Chiun shook his head. "I questioned a few of the beasts, but they are mindless mockeries of humanity. They do not know what made them thus."
Remo leaned back against the desk, arms folded.
"Great," he complained. "Without a lead we're dead in the water."
The words had no sooner passed his lips than there came the sound of a sudden commotion behind them. A scuffle followed by a startled shout.
"Jimmy, knock if off. That ain't funny."
The two Masters of Sinanju turned to find Sergeant Jimmy Simon slowly circling Jeff Malloy at the precinct's main desk. The portly desk sergeant's nose was in the air, tracking a scent. Drool rolled down his chin, staining his collar.
"Oh, balls," Remo muttered just as the first inhuman growl rolled up out of the throat of Sergeant Simon.
THE TINT of high blood pressure on Simon's broad face had lightened to a mask of cold calculation. He bared his teeth at Sergeant Malloy.
"That's it, Jimmy," Malloy snapped, grabbing for his gun. He was too slow.
Simon sprang, cuffing Malloy on the side of the head. The stunned officer lost his gun. Bouncing off the side of his desk, he dropped to the floor. Jimmy Simon pounced on the stricken body. With a fearsome growl, he drew back his head, eager to bury fangs deep into the exposed throat.
He never got the chance.
Just as his head was snapping down, a strong hand grabbed a clump of sweaty hair at the back of his head. With a yank, he was off Sergeant Malloy's body and spinning in air. He came nose to nose with a very annoyed Remo Williams.
"Mr. Whiskers shouldn't play with his food," Remo said.
Growling. Sergeant Simon lashed out at Remo. Remo was holding the officer at arm's length. He dodged the swinging paw.
" Kitty go night-night," Remo said.
Frowning, he drove a pair of hardened fingertips deep into Sergeant Simon's jiggling neck. Consciousness drained from Simon's body and he grew limp in Remo's hand.
By now, other uniformed officers had rushed over to help. Remo passed the unconscious desk sergeant off to them.
"Lock him up with the others," he ordered. "And if you don't want his liver pateed before he comes to, you'll give him his own room."
When he turned back around, Jeff Malloy was dragging himself shakily to his feet.
"What happened?" Remo demanded.
"I don't know," Sergeant Malloy said, panting. "He was just sitting there and he went nuts. He was still winded from downstairs. I told him to take deep breaths. I thought he was having a stroke. Then he just dropped his water and came after me."
Remo and Chiun looked down.
The disposable cup from which Jimmy Simon had been drinking was under his desk. Splattered water had turned the dirt on the floor muddy.
And, as one, they recalled the water dispenser standing in the corner of the Vaunted Press break room.
"It's in the water, Chiun," Remo announced, turning.
The Master of Sinanju was no longer beside him. He saw a blur of black robes. The old Korean flew like a flash across the open squad-room floor.
A watercooler sat against the far wail. While Remo waited for Smith's return call he had seen a custodian install a new bottle. A plainclothes officer stood before the tank, raising a white disposable cup to his lips.
Before a single drop of water could touch his tongue, Chiun fell upon him. A vicious swat flung the cup from the man's hand.
"What the hell?" the cop snarled.
But Remo was already there, waving FBI ID. The angry detective wandered off, rubbing the crimson welt that was already blossoming on the back of his hand.
Shooing a few officers back, the old Korean placed a fresh cup beneath the cooler's spout. With a careful press of a solitary nail, he poured a short stream of water.
He brought the cup to his button nose, sniffing deeply. Face clouding, he looked to Remo.
"I detect nothing," Chiun said somberly.
Remo accepted the cup from Chiun's bony hand. He swirled around the crystal-clear liquid, looking for anything suspicious. There was nothing he could see. It was nothing more than a cup of spring water.
When he looked up, his brow was low.
"If we can't see it, either one of us could have drunk this," he pointed out.
"Do not remind me," the Master of Sinanju said. "As it is, you are barely housebroken, and I do not need you soiling the carpets or scratching up my good furniture."
"We'd better get some of this to Smith for testing," Remo said. He found a big aspirin bottle in a desk drawer. Dumping out the last few remaining pills, he poured some water into the bottle.
After Remo was through, Chiun turned to a patrolman.
"Remove these to a lavatory for disposal," he commanded, waving a hand at the boxes that were stacked next to the cooler. "And do the same with any others in this garrison, lest you end up like the beasts in your dungeon."
The officer was one of those who had seen Remo and Chiun pass through the cell block unharmed. He knew enough not to argue. Enlisting help of others, the group hauled the boxes of Lubec Springs water to the men's room for dumping.
"And say a prayer the alligators in the sewers aren't thirsty," Remo called after them.
Chapter 13
The ozone layer was already taken. Hundreds of people had hogged the limelight on that one. Greenpeace had claimed the seven seas for themselves.
Everything else good between heaven and earth had been laid claim to by someone.
HETA had dibs on animals. The Sierra Club had the trees. Earth First! had dirt. And the Brazilian rain forest was the private domain of one singer so selfish that others in the environmental movement didn't even like to mention his single-word name. Although he had been missing lately. Probably in for more hair plugs or-worse-in the studio recording a new album.
When it came time to decide which great planet-saving cause he would throw his support behind, poor Bobby Bugget was a man without an issue.
"You need something, Bobby," his agent had insisted.
His agent's name was Jude Weiss, but everyone called him St. Jude. Weiss found the nickname distasteful. First of all, he was Jewish. Second, he wasn't really Jewish. Not anymore. He had recently converted to Buddhism--this not long after converting to Poweressence, which had supplanted a deeply held, week-long conversion to Scientology. This was all part of the long-standing Hollywood tradition of religion as fad. If Madonna or Cher told Hollywood's movers and shakers that it was now hip to switch to high-colonic Amish, Jude Weiss would have dashed off to Home Depot for a horse and buggy and a length of garden hose. But one thing he had never been and never would be was Catholic. They actually had rules and, horror of horrors, expected you to live by them. So to Jude Weiss, recent Buddhist (or was it Hindu?) to be referred to as the Catholic patron saint of desperate causes was a grave insult. Unfortunately it was a nickname well-earned.