Destroyer 021 - Deadly Seeds

VIP免费

2024-12-04 0 0 745.84KB 68 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

WE'RE FAILURES

We were supposed to be this super setup to make the Constitution work. Everyone would

have their freedoms while the destructive elements were put in their place.

"Yes," said Smith.

"What do you mean 'yes'?" said Remo. "We were a fucking waste of time! We had a president

who would have been convicted of breaking and entering if he didn't get a pardon. Half the

top government is in jail, the other half ought to be. You can't walk in the city streets unless

you know how to kill. You read every day where this cop and that is on the take. Care for

the aged has turned into a gigantic ripoff. And all this while I'm up to my armpits in bodies,

supposedly ending this sort of crap."

"That's just what CURE is doing," said Smith.

"And what you're seeing, Remo, is the organization finally working. This is the pus coming out of the lanced boil.

Remo, just how do you think we work? You're seeing this country do what no other democracy has been able to

do. We're cleaning house."

"Why didn't I know about this?"

"Because we only use you for emergencies. You're what I use when things go wrong or can't

go right any other way . . ."

THE DESTROYER SERIES:

#1 CREATED, #22 BRAIN DRAIN

THE DESTROYER #23 CHILD'S PLAY

#2 DEATH CHECK #24 KING'S CURSE

#3 CHINESE PUZZLE #25 SWEET DREAMS

#4 MAFIA FIX #26 IN ENEMY HANDS

#5 DR. QUAKE #27 THE LAST TEMPLE

#6 DEATH THERAPY #28 SHIP OF DEATH

#7 UNION BUST #29 THE FINAL DEATH

#8 SUMMIT CHASE #30 MUGGER BLOOD

#9 MURDER'S SHIELD #31 THE HEAD MEN

#10 TERROR SQUAD #32 KILLER

#11 KILL OR CURE CHROMOSOMES

#12 SLAVE SAFARI #33 VOODOO DIE

#13 ACID ROCK #34 CHAINED REACTION

#14 JUDGMENT DAY #35 LAST CALL

#15 MURDER WARD #36 POWER PLAY

#16 OIL SLICK #37 BOTTOM LINE

#17 LAST WAR DANCE #38 BAY CITY BLAST

#18 FUNNY MONEY #39 MISSING LINK

#19 HOLY TERROR #40 DANGEROUS GAMES

#20 ASSASSIN'S PLAY-OFF #41 FIRING LINE

#21 DEADLY SEEDS #42 TIMBER LINE

ATTENTION: SCHOOLS AND CORPORATIONS

PINNACLE Books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchases for educational, business or

special promotional use. For further details, please write to: SPECIAL SALES MANAGER, Pinnacle Books,

Inc., 271 Madison Ave., Suite 904, New York, NY 10016.

WRITE FOR OUR FREE CATALOG

If there is a Pinnacle Book you want-and you cannot find it locally-it is available from us simply by

sending the title and price plus 750 to cover mailing and handling costs to:

Pinnacle Books, Inc. Reader Service Department 271 Madison Ave. New York, NY 10016

Please allow 6 weeks for delivery.

Check here if you want to receive our catalog

regularly.

DEADLY SEEDS

PINNACLE BOOKS • LOS ANGELES

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance

to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

THE DESTROYER: DEADLY SEEDS

An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time

anywhere.

ISBN: 0-523-41236-3

First printing, November 1975 Second printing, January 1976 Third printing, September 1976 Fourth printing, April 1978 Fifth printing,

May 1979 Sixth printing, October 1980

Cover illustration by Hector Garrido Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

2029 Century Park East

Los Angeles, California 90067

For Derek Cross -my favorite pessimist

DEADLY SEEDS

CHAPTER ONE

When James Orayo Fielding looked at people, he saw bugs. Except bugs didn't cry or quiver or try to hide their

terror when he fired them or told them he might fire them. Bugs went squish when he stepped on them. And then

his manservant Oliver would clean up the little blotches with his thumbnail and James Orayo Fielding would ask:

"Don't you hate that, Oliver? Doesn't it make your stomach turn to put your fingers in a bug's belly?"

And Oliver would say:

"No, Mr. Fielding. My job is to do whatever you wish."

"What if I told you to eat it, Oliver?"

"Then I would do as you wish, Mr. Fielding."

"Eat it, Oliver."

And James Orayo Fielding would watch very closely and inspect Oh'ver's hands to make

sure he hadn't pushed a remnant of the insect up into his sleeve, or in some other manner

deceived his employer.

"People are bugs, Oliver." "Yes, Mr. Fielding."

"I'll wear grays today."

"Yes, Mr. Fielding."

