Total Recall
The Destroyer #58
by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy
Copyright © 1984
by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy
All Rights Reserved.
A Peanut Press Book
Published by
peanutpress.com, Inc.
www.peanutpress.com
ISBN: 0-7408-0852-4
First Peanut Press Edition
This edition published by
arrangement with
Boondock Books
www.boondockbooks.com
CHAPTER ONE
Billy Martin was fifteen years old, and already he was a repulsive little toad. That meant that when he grew up, he might graduate to a full-fledged snake— if he grew up.
Which right now looked doubtful because Billy Martin was in jail, charged with the murder of his parents, whom he had bludgeoned to death while they slept in their home in the Detroit suburbs.
The judge who handled the youth's arraignment was Wallace Turner, a notorious bleeding heart who could somehow find, in his speeches, some reason to blame society for every crime committed against it. The press covering the arraignment winked at each other, knowing that Billy would not only be released without bail; he might very well get a medal from Judge Turner for not killing his parents earlier. After all, it must have been their fault that their son was a murderer. But Turner surprised everyone. He ordered Billy held for trial as an adult murderer and set a half-million-dollar bail. He would stay in jail, Turner said. He belonged in jail.
Turner's harsh action shocked everyone involved with the Billy Martin case— everyone except the prosecutor, who had told the judge before the proceedings that if the Martin kid were set free like every other juvenile killer who went before Turner, the prosecutor would be sure to let the press in on Turner's relationship with a woman in Grosse Pointe who went by the professional name of Didi the Dominatrix.
"You can posture and preach from the bench all you want, Wally," the prosecutor said. "Just so you know when to bend in the wind." He winked at Judge Turner.
Turner winked back and bent so fast he almost broke his back. At the arraignment, he announced in his mellowest tones that the crime involved was of such heinous character that he would be derelict in his duty if he were lenient.
Immediately after announcing his decision, Judge Wallace Turner left the bench and retreated to his chambers, where he removed his robes and sat behind his desk with a sigh to await a phone call. Even though he was expecting it, he jumped when the phone rang.
"Judge Turner," he said into the receiver.
"Satisfactory," a man's voice said in low tones. "Very satisfactory."
"Uh, th-thank you," the judge stammered, but by the time he got it out, he was holding a dead phone.
* * *
Across town another phone rang, this one in the office of a lawyer named Harvey Weems. Weems had not won a case in four years, but he was without equal as an ambulance chaser. When the phone rang, he looked at it dispassionately, trying to decide whether or not to answer it. Lately, no one called him except creditors and clients threatening to sue him for mishandling their cases.
After fifteen rings, he couldn't take the suspense any longer. "Attorney's office."
"Is this Harvey Weems, the lawyer?" a man's voice asked.
"Yeah, yeah," Weems said wearily. "How much do I owe you?"
"You don't owe me anything, Mr. Weems."
"All right. How much do you want to sue me for?"
"I don't want to sue you, either."
"I don't owe you money, and you don't want to sue me?"
"That's right."
"You asked for me by name," Weems said, puzzled, "so you can't have the wrong number."
"This phone call could mean a lot of money to you," the voice said.
"Really?"
"Unless I end it now."
Not one to be slow on the uptake, Weems got the idea and shut up.
"Thank you. Mr. Weems, I have a job for you. Have you read about the Billy Martin case?"
"The kid who pounded his parents to death in their sleep? Yeah, I know a little about it."
"Very good. We— I would like you to post bail for the young man and get him out of jail."
"Post bail?" Weems asked, incredulous. "Do you know how much Judge Turner set bail for? Who in his right mind would go for that much loot to put that little pissant on the street again?"
"I would."
"Uh, you would?"
"Yes, and I'll pay you ten percent of that amount to pay the bail for me."
"Ten percent? That's very… generous," Weems said, writing the figure down oh the piece of paper and then drawing a heart around it.
"The money will be delivered to you in one hour, in small, used bills. Included will be your fee."
"In cash?" Weems asked, writing I.R.S. on the piece of paper but not drawing a heart abound it. Instead he drew a happy face with the three initials forming the nose.
