"Unless they were cross-pollinated with Houdini, it wasn't any of the BBQs," Remo said. "The two at the lab aren't going anywhere, and the six here were too far away."
"That's just the point," Smith said excitedly. "This last body is different than the rest. The woman's fingerprints and features were mutilated to complicate identification."
"So?"
"Remo, the mere act of the killer trying to cover his tracks proves conscious thought. Animals kill to survive. Only human beings worry about fingerprinting and police investigations."
Remo's brow fiurowed. "I see your point," he admitted.
"That is not all," Smith said. "The latest body was found almost in the same location as the first."
"That was near BostonBio, wasn't it?" Remo queried.
"Within walking distance," Smith answered, his lemony tone betraying intrigue.
"So we're right back to square one," Remo said.
"We have narrowed our focus," Smith disagreed. "When I learned of the latest body, I checked with St. Eligius. Judith White has not checked herself out of the hospital. Therefore, we can eliminate her as a suspect. That leaves someone else at the company. Possibly someone on her team."
"Or someone with HETA."
"That remains a possibility, as well," Smith admitted.
"Okay," Remo sighed. "I'll go back to BostonBio and see what's shaking there."
"Stay there until something turns up," Smith instructed.
"Great," Remo said, with not a hint of enthusiasm. "I can pass the time between corpses hearing about how big an ingrate creep I am."
He hung up the phone and trotted back to his parked car.
Chiun was sitting stoically in the passenger's seat. "What are you doing here?" Remo asked.
"Why?" Chiun sniffed. "Was your intention to abandon me, as well? Forgive me, Remo, I did not know. If you but give me one moment, I will lie beneath the wheels of this carriage so that in your departure you might crumple my worthless shell." He stretched a bony hand to the door handle.
"Okay, okay," Remo muttered. "Sorry I asked." He started the car. Angling the vehicle out of the driveway, Remo headed into the brightening dawn. After they'd left, a tiny moan rose from the back of the ill-lit office of the service station.
Chapter 22
Terror Toll Mounting! screamed the headline in the Boston Messenger's early edition. Beside the banner print, a picture of the latest victim stared out from every newspaper box in town. The worst of the mutilated body had been covered by strategically placed black bars. Small type below the headline read, "Killer creatures still stalk Hub."
For years, the Messenger sat alone on the sensationalistic limb. Of late, however, the local television stations had been clambering up the trunk. On the morning following the latest death, every syndicated or network program ordinarily broadcast on Boston's network affiliates was preempted for continuous coverage of the "Killer creatures."
Most of this coverage involved reporters marching around street corners and storming straight up to cameras in order to create a sense of frenetic excitement.
Boston's highly paid evening anchors had been awakened early, rapidly moussed, blushed and rolled out in front of the cameras. Eyes puffy with sleep and wardrobe consisting of flannel shirts with rolled-up sleeves to show that they were "down and dirty," the empty-skulled anchors spent most of the morning interviewing one another. On occasion, the zany weathermen would be hauled out to fill up dead time. During these painful-to-watch moments, everyone's brains would shift into overdrive as they tried desperately to remember that wacky quips and joking bon mots were probably not appropriate to coverage of a multiple-murder story.
Although there were now eleven confirmed deaths, the constant hyperbolic media coverage had dulled public concern. Many Boston residents had taken to the streets once more.
They found they were not alone.
Drawn in by the crisis, hunters from all over New England had converged on Boston. So far, local authorities were looking the other way. The police quietly defended this position of noninterference. After all, the killer here was an animal. And as yet, there was no law against shooting a Bos camelus-whitus.
On TV, HETA's newest spokesman claimed that the animals were being hunted out of season. When an NRA spokesman pointed out that there was no such thing as a Bos camelus-whitus season, the HETA man had responded by throwing red paint on the NRA man and tearing up a picture of the pope before storming off the set.
While the debate raged on Boston's airwaves and in its civic buildings, trucks filled with hunters patrolled the streets. As the pinkish predawn sky warmed to deeper shades of red, the light of the new day washed over many an ATV. Remo saw hundreds of them on his drive into the city.
The drivers wore garish orange hats adorned with laminated hunting licenses. Orange vests wrapped khaki or flannel shirts.
Remo found the outfits redundant. If the doublebarreled shotguns jutting from open windows and over tailgates weren't enough to warn people that there were hunters in the area, the powerful aroma of beer-soaked fatigues should have been a dead giveaway.
"Has a brewery exploded?" the Master of Sinanju complained. His wizened face puckered in displeasure as they drove along Tremont Street.
"Beer." Remo nodded. A truck of rowdy men nearly sideswiped them as it flew past in the opposite direction. "The lifeblood of hunters. They must have declared open season on the BBQs. Good thing the animals are all locked up."
"Yes," Chiun said. His voice was vague as he stared out the window. "Why are these drunken fools adorned thusly?" he asked, nodding to a pair of men who were crouching down behind a mailbox. They sipped from a shared hip flask.
"You mean in orange?" Remo asked. Chiun nodded. "I think it makes it easier to shoot each other when they're drunk in the woods."
He was relieved the Master of Sinanju was talking to him. The old man had remained silent since they'd left Medford.
On the street, one hunter was piddling on a lamp post. He staggered where he stood, getting as much on his trousers as on the ground.
"This is unpardonable," Chiun gasped. "A gamesman needs his wits about him at all times. These boomstick-carrying inebriates do not even know when they are soiling themselves. How do they expect to dispatch their prey?"
"And therein lies a riddle greater than that of the Sphinx," Remo intoned. "Does a hunter get drunk because he never catches anything, or does a hunter never catch anything because he's always drunk?"
The old Asian's lids pinched to razor slits. "If this is your feeble attempt to distract me from your ungratefulness..." he warned.
"You brought it up," Remo countered. Chiun turned his attention back to the street. The latest hunter they were passing was sprawled unconscious on the sidewalk. A stray dog was lapping at the puddle of beer that had spilled from the can still clasped in his hand.
"I will study the enigma further before rendering judgment," Chiun announced. And settling back into silence, the Master of Sinanju set his studious gaze on the men they passed.
It was still early morning by the time they reached the BostonBio parking lot. A few cars were already there, but at 6:30 a.m., most of the lot was empty.
Remo parked near a car that looked vaguely familiar. Early-morning sunlight gleamed off its windshield as he stepped into the adjacent empty space. Chiun didn't follow.
"You coming?" Remo asked the Master of Sinanju, leaning down to the open door.
Chiun shook his head. "Observe," he whispered. He nodded toward the chain-link fence that marked the edge of BostonBio's property.
Remo saw a strange wooden kiosk on the street corner across from the lot. It took him a moment to realize that it had once been a newspaper stand. Branches broken from BostonBio's meticulously landscaped trees had been lashed to the exterior of the booth. Weeds and straw were thrown up on the roof. A pair of orange hats and attendant shotgun barrels bobbed up from behind the counter of the booth. Every once in a while, a pair of liquor-bleary eyes rose into view.
"Oh, brother," Remo said. "It's a duck blind." The Master of Sinanju kept his voice low.
"I will use this as an opportunity to solve your riddle," he said.