And James Orayo Fielding waited by the immense picture window that gave him the glorious view of the

Rocky Mountains, stretching in white peaks right to Canada and left to Mexico. The Fieldings were one of the old

Denver, Colorado, families, descended from English nobility on the father's side and French on the mother's,

although it was rumored some Arapaho had made its way into the bloodstream, culminating in James Orayo

Fielding, owner of the Fielding ranches, Fielding sugar beet plants, and Fielding Enterprises Inc., which included

manufacturing plants in New Mexico and Texas which few Denverites knew anything about. James did not

discuss them.

Oliver knelt as he held out the soft gray flannel pants for Mr. Fielding to step into. He

fitted the Italian shoes over Mr. Fielding's feet, then the broadcloth white shirt, tied the black

and orange stripes of Princeton around Mr. Fielding's neck, slipped the Phi Beta Kappa key

into Mr. Fielding's gray vest, and buttoned the vest down to Mr. Fielding's belt. The gray

jacket went on over the vest and Oliver brought the mirror for inspection. It was full length

and silver-framed and rolled on wheels to the center of Mr. Fielding's dressing room.

Fielding looked at himself, a man in his early forties, without gray in his temples, full soft

brown hair which Oliver now combed to that casual neatness, a patrician countenance with

delicate straight nose, an honestman's mouth, and a gentle cool in his blue eyes. He formed a

sincere involved expression with his face, and

thought to himself that that expression would be just fine.

He used it that afternoon in El Paso when he told union negotiators that he was closing down Fielding Conduit

and Cable Inc.

"The costs, gentlemen, just don't allow me to continue operations."

"But you can't do that," said the union negotiator. "There are 456 families that depend on

Fielding Conduit and Cable for their existence."

"You don't think I'd close down a factory just to watch 456 families wriggle and squirm,

do you?" asked Fielding, using the expression he had practiced earlier in the day in his

Denver home, "If you wish, gentlemen, I will explain it to your membership in person."

"You'd stand up in front of our membership and tell them they're all out of jobs? In an

economy like today?" asked the union negotiator, trembling. He lit a cigarette while one

burned unfinished in the ashtray. Fielding watched it.

"Yes, yes, I would," said Fielding. "And I think you should bring the families too."

"Sir," said the corporation counsel for Fielding Conduit and Cable. "You don't have to do

that. It's not your responsibility. It's the union's job."

"I want to," said Fielding.

"What if we took a pay cut?" asked the union negotiator. "An across-the-board pay cut?"

"Hmmm," said Fielding and had the company's profit-and-loss statement brought to him.

"Hmmm. Maybe," said Fielding after examining the printed sheet.

"Yes? Yes?" said the union negotiator.

"Maybe. Just maybe," said Fielding.

"Yes!" said the union negotiator.

"We could use the factory itself to inform the families we're closing. You can get them

together in two hours, can't you? I know almost the entire membership is down at the union

hall."

"I guess we could do that," said the negotiator, crushed.

"Maybe in two hours, I can work out something. Okay?"

"What?" said the negotiator, suddenly revived.

"I'm not sure yet," said Fielding. "Tell them it looks as if we're going to shut down but I may work out

something by this evening."

"I've got to know what, Mr. Fielding. I can't raise their hopes without something concrete."

"Well, then, don't raise their hopes," said Fielding and left with his corporation counsel for dinner in a small El

Paso restaurant he favored. They dined on clams oreganato, lobster fra diavolo, and a warm runny custard called

zabaglione. Fielding showed his corporation counsel pictures he had taken of the famine in India as part of his

famine study for the Denver chapter of Cause, a worldwide relief agency.

His meal ruined, the corporation counsel asked Fielding what he gave one of the children he saw, a child with

protruding ribs, hollow eyes and starvation thick belly.

"A fiftieth at f/4.5 on Plus-X film," said Fielding, dunking the crisp golden crust of fresh-baked Italian bread

protruding ribs, hollow eyes and starvation thick belly.

"A fiftieth at f/4.5 on Plus-X film," said Fielding, dunking the crisp golden crust of fresh-baked Italian bread

into the spicy red tomato sauce of his lobster fra diavolo. "Aren't you going to eat your scungilli?"

"No. No. Not now," said the lawyer.

"Well, considering the starvation in the world, you ought to be ashamed of yourself

wasting food. Eat."

"I-I-"

"Eat," ordered Fielding. And he watched to make sure his corporation counsel ate every last bit of his dinner for

the sake of the starving children in India whose pictures he left displayed on the table.

"Look," he said. "I'm suffering too. I've had stomach pains for weeks. Going to see my

doctor tonight back in Denver. But I'm eating."

"You're going home tonight?" said the lawyer. "Then you don't have a plan for the

workers?"

