saying. "I mean- My heavens, thank God. If you hadn't stepped in, I don't know what would have-"

When he glanced over his shoulder he found he was alone.

The ancient bag of golf clubs was gone. So, too, it seemed, was the mysterious Dr. Harold Smith. Breathless, the club director hurried to attend the injured woman and await the ambulance. On his way, he nearly tripped on an empty Lubec Springs water bottle.

Scowling, the club director angrily kicked the offending bottle beneath a nearby overturned bar stool.

Chapter 12

Remo was sitting anxiously at one of the squad-room desks in the South Precinct Midtown station when the phone before him rang.

"Report," Smith said, his voice more tart than usual. It was as if his larynx had been soaked in lemon juice and had dried two sizes too small.

"We think it's Judith White, Smitty," Remo said. Around him paramedics were still tending to police injuries. One officer was being carried out on a stretcher. The pandemonium of half an hour before had been replaced by mostly grim silence, interrupted by soft whispers.

"A strong possibility," Smith agreed tightly. "There was an incident at my golf club a few minutes ago."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Not seriously," Smith said. "The assailant was subdued. However, he displayed behavior consistent with the victims of genetic tampering that we've encountered before."

"We've got a bunch more here," Remo said. "Chiun's downstairs questioning them. I doubt he'll have any luck. They're like last time. Just worried about filling their stomachs. We're up to our armpits in half-chewed corpses."

"I don't get this," Mark Howard's voice interjected. "Dr. Smith, your own files list this woman as dead."

Remo could tell by the hollow tone of the signal that Smith had his assistant on speakerphone. He pictured the young man sitting at earnest attention on his usual creaky wooden chair before Smith's desk.

"There was a body found after Remo's encounter with her," the CURE director explained. "It was badly damaged, but the assumption at the time was that it was that of Judith White. And it still could be. Judith White was not the first to use her formula. Perhaps she had a protege."

"Maybe," Remo said. "We haven't met the big puss herself. But this has her paw prints all over it. Manhattan looks like freaking Lion Country Safari."

"How is this possible?" Mark Howard asked. "I read some of the information in the CURE database on this before you got back here, Dr. Smith, but I don't get how they're able to effect changes like this in people."

"If we are correct in this, Mark, they are not people," Smith said gravely. "I cannot impress this on you enough. They might look human, but it is a deadly mistake to think otherwise." He took a deep breath before continuing. "As for the broad details, two decades ago a geneticist in Boston developed a gene-altering formula that allowed for rapid splicing of DNA from one species to another. She was able to lift specific characteristics from any animal and recode the existing DNA of another to incorporate the new genetic material. She was the first test subject, albeit accidentally. The resulting creature walked and talked and gave every outward appearance of a human female, but was something else entirely."

"Mostly tiger," Remo supplied. "That was what was in the goop she drank. And can we get the lead out, Smitty? You and the kid can do story time once I'm off the phone."

Smith was not dissuaded. "After several deaths in the Boston area, we managed to eliminate that woman. I had assumed that the case was closed. However, more than three years ago, a similar rash of killings took place in Boston."

"Judith White," Howard supplied.

"So we came to learn. She had discovered the old formula and improved on it. Although she infused her DNA with primarily tiger genes, she had also included traits from several other species. Strength, speed, coordination were all enhanced. Her ultimate goal was to replace man as the planet's dominant lifeform."

"And if she hadn't been such a whack-job, she might have succeeded back then," Remo pointed out.

"That is true," Smith replied darkly. "The method by which she intended to spread the formula into the general population was diabolical. She hid the gene-altering material in the DNA of a laboratory-created transgenic creature, ostensibly designed to eliminate world hunger. Those who consumed the tainted meat would have, over time, become like her."

"I remember reading about that at the time," Howard said. "But all those animals were destroyed."

"Yeah," Remo said vaguely. "All destroyed."

"That's true," Smith agreed. "Since the meat of the creatures was never consumed by anyone, the formula is being introduced in some other way."

Over the line, Remo heard the electronic beep of Smith's computer.

"One moment, Remo."

The rapid drumming of the CURE director's fingers on his keyboard ended in a rare, soft curse.

"I take it it's not good news?" Remo asked.

"The crisis is spreading," Smith said. "There are now reports of similar incidents occurring in other parts of New York, as well as two in Connecticut and one in New Jersey."

