The phone went dead in the Vox chairman's tanned hand.
Chapter 22
Remo carried the limp body of the Master of Sinanju down to Folcroft's security wing.
Dr. Gerling was still at Smith's bedside as Remo passed the open door to the CURE director's room. The doctor had drawn open one eyelid and was clicking his penlight on and off over the bloodshot orb. As he flashed the light, he muttered soothing words softly into Smith's ear.
"I've got another one for you," Remo said. Gerling turned. Sweat beaded on his forehead. When he saw the old Asian patient, the Folcroft physician's lips drew tight.
"I'll be a few hours more," Gerling said softly. "Put him in the next room. I'll get to him when I'm done here."
Remo slipped past the room, depositing the Master of Sinanju in the empty bed in the next room. Chiun looked like a mummified corpse in repose as Remo left the room.
Out in the hallway Remo stood between rooms. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he contemplated his next move. He heard Dr. Gerling speaking quietly to Smith, trying to undo the damage caused by CURE's faceless enemy.
Remo could go after MacGulry. But there was no certainty that the Vox head was behind any of this. Remo was beginning to think that Martin Houton might not have been in complete control at the end. In retrospect, the suicidal BCN president had that same glazed look in his eyes as the cops in Harlem or Smith in his office.
If Houton was an unwitting victim, so too might be Robbie MacGuhy. Remo had no desire to run off on a wild-goose chase while the real culprit got away.
For a frustrating moment he wasn't sure exactly what to do. Smith and Chiun were no help for the time being. Remo was the only man left at CURE.
His thoughts suddenly froze.
No, he wasn't the only one left. He realized the error as soon as the thought passed through his mind. Even after a year he still thought there were only three of them in all. But there was one other. And so far, Remo realized with sudden excitement, the fourth man was the only one not included in the subliminal attacks on CURE's personnel.
It was possible that whoever was behind all this had old knowledge of CURE. If that was the case, salvation for them all could come from the least likely of places.
"I'm never gonna live this one down," he muttered.
When Remo headed up the hall, the room he slipped inside belonged to neither Harold Smith nor the Master of Sinanju.
THE DEMONS of a hundred nights' dreams had finally slouched off to die in the shadows of sleep.
It had been so long since he'd slept for real that he had forgotten what it was like. It was an inviting darkness. A cloud of black that smothered him with a peace that was slowly stitching up the edges of his frayed sanity.
Mark Howard lay floating on a sea of night, a sky of soothing black nothingness far above his head. No nightmares, no fear. It seemed as if he had been staring at-reveling in-that same black sky for weeks.
He was so familiar with the blankness of that empty void that he was surprised to suddenly find a star sitting in it.
The star hadn't been there before. He was sure of it.
This single celestial light was an out-of-place blemish in the tranquil, unchanged heavens of this otherworldly place. He was going to try to use his mind to remove the ugly blight from his personal sky when the star suddenly got brighter. It went from star to sun to supernova in the wink of an eye, obliterating the calming black in a flash that burned his retinas and made him squint in pain.
When he blinked, Mark realized that the star that had exploded in the night sky of his dreams wasn't a star at all.
A fluorescent light hung amid yellowed ceiling tiles above his head. For some reason Mark was lying fiat on his back. As he tried to get his bearings, a voice spoke.
"Up and at 'em, kid."
He saw the cruel face above his bed. "Remo?" Mark whispered groggily.
Mark felt Remo's hand slip out from the base of his spine where it had been massaging a knot of nerves. The drugged sensation drained away.
"At least your memory's not crazy," Remo commented. "Now shake a leg. The whole world's falling apart and-God help us-you might be our only hope."
A grim expression on his face, CURE's enforcement arm pulled the confused young man out of bed.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER-showered, shaved and wearing the suit he'd had on when he had been discovered on the floor of Folcroft's attic three days before-Mark Howard was hurrying along the hallway of the sanitarium's executive wing.
"When did all this happen?" he asked urgently. While Mark was getting ready. Remo had given the assistant CURE director a quick rundown of the events that had taken place over the past few days. Remo was marching beside him. "Last couple of days. We thought it was over yesterday. They didn't start coming after us until the last few hours."
"How long till Dr. Smith recovers?"
"Depends how long it takes Dr. Hugo Hackenbush to deprogram him," Remo replied. "He said a couple more hours."
When they rounded a corner, they found a matronly woman coming down the hallway toward them from the direction of Smith's office suite.
Eileen Mikulka's broad face was anxious. The instant she saw Mark Howard, her troubled expression fled.
"Mr. Howard!" Mrs. Mikulka gasped. "You're all right."
"Yeah, Mrs. M.," he said uncomfortably. "I'm fine, thanks." He started past her, but she pressed his arm.
"You haven't seen Dr. Smith, have you?" she asked worriedly. "He was here this morning, but I stepped out for a few minutes and I haven't been able to find him since."
Howard glanced at Remo. "I, um. No. I don't know where he is. Sorry."
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Mikulka said. "He has an appointment soon. Maybe he went downstairs for lunch." She offered a harried smile. "I'm so happy to see you're well."
Mrs. Mikulka hurried off in one direction as Remo and Mark continued in the other.
Howard unlocked his office door and slipped in behind his worn oak desk. As he sat in his chair, he pressed a recessed stud beneath the desk's lip. A hidden computer monitor and keyboard rose up before him.
"I'll see if the mainframes have pulled anything relevant in the past few hours," he said.
"First things first," Remo interrupted. He was standing at Howard's side. "Sorry, kid, but there's no dainty way to do this fast." And with that Remo jammed his fingers deep into Mark Howard's shoulder.
The pain was white-hot. Horrible, blinding.
Mark couldn't breathe, couldn't gasp. He wanted to cry out, but his strangled voice couldn't manage the sound.
It was pain he had never imagined could exist. Remo had torn his arm from the socket and poured molten metal into the exposed joint.
Remo leaned close. "Are you working with Purcell?" he asked, his voice low with menace. Confusion flooded in with the pain.
"A patient?" Howard gasped. "He's a patient, right? Security wing. No, no!"