Date with Death

Quantril attempted a laugh. "That's ridiculous. There's no evidence to link me to any of this."

"Hey, maybe you're forgetting, big shot. I'm not a cop. I don't need evidence. I need money. A million bucks, nothing less—"

Deke Bauer slammed into Donner's head with his elbow, sending him crashing into a wall. Then, before Donner came to enough to pick up the knife, the military man stepped on his right hand. He dug in his heel, feeling the small bones break with satisfying little snaps. While Donner howled in pain, Bauer picked him up by the scruff of the neck and the back of his belt and dragged him to the balcony. Then, with a powerful heave, he tossed Donner over the railing.

There was a sharp wail, followed by a strange bouncing sound. Bauer looked out.

Donner had not fallen on the street below. Instead, he was hanging suspended by one arm and one leg from a flagpole halfway down the building.

"Incredible," Quantril said hoarsely behind the soldier.

Bauer rushed back into the room to retrieve his Magnum, but Quantril stopped him.

"I'll just finish him off with one shot," Bauer explained.

"Don't be a fool. There are already pedestrians on the sidewalk watching."

From the street, they could hear a woman scream, "Look at that!"

"We've got to get out of here," Quantril said. "Now."

"What about him? He'll talk."

"He'll fall first."

"The cops—"

"They'll be busy. Remember?"

?CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"I think we take a right here," Remo said as he peered up at the street sign in downtown Santa Fe. "Yeah, this is it." He nodded toward a modern glass building up the block. "And that's the headquarters of Dream Date."

"What a loathesome name for a business enterprise," Chiun said.

"It's Quantril's operation. And if that soldier was right, he does a lot more than play matchmaker."

The building's lobby, as seen from the street, was brightly lit and ultramodern, with a massive steel-and-bronze sculpture as its centerpiece.

"There are no valets here," Chiun complained.

"It's Sunday evening. The building's closed. I figured it was the best time to check Quantril's records." He peered through the window. "Still, there ought to be someone here."

He leaned against one of the large glass doors to judge its weight, but to his surprise, they swung open. "I don't get it," Remo said. "There's not a security guard in sight."

Their footfalls echoed through the empty, cavernous lobby. Remo strode silently across the gleaming marble floor to consult the building directory. Dream Date occupied the entire penthouse floor. Across the way he noticed an elevator marked "Penthouse Only."

The unlocked door and the absence of a guard made Remo more than a little suspicious. He couldn't help thinking that their arrival had been anticipated. He wondered what kind of surprises Quantril and his friend. Major Deke Bauer, had in store for them.

"That's the way to the top," Remo said, indicating the private elevator. "Let's go up and take a look around."

Remo pushed the elevator button. The stainless steel doors silently parted. Three men were waiting inside. Each was holding a baseball bat.

"Surprise," one of them said, stepping out. He was so big that he had to stoop to clear the top. Remo slowly took in the bull neck and muscle-corded arms. The man was wearing a garish flowered shirt and lime-green slacks. His bullet-shaped head was bald and shining. His thick, meaty hands were wrapped around a bat. The top hand sported a red ruby ring that winked like a flashing roadmarker.

"Out for a little batting practice, boys?" Remo said in greeting.

"Yeah," the big man answered. "You can be the ball." He whacked the Louisville slugger against his open palm.

The two other men stepped out from the elevator, taking up positions on either side of the bald man. One was black, the other Hispanic.

"What do you guys call yourselves?" Remo asked. "The Bad Breath Bears?"

"Very funny," Flowered Shirt said. "Watch me laugh." He took a mighty swing at Remo's head. The only problem was that by the time the bat reached the place where Remo had been standing, Remo was gone. The bat hit the marble wall with a thunderous crash and splintered into shards.

"How the hell did you do that?" the black man asked.

"Like this." Remo moved one wrist. The next moment, the black man was flying through the air. He screamed as his massive body smashed against the unyielding bronze-and-steel sculpture in the middle of the lobby. His baseball bat went flying.

"Strike one," Remo said.

The Hispanic member of the team took a pace forward. "Willy musta slipped," he said. He raised his bat. "You're gonna pay for that, shithead." The hickory slugger in his hand cut through the air with a sharp, swooshing sound. This time Remo didn't move. A moment before the bat made contact with Remo's neck, he reached out and grabbed its end with two fingers. He pushed, and the bat slid through the Hispanic man's hands like a greased knife, lodging deep in his chest.

"Strike two," Remo said.

