Never Say Die

Chapter 10

There are no Asian restaurants in Dogwood, Indiana, and the closest—in New Albany—would probably have been Chinese, so Chiun was out of luck on native fare. The local diner managed rice to go, although it was not to the Master of Sinanju’s liking.

“This is vile,” Chiun complained.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Remo told him while the Master of Sinanju grumbled, poking into the foam container with his long fingernails.

“You would have me starve?” Chiun retorted between mouthfuls of rice.

“You’ll survive.”

“Fish would have been nice. Did they not have duck?”

“Hey, you asked for rice, I got you rice.”

“White rice. There is no nourishment in these bleached grains.” Chiun scarfed another mouthful.

“When I get back,” said Remo, “I’ll see if I can scrounge up some brown rice.”

Chiun made a disgusted face. “Do me no more favors. This tea is like water,” he added.

“Little Father, tea is water.”

“Tea is tea. And this is noxious.”

“Best I could do,” Remo told him, moving toward the door.

He hesitated on the threshold, glancing back at Chiun. The ancient Asian sat and muttered to himself while eating, watching the evening news. Despite the signs of age, there was a spry, an almost muscular air about him.

“I should be back by midnight, maybe sooner,” Remo said.

“You never take me anywhere anymore,” Chiun called.

“You don’t seem to want to go lately.”

He closed the door as Chiun continued eating. It was a short walk to his car. The night was cool, but not unpleasant. Remo wore a black cotton T-shirt and matching chinos. Leather loafers completed his ensemble.

Once around the Chrysler, and he quickly satisfied himself that no one had dropped by to tamper with the car. Remo had not expected it—they were in Dogwood, not Chicago or Los Angeles—but you could never be too cautious, dealing with professional killers, even when their methods were a trifle crude.

That afternoon, after some vague remarks about a rich and errant niece, he had asked questions at the diner and the general store, about Ideal Maternity: Where was it? Did the locals get along with tenants of the home and members of the staff? He got a mixed reaction—call it eighty-five percent indifference, seasoned with a pinch of caution—but a quest for information was not Remo’s top priority in town. Rather, he was intent on finding out if Dr. Radcliff had a spy or spies in Dogwood, maybe set off an alarm that would provoke some hasty action from his target.

Driving out Highway 11 in the dark, he doused his headlights half a mile before he reached the turn-off for Ideal Maternity. It was a risk, and would have meant at least a traffic ticket if he had met a sheriff’s deputy or state patrolman, but he had the highway to himself. Three-quarters of a mile beyond the private driveway, on his right, there was a rest stop he had noted earlier, complete with picnic tables and a narrow gravel track that stretched for twenty yards or so, allowing him to hide the Chrysler from the view of anybody passing on the highway. He climbed out of the car.

There was no traffic on the narrow country road as Remo crossed it, worked his way into the trees for thirty yards or so and started back in the direction of the private driveway that served Ideal Maternity. He took his time, no hurry over unfamiliar ground, his passage silent in a forest where the wind, insects, night birds and scuttling animals provided constant background noise. Ten minutes brought him to the unpaved driveway, and he paused once again, to watch and listen.

If the “home” had posted guards, it stood to reason that at least one of them would be assigned to watch the access road. From where he stood he could not guess how far the driveway extended through the trees, but it made no sense for a guard to let potential enemies get close enough to strike, when he could stop them at the turnoff from the highway. Remo checked the shadows, gave full attention to his Sinanju-trained senses, alert for any sign of human life—and came up empty.

It was getting better all the time.

He didn’t actually use the driveway, but struck a course that would run parallel and take him to his destination by what seemed to be the quickest route. In fact, it might be shorter cutting through the woods, but Remo had no plot plan for the property, no other way of homing in directly on his target. This way he was bound to reach the home in minutes.

His next immediate concern was what to do once he arrived.

Ideally Remo meant to nose around the place, examine it from different angles, maybe try to slip inside and see what kind of operation Dr. Radcliff had created for himself. It could be no more than a haven for unwed mothers, as advertised, but Remo didn’t think so. Radcliff had invested too much time on his first love, genetic research, to abandon it entirely and revert to nursing teenage mothers through their final days of pregnancy. As for the clinic in Kentucky, what was that about? It seemed a bit ironic that the same man would be dealing with unwanted children on the one hand, and attempting to increase production on the other, with a clinic aimed. at treating infertility/ The two facilities would have a vastly different clientele, of course, and yet there was a quantum kind of connection.