"Swell," Remo said. "Smitty, I called you hoping for some good news."

Smith gave a thoughtful hum. "Perhaps I can give you some small comfort," he said. "We cannot be certain it is her, but if Judith White did survive her encounter with you, she will not be what she once was. You did remove a limb, after all. That handicap alone will make her easier to find. I will begin a search. And with any luck the fall caused even greater damage. She may be an invalid. While able to direct things behind the scenes, hopefully she will not pose a personal threat to you or Master Chiun."

"It's not her I'm worried about, Smitty. By the looks of it, she's building an army for something."

"Yes," Smith agreed. "No matter her condition, our greatest concern is with the creatures she is creating. We need to find out the delivery method for the formula."

"Maybe Remo could follow a trail, Dr. Smith," Mark suggested. "Maybe one of these ... things can lead him back to the source."

"That's a swell idea, kid," Remo said. "I'm gonna go out right now and stand in the middle of Times Square with a leash and a box of Meow Mix on my head."

"That would not work anyway, Mark," Smith interjected. "It is not as if these creatures have a homing instinct."

"So we're back to square one," Remo complained. He spied another stretcher being carted into the squad room from the rear stairwell. This one was draped in a white sheet.

The Master of Sinanju appeared in the wake of the two morgue attendants who were carrying the body of the dead officer. His wrinkled face was thoughtful.

"Look, now that you know what's going on, maybe you can find out something from there," Remo said. "I'll keep looking around. Maybe I'll get lucky."

"We will try to find something from this end," Smith promised. "Call if you learn anything new." The line went dead. Remo was hanging up the phone as Chiun padded up.

"Anything?" Remo asked.

Chiun shook his head. "I questioned a few of the beasts, but they are mindless mockeries of humanity. They do not know what made them thus."

Remo leaned back against the desk, arms folded.

"Great," he complained. "Without a lead we're dead in the water."

The words had no sooner passed his lips than there came the sound of a sudden commotion behind them. A scuffle followed by a startled shout.

"Jimmy, knock if off. That ain't funny."

The two Masters of Sinanju turned to find Sergeant Jimmy Simon slowly circling Jeff Malloy at the precinct's main desk. The portly desk sergeant's nose was in the air, tracking a scent. Drool rolled down his chin, staining his collar.

"Oh, balls," Remo muttered just as the first inhuman growl rolled up out of the throat of Sergeant Simon.

THE TINT of high blood pressure on Simon's broad face had lightened to a mask of cold calculation. He bared his teeth at Sergeant Malloy.

"That's it, Jimmy," Malloy snapped, grabbing for his gun. He was too slow.

Simon sprang, cuffing Malloy on the side of the head. The stunned officer lost his gun. Bouncing off the side of his desk, he dropped to the floor. Jimmy Simon pounced on the stricken body. With a fearsome growl, he drew back his head, eager to bury fangs deep into the exposed throat.

He never got the chance.

Just as his head was snapping down, a strong hand grabbed a clump of sweaty hair at the back of his head. With a yank, he was off Sergeant Malloy's body and spinning in air. He came nose to nose with a very annoyed Remo Williams.

"Mr. Whiskers shouldn't play with his food," Remo said.

Growling. Sergeant Simon lashed out at Remo. Remo was holding the officer at arm's length. He dodged the swinging paw.

" Kitty go night-night," Remo said.

Frowning, he drove a pair of hardened fingertips deep into Sergeant Simon's jiggling neck. Consciousness drained from Simon's body and he grew limp in Remo's hand.

By now, other uniformed officers had rushed over to help. Remo passed the unconscious desk sergeant off to them.

"Lock him up with the others," he ordered. "And if you don't want his liver pateed before he comes to, you'll give him his own room."

When he turned back around, Jeff Malloy was dragging himself shakily to his feet.

"What happened?" Remo demanded.

"I don't know," Sergeant Malloy said, panting. "He was just sitting there and he went nuts. He was still winded from downstairs. I told him to take deep breaths. I thought he was having a stroke. Then he just dropped his water and came after me."

Remo and Chiun looked down.

The disposable cup from which Jimmy Simon had been drinking was under his desk. Splattered water had turned the dirt on the floor muddy.

And, as one, they recalled the water dispenser standing in the corner of the Vaunted Press break room.

"It's in the water, Chiun," Remo announced, turning.