The bald, bullet-head man, alone now, blinked a few times in rapid succession. His forehead creased into a puzzled frown, as he picked up the black man's bat.

"Look out for strike three," Remo said, tapping him on the shoulder. The big man whirled around to find Remo leaning against the elevator doors.

Baldy lunged at him, both hands spread wide on the bat. He slammed it against Remo's throat with all the force in his powerful arms.

Remo exhaled and the bat snapped in two like a discarded toothpick.

The broken bat clattered to the floor as the bald man locked his arms around Remo's neck. "You bastard," he whispered. At close range, the man's breath smelled of meat arid cheap wine. His thick fingers edged toward Remo's windpipe. His hooded eyes gleamed as his hands closed on Remo's throat.

"It's language like that that gives the game a bad name," Remo said. He took a half-step, turned his wrist, and the bald man disappeared through the floor of the elevator. Remo heard a high-pitched echoing scream and then a muffled thud from below.

"You're out," Remo called after him.

They walked to the penthouse floor. The foyer was decorated with life-size photos of couples holding hands, skipping along the beach, or staring longingly into one another's eyes. None of the people in the pictures looked as if they would have any trouble finding dates on their own. There was a big teak desk in the unoccupied reception area, and beyond it twin glass doors embellished with Dream Date's swirling gold logo. Remo padded across the thick cream-colored carpet and tried the doors. Like the ones downstairs, they, too, were unlocked.

"I really don't understand this," Remo said.

"What is so difficult to understand? My reputation has obviously preceded me. The two men you seek, knowing they had an appointment with death, have fled the scene."

Remo shook his head. "I don't know. If there isn't anyone up here, then why did they go to all the bother of providing the welcome wagon in the lobby? Those three clowns weren't just hanging around the elevator for exercise."

Remo was still pondering the situation as he followed Chiun through another pair of double glass doors. They passed under an archway and into a big room lined with desks. On each desk was a small computer terminal and some software. There were some open doors off to the right. Remo poked his head into one of them. There was a video unit, another small computer, a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, and a low table piled with brightly colored brochures.

"This is probably where they bring the clients," Remo said.

Chiun pounded on one of the video units until it shattered to dust. "The man must die," he said.

"Huh? Hey, what are you doing? We're not supposed to wreck the place."

"The person you seek is a sadist. He has filled an entire room with television sets, and none of them has so much as a channel changer."

"There are more doors over there," Remo said, walking past the old man toward yet another area. Through the new set of doors, the atmosphere was radically changed. The sterile, modern furnishings were replaced with high-backed leather chairs, antique tables, and paintings in ornate frames. "I think we're getting close to the boss's office."

They pushed open a door marked "Private." "I'll lay odds this is it," Remo said, surveying the elegant room. Even though there was only a single glass-and-chrome desk inside, the room was bigger than any of the ones they'd been in before. Remo rummaged through the few neatly stacked letters on the desk.

"Nothing," he said. He looked at the shelves of leather-bound books, the wall-sized computer unit, and the giant picture window with its panoramic view of the city.

Remo shrugged. "I don't understand any of this. Not a file, not a phone book. It just doesn't make sense."

Suddenly the computer hummed to life, tiny lights flashing all over the console. Steel panels slid into place, covering the doors, the windows, all possible means of exit from the room. At the same time the carpet began to smolder. Spirals of dancing flame sprang to life in a dozen different locations.

"Now it makes sense," Remo said.

?CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A sheet of flame enveloped the carpet with the suddenness of a windswept prairie fire. Noxious blue smoke filled the room, closing around them in swirling clouds.

"Chiun?" Remo called.

"Save the air in your lungs. You will need it."

Remo slowed his breathing. But the smoke still burned and blinded his eyes. He turned around futilely, hoping to spot the steel doors leading to the foyer and the stairs. But the smoke was so thick that he only managed to disorient himself.

"Wait to hear my voice, Little Father. I'm going to break through one of the steel plates into the next room. I think the fire's contained here."

Before Chiun could object, Remo hurled himself feet first toward what he hoped were the doors. He knew as soon as his feet touched a slick surface that shattered under him that he had found the huge picture window instead.

The glass exploded outward with a whoosh of flame. For a moment, Remo was suspended in midair, like all objects before a fall. Through the billowing smoke he caught a glimpse of the street sixty stories below.

