Keeping his breathing shallow, Remo began making his determined way across the room.
"HE IS COMING this way!" Hirn whispered urgently.
"Who?" Kempten demanded. The others still hadn't told him the reason for their sudden concern.
"Holloway's murderer," Hirn explained. It was all the warning he planned to give Kempten. As neo-Nazi sympathizers, they were all in danger. Hirn included.
Hirn jumped to his feet, joined by his two skinhead companions. Without another word to Kempten, they hurried off through the crowd. They circled over near the bar, cutting a wide swath around the intruder.
The killer was nowhere near them. He was walking through the cluster of tables in the center of the main floor. Although the room was thick with stretched-out legs and bent elbows, the man moved through the tangle without so much as a single sidestep. It was as if he had no more substance than the smoke-filled air around him.
"He doesn't see us," one of the young men said, braver now that the shadowy door loomed closer.
The chain in his nose tinkled softly as he nodded dully.
"Shut up," Hirn hissed.
As he spoke, he watched in horror as the killer's dead eyes turned their focus on him. It was as if he had somehow been able to single out the skinheads' hushed voices in the clamor of beer-fueled shouting. Hirn's stomach twisted into frozen knots.
"Hurry up," he whispered urgently to the others. They had seen the change in the stranger, as well. The trio hurried to the exit.
They were two yards away from the door when a terrifyingly familiar face appeared as if summoned by magic from out of the smoke before them.
"What put the goose in your step?" Remo asked, eyesleaden.
"Excuse us, sir," Hirn begged, swallowing nervously. Over Remo's shoulder, the door remained enticingly out of reach.
"Hmm. Polite for Germans," Remo mused, nodding. "I guess you three must be all putsched out. I'm looking for someone. Kempten Oatmeal-Hasenpfeffer, or something like that. His landlord said I'd find him here."
Three index fingers decorated with black nail polish stabbed in unison to the rear booth.
"Back there," Hirn insisted anxiously. "Very old. Yellow eyes. Bad teeth. You cannot miss him."
"Thanks," Remo said. "I don't intend to. By the way, bad teeth hardly narrows the field in this country." He began gliding past them.
There was a collective sigh of relief from the three skinheads.
"That is all?" one of them whispered, relieved. Hirn could have killed him.
Remo stopped abruptly.
"Actually, this is your lucky day," Remo said, turning back to the trio. "I was told to cut back on my killing."
There was a look of nervous relief on the faces of two of the skinheads. Hirn remained stone-faced. "But that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to vent a little righteous indignation."
Remo's hand shot forward three times. Each skinhead was aware of a blur of movement beneath his eyes and of a sudden, wrenching sensation at the center of his face.
The pain followed at once.
All three skinheads grabbed at noses that were suddenly gushing blood. Loose, frayed flaps of skin hung wet beneath their fingers.
As they watched in agony, Remo dropped three identical nose chains to the nearby bar.
"Hang Hitler," Remo announced with a sharp click of his heels and a crisp Nazi salute. Smiling, he headed back across the hall. Toward old Kempten.
THOUGH HIS EYES WERE no longer perfect, they didn't need to be. Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzoller-kirchen clearly saw his three companions point him out to the vile Nazi killer.
The old man had hoped to hunker down behind his cigarettes and beer until the intruder left the bar. He saw now that this was no longer possible.
Climbing uncertainly to his feet, he began hobbling quickly to the rear of the beer hall. He was vaguely aware of a door back there. At least there had been one about fifty years ago. He hoped it was still there.
As he walked, Kempten leaned against the side wall for support. He was an emaciated figure in out-of-date clothing. A few patrons glared angrily at him as he stepped steadily over feet and handbags in search of a door that might or might not be there.
He was surprised when he stumbled upon the ancient fire exit a moment later. His discolored eyes squinted suspiciously as he reached for the long metal bar.
Kempten rattled the handle. The door stubbornly refused to budge. He leaned his bony shoulder against the painted door and pushed with all his might. Still nothing.
He couldn't allow his exertions to get the better of him. Every moment brought the assassin closer to him.
Kempten leaned back and shoved once more against the door. It sprang abruptly open. The old man found himself flying out into a garbage-filled alley. He landed in a heap atop a pile of fetid, rain-soaked plastic bags.
Hurrying, Kempten used the grimy alley wall to pull himself to his feet. As he moved, his dry tongue stabbed around the filterless end of his imported cigarette.
Coughing madly, he turned away from the garbage heap ...and came face-to-face with the very man he was avoiding. The horrid spasm that racked his lungs froze in his throat.
Eyes flat, Remo allowed the rusted beer hall door to swing quietly shut behind him. The raucous shouts from within grew muffled, replaced with the sounds of distant traffic. Car horns honked angry complaints somewhere away from the alley.
Remo spoke but one word. "Four."
Still leaning against the alley wall, Kempten made an unpleasant face. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he blew a cloud of defiant smoke in Remo's face.
He was smiling contemptuously, showing off his row of jack-o'-lantern teeth, when it occurred to him that Remo was no longer standing before him. The smoke cloud had missed its target. Kempten frowned.
He was still frowning when Remo reappeared beside him.
"Didn't you catch the Surgeon General's warning on these?" he whispered with quiet menace.
Remo reached out and yanked the cigarette from Kempten's mouth. Somehow, half of Kempten's lower lip came with it. As the old Nazi screamed in pain, Remo stomped both lip and butt beneath the toe of his Italian loafer.
"Four," Remo said again.
"Go to hell," Kempten snarled. He spit a bloody glob of phlegm at Remo. Remo sidestepped the expectorated ball.
"Age before beauty," Remo said. Grabbing up a handful of the old Nazi's greasy, yellowed hair, he twisted.
To Kempten, it felt as if his scalp had caught fire. He was acutely aware of each individual hair follicle as it burned a laser-precise hole through to his brain. Pain like nothing he had ever known made him scream in sheer agony.