The Master of Sinanju was no longer beside him. He saw a blur of black robes. The old Korean flew like a flash across the open squad-room floor.

A watercooler sat against the far wail. While Remo waited for Smith's return call he had seen a custodian install a new bottle. A plainclothes officer stood before the tank, raising a white disposable cup to his lips.

Before a single drop of water could touch his tongue, Chiun fell upon him. A vicious swat flung the cup from the man's hand.

"What the hell?" the cop snarled.

But Remo was already there, waving FBI ID. The angry detective wandered off, rubbing the crimson welt that was already blossoming on the back of his hand.

Shooing a few officers back, the old Korean placed a fresh cup beneath the cooler's spout. With a careful press of a solitary nail, he poured a short stream of water.

He brought the cup to his button nose, sniffing deeply. Face clouding, he looked to Remo.

"I detect nothing," Chiun said somberly.

Remo accepted the cup from Chiun's bony hand. He swirled around the crystal-clear liquid, looking for anything suspicious. There was nothing he could see. It was nothing more than a cup of spring water.

When he looked up, his brow was low.

"If we can't see it, either one of us could have drunk this," he pointed out.

"Do not remind me," the Master of Sinanju said. "As it is, you are barely housebroken, and I do not need you soiling the carpets or scratching up my good furniture."

"We'd better get some of this to Smith for testing," Remo said. He found a big aspirin bottle in a desk drawer. Dumping out the last few remaining pills, he poured some water into the bottle.

After Remo was through, Chiun turned to a patrolman.

"Remove these to a lavatory for disposal," he commanded, waving a hand at the boxes that were stacked next to the cooler. "And do the same with any others in this garrison, lest you end up like the beasts in your dungeon."

The officer was one of those who had seen Remo and Chiun pass through the cell block unharmed. He knew enough not to argue. Enlisting help of others, the group hauled the boxes of Lubec Springs water to the men's room for dumping.

"And say a prayer the alligators in the sewers aren't thirsty," Remo called after them.

Chapter 13

The ozone layer was already taken. Hundreds of people had hogged the limelight on that one. Greenpeace had claimed the seven seas for themselves.

Everything else good between heaven and earth had been laid claim to by someone.

HETA had dibs on animals. The Sierra Club had the trees. Earth First! had dirt. And the Brazilian rain forest was the private domain of one singer so selfish that others in the environmental movement didn't even like to mention his single-word name. Although he had been missing lately. Probably in for more hair plugs or-worse-in the studio recording a new album.

When it came time to decide which great planet-saving cause he would throw his support behind, poor Bobby Bugget was a man without an issue.

"You need something, Bobby," his agent had insisted.

His agent's name was Jude Weiss, but everyone called him St. Jude. Weiss found the nickname distasteful. First of all, he was Jewish. Second, he wasn't really Jewish. Not anymore. He had recently converted to Buddhism--this not long after converting to Poweressence, which had supplanted a deeply held, week-long conversion to Scientology. This was all part of the long-standing Hollywood tradition of religion as fad. If Madonna or Cher told Hollywood's movers and shakers that it was now hip to switch to high-colonic Amish, Jude Weiss would have dashed off to Home Depot for a horse and buggy and a length of garden hose. But one thing he had never been and never would be was Catholic. They actually had rules and, horror of horrors, expected you to live by them. So to Jude Weiss, recent Buddhist (or was it Hindu?) to be referred to as the Catholic patron saint of desperate causes was a grave insult. Unfortunately it was a nickname well-earned.

It had started with that one client. The Englishman with the shy stammer and bedroom eyes. Although he could have had any woman on Earth, he had settled for a cheap hooker in an L.A. alley. His arrest had been national news.

Jude Weiss and Associates had gone on red alert. There had been an all-out media blitz, culminating in a high-profile late-night talk-show interview on which the actor had stammered shyly, batted his bedroom eyes and-by the end of his first seven-minute segment-had made America forget all about his fondness for the French arts and his back-alley patronage of a twenty dollar Puerto Rican artist name Senorita Sugar.

If it had only stopped there, things would have been fine for Jude Weiss. But soon after that mess, another agency approached for help with one of its clients, a sports announcer who volunteered weekends at a home for troubled teens. Apparently the announcer did much of his charity work in a tutu and high heels. He also, it was learned, had a habit of taking it all the way to the end zones of both boys and girls.