Quickly he contracted himself into a tight ball and moved his left shoulder slightly toward the building. The movement gave him just enough impetus to thrust out an arm and catch hold of one of the comers of the blown-out window. The broken glass in the corner cut deep into his hand, but he forced himself to hang on until he could swing his legs back into the room.

It was less smoky now, but the flames were blazing higher. Waves of heat distorted his vision. It was so hot that he could feel his hair singe. A small bony hand touched his and deposited a ball of silk cloth into it to stem the bleeding.

"We go up," Chiun said. Raising his arm, the old man crouched and turned slightly. There was almost no breath coming from him, so complete was his concentration. Then he spiraled upward, crashing through the ceiling in a burst of pure power. After the rain of debris from his exit settled, Remo spun on his right foot and glided up to follow Chiun through the narrow opening.

The two men stood on a gravel rooftop. It felt good to breathe again. Above them was the night sky, silent and dotted with stars. Too silent.

"Do you know what's funny?" Remo asked.

"This is not an appropriate time for humor."

"What's funny is that no fire alarm went off. Quantril must want to burn his own building down."

"Take another time to ponder the eccentricities of strangers," Chiun said. "Let us climb down from this uncomfortable place." He threw his legs over the side, but a column of flame shot up beside him, and he retracted quickly back to the center of the roof. More flames from below surged up, encircling the top of the building as the wind whipped the fire up to astonishing heights.

"There is only one solution," Chiun said grimly.

"The Flying Wall?"

"Never. There are automobiles on the street. We would be killed. What is required is four separate movements. First, a simple arching dive."

"Toward what?"

"The building across the street."

"I can't even see it," Remo said.

"It is there. Next, a half-turn. This is done quickly, to halt your speed. Then you move slowly into the Falcon's Glide. Remember when I made you practice cliff-diving? That is it. The last part is delicate. You must flatten yourself against the building on the inhaled breath."

"What happens if I'm exhaling?"

Chiun clucked. "Do not find out," he said, shaking his head. "Follow me." The old man stretched out his arms and leaped off the side, into the flames.

Remo followed. He could feel the heat against his face and chest. His eyes were closed, and the inside of his eyelids were colored a bright orange.

At the peak of the dive, when he felt he was losing speed, Remo did a fast half-turn, halting himself in the middle of empty space. Then he drew a breath and soared downward in a perfect Falcon's Glide, his back rigid, his head raised.

He relaxed his body as he felt the space in front of him being filled with the form of another building. Chiun was right. It had been there. He sucked in his breath on impact. He could feel his body shake like a willow in the wind. His cut hand sent a shriek of pain through him as it slapped against the sandstone wall, but his grasp held.

He felt around with his feet, and found the top of a window ledge. It was an old-fashioned apartment building, with real sills. It would be an easy climb down. Remo felt his breath come easier.

He had not failed again.

Below, a crowd of onlookers gathered on the street. Fire engines began to wail in the distance. Chiun's white tousled head bobbed at the level of the sixth or seventh floor. But there was something else between him and Chiun, something that made him shake his head as he descended and wonder if he were seeing things.

At the twelfth story, there appeared to be a man hanging from a flagpole. As he neared, he could hear the man's hoarse screams. "Help me," he called wildly to Remo. He tried to wave, as if the man climbing inexplicably down the side of the building could miss seeing him.

"Hold still," Remo said. "I'll get you."

"They tried to kill me," the man babbled. "I don't know what they wanted the girls for. All I wanted was some money."

"Tell me later. Now, when I come close, just grab hold of my shoulder with your free hand."

"I can't," the man wailed. "My hand's broken."

"That's great," Remo mumbled. "Well, just sit tight. I'll get you."

He descended carefully, veering toward the man on the flagpole. The blood from his hand left a long red streak behind him. When at last he reached the man, he felt tentatively with his arm, and located a spot on the middle of the man's back. Then, in a smooth, strong motion, Remo pulled the man off the pole and flung him behind himself so that the man landed on Remo's back.

The man was screaming for all he was worth.

"Relax, will you?" Remo said. "We're almost there."

"Wha… wha…" Slowly, the man opened his squeezed-shut eyes. "I didn't fall," he marveled. Then he gasped as he realized he had somehow landed on Remo's back. "How did… It was so fast."

"I don't give out trade secrets, so don't ask," Remo said.

He deposited the man on the ground. The crowd burst into spontaneous applause. Chiun bowed to them, smiling serenely. A van with the call letters of a TV station was hurtling down the street toward them.

"Let's go, Little Father," Remo prompted.