"In cash. Take your fee out, then take the rest and bail out Billy Martin."
"Uh, what am I supposed to do with him after I get him out?" Weems asked. "He did just make himself an orphan, you know."
"There will be a piece of paper in with the money, with an address on it. Give it to him, and then forget about him."
"Forget him? You mean he won't be my client?"
"You are being paid to bail him out, Mr. Weems, not to represent him. Give him the address, forget him, and forget this conversation. You are being paid quite a lot of money for this job. In cash. If I thought that you weren't obeying my instructions to the letter, I'd have to notify the I.R.S. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
"No," Weems said, drawing a larger heart around the smaller one containing the figure that represented his fee. "No, I wouldn't like it. You're the boss, Mr. —"
"The money will be in your office within the hour, Mr. Weems. There won't be any reason for us to talk again after this."
The man hung up without saying good-bye, leaving a puzzled Harvey Weems holding a dead line.
Fifty-three minutes later, there was a knock on Harvey Weems's office door, and he got up to answer it.
"Mr. Weems?" a young kid asked. He couldn't have been any older than Billy Martin, the one Weems was supposed to bail out.
"That's right, kid. Who're you?"
"I have something for you."
The kid picked up a brown attaché case he had put down alongside the wall next to the door and handed it to the lawyer.
"Is this the money?"
"That's what I was supposed to give you," the boy said, and then he left.
Screw him, Weems thought, closing the door. I wasn't going to tip him, anyway.
He carried the case to his desk and opened it up. Neatly piled stacks of used bills, banded together, stared up at him. For a fleeting moment Weems wondered what was to stop him from taking it all and disappearing. He took out the stacks that comprised his fee and put them in his desk, then closed the case, regretting that he didn't have the courage to find out.
He picked up the case and headed across town to bail out Billy Martin. Weems knew that the little punk was probably guilty of murdering his own parents. The pissant had practically admitted it. But Harvey Weems didn't much care. He had his fee, and he was just glad that he didn't have to defend the little snot to earn it.
That was going to be somebody else's headache.
He thought.
Jail did little to dampen Billy Martin's insolence. Weems could see that on the kid's face.
"What the hell do you want?" the kid demanded.
"I'm the man who bailed you out, son," Weems said.
"So give yourself a medal, fatso," Billy said, brushing past him.
Weems was in his early forties, easily old enough to be Billy Martin's father. He found just the possibility of that disturbing.
"Well, what are you waiting for? You want maybe I should fall to my knees and thank you?" Billy sneered.
"I don't expect anything of you, kid. Come on. The paperwork is done. Let's go outside."
Weems and Billy walked outside and stopped halfway down the front steps of the building. "This is where we part company, sonny," Weems said.
"Fine with me."
"Here."
Billy took the piece of paper Weems was offering him and asked, "What's this supposed to be?"
"That's an address. I suspect it's where the man who put up the money for your bail lives. Maybe he expects you to thank him. 'Bye, Billy," Weems said, and walked away.
If someone had approached him at that moment and asked him a question about Billy Martin, his reply would have been, "Billy who?"
All he had in mind was the money that was locked in his desk.
Billy looked down at the address on the piece of paper; it meant nothing to him. In spite of his bravado, he was curious about the man who was willing to put up all that money to bail him out. When he had first heard about the bail, he thought he knew who it had come from, but the address he now held in his hands was not familiar.
Who could his mysterious benefactor be, then? And if he was willing to pay so much to get him out, how much more might he be willing to cough up?
Greed was the determining factor in Billy Martin's decision to check out the address. If the guy was willing to come across with some more money, Billy could use it to get out of town. He had reasons to leave Detroit, and the criminal charges hanging over his head weren't the half of it.
Billy had little money of his own, which had been returned with the rest of his things when he was released from jail. He decided to hang on to what he did have and walk to the address. He knew the part of town it was in. It wasn't more than half a mile's walk.
He walked down the remainder of the steps and started on his way, oblivious to the fact that he was being followed by three people.