Remo had a sneaking hunch that Dr. Radcliff’s goals had never really changed. He had abandoned the Eugenix Corporation when it suffered fatal cashflow problems…or in an alternative scenario, before the sham of money problems was employed to give him an escape hatch. Once out on his own, with brand-new sponsors, Radcliff would be free to carry on his work.

Which was what?

How did it gel with cookie-cutter hit men snuffing lives around the country and around the world? What value did a dead assassin, gassed with cyanide in 1965, have to a scientist engaged in pure research?

Remo’s first glimpse of the maternity home was startling. It reminded him of a big, old-fashioned ski lodge more than any kind of medical facility. The unpaved driveway circled right around the rambling two-story structure, lost to view before it came out on the other side and met itself again. Garage or carport in the back, he thought, examining the structure from a distance, noting lights in several windows.

An easy circuit of the grounds, and Remo would be ready to approach the building proper, try to get a peek inside. No rush, but he could feel a measure of anticipation building and focused on suppressing it to leave his senses crisp and clear.

He had as much time as he needed to complete his survey of the property. No sign of any guards, and if he met one, it would be the sentry’s problem.

Remo had not come this far to be diverted from his goal.

Joy Patton was afraid, but her outrage and determination overrode the fear, gave her the nerve to carry out her desperate plan. She didn’t know exactly what the staff would do if she was caught— nothing to harm the baby, Joy was fairly certain— but whatever happened, it was worth the risk.

She had to get out now, before it was too late.

A number of the girls had talked about it—slipping out when it was dark, or even using sex to bribe an orderly and make him look the other way—but none had ever followed through, as far as Joy could tell. Not in the seven months of her confinement, anyway.

She gave a toss to her shoulder-length, thick gingery hair. A bunch of fraidy-cats is what they were, intimidated by the matron and the orderlies, much less by the doctor and his bedside manner. Of course, some didn’t mind the place that much, and a few actually seemed to enjoy it.

Hate to think where they were coming from, she told herself as she completed preparations for her flight. It took all kinds.

She wore dark clothing, layered against the slight risk of exposure to a chill, and the athletic shoes she wore the day they checked her in. Joy’s feet were often swollen now, but she had loosened up the laces, and they still fit well enough to let her run.

No problem there. She would run barefoot over nails and broken glass, if necessary, to escape her stylish prison in the woods.

There wasn’t much in terms of luggage for the getaway. She always traveled light, had checked in with a duffel bag that disappeared somewhere along the way, but that was life. She had the basics in her pockets: toothbrush, comb, her lipstick, and the twenty-seven dollars she had managed to conceal for seven months. Hell, there were thieves and murderers who served less time and had more waiting for them when they hit the streets again.

Everything would be all right, she told herself, when she was free and clear. The first priority was getting out. Whatever followed the escape itself was secondary; she would take things as they came.

Joy had a semiprivate room all to herself these days, since Karen had her baby and they cleared her place. It was another strong incentive to get cracking, not to wait until they found another girl who might turn out to be a weakling, or worse, a squealer. Each day she waited was another day of freedom lost forever, coming that much closer to the time when she, in turn, would disappear.

The matron said her “graduates” were doing great outside, but Joy would never swallow that, regardless of the phony letters posted in the TV room from time to time. She knew damn well that Sheila and Regine had vowed to blow the whistle when they hit the street again, no matter what inducements the doctor offered in return for silence. They would take his money, clothes, whatever, and report the bastard anyway.

But they had not.

No cops told Joy that neither of her friends had ever made it to the outside world. The sight of Sheila’s postcard—from Hawaii, yet—delivered two weeks after she was “graduated,” made Joy want to scream, cry, beat her fists against the walls.

It wasn’t even Sheila’s handwriting, for Christ’s sake.

Time to go.

Her door was locked as usual, but Joy had been around a bit before she landed in her present situation, and the lock was no great challenge. Getting all the way outside would be another story—they had noisy “fire alarms” on any door that didn’t have an orderly assigned to watch it—but Joy had another exit route in mind. There was a window in the basement laundry room that looked out onto grass, a worm’s-eye view. The window had a set of burglar bars outside, but they were old and the surrounding wooden window frame was even older. It had taken Joy the best part of a month, with stolen moments here and there when they allowed the girls outside, but she had loosened up the screws enough that one or two good kicks should clear the way and give her room to run.

She faced a whole new set of risks outside. There was the dash across the open lawn, then navigating through the woods in darkness, praying for a car to stop once she was on the highway, but the worst of it was simply getting out. Once she accomplished, that, Joy figured she would stand a fairly decent chance.

And if not, this wasn’t living anyway, so what the hell.