"Hey, wait a minute." It was the man Remo had rescued, his legs wobbling like lengths of rubber hose. "I've got to talk to you."

"Save your thanks," Remo said.

"It's not about thanks. It's about Quantril and Bauer. I think you were the guys they were trying to get rid of."

"Quantril and Bauer? Do you know where they went?"

The man's face transformed suddenly. Instead of the frightened, disheveled person who was certain he was going to die a horrible death, there now stood before Remo a smirking, oily-looking creature ready to deal. "Maybe," he said slyly.

"What do you mean, maybe?" Remo yelled so loud his voice cracked.

"Let's talk," the man said, smiling now.

His legs were not wobbling any longer.

Wally Donner led them through a series of winding alleyways to an inconspicuous-looking building. Inside, he opened the door to a small but impeccably furnished apartment.

"Sit down," he said, flashing a smile.

"No thanks. What do you want?"

"I think I'd like a yacht," Donner said dreamily. "A place on the Riviera. A bathroom made of black marble. Maybe a little pied-à-terre in Paris."

"What do you think this is, a quiz show?"

"Do you want to know where Bauer and Quantril are?" he teased.

Remo looked him up and down. "How would you know that anyway?"

Donner lit a cigarette. "They were in the building you came down. Killed the guy who lived in the apartment just so they could watch you two bum up. I heard them planning it. I was outside the apartment door. That's how I know where they're going. And I'll tell you— for a price."

"I just saved your life!" Remo exploded.

"Yes. And don't think I don't appreciate it. But a guy's got to make a living, you know?" He shrugged expressively.

"Break his elbows," Chiun suggested.

"Then I'll never talk. And they'll come after you again."

Remo sighed. The ingrate would talk, all right. But Remo was hot and dirty, and not at all in the mood to break anybody's elbows, even if it was for a good cause. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. "All right. How much do you want?"

"A million dollars," Donner said.

"Here's eight hundred. Take it or leave it."

Donner hesitated only a moment before snatching the money.

"Perhaps you can build a bathroom of concrete blocks with that," Chiun said.

"There's another thing," Donner said as he counted the money. "A promise. You seem like a man who's good to his word."

"I am," Remo said.

"Then I want your word that you won't kill me."

"You mean to get back the money? You got it."

"You promise?"

"We both do," Remo said magnanimously.

Donner stepped back carefully, edging toward the door. "Okay. They're headed for a place called Bayersville, about three hundred miles south of here. It's a ghost town."

"Have you been there?"

"I read about it once in a movie magazine. They used to shoot a lot of low-budget Westerns there back in the fifties. Quantril owns the town now. He uses it for his Dream Date videos."

Donner opened the door to leave.

"Wait a second," Remo called. "Just to satisfy my curiosity… How do you know Quantril?"

Donner smiled. "I think I used to work for him," he said. "Running illegals across the Mexican border."

Remo felt the blood rush out of his face. "Women?"

"The ones I kept were women, yes." He flashed another dazzling smile, then went out, closing the door behind him.

Remo clenched his teeth. He had just found the man who'd murdered 300 people in the desert. And let him go.

?CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The lights of the rented car passed over a weathered road sign. "Bayersville," it announced in peeling, sun-faded letters. "Just Watch Us Grow." In spite of the optimistic prediction, the only growth that Remo could see were the weeds and wild flowers that overran the rutted dirt road.

As they passed over a bumpy rise, the town came into view, shimmering in the moonlight. There were four blocks of buildings, including a church, a bank, a saloon, a few shops. From a distance, Bayersville looked exactly like a fictional town of the Old West. It was only up close that one noticed that the buildings were really false-fronted, weather-beaten structures with no breath of life in them.

As Remo drove past the sagging buildings, the sight of them stirred something in his memory. Suddenly he knew. It was the movies at St. Theresa's.

In the orphanage where Remo grew up, the biggest treats the nuns had to offer were the once-a-month movies. All of the kids would gather in the basement, impatient and restless while Sister Mary Agnes threaded the ancient projector.

The movies they saw were donated by a local theater owner, so they were rarely Hollywood's newest or best. They also had to pass Sister Bridget's rigid code of inspection that made the Hays Office look like a hotbed of libertines and panderers. So mostly they saw Westerns, the old-fashioned kind with Straight Shooters in white hats and Bad Hombres in black ones. The films never had much in the way of plot. It was good against evil, pure and simple. And in the end, although things looked kind of close for a while, good always carried the day. For a time, when he was very young, Remo had believed that that was the way the world actually was, all black and white, with nothing in between.