The three young men who were following Billy had their drill down pat. One was immediately behind him, one was across the street, and one was walking ahead of him. The way they had it set up, he was impossible to lose. They followed him discreetly until they approached the run-down section of town where the address on the slip of paper in Billy's pocket could be found.
There was little foot traffic in this part of town. There weren't that many people brave enough— or foolish enough— to walk there. It was a measure of Billy Martin's insolence that walking in that area didn't bother him at all. After all, hadn't he just about beaten a double murder rap? Did the court actually expect him to show up on the date of his trial? He'd be long gone by then.
Actually, he would be long gone by then, but not in the way he was planning.
Closing in on their destination, the three young men started to close ranks on Billy. The man in front of him slowed down while the man behind him quickened his pace, and the one across the street came over to his side.
As a matter of fact, they weren't really men at all. They weren't much older than Billy himself. One of them was the same boy who had delivered the money to Weems's office.
Billy was so intent on reaching his destination that he scarcely noticed the person walking ahead of him until suddenly that person had slowed enough for Billy to overtake him. As Billy came within a few steps of passing him, the other boy stopped abruptly and turned.
"Hi, Billy," he said.
Billy recognized him and stopped short. He took a couple of backward steps, but by that time the other two had caught up, and he bumped into them.
"Hey, fellas—"
The other two each took one of Billy's arms, and following the first boy, they led him down an alley that had been specially chosen for its purpose.
"Hey, guys, come on—" Billy was stammering, his tough-guy front vanished.
The others ignored him, and as he increased his efforts to escape, his captors increased the pressure of their hold on him.
"This is far enough," the first boy said, turning. The others released Billy's arms and pushed him violently toward the back of the alley. He lost his balance and sprawled on the dirty ground, skinning his hands and knees.
Pushing himself to his feet, he watched the three boys approach him and then heard three barely audible sounds— snik! snik! snik!— as three sharp blades appeared in their hands as if by magic.
"Aw, guys—" he started, backing up with his hands raised in front of him.
Two of the boys stepped forward and swung their blades, and blood began to gush from each of Billy's palms as he cried out from the pain.
"Please—" he shouted, but his plea fell on three sets of deaf ears.
All three boys stepped forward now, and their blades were a blur of motion that Billy tried to follow until a veil of blood fell over his eyes, and he could no longer see. It was several moments before his ability to feel went too, and that was when the three boys stepped back and retracted their blades with the same three smacking sounds.
One boy briefly checked Billy for signs of life. Failing to find any, he nodded to his companions and led the way out of the alley.
The Billy Martin who lay on the filthy cobblestones of the alley, strips of flesh flayed from his bones, bore little resemblance to the little pissant who had clubbed his parents to death without a second thought while they slept.
Billy Martin died as he had lived— a repulsive little toad who never had a chance to ascend to the higher rank of full-fledged snake.
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo, and people had to be taught that only he could get away with murder.
Murder belonged in the hands of someone who could do it right, for the right reasons, and that someone was Remo. He was in the resort town of Little Ferry, Virginia, to teach this lesson to retired police chief Duncan Dinnard.
Chief Dinnard had built up a fortune at the expense of the residents and tourists of Little Ferry and had now retired to sit back and enjoy it. He had turned the small Virginia town into the kind of place where if you had enough money— and paid him enough of it— you could literally get away with murder.
"Don't be fooled by the fact that he's retired," Dr. Harold W. Smith had told both Remo and Chiun. "He still rules that small town with an iron hand. It's time he was retired for good."
Smith could be no plainer than that.
Duncan Dinnard had no fear. He was a multimillionaire, with a mansion and a yacht, both of which suited his position. In addition, his property and his person were protected by the best people and the best security devices that money could buy.
At the moment, the obese Dinnard was in his mansion, entertaining the best female companionship that money could buy. The farthest thing from his mind was his own death.
If need be, he could buy that off too.
"Very impressive setup," Remo said to the wispy-haired Oriental beside him as they examined Dinnard's defenses.
"It is not necessary to compliment a man whom one is about to assassinate," the elderly Korean said loftily. "It is considered bad form."