When she was finished with the lock, she cracked the door a bare half inch, enough to listen for the sound of anyone outside. No footsteps, voices, nothing. It was clear, unless they had somebody waiting just outside the door, prepared to pounce the moment she revealed herself. In that case, Joy was done before she started, and she might as well just forge ahead.

Two inches, and a wedge-shaped section, of the corridor was visible. No lurking shadows fell within her line of sight.

She stuck her head out, checked both ways and then ducked back again. Her heart was pounding, and she felt the baby move, as if her own raw desperation was communicated somehow, through the blood.

Hang on.

Seven months, and Joy was barely showing. Slender to a fault, she still had speed on her side, nothing like the nausea and weakness some girls suffered around the clock. Another reason for proceeding now, while she was still in shape to run—or fight, if necessary, to protect herself.

She left the room and closed the door behind her. For the last time, God, please let it be! No noise to tip the others off, if anyone was listening.

Joy moved along the corridor on tiptoes, scarcely breathing, terrified of making any sound that might betray her. The orderlies made scheduled rounds, at least in theory, but you never really knew when one of them would deviate from the routine and double back to give one of the floors a second look. More often, though, the night shift took it easy, kicking back, secure in the knowledge that Ideal Maternity had never suffered an escape.

Until tonight.

She reached the stairs and paused again, ears straining for the sound of voices, footsteps, the rustling of clothing. When Joy was satisfied, she scurried down the staircase, almost tripping in her haste. She caught the banister and saved herself from tumbling down, knowing, the baby was well cushioned from simple jolts.

Maternal instinct was a killer, regardless of the circumstances. This time last year, Joy would have belittled anyone who said she had the instinct locked inside her, waiting to assert itself, but she knew better now. She was escaping for her child as much as for herself.

The ground floor seemed deserted. That was an illusion, but she took advantage of the moment, slipping to her left along a shadowed hallway, past the silent dining room and kitchen to the pantry, where another flight of stairs gave access to the basement. There was no lock on the door, and Joy was grateful for the darkness, even though she had to feel her way downstairs, afraid of falling, breaking something, getting caught.

It seemed to take forever, but she reached the basement’s concrete floor and felt her way in the direction of the washer-dryer combo on the eastern wall. She climbed up on the Maytag washer, peered out through the window, praying there would be no guards outside. The empty lawn invited her to take a shot at it.

She slid the window open, gave the burglar bars a solid straight-arm shove and watched them fall away. It was a little awkward, crawling through the window, but she made it, wound up belly-down on damp, cool grass. She pushed off in a flash, broke for the tree line sixty yards away.

She almost made it.

Ten or fifteen paces from the trees and safety a flashlight blazed in front of her, the white beam blinding, painful.

“Where the hell you think you’re going?”

Shit!

Joy recognized the voice. It was Mahoney, probably the worst of the orderlies, a thirty-something lech who liked to catch the girls undressing. Mahoney’s conversation ran toward reasons why the girls should “try a real man on for size.” What could it hurt, he often asked, since they were pregnant anyway?

“You blew it, babe.”

A second voice. It sounded like Gutierrez, but she wasn’t sure. What difference did it make? They had her. She was busted. Any chance she had of getting out was dead and gone.

“You know we’ll have to write this up for Matron,” said Mahoney. “No harm done, but rules is rules. Unless…”

“Forget it, asshole.”

“Suit yourself, bitch. Let’s go see what Matron has to say about your little moonlight stroll.”

Remo thought his eyes were playing tricks on him at first, the basement window opening, a pale arm punching out the burglar bars. He stood and watched as a young woman crawled through the window, scrambled to her feet and ran across the lawn, apparently intent on getting to the woods. And she was almost close enough to taste it when a light flashed in her face and two men stepped out of the shadows to intercept her.

Remo was moving; as the woman stood her ground, the two men separating, flanking her. They both wore khaki uniforms that could have worked as well for rent-a-cops. or janitors. The flashlight seemed to be their only weapon, but they shouldn’t need one to control a girl this age, this size. Remo assumed she must be pregnant, though her bulky clothes concealed the fact. He could be wrong, of course, but it wasn’t important. All that counted for the moment was that he had found an inmate who was apparently intent on getting out.

“You know we’ll have to write this up for Matron,” said the taller sentry. “No harm done, but rules is rules. Unless…”

“Forget it, asshole.” There was spunk there, and defiance.

“Suit yourself, bitch. Let’s go see what Matron has to say about your little moonlight stroll.”

The woman bolted, running straight toward Remo, even though she had no way of knowing he was there. The surprised guards were after her a heartbeat later, cursing bitterly.