Vietnam and the Newark police department had put that idea to rest forever. Still, Remo felt a childish delight as he drove through the silent town. There was the saloon where Red Ryder had shot it out with the counterfeiters and, across the way, the stable where John Wayne had leaped into the saddle from the hayloft above. Bayersville was a ghost town, silent as death, populated only by the shadows of yesterday's heroes.

And two other men who were real. And dangerous.

Remo parked the car in front of the boarded-up Empire Hotel. "We might as well start here," he said.

The moment their feet touched the dusty street, they were engulfed in a powerful, glaring light. There was no explosion, just a fizzing sound, like soda being poured from a bottle, to break the silence. The town and everything else seemed to disappear in the pure white light.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished. In its place was total darkness.

"Welcome to Bayersville," a voice called out from the rooftop above. Remo recognized it as Deke Bauer's. "I didn't think you'd be out here, but when I saw the car coming, I figured you two might be coming for a short visit. Real short." He laughed.

You surprised me once, Remo said to himself. It's not going to happen again. "Just keep talking, Bauer."

The major's harsh laughter grew louder. "Honest, I'm glad you came. Now I can finish what I started. That is, unless you brought someone along to throw himself in front of you when the shooting starts. That's your style, isn't it, Williams?"

"Don't—" Chiun began, but Remo's anger was stronger than his reason. He leaped blindly toward the voice. But just as he left the ground, his balance was thrown by a thundering blast of music. It was marching music turned up to an unbearably high level, its brass and drums blaring like the shock waves of an explosion.

Remo slammed into the roof, out of control, and toppled over backward, hitting the bumpy road below. The loud music masked all other sounds. He couldn't see Bauer in the sudden darkness, and now he couldn't hear him, either. He strained to pick out the sound of footsteps, but it was impossible. Everything was drowned out by the crash of cymbals and the high, piercing notes of a dozen or more cornets.

Remo made himself relax, and in a few moments his eyes adjusted to the darkness. But all he could see around him were the car and the deserted buildings. Chiun was gone.

He started to look for the old man, but a sharp jolt of pain stabbed into his shoulder. A fraction of a second later, he heard the crack of the bullet.

"Bauer," he hissed. All of the hate he had felt for the man welled up inside him again.

Don't, he told himself. Don't let him get to you again. The past is gone, as dead as the ghosts in this place. Remember who you are now. Now is what matters. Nothing else.

He felt the sticky flow of blood as it seeped through his fingers. Another shot ricocheted off the car with a metallic whine. As best as Remo could judge, it had landed a few inches right of his head. He rolled, trying frantically to find Bauer's form on one of the darkened rooftops.

It occurred to him then that he might well die in this place. What a stupid way to go, he thought— listening to an army marching song. He winced as air began to work its way into the wound. Why didn't Bauer just finish him off? The arrogant bastard was playing with Remo, gloating over his handiwork. But, then, Remo should have expected that Bauer would play this out for all it was worth. He remembered the bodies on the wire.

"Forget it," Remo said out loud, as if the words would calm his fears. "Now. Only now."

Lurching to his feet, he skittered down the street, keeping close to the buildings. If Bauer was going to kill him, he'd have to work for it.

Suddenly the music stopped. Remo shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. In the distance he could hear a board creak under the pressure of a heavy foot.

Remo flattened himself against the side of a building. It was marked "General Store," and Bauer was inside. The footsteps moved in one direction and then another, exploring. At last they headed toward the street.

And Remo was ready. Now. Only now.

At the first quiver of the swinging doors, Remo burst through, kicking Bauer's weapon clear.

Bauer hit without hesitation. He dug his fist directly into Remo's shoulder wound. Remo screamed and reeled backward. Bauer came after him, delivering a powerful kick between Remo's legs. As Remo doubled over in pain, Bauer picked the Colt off the ground and sauntered calmly over to where Remo lay.

"You know what I'm going to do?" he asked softly. His lips were curved in a malicious smile. "First, I'm going to shoot you— not kill you, Williams, just air-condition you a little." His eyes shone. "And then I'm going to put up a wire." He stretched the word out until it seemed to pull with it a thousand nightmare memories. "Remember the wire, Williams?" He stepped back a pace and cocked the safety.

Now… only now… nothing else….

"I remember," Remo said, too quietly to hear. And the gun fired, but Remo was not there, and the next moment Bauer's face twisted in surprise as a foot came out of nowhere and sent him crashing against a post that splintered and broke under his weight.