This case presented a far tougher challenge than the first, given the nature of the criminal charges and the multiple lawsuits that were filed. But in the end, the announcer had not only kept his television job, he was awarded a seven-figure multiyear contract with a major cable sports station.

And thus was born St. Jude, patron saint of every desperate celebrity client that came along. Jude Weiss got them all. Every bed-wetting sicko and toe-sucking loser. There were only a few normal clients left. One of which was lounging nude on the patio beside his three-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar Key West pool.

As Bobby Bugget smeared tanning lotion on his belly, he didn't even glance at Jude Weiss. He was staring out at the sea. The land on which Bugget's pool was built had been expanded out into the Gulf of Mexico in order to accommodate its great size. "You need a cause," Jude Weiss repeated.

"I've already got something," Bobby said. Finished with his lotion, he settled cucumber slices firmly atop each eye. "I'm spokesman for the Save the Bottlenose Fund." Feeling blind for a glass, he took a sip of margarita.

"Even if that thing exists, the legends say it's ugly as the sales of your last three albums," Weiss said.

"My albums all go gold."

"Your fan base is aging rapidly. Yeah, you bring in college kids with your summer tours, but you lose them as soon as they grow up. Right now, you're a pirate pushing sixty. Your last hit was 'Daiquiri Dingy,' and you've been coasting on that since 1974."

The cucumbers came off. Bugget had to squint in the white-hot Florida sun. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, according to your accountants, your finances could be on the verge of a major reversal. Maybe even a meltdown."

Bugget's deeply suntanned face blanched. "I might have to give up all this?" he gasped, horrified.

"Not all of it. But you might have to start being more careful with how you spend your money. Sell off a few of your islands. Maybe unload a couple dozen sailboats. You crashed seven seaplanes last year alone, Bobby. Now, that's an expense you won't be able to afford if your finances keep trending like they have."

The prospect of even having to think about living within his means was too terrifying for Bobby Bugget. He downed the remainder of his drink, immediately summoning the nearest of three hovering topless waitresses to bring him another.

"Keep them coming," he snapped through his bristly gray mustache.

"You need something that will get you attention above the Panhandle," Jude Weiss insisted. "Something that will keep you in people's minds during the winter months when you're hibernating down here."

"Like what?" Bugget slurred, sucking down another drink.

Jude Weiss smiled. "Ever hear of Green Earth?"

"The big environmental group? Of course I have. Everybody has."

"Well, what everybody hasn't heard is that Green Earth has got a new cause it's supporting. There's a species that's being threatened with extinction. Right now it's only gotten some local support-a few protests, some write-ups in the regional weekly paper. But with Green Earth's involvement, it's going to go national. Maybe international. And they're offering the plum celebrity spokesman spots to clients of the Jude Weiss and Associates Agency."

"Wait, wasn't Green Earth in trouble a month or two back? Something about a stolen Russian submarine in South America?"

"Of course not," St. Jude promised. "That was a rogue organization member acting entirely on his own. He did not have the approval of the Green Earth hierarchy in San Francisco. Now, what do you say, Bobby? I'm offering you a chance to be out front on an issue of vital importance. The extinction of a species. Face time like that'll buy a whole fleet of seaplanes."

Bobby Bugget wanted to say no. He didn't like to change latitudes until the rest of the contiguous states shook off every last vestige of winter. But he had a mental image of an endless line of little dollar bills marching off a gangplank into a rising tide of red ink.

Swallowing the last of his margarita, the singer had reluctantly agreed. To jump-start his flagging career and preserve his fifty-million-dollar-a-year empire, he would have made a deal with the devil. Unfortunately, he'd done worse than make a pact with Satan. He had signed on the dotted line with a double-crossing Jewish-Buddhist-possibly-Hindu- Catholic saint.

"This is not what I agreed to," Bugget groused to Jude Weiss.

It was two weeks since their poolside conversation. They were in a package store in rural Maine. "What are you talking?" Jude said. "This is exactly what I told you it would be. You're saving a species."

Bugget almost dropped the second case of beer he was pushing up on the checkout counter.

"Worms," Bobby Bugget snarled.

"Leeches," Jude Weiss corrected. "Specifically, the Reticulated New England Speckled Leech. They've become very rare in these parts."

"Who gives a Havana hang? No one cares if an insect gets squooshed."

