His small lips pursed unhappily, shrinking to an obscene wet sphincter.
"No. Too untidy," he said after a time. "Where would he go? Where could he go?" Possibly not ordering an all-points bulletin was a mistake, after all. But Remo Williams officially did not exist. Putting out a nationwide alert for his apprehension would raise more questions than it would answer. It was fortunate that among the networks of informers he controlled, one was a guard at Florida State Prison who believed he was actually feeding criminal intelligence to the FBI branch office in Miami. His monthly bonus check ensured that he would continue to do so. It had been the guard who had tipped off the FBI-or so he believed-of the escape of the prisoner named Remo Williams in the predawn hours.
The director of Folcroft had moved swiftly. He had phoned the Florida governor and applied the requisite pressure to have the state simply ignore the jailbreak. It was an extraordinary demand, but this was an extraordinary circumstance. Fortunately the governor had a skeleton in his closet, according to the Folcroft database. A very exploitable skeleton. It would have ruined his aspirations to higher office. He had been most compliant in the matter of Remo Williams, a seemingly unimportant death-row inmate who should have been put down decades ago.
But containing this situation was not the same as managing it to a successful conclusion. He must locate Williams.
"Where would he go?" he repeated softly. His watery eyes stared at the shininess of his well-manicured fingernails. "Where?"
Another line of text appeared on the computer screen. It lengthened. He waited until the readout was complete before reading it.
It was a follow-up to the prison-guard informant's report. Contraband reading material had been discovered under the escaped convict's mattress. An investigation was under way. The contraband was the current edition of the National Enquirer.
The director of Folcroft Sanitarium's thick hand raced to the top desk drawer. There, folded neatly, were two copies of the Enquirer. He examined the most recent of the two.
"I wonder," he ruminated slowly. "Would he seek out the Vanderkloot woman? It might be worth monitoring. "
He reached for one of the blue telephones on the desk and made a quick call, issuing low, careful orders.
After he hung up, the intercom buzzed. "Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?" he purred.
"It's Dr. Dooley. I'm afraid there's been a relapse. He said you'd want to know immediately."
"Ah, thank you. I will be down directly, Mrs. Mikulka."
"Yes, Mr. Ransome."
Chapter 18
Waking up was the hardest part of Naomi Vanderkloot's day.
It was a life that had, since she'd joined the faculty of the University of Massachusetts, fallen into a rhythmic monotony of teaching two semesters with a break in January and the summer months off. She was a shoo-in for tenure, which would guarantee her frequent sabbaticals. Her salary was good, her Cambridge apartment was rent-controlled, yet in spite of her best efforts, she spent more time out of relationships than in them.
Hence the tragedy of waking up to an undemanding life and an always empty pillow beside her own. Namoi Vanderkloot roused out of sleep reluctantly. She buried her face in the Crate and Barrel pillow to keep out the sunlight coming through the fern-choked window. One long-toed foot peeped out from under the cover to touch the polished hardwood floor beside her imported Japanese futon.
She didn't hear the footsteps in the long hallway outside her bedroom, nor the faint grinding of metal against paint as her bedroom door hinges swung. A crocheted throw rug wrinkled under silent footsteps and the hand that reached for her throat was careful to avoid the stray tendrils of her long hair until she felt them dig into her windpipe ... and by then it was too late.
"Don't move," a hard male voice hissed.
"Mumpph."
"Not a word. I won't hurt you." The voice was as splintery as bamboo. Naomi felt her heart beating. She opened her eyes, but saw only pillow.
The hand was joined by another hand. This one pulled her head back by her straight hair to expose her face. Then it shifted to her mouth before she could scream.
When Naomi Vanderkloot's eyes flew open and she saw the upside-down face hovering over her, she no longer wanted to scream. She wanted to ask his name.
"Mumph!" she repeated.
"You know me?" the man asked. Naomi nodded briskly. He had those same drill-bit eyes, the high cheekbones and cruel mouth. His shoulders were not as broad as she would have liked, but shoulders weren't everything.
"Are you Professor Naomi Vanderkloot?" he demanded.
Naomi's nod was eager this time. She batted her eyes.
"Listen up, then. I'm going to let go of your mouth, but I'll still have my other hand on your throat. Understand?"
Naomi almost dislodged both hands with the enthusiasm of her nodding. The hand withdrew.
"It really is you!" she breathed, sitting up. "I can't believe it. I've dreamed of this moment. This is incredible. You have no idea what this means to-Mummph." The hand returned. This time it pinched her lips shut. Her tongue, caught between them, touched his fingertips. They tasted like oranges. smelled like them too.
"Stop drooling," he was saying. "I'm not here for your benefit. But for mine. Short answers, okay? And spare me the girlish enthusiasm. I'm having a bad week."
Naomi nodded demurely, her eyes drinking in her captor's strong white teeth. He possessed ordinary human canines, which surprised her. She had expected the next evolution to produce herbivores with small blunted teeth adapted for grinding salads, not tearing meat.
The hand withdrew tentatively, hovering over her face. The fingers were long, but blunt at the tips. Usually a sign of a slow sugar burner. She frowned.
"Now, do you know who I am?" he asked intently.
"Yes," she said, hoping that was short enough for him-not that she would mind his strong masculine hands back on her body.
"My name is Remo Williams. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"No. I mean, yes! The letters-some of them-said your first name was Remo."
"Letters?"
"From the Enquirer readers. I thought they were ridiculously unscientific, until so many of them came in saying your name was Remo. Most of them described the old Mongoloid to a T."
"Mongol? How do you know he's Mongol?"
"A Mongoloid, not a Mongolian," Naomi lectured. "A Mongoloid is simply an Asian. From certain genotypical clues-primarily the bone structure of the face and the Mongoloid eye fold-I've tentatively classified him as a member of the Altaic family, which includes the Turkish, Mongolian, and Tungusic peoples. I'm leaning toward Tungusic, which would make him Korean. Although he could be Japanese. Historically, there's been a lot of racial intermingling between those groups. The Japanese aren't part of the Tungusic family, of course, but-"
The hand started to move in again, and Naomi shut up like a constipated clam.
"I want to see these letters," Remo said.
"They're in the den. I can show you. If you'll let me up."
Both hands then withdrew, and Naomi composed her nightgown before getting up. She pulled on her owlish glasses.
"Hi!" she said, batting her eyes at his unresponsive face. He was nearly six feet tall. Probably of Mediterranean stock. His eyes were deeper than the descriptions. Like shark's eyes. They were merciless. They made Naomi shiver deliciously.
"Lead the way," he ordered.
Naomi started for the door, but her bare feet encountered the throw rug. It slid on the slick floor, upsetting her. She experienced an instant of flung-limbed imbalance. Her knees clicked together, her feet bending sideways at the ankles. She blinked, wondering why she wasn't falling.