Then Remo was on him, dragging him back into the street, shoving him to the ground, his fingers wound around Bauer's thick, corded neck.

"Don't," Bauer gurgled. "It isn't—"

"Where's Quantril?"

Spittle oozed out of the comers of Bauer's mouth. "The saloon." His bulging eyes looked at Remo expectantly, but the pressure around his neck did not lessen. "Be fair," he pleaded. "Remember…"

"I do," Remo said softly. "That's the trouble." His fingertips met.

"Chiun?" Remo whispered. There was no answer.

Leaving Bauer's body on the street, he walked the block to the Bayersville saloon. As he neared it, he heard tinkling music from the player piano and the sound of voices.

The saloon was lit with colored gaslights. Remo stopped short in the doorway for a moment, because the place seemed to be filled with people. Voluptuous girls, their hair piled on their heads, their long dresses lifted to the ankle to reveal high-button shoes, danced with bearded, burly men in antique suits. But he saw quickly that the people were only images projected on the saloon's walls. The place was empty except for one man seated alone at a table near the stairway in the back.

"Quantril?" Remo said, approaching him.

The man nodded elegantly. "I really never thought you'd get this far," he said. "You're quite a remarkable man."

"Where's Chiun?"

"Who? Oh, your Oriental friend. He's fine."

"I didn't ask how he is. I want to know where."

Quantril ignored him. He spread his arms in a gesture encompassing the room. "How do you like my town, Mr. Williams?"

"I can think of places I'd rather be."

"The saloon is one of Dream Date's most popular fantasy settings."

"Dream Date's history, Quantril."

"Nonsense."

"There's a matter of a couple of hundred women you kept as prisoners against their will."

Quantril shook his head like an indulgent father addressing a child. "That can't be linked to me. It was Deke Bauer's operation. He's dead, I presume."

"That's right."

"Excellent. You spared me the bother."

"You booby-trapped your own building."

"That's what you say. But from the evidence, it looks like you and your ancient friend broke in, killed three security guards, and then set the penthouse on fire, destroying all my records. They were in the computer." He burst into laughter. "If the police want anyone, it'll be you."

Remo exhaled noisily. Quantril was exactly the kind of criminal CURE had been devised to stop. The law couldn't touch him. Remo could. But not until he had found Chiun.

"What about the guy who led us here? You left him for dead. Do you think he won't talk?"

"Wally Donner? Don't make me laugh. He's got a criminal record a mile long. A psychopathic killer. The minute he shows his face, he'll be escorted to a psychiatric ward."

"Wally Donner, is it?" Remo brightened. At least he had a name now. But he'd have to try a bluff.

He shrugged. "Well, it looks like you've got the rap beaten, Quantril. Nobody'll arrest you."

"Thank you."

"Because I'm going to kill you first."

"Not so fast," Quantril said, smiling. "There's one small matter. You see, through the years I've made a sort of hobby of explosives. Keeps my fingers busy. This is one of the places I practiced on."

Remo felt his skin tightening.

"In fact, I've rigged the entire town of Bayersville to blow up like a rocket in…" He checked his watch. "Sixty seconds."

"I don't think so," Remo said. "You don't look like the suicidal type."

"Oh, I'm not planning to die. It would ruin my plans for the future. You only interrupted them. You haven't really changed a thing."

Remo could hear his internal clock ticking away the seconds. "Where's Chiun?" he demanded.

"I'll give him to you. All I ask of you in return is a head start."

"What about this so-called bomb?"

"I'll deactivate it as soon as you say yes."

Remo thought about it. "You're lying," he said.

"Eleven seconds, Mr. Williams. Ten. Nine. Eight…"

He couldn't take the chance. "All right."

"A wise decision," Quantril said. He took a key from his pocket, inserted it in a small box in the wall by the stairway, and turned it. The projected images faded from the walls. The tinkling music stopped. Quantril climbed the stairs.

"How about your part of the deal?" Remo called.

"Behold," Quantril said from the darkness of the stairway. A panel in the far wall slid open to reveal the old Oriental, gagged and tied to a chair.

"Chiun!"

Above, a helicopter whirred to life.

The Korean burst out of his bonds in a frenzy. "Fool! You let him go!"

"He was going to blow the place up, and you with it," Remo explained.

Chiun shot him a black look. "You are even more ignorant than I thought," he said as he raced toward the stairs. "Do you think a piece of twine can hold the Master of Sinanju?"