"Leeches aren't insects," Jude said knowingly. "At least I don't think they are. Anyway, who says an animal needs to be cuddly to merit saving? Ever hear of the kangaroo rat? Of the snail darter?"

"No," Bugget said glumly.

"Well, neither did I till I read this." Weiss slapped a shiny pamphlet on top of a case of beer.

On the cover were pictures of insects and animals only a Mother Earth could love. In the corner above the recycling stamp was the familiar Green Earth logo, a green-and-blue planet Earth. In a semicircle around the top-from equator to equator-was the legend It's Your Planet, People!

"Everything you need to know is in there, so read up," St. Jude said. He waved to the beer. "I'll pay for this. Lemme have your credit card."

Two minutes later they were back out in the street, each lugging a case of beer.

Some men were waiting curbside near a rusty old school bus. One of them opened the rear emergency door as Bugget and Weiss approached.

"And this is another thing I didn't sign on for," Bugget complained as they dumped the cases into the rear of the beat-up old bus. "You've got me touring with a freak show."

"Hey, they're clients, too," Jude Weiss said defensively.

Bugget glowered at Weiss as he tore open one of the cases and helped himself to a can. The two men went around to the front and climbed up inside the bus. As the door closed, dozens of faces looked up.

Only three were Weiss and Associates clients. The rest were rank-and-file members of Green Earth.

As the bus pulled away from the curb and Bobby Bugget popped the top on the first beer of what he hoped would become a short and forgettable bender, he scanned the three familiar faces.

The first was a famous movie actress who, though in her early thirties, looked all of thirteen. Erratic behavior off-screen had culminated in her most widely viewed performance-that of videotaped Rodeo Drive shoplifter.

Beside her was a hulking, potbellied brute with an angry, dead-eyed stare. The former heavyweight champion's career had been troubled by teensy little problems such as rape charges, prison stays and his tendency to bite off the body parts of opponents whenever a fight was not going his way. With Weiss and Associates' crisis management, he hoped to have a second career in film and TV.

Finally there was the home-decorating and housekeeping guru, a soft-spoken woman who on her TV show and in her magazine told America to iron its underwear, build a Japanese garden out back near the trash cans and to always trim the toilet paper into decorative shapes just in case another country dropped by unexpectedly for brunch. What she didn't suggest was that America engage in insider trading with a resulting scandal that would rock its media empire and send it scrambling to the one agency that might be able to revive its tarnished wholesome image. That would be a bad thing.

The decorating expert sat in the corner behind the driver, trimming artificial roses from red felt. When she offered one to the boxer, he ate it. When she went back to her felt, she found her scissors had been stolen. The waifish actress had a guilty expression on her pale face and a scissor-shaped bulge in her Dockers khakis.

"Two cases ain't gonna be enough," Bobby Bugget said morosely, going back to get more beer. The run-of-the-mill members of Green Earth were already delighted to be among such glitterati. They began to grow even more giddy as they approached their destination.

Bleary-eyed and slightly more than three sheets to the wind, Bugget was supremely indifferent. "Aren't you excited?" enthused a young man.

"Sure thing, son," Bugget said. "Gotta save them worms. Some of my best friends-and agents-are worms."

"It's not just the leeches," a college-age girl insisted. "It's the water. The reason they're dying out is because they've tapped the water source."

"Honey, I'm all for preserving water, too," Bugget said. "People can do great things just stirrin' some hops and barley in a little cold Rockies springwater."

"We're not saving the water for people," the girl said. "Man treats the freshwater supply as his alone. He cages it up in reservoirs, harnesses its power to create dangerous electricity and drains streams, killing off beautiful, docile, harmless indigenous leeches."

"I agree wit you, little girl," the boxer interjected, his voice surprisingly high and feminine. "The man has done many bad and terrible things. Like prosecute and imprison innocent men who would never had done the lugubrious and ripricious malfeasance that they were unrightly accused of in court of doing by lying bitches who was only asking for it in the first place." He nodded deep understanding.

"Thank you, Mr. Armour."

"You're very welcome, young lady," the boxer said.

"Could you please stop squeezing my thigh now?" the girl asked, wincing.

A distracting shout from the front of the bus kept the boxer from once more becoming a guest of the state prison system.

"Hey, get a load of this!" the driver called.

They had gone from small town to partially wooded farmland. To the right, the trees broke away into a wide field. A dead cow lay just inside a barbedwire fence at the side of the road. A bloated tongue gave them a silent raspberry as they sped past.

