Suddenly, there was an awful scream at the other end of the scrambled line. It was so loud that it made Smith flinch and pull the handset from against his ear. "It's Lud," Remo said. "Call you back..."
Dr. Smith waited for five interminable minutes, drumming his fingertips on his desktop. He picked up the return call before the first ring had finished. "Yes?"
"Bad news, I'm afraid," Remo said. "Old Lud checked out. He suicided on us."
"What? No one was watching him?"
"We had him securely tied in the next room," Remo defended. "Didn't want him to overhear this conversation. We only left him alone for a couple of minutes. He didn't get loose from his bonds."
"Then how did he manage it?"
"He chewed off his own right foot. I never thought a ninety-year-old could be that limber. Before we could stop it, he bled out on us. Sorry, Smitty. I didn't figure he'd do a thing like that."
Dr. Smith hadn't figured it, either, so he couldn't put all the blame on his assassins. What seemed clear to him was that the negative side effects of the patch were escalating-the longer a person used the drug, the worse things got. It was something that he hadn't included in his forecast, and was a development that kicked the disaster scenario even further over into the danger zone. It meant he had even less time to get the matter under control.
"We've got quite a mess on our hands here," Remo explained.
"Don't worry about it," Smith said with a sigh. "I'll send over a disposal team at once."
After he hung up, the director of CURE pulled up the file of Los Angeles steam cleaners. He had their service rates listed right by their phone numbers. Selecting the least expensive service, he hit the autodialer and waited for Andy the Rug Doctor to pick up the phone.
Chapter 23
Jimmy Koch-Roche drew himself up to his full height and addressed the biggest box-office couple in movie history. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you drive yourselves home," he said. "It's as simple as that."
"We're not children," Puma Lee protested. She paced the floor of the attorney's walnut-paneled interview room like a caged animal. Four steps to the wall. Turn. Four steps back.
Chiz, who leaned against the front of Koch-Roche's desk, agreed with his wife. "A while back, you said something to me about consequences. Specifically, you said that there wouldn't be any. For your information, I consider being forced to have a baby-sitter a negative outcome."
The little lawyer held up his hands for silence. "I promised you that I could keep any and all charges from sticking, but come on. To do that, I need some cooperation from you both. In the last twenty-four hours, the pair of you have demonstrated a certain, well, let's call it an unevenness of temper. I want to avoid a repetition of similar incidents. I can work miracles in front of a jury, but there's a limit to even what I can do. Understand this, if you pull another grand-scale boner like the SpeeDee Mart debacle, I can no longer assure you of a get-out-of-jail free card."
"Not good enough, Jimmy boy," Chiz said. "Not good enough by a long shot." He walked over to where the attorney stood and raised his massive fist over the little man's head like the hammer of God.
To his credit, Koch-Roche did not shrink back, even though he'd had ample evidence of what his clients were capable of. His was a world of bluster and bluff, of smoke and mirrors. And five-inch lifts.
Koch-Roche said, "I want you two to allow yourselves to be escorted back to Bel Air by my driver and security team, as per the bail agreement we worked out with the judge." He didn't use the words house arrest because they sounded so unpleasant. "I want you to stay there inside your compound under the protection of my men. You'll be safe there and you'll have an unlimited supply of the foods you desire, while I work on your defenses. I'm not asking you to become permanent prisoners on your own estate. We just need some quiet time to sort things out. Some time without further incident."
Chiz let his fist drop to his side.
"Honestly, it doesn't seem like all that much to ask," Koch-Roche said. "Considering the alternative, which is that you both get convicted of first-degree murder."
"We get restless," Puma said.
"Then roam around your own grounds. There'll be no one around to bother you. I've already arranged for your mansion staff to take a holiday. My security people will be taking care of all your needs. Cooking. Cleaning. Grounds. They are there only to help you, so please don't do anything to harm them."
"You're not going to try and take our patches away, I hope," Chiz said. Then he added, "Because that would be a big mistake."
"That's the last thing I want to do," Koch-Roche replied. "But I do think it's pretty obvious that you both may be having a little trouble with the dosage that you're currently taking. I've already contacted the manufacturer about correcting that. We should have a solution to the problem from them in the next few days."
"But if you give us less of the hormone, our bodies might shrink up," Puma said.
"Or go back to fat," Chiz chimed in.
"Not necessarily," the lawyer hedged. "And anyway, wouldn't it be better to give up a bit of muscle than to have a string of murder charges hanging over your heads?"
Puma and Chiz exchanged dubious looks.
"Isn't there some other way of fixing things?"
Puma asked. "So we don't lose any of what we've got?"