"It sure looked that way," Remo said, following.

"Idiot. I only let that perfumed fop tie me up so that he would stop that infernal music. We must hurry. Faster, Remo."

"There's no way we can catch that chopper, Chiun. We'll just have to track Quantril down—"

"Where? In Paradise?"

"What are you talking about?"

Chiun sighed. "Like all criminals, he felt the need to boast. So while I permitted him to tie me up, I listened to his prattle. I wanted to know if there were others. The bomb was not activated when you came in."

The stairs led upward to a trapdoor. Remo left it open as he climbed onto the roof. "So he's a liar," he said. Quantril's helicopter was beginning to lift off.

"Yes. It was activated when he turned off the movie pictures."

"The… oh, God."

Remo lunged for the helicopter, hooking his arm around the rudders. "Jump!" he yelled as the machine lifted him into the air. "Chiun, jump!"

Somersaulting upward, Remo kicked open the helicopter door. Miles Quantril's elegance deserted him as Remo pulled him out of the pilot's seat and dangled him from the open door.

"You can't do this!" he screamed. "I'm Miles Quantril! This is barbaric!"

"That's the biz, sweetheart," Remo said as he dropped him.

Quantril made a perfect one-point dive into the open trapdoor on the roof of the saloon. Remo jumped a moment later, twisting as he fell so that he landed in the weeds next to Chiun behind Bayersville's one street.

The helicopter, now abandoned, careened downward, its engine stalled. It hit the ground with a boom, then exploded into flame.

"If there really is a bomb, it'll go now," Remo said. "We'd better get as far away as we can."

The two of them dashed at top speed toward the distant hills. They just made it past the weather-beaten sign announcing Bayersville when the explosion came.

The very earth seemed to crack open with an earsplitting roar as every building in the deserted village blew apart in a Technicolor spectacle of destruction.

Something inside Remo hurt more than the wound in his shoulder while he watched the old familiar movie setting collapse and disappear in a sea of flame.

It never really existed, he told himself. Red Ryder and John Wayne had only been in movies, and their adventures were no more than a harmless way for an orphanage full of lonely kids to pass the time. But part of Remo still remembered the heroes who once rode down the town's single dusty street on their magnificent steeds to set things right and make the world fine again, and that part of him ached.

"Let's go," he mumbled, feeling old. There was nothing more to be seen in Bayersville. When the fires settled, he knew, nothing would remain of it except a few charred bits of stone and wood, along with the fading, splendid ghosts from its past.

?CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wally Donner staggered out of the bar, leaned against a parked car, and threw up in the gutter. His head was reeling and his stomach churned from the two dozen Scotches he'd consumed in the sleazy Mexico City bar where he'd spent the past five hours. There was a bitter aftertaste in his throat, and his temples throbbed rhythmically, as if a tiny mariachi band were playing inside his head.

The horrible part of it was that the band was playing Mexican music. It was bad enough to have to listen to strumming guitars and maracas in every comer of this godforsaken place, but now even his own mind was betraying him.

Donner gritted his teeth and wiped the crust of vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand. He hated Mexican music. He hated Mexican food. He hated sombreros and sandals made out of used tires. But most of all, he hated Mexico, which was where he was going to have to live for the next few years if he wanted to avoid a long stretch in a state penitentiary.

"Get back to the hotel room," he commanded himself. But it was so damn hard to think with that band playing in his head. He drew a deep breath and staggered out into the street. He could see his shiny new van parked on the other side of it.

Donner was almost there when the old Ford turned the corner and sent him flying into traffic. In the split second before death took him, he saw the tiny Virgin Mary on the dashboard flanked by two tiny flags.

"Mexico," he screamed.

Suddenly the dance band stopped playing.

Remo, Chiun, and Harold W. Smith sat at a candlelit table in one of Santa Fe's best restaurants.

"We're here under the name of Hossenfecker," Smith said with his usual paranoia.

"Ah. Very good, Emperor. It is so much less conspicuous than 'Smith.'"

Smith rustled the papers in front of him. "It was my mother's name," he mumbled. "At any rate, I have the information you asked for." He cleared his throat. "Wally, a.k.a. José Donner. Recently deceased in Mexico City."

"What?" Remo asked, incredulous.

"Automobile accident. He had in his possession a Ruger Blackhawk that matches the bullets found in the bodies scattered over the mesa. Er, good work, both of you."