"Was that a victim of ecosystem destruction?" the girl from Green Earth asked.

"Maybe," said the boy. "The poor animal could have died of thirst."

"It looked like it was eaten by wild animals," Bobby Bugget pointed out.

"Still," said the girl, "maybe it died of thirst, then was eaten. Maybe we should mention concern for cows, as well as the speckled leech."

"Don't get sidetracked," Jude Weiss warned. "Stay focused. Focus brings in TV crews and national coverage."

"I guess," the girl said. "But that poor cow. It looked like something tore it open and ate all its insides."

Everyone agreed that this was a terrible thing. All but the boxer. He was thinking of the half-chewed COW.

"Gawd, I miss the taste of boxing," he said, wiping back a sniffle. He found comfort by sticking his hand inside the girl's blouse.

Signs along the roadside every half mile took them from downtown Lubec deep into the woods.

The exit to the Lubec Springs bottling plant eventually appeared amid a small patch of landscaped trees. The bus drove onto the strip of tidy asphalt that cut through the thick pine forest.

A dozen yards in they came to a fork in the road. To the left was a gated, deeply rutted dirt path. The lane to the Lubec Springs plant was on the right. Glimpsed through the woods was a silvery stream that tied into the network of springs throughout the Lubec Springs property.

They parked the bus and climbed down to the road. Placards were passed out to the group.

Jude Weiss stepped down, accompanied by the waifish actress and former boxer.

"This is going to be perfect," St. Jude said. "The press should be here in about a half hour."

He tried to check his watch, but it had mysteriously disappeared from his wrist. That sort of thing seemed to happen a lot whenever his young, innocent moviestar client was around. Gold pens and brass bathroom fixtures vanished every time she showed up at his Beverly Hills offices. He made a mental note to check the poor maligned girl's backpack for his missing watch the first chance he got.

"Let's get a move on, people," Weiss warned the crowd. "Spontaneous protests don't just happen on their own."

On the road, Bobby Bugget couldn't find anyone to lug his beer. Hauling the cases himself, Bugget fell in behind the rest as they marched up the paved road to the bottling plant.

The aging singer's legs were nearly buckling by the time they reached the plant. When the low buildings finally appeared, he dropped his cases to the road and popped open a fresh beer.

"Okay, what's the drill?" Bugget panted.

"We wait for the reporters," Jude Weiss said. "No sense starting until they get here."

The TV homemaker was braiding pine needles into a decorative star-shaped ornament, perfect for Christmas or just everyday. "Maybe this is them now," she suggested.

Weiss glanced up.

They had come from around the building. So stealthy were they, none from the bus had heard them approach.

There were eight men in all, fanned out in a line across the parking lot. They moved quickly toward the band of protesters, heads down, chins parallel to the ground.

"Do you work here?" Jude Weiss demanded. The men didn't answer. They continued to come. Faster now.

"Because if you do work here, I'd appreciate it if you hold off on any counterprotests until Rough Print and Newsfotainment Now! show up."

Jude Weiss heard something that sounded like a growl. For an instant he thought it was one of his clients. The boxer had a tendency to make animal sounds like that at mealtime or around the occasional unlucky female. Weiss was turning for the boxer, expecting the worst, when a strange thing happened.

The men running toward them from the bottling plant started flying.

It all happened so fast. One moment they were running across the parking lot; the next they had launched themselves in the air. Jude Weiss saw one flash toward him. The sun disappeared in the shadow of the lunging man.

Jude Weiss felt a sudden pressure on his chest. And then he didn't feel anything at all because one needed an intact spinal cord to carry nerve impulses to a functioning brain. The force of the attack against St. Jude Weiss had cracked the Hollywood superagent's spine and knocked his head clean off his shoulders.

As Weiss's head rolled, panic gripped the crowd. Men and women dropped protest signs and ran into the woods. More growls rose from others who had been lying in wait.

Screams filled the Maine woods.

Throats split, stomachs surrendered pulsing contents. Blood splattered like spring rain to the cold parking lot.

The boxer tried to take a swing. He was cuffed unconscious by a man half his size.

Bobby Bugget couldn't believe his eyes. When the attack began, the singer had been guarding his beer near some bushes. His booze was forgotten. The urge to flee registered in Bugger's beer-soaked brain.

He turned to run...

... and promptly flopped over his last full case of beer.

