At the end of it, he was told to report to work.
He had found Folcroft in tatters, staff wise. The lower-echelon staff had been told to go home, and a number of personnel, including Smith's trusted secretary, Mrs. Mikulka, had been terminated.
Dr. Gerling wondered if he too was going to be fired when all was said and done. It was a distinct possibility, he decided.
In the interim, he made his rounds. Perhaps nothing dire would happen and all would be restored to the status quo.
But he knew in his heart this was unlikely. The Internal Revenue Service and the Drug Enforcement Administration both had come down on Folcroft Sanitarium like avenging angels. It could not all be a mistake. These were very powerful, very important, very professional governmental agencies. They did not make mistakes.
And if there had been any doubt in Dr. Gerling's mind, it was dispelled by Dr. Smith's state.
He had been asked to evaluate it and, after conferring with the Folcroft doctors-who could find nothing organically wrong with Smith-Gerling was forced to conclude one thing.
"It appears psychosomatic," he'd told the IRS agent named Jack Koldstad.
"You mean he's faking?"
"No, I mean that his mind has created this condition because Dr. Smith cannot face an unpleasant reality."
"What causes this usually?"
"Different external problems. Fear. Depression."
"How about guilt?"
"Yes, guilt. Guilt is a very strong emotion. It could be guilt over something in his past."
"He's guilty of evading Uncle Sam's lawful levies, that's what he's guilty of."
"I do not think I have ever heard of a patient who would fall into a paralytic state over underreporting federal taxes."
"You just said guilt. I'm writing up guilt in my report."
"Yes, I said guilt. But it is a possibilty and no more. Dr. Smith might have other emotions causing this condition."
"Guilt makes sense to me. We found evidence he's guilty of tax evasion. We confronted him with it. He's guilty-end of story."
"Should not that be for a court of law to decide?" Dr. Gerling had asked.
"The IRS decides who is guilty of tax evasion," Jack Koldstad had snapped as he turned away. "Not the damn law."
That was when Dr. Gerling gave up all hope for Harold Smith. The man must be guilty, after all. It was too bad. He was an excellent administrator, even if he was a nickel-squeezing tightwad.
Completing his rounds, Dr. Gerling was walking back to his office when he heard a sound that made his heart skip a beat.
It was the drumming. Doom doom doom doom doom over and over again. Monotonous, relentless and distressingly familiar.
Reversing course, he made a beeline for the sound. It was coming from very close by, but the sound was muffled. The skirts of his white physician's coat flapping about his knees, Dr. Gerling moved with a waddling alacrity, his round head swiveling from side to side.
Very close, yes. The sound was close enough that he could almost reach out and touch it.
Gerling slowed his gait. Yes, quite close. Then he had the sound fixed. It was apparently coming from Purcell's room.
Cautiously Aldace Gerling slipped up to the square window with its thick wire-mesh-reinforced glass. Trying to keep from being seen, he used one bespectacled eye to look inside.
Jeremiah Purcell was watching television. Whatever it was, the program made his pale face light up with glee, and a cackle dribbled from between his laughing lips.
The drumming was definitely emanating from this room.
Dr. Gerling angled his head around, trying to spot it.
Then he saw it. The television set was the source of the monotonous drumming. A commercial. Dr. Gerling caught the last few seconds of it, just as the plush pink bunny narrowly escaped being trampled by a giant gorilla.
He marched into the sunset beating on his drum, the battery on his back showing.
"My word!" said Gerling. "I wonder if it was that silly commercial making the drumming after all?"
He decided not to speak of this to anyone else. The IRS had control of Folcroft Sanitarium now, and there was no telling on what flimsy grounds they would terminate someone.
Or worse, Gerling thought with a shiver, audit them.
After all, if a man were judged not in his right mind, would not his tax returns also be suspect?
Chapter 9
In the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium, the Master of Sinanju fumed and paced like an impatient hen.
Where was Remo? He had promised not to be gone long. And it was his turn to guard the gold that now belonged to Sinanju.
The door at the top of the stairs opened. Perhaps this was he.
The clump of footsteps coming down told otherwise. Even in his most crude days, back before the grace of the sun source came upon him, Remo had not climbed like that. This was the tread of a clod, and so the Master of Sinanju glided from the triple-locked door of the basement vault room to meet this interloper.
"Who intrudes?" he challenged.
A stiff voice responded. "IRS. Who's down here?"
"No one. Go away."
"I am an agent of the IRS. We never go away."
"Never?"
"Never."
"That is too bad. No doubt you are here to confiscate wealth."