"A car accid—"

"It was nothing," Chiun said hastily, kicking Remo under the table. "When fortune comes your way, accept it," he added in Korean.

"I beg your pardon?" Smith asked.

"A little indigestion. Emperor," Chiun said sweetly.

"Oh. Well, the second person you wanted to know about, this Samuel P. Wolfshy…"

"Go on," Remo said.

Smith made a face. "I'm not sure he's the right man. The information on him was very scanty. According to my records, this person has never worked."

"That's him.."

Chiun leaned forward eagerly. "Yes. Do tell what has become of our young brave."

This time Remo kicked Chiun. "Not that we know him, Smitty. He never saw us. After all, we don't leave witnesses."

"I should hope not," Smith said. "Well, it seems Mr. Wolfshy encountered some good fortune."

"Hey, great," Remo said.

Smith slapped down his papers. "He was just a bystander, wasn't he? The statement he gave to the police said that he arrived at the monastery after everything had already been settled, and that he was shot accidentally while picking up an abandoned firearm."

"Right," Remo said. "Absolutely."

Smith shot him a suspicious look. "Then why are you so interested in him?"

"I saw his picture in the paper," Remo said glibly. "He looked like he might be a distant cousin of mine."

Smith's eyes narrowed, but he let it pass. "Very well," he said. "After this Wolfshy recovered from his wound, he married a woman named Consuela Madera in Las Vegas. Two days after the wedding, he apparently borrowed a quarter from the doorman of a downtown casino, put it in a slot machine, and won approximately one point nine million dollars."

Remo's face went blank. "What?"

"Right now he's making inquiries about starting a bank on an Indian reservation. The Kanton Savings and Loan."

He folded his papers, then carefully burned them in the ashtray. "Anything else?"

"I'll be damned," Remo said.

Chiun gasped, jerking his chair backward and clutching at his heart.

Remo jumped up. "Chiun! Are you—"

"It is she!" He pointed a trembling finger toward the entrance, where a matronly looking blond woman wearing a fur coat entered. "Mona Madrigal!" He pulled himself to his feet. "Thank you, most kind and gracious Emperor," he said formally.

Smith stared at the old man above his steel-rimmed spectacles. "Er… think nothing of it," he said.

When Chiun had wafted away toward the husky woman, Smith turned to Remo. "Who is this Mona Madrigal?"

"A woman Chiun thinks you gave him."

Chiun was ecstatic as he bowed to the actress. The fates had decreed their meeting, and thus did it happen. "It is I," he announced in a cheerful singsong.

"Step aside, shorty," Mona answered in a deep whiskey voice.

Chiun looked around him. Whoever "shorty" was, he had apparently beat a hasty retreat. "Chiun, Master of Sinanju, offers you the tribute of his adoration."

"No kiddin'." She waved over his head. "Hey, Walt! Walt!"

The maitre d' came rushing over. "Yes, madame?"

She cocked her head toward Chiun. "Do me a favor, hon, and give this bum the rush."

The tuxedoed gentleman glared at Chiun. "Sir, perhaps you're wanted at your table."

"Oh, it's quite all right. They'll wait," Chiun said affably. "Miss Madrigal, I gaze at your countenance each day on 'As the Planet Revolves.'"

She burst into strident laughter. "What? That piece of shit? They wouldn't let me show so much as one tit on that show. It almost wrecked my career."

Chiun stepped back, his mouth gaping. "I… I…"

"Amscray, Pops," she said, elbowing her way past him.

The old Oriental stood where he was for a long moment, his white hair drooping like a melting ice cream cone. Then, taking a deep breath, he came quietly back to the table.

Remo hurt for him. "I'm sorry. Little Father," he said.

Chiun shrugged. "It was a disappointment, but the world can be a thoughtless place."

"That's the spirit," Remo said, patting him on the back.

"However, I must write to Miss Madrigal immediately."

"After that? What for?"

"To tell her that there is in her very city a vile, coarse woman attempting to impersonate her, of course."

"What?"

Chiun bent low over the table and whispered, "Obviously that woman is in the service of some foreign power determined to shatter my serenity and sour my disposition."

Remo stared at him for a moment, blinking. "Obviously," he said at last.

"It may be a conspiracy. Perhaps you would like to look into the matter yourself, Emperor."

Harold Smith choked on his water. "Er… yes. That is, I'll see what I can do."

The old man grinned with satisfaction as he picked up his cup of tea and sipped it. "It is a good feeling," he said, "to associate with reasonable men."