Sprawled on the ground, he heard a low growl behind him. Slowly, heart pounding, he rolled over onto his back.

Some of the Green Earth membership were being devoured. Two of the attackers had separated from the rest. They were coming toward Bugget.

"The press is on its way," Bugget screamed.

If they heard, it didn't show. The men kept coming. Slowly stalking. Malevolent eyes focused hungrily on Bobby Bugget's throat.

"Grrr... "

Bugget heard the sound. Soft. Just above the range of human perception. It tickled his eardrums, made his heart rate quicken. The sound of ancient hunger. The sound of his own mortality.

He was up on his rear end. Scurrying back on palms and soles, he backed against the trunk of a tree. "I ain't kiddin', son," Bugget said. "We're talkin' national exposure. They'll be here any minute. Now, I don't know who you work for, but if you're the people what wants to kill them worms, well, you can be my guest. Kill 'em all for all I care. Shoot, only good worm's the one at the bottom of a tequila bottle anyways."

His words seemed to have an effect. The two men stopped abruptly.

Bobby Bugget was beginning to think he'd survive this massacre. That he would get the exposure the late Jude Weiss had promised before his head came off, that he'd be able to hightail it back to Florida where he could spin this terrible day into TV appearances, songs and record sales.

All of this did Bobby Bugget think in the time it took to draw one terrified breath.

And then one of the two men before him disappeared.

He moved too fast. One moment he was standing three yards away; the next he was landing on Bobby's chest.

Bugget toppled over. He felt a rough tongue lick the side of his throat. He heard that terrible low growl and knew with sick certainty that the end for this old, washed-up pirate would not come at sea, but in a land-locked parking lot in the boondocks of Maine.

The slathering fangs of his attacker were a hair away from shredding Bobby Bugget's throat when the singer, saw a sudden blur from the corner of his eye.

The woman had come out of nowhere. With an open palm, she cuffed the man on top of Bugget on the side of the head.

Although it didn't seem possible, the blow launched the man halfway across the lot.

"Down!" Judith White growled.

Their feast interrupted, the rest froze. Blood dribbled down chins. Shoulders rose in a parody of angry felines.

"Now!" she roared.

Hissing, the pack backed dutifully away.

On the ground, Bobby Bugget blinked. The near fatal assault proved to have an elucidating effect. For the first time in a long time, he almost felt sober. Under the circumstances, it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

Lying flat on his back, he gave Judith White a grateful nod. "This ain't the first time a woman's saved my life," he panted. "'Cept most of the others were whores or cocktail waitresses. Much obliged, ma'am."

When the woman who had been his salvation turned her cold cat's eyes to him, the singer shrank from her gaze.

"What press?" she demanded.

"What?" Bugget asked. "Oh. National and regional. TV and papers. They'll be pouring in here any minute to cover the protest. Oh, the protest..." His voice trailed off as he glanced around the parking lot.

Many of the Green Earth members were dead and dismembered. Those who hadn't been devoured immediately had been knocked unconscious for later. Bugget saw that the boxer, homemaker, actress and several others appeared to still be breathing. They had fared better than those who had scattered into the woods. Pitiful cries were being drowned out by growls and the sounds of feasting.

"We were gonna have a protest," Bobby Bugget offered weakly. "Kind of hard to do with only six people."

"Quiet, human," Judith snarled. "I'm trying to think."

Bugget didn't see the hand that struck him. He only knew that he was suddenly tumbling end over end into a nearby tree, a sharp pain in the side of his head.

As Bugget was shaking pine needles out of what was left of his graying blond hair, Judith White was spinning to her pack. Owen Grude was huddled with the rest.

"I told you not to kill anyone unless I said so."

"We thought there was danger," Owen said.

"You thought with your stomachs," she accused. "Think with your mind. Humans are the greatest hunters in the animal kingdom. They can obliterate entire species and send us scurrying into the trees. The only way they'll be beaten is by superior intellect." She looked around the lot. "Hide the dead around back. Cover the blood with sand. We need this mess cleaned up before the press arrives."

The males began carting bodies toward the plant. Judith stopped Owen Grude. "The ones left alive? Get them a drink of water." She pointed to Bugget. "Start with him."

Owen loped off across the lot and up the stairs. He returned a minute later carrying a Lubec Springs sport six-pack. A bottle was brought to Bobby Bugget, while others began pouring water into the mouths of the unconscious.