"The manufacturer is looking into that, too," Koch-Roche assured them. "They are as concerned as we are over what's happened. The last thing the manufacturer wants is a drug that nobody will take."
The attorney pushed a button on his desk intercom. "I'll have my people take you home now," he said. "You've both had a long and trying day. You must be exhausted."
After a moment, four large, heavyset men entered the interview room single file. They were dressed head to foot in Threat Level IV body armor, including shiny black helmets, black shin guards, black steel-toed shoes, black gloves and clear, bulletproof shields. They looked like a cross between riot police and ancient samurai. They were armed with assault-style pump shotguns and Taser stun guns, and had headset mikes and earphones. Behind the Plexiglas of their face guards, the security men didn't look happy.
"These are the guys who are going to mow our lawn?" Chiz said incredulously.
"Among other things," Koch-Roche answered.
"Aw, let's just get out of here, Chiz," Puma said. "I'm starting to get hungry again."
ON THE WAY DOWN to the parking garage in the elevator, security man Bob Gabhart was on full red alert. His body was badly bruised from the encounter earlier in the day with the little Oriental. Every time Gabhart breathed, he could feel the contusion above his left kidney. His torso was wrapped with yards of elastic bandage. No way would he hesitate to use deadly force again; from now on, it was shoot on sight.
Amazingly, he hadn't actually felt the blow when it had been delivered. Gabhart was a guy who had been punched plenty of times, given his extensive martial-arts training during his stint in the U.S. Army as a Ranger captain, and during his subsequent, much more lucrative career as a security-systems analyst. Often, in the latter case, he'd been socked by a client while said client was either drunk or stoned, usually trying to make violent contact with someone else, an annoying photographer, a former spouse or business partner. It was part of Gabhart's job to absorb abuse, either directed at or coming from his employer.
The incident at Koch-Roche's mansion earlier in the day had been unusual to say the least. In his professional experience, no matter what happened in the movies, when the odds were seven to two, the side with seven always won. Especially when the side with seven all had guns. That his highly trained team had lost was as surprising as the painless blow that had so thoroughly bruised his back. A blow that had knocked him senseless; like he had been blindsided with a twenty-five-pound feather duster. Only after he had regained consciousness had the pain started. Last time he'd checked, he was still peeing orange. According to the doctors, he was still bleeding a little inside. But no way would Gabhart take the rest of the day off. He had been humiliated in front of his boss. Somehow he had to make it up, to save face.
It was cramped in the elevator car. There were too many big bodies. Too much gear. For Gabhart, the whole situation felt strange and uncomfortable. He'd had no idea that Puma and Chiz were so pumped. They were built like animals. And there was a tension in the car, something electric in the air. Like the pair the security team was supposed baby-sit was about to go berserk. Their muscles kept twitching, twitching, twitching.
The security man had thought that standing less than a foot behind the great Puma Lee would be the thrill of a lifetime. It was, but not in the way he'd expected. It had never occurred to him that he'd feel threatened by a female movie star. Physically threatened.
Even though the actress didn't even look at him, he had a sense that if given the chance, she could and would beat him to a bloody, quivering pulp. Having hit people before, with fists, feet and baton, Gabhart knew what it felt like to make contact with solid muscle. The shock wave shot right up your arm or leg. He had never hit anything as dense as the body Puma Lee displayed. And he had the sinking feeling that nothing he could do with fists, feet or baton would make the slightest impression on her. That he was fully body armored and carried a 10-shot 12-gauge gave him no comfort whatsoever.
When the car opened in the basement, fresh air rushed in. Two of the security men slipped out with shotguns shouldered, and knelt beside the doorway, sweeping the area for hostiles.
A voice in Gabhart's helmet said, "This is Stinger. We are all clear. Let's roll."
A black stretch limo surged from its parking space and came to a squealing stop in front of the elevator. Its black-uniformed driver immediately jumped out and opened the rear passenger door.
As Chiz and Puma got in the limo, a mint green Ford Explorer pulled in behind. It was the troop carrier. Three of the security men got in it. Bob Gabhart opened the limo's front passenger door and climbed into the shotgun seat.
The driver, a blockily built Samoan who looked like he could handle himself, hit the electronic door locks, belted himself in and floored the big Lincoln, sending it screeching away from the elevator.
As they climbed up the concrete ramp to the street, tires squealing as the long vehicle rounded the series of hairpin turns, Gabhart flipped up his Plexiglas face shield but didn't take off the helmet. Behind his head, the soundproof, one-way privacy window that divided the limo's driver and passenger compartments was up. The stars didn't want to be disturbed.