"Oh, I see," Remo said. "Murder's okay, but tackiness can never be forgiven."
Chiun snorted. "If that were true, you would have no friends at all. Please proceed." He waved an imperious hand at the front gates. "I wish to dispense with this trivia quickly."
"What's the matter? Afraid you'll miss one of your TV soaps?"
"The Master of Sinanju no longer wastes his time on sex-laden daytime dramas."
"Oh, no?"
"No," Chiun said. "As a matter of fact, I've just begun work on an epic poem. An Ung poem. The finest piece of Ung since the Great Master Wang." The old Oriental swaggered as he walked. "It is about a butterfly."
"Oh," Remo said.
"I've already completed the first one hundred and sixty-five stanzas of the prologue."
"That's okay, Chiun. I'm sure it'll flesh out in the final draft."
"Insolent lout. I should have known that a white boy untrainable in the subtle arts of Sinanju would lack the refinement to appreciate beauty as well."
"I'm as refined as the next white lout," Remo said.
Chiun's complaints about Remo's shortcomings no longer bothered him. He had been hearing the same complaints for more than ten years, since the first time Remo was introduced to the old master in a gymnasium in the sanitarium where Remo found himself the morning after he died.
Actually, he never died in the first place. It would have been nice if someone— anyone— had gone to the trouble of informing Remo that he wasn't really going to die in the electric chair he was plugged into, but bygones were bygones.
During those terrible moments in the chair, Remo's life didn't flash before his eyes. The only thing that did register was the ridiculous, laughable injustice of recent events. Remo Williams had been a rookie cop with the Newark Police Department, who had been sentenced to fry in an electric chair because a drug dealer he'd been chasing had had the misfortune to die. Remo hadn't killed the pusher, but he'd been the most convenient person to blame at the time. So he'd gone to the chair and tried not to think about anything too much, and when he woke up, he was in a windowless hospital room in a place called Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York.
For a brief moment Remo thought he must be in heaven, but the face peering into his own disabused him of any otherworldly notions. It was Harold W. Smith's face, a pinched, lemony face spanned by a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and a permanent scowl. Dr. Smith was, as always, wearing a three-piece gray suit and carrying an attaché case. He never asked Remo how he felt about coming back from the dead. He didn't have to. Dr. Harold W. Smith had engineered everything, from the false arrest on.
Remo complained that since he was officially dead, he had no identity. Dr. Harold W. Smith seemed pleased. At least, he had shuffled his papers with a little more gusto than before. It was as close as Smith got to acting pleased.
He took Remo to the gymnasium to meet Chiun. The eighty-year-old Oriental would, he explained, make a new man of Remo. And he did: Remo became, through the years, a man who could live under water for hours at a time. Who could catch arrows in his bare hands. Who could climb up the sheer faces of buildings without the aid of ropes or ladders. Who could count the legs on a caterpillar as it inched across his finger. Who could walk with no sound and yet hear the heartbeat of a man a hundred yards away. For what Chiun taught him was not a technique or a trick, but the very sun source of the martial arts.
The old Korean was the Master of Sinanju, and possibly the most dangerous man alive. Harold Smith had hired him to train a man for a mission so secret that even Chiun himself could not be told about it. The mission was to work as the enforcer arm of an organization so illegal that its discovery could well mean the end of the United States. CURE belonged to America, but America could not claim the organization because CURE worked completely outside the Constitution. CURE blackmailed. And kidnaped. And killed. Because sometimes those methods were necessary in fighting crime.
Remo Williams was trained to kill. Silently, quickly, invisibly, as only a master of Sinanju could kill. Harold W. Smith directed Remo to the targets, and Remo eliminated them.
The target this time was Duncan Dinnard, whose mansion loomed now in front of Remo and Chiun. The house was surrounded by guards, obviously armed.
"Okay, everybody up. Rise and shine," Remo shouted, clapping his hands and whistling.
"Who goes?" one of the guards called out, holding his handgun in firing position.
"White garbage," Chiun said under his breath.
'What did he say?" the guard demanded.
"He said we're here to collect the garbage," Remo answered.
...
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