“You little bitch. I’m gonna kick your ass!”

All three of them stopped short as Remo stepped out of the dark. Defeat was written on the woman’s face until the taller of the sentries spoke from behind her.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Her look changed, then. Not hopeful, but alert and watchful.

“The Sandman,” Remo told him. “Time for you to say good-night.”

“You think so, smart-ass?”

Remo drifted to his left, and the two goons shifted with him, losing focus on the woman. She was free to run now if she wanted to, but something kept her rooted where she stood.

“This here is private property,” the short Latino said. “You’re trespassing.”

“You’d better make a citizen’s arrest,” said Remo.

“Think we can’t?”

“I don’t think you can find your dick without a road map,” Remo told him, putting on a grin.

The woman laughed at that, a high-pitched sound, almost hysterical. The taller of the goons shot her a warning glance and shook a fist in her direction.

“Watch it, bitch!” he snapped. “This prick a friend of yours?”

“I’m new in town,” said Remo, forcing both of them to focus on himself. “You guys could use some manners, if you want to keep on working for the welcome committee.”

“Fuck you, buddy! Way I see it, you’ve got just two choices. You can split or you can get your ass kicked.”

“There’s a third choice,” Remo said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“You go bye-bye for good—last exit, no return, pain guaranteed.”

“That’s it!” the taller of the goons declared. “That’s fucking all she wrote!”

He charged at Remo, swung his heavy flashlight like a club, with all his weight behind the blow.. It slashed through empty air, his target having sidestepped at the final instant, fading to the big man’s right.

It was a simple thing to grab his wrist and use the momentum of his rush against him. Remo heard the arm snap one, two, three times, at the shoulder, elbow, wrist. He kept the pressure on, ignored the slugger’s scream and caught him with a jab behind the ear that turned his adversary’s brain to jelly, leaving Remo with a lifeless body at his feet, the dead man’s flashlight in his hand.

“Your turn,” he told the short Latino.

“Hey, man, fuck it! What’s the big deal anyway? You wanna go out walking in the woods, man, that’s your business.”

“Wrong. I’m trespassing.”

“Hey, I don’t give a shit, okay?”

“You’ve got a job: to do,” said Remo, circling around the second goon to cut off his retreat.

“You’re pushin’ it,” the khaki watchdog warned him.

“That’s exactly right.”

“Okay, man.” Reaching in a pocket of his slacks, the sentry drew a folding knife and flicked it open.

From the way he held it, Remo understood that he had gone this route before, on more than one occasion. He was probably one of the toughest hombres in whatever bar he chose to frequent, but there was a world of difference between that kind of brawling and the fine points of Sinanju.

“Are you gonna move or what?”

“Or what,” said Remo, waiting.

There was no wild-assed rush this time. The young Latino took his time, advancing slowly, feinting with the five-inch blade and waggling his free hand in an effort to distract his adversary. Remo watched him going through the motions, stood his ground and waited.

When the lunge came, it was telegraphed by the expression on the young man’s face, a kind of grimace, lips drawn back to bare his small white teeth. The blade was aimed at Remo’s stomach, but it never got there. Remo parried with a left-hand sweep across his body, clasped the young man’s wrist and yanked him forward, so the open-handed killing blow didn’t have far to travel. Remo barely felt the impact in his palm and wrist; he heard and saw the young man’s head jerk backward, with the left side of his face imploding, while the force of impact snapped his neck.

The girl was trembling when he turned to face her, trying to decide if she should wait and try to talk with him or simply run away. Her fists were clenched, pressed tight against her thighs, and he could see the shiny tracks of fresh tears on her cheeks.

“Are you all right?”

She almost jumped as Remo spoke, but she recovered quickly. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, I guess so. Who are you?”

“Hang on a second while I get these jokers out of sight.”

There is a trick to carrying outlandish weights, and it does not involve a lifetime wasted pumping iron. The trick is leverage and motion, never letting deadweight drag you down by hanging in one place. It seemed entirely natural, therefore, when Remo picked the corpses up, their belts employed as handles, and walked off into the trees, the bodies swinging in his grasp like empty suitcases.

He dumped them several yards inside the forest, partly hidden by a stand of ferns. He half expected the young woman to be gone when he returned, but she was waiting for him, dabbing at her eyes with one hand, staring at him with a mixture of suspicion and respect.

“We haven’t got much time,” he said. “You wanted out of here, I take it?”

“Right.”

“I’ll trade a lift for information,” Remo said. “Who are you?” she repeated.

“Right now, the only friend you have.”

She sniffed and smiled at that and said, “What are we waiting for?”