"Drink it," Judith White commanded.

Bugget licked his mustache nervously. "You don't have anything stronger?" he asked hopefully.

She moved in very close. Bugget could feel her warm breath on his damp mustache.

"Drink it," she demanded, "or I'll split you open and chew your innards from stomach to spine."

Bugget gulped. "If you put it that way." Gingerly he squeezed his nose between his fingers. It had been a long time since he'd drunk plain old water. He never cared for the taste. Tipping his head sharply, he slugged the contents of the bottle down in a few big gulps.

When the foul-tasting liquid reached his stomach, a strange sensation seemed to come over him. The excruciating pain was more than he could bear. Dropping back to the ground, Bugget clutched his belly.

He was writhing in agony on the pavement as Judith White turned from him.

"I'll be inside," she said.

She prowled a few paces toward the building before stopping. She pointed at one of the bodies that was awaiting disposal.

"Bring that one inside," she commanded. "I think better on a full stomach."

Wheeling, she headed back for the bottling plant.

Chapter 14

Dusk was creeping slowly in by the time Remo and Chiun arrived at Folcroft.

Long Island Sound was visible through the trees, slivered with shimmering streaks of twilight, as the cab steered between the great granite columns with their attendant stone lions. At Remo's instruction, the driver brought them to the sanitarium's main staircase.

"Why are we entering this way?" the Master of Sinanju asked suspiciously. Behind them the yellow taxi was making its crunching way back down the great gravel drive.

"Stairs are stairs," Remo said as they headed up.

"Yes," Chiun replied, padding up beside his pupil. "And the stairs that are the stairs we always use are on the other side of the building."

"I thought you liked front doors."

Remo held the door for his teacher. Chiun swept inside. As he walked, the old Korean stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully.

"I notice that this route avoids passing the Prince Regent's office," he commented.

"I know, Chiun," Remo sighed. "And before you start on me, too, I admit it. I think the kid's okay. He was pretty stand-up for us in Sinanju when he didn't have to be. Smitty is doing a good jab bringing him onto the team. He's working out. There, I said it. Happy?"

In the lobby Remo's raised voice caught the attention of a receptionist and two nurses. The receptionist recognized Chiun as a former patient who occasionally stopped back at Folcroft to visit. She thought Remo to be his nurse. Her frown of disapproval at Remo's raised voice was interrupted by a ringing telephone. She was answering the phone as the two men slipped by.

"I am pleased to hear that," the Master of Sinanju said. "Since one day you will be the Regent's royal assassin."

"Can't happen, Chiun," Remo said, shaking his head firmly. "I'm not getting too chummy with the kid because Sinanju rules forbid me from working for Smith's successor."

"Do not be so certain, white man," Chiun said knowingly.

"And here we go," Remo said. "Back to that famous loophole you claim you discovered ages ago and refuse to tell me about."

Chiun smiled slyly. "Are you not the least bit curious?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, the way you manage to contort supposedly unbendable rules into pretzel shapes always fascinates me. But just 'cause I like to watch the magician saw the woman in half doesn't mean I'll be running to the nearest Tupperware party with a chain saw. Rules are rules."

"They are not always as inviolate as you seem to think," Chiun replied. "Take your Smith, for instance. You agree that everyone finds him mad?"

"I don't agree with that."

"As I said," Chiun sniffed. "No one of consequence disputes his madness. And yet we have served him well lo these many years. Your House has not always had such tolerance for crazed emperors."

Remo's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

"It means that rules are only sometimes rules. Other times they are guidelines. It is for the wise to know the difference. Thankfully, you have me here to point the way."

He swept ahead of his pupil, through a set of fire doors and into Folcroft's administration wing. Watching his teacher's purposeful stride, Remo smiled. "Amen to that, Little Father," he said, shaking his head.

Allowing the fire door to slip from his fingers, he trailed the wizened Korean up the hall.

SMITH ALWAYS KEPT a change of clothes at work just in case. He had been more than eager to slip out of his golf clothes and back into his more familiar uniform

Back in his three-piece gray suit and starched white shirt-green-striped school tie knotted tightly at the collar -he was hard at work in his familiar Folcroft environs. Day had bled into night, and still Harold W. Smith remained at his desk.

The CURE director had scarcely noted the change of hour or scattering of daylight. He was far too busy monitoring the events taking place along the East Coast.