"I do have a plan. In a way," said Fielding.

When they arrived at the factory, the low whitewashed building was lit and buzzing with families packed lathe

to drill press. Children stuck fingers in lathes and mothers yanked them back. Union men talked among

themselves in that low choppy talk of men who know that all has been said and anything more is a waste of time.

Their lives were out of their hands.

When Fielding entered, the main factory building hushed as if someone had turned

simultaneous dials in nearly a thousand throats. One child laughed and the laughter stopped

with a loud motherly smack.

Fielding led four white-coated men wheeling carts with round tubs on them to a raised

podium in front of the factory. Smiling, he took the microphone from the nervous union

negotiator.

"I've got good news for you all tonight," he said and nearly five hundred families

exploded in cheers and applause. Husbands hugged wives. Some wept. One woman kept

yelling, "God bless you, Mr. Fielding," and she was heard when the cheering subsided and

that energized more cheering. Fielding waited with a big warm smile on his face, his right

hand tucked into his

gray vest, safe from the grubby Teachings of union officials. The corporation counsel

waited by the door, looking at his feet.

Fielding raised both arms and was given quiet.

"As I said when I was interrupted, I have good news for you tonight. You see the

gentlemen with white coats. You see the tubs on the carts. Ladies and gentlemen, children,

union officials, there's free ice cream tonight. For everyone."

A woman up front looked to her husband and asked if she had heard correctly. In the back

row families buzzed in confusion. At the door, the corporation counsel blew air out of his

mouth and stared at the ceiling.

Fielding assumed the sincere concerned expression he had perfected earlier in the day

before the silverframed full-length mirror in his dressing room.

"That's the good news. Now the bad news. There is no way we can continue operations of

Fielding Conduit and Cable."

At a main lathe fifty yards back, a middle-aged man in a red checked jacket cleared his

throat. Everyone heard him.

"Ow," said the union negotiator. And everyone heard him too.

Fielding nodded to a white-jacketed busboy that he might start serving the ice cream. The

boy looked at the crowd and shook his head.

A man in the front row jumped up onto his seat. His wife tried to tug him back down but he freed the arm she

held.

"You ever own a plant in Taos, New Mexico?" yelled the man.

"Yes," said Fielding.

"And did you shut down that one too?"

"We had to," said Fielding.

"Yeah. I thought so. I heard about this ice cream trick you pulled hi Taos. Just like

tonight."

"Gentlemen, my counsel will explain everything shortly," said Fielding and leaped from

the little platform at the front of the factory and made his way quickly to the door before the

rush of workers could get at him.

"Tell them about our tax structure," yelled Fielding, pushing his lawyer between himself

rush of workers could get at him.

"Tell them about our tax structure," yelled Fielding, pushing his lawyer between himself

and the surging workers and just making it out the door. He ran to the car and made a

leisurely mental note that he should phone the El Paso police to rescue the lawyer. Yes, he

would call. From his doctor's office in Denver.

At the airport, Oliver was waiting in the Lear jet. It had been checked out and readied by

airport mechanics.

"Everything turn out satisfactorily, sir?" asked Oliver, holding out the suede flying jacket.

"Perfectly," said James Orayo Fielding, not telling his manservant about the stabbing pains

in his stomach. Why give Oliver any joy?

If he did not have the appointment that evening, he would have taken the slower Cessna twin-engine prop job.

With that one, he could leave the fuselage door open and watch Oliver clutch his seat as the wind whipped at his

face. Once, during an Immelman turn, Oliver had passed out in the Cessna. When Fielding saw this, he leveled the

plane and undid Oliver's safety strap. The manservant recovered, saw the unbuckled strap, and passed out again.

James Orayo Fielding loved his old propeller plane.

Doctor Goldfarb's office on Holly Street shone like three white squares against a dark

checkerboard of

black square windows. If any other patient had asked for this evening appointment, Dr. Goldfarb would have

referred him to someone else. But it was James Orayo Fielding who had asked for that specific appointment to get

the results of his every-six-months physical, and that meant that Fielding had no other free tune. And what else

could be expected of a man so fully occupied with the world's welfare? Wasn't Mr. Fielding chairman of the

Denver chapter of Cause? Hadn't he personally visited India, Bangladesh, the Sahel to see famine firsthand and

come back to Denver to tell everyone about it?

Another man with Fielding's wealth might just have sat back and become a playboy. But

not James Orayo Fielding. Where there was suffering, you would find James Orayo Fielding.

So when Mr. Fielding said he was only free this one night of the month, Dr. Goldfarb told

his daughter he would have to leave just after he gave her away at the wedding ceremony.

"Darling, I'll try to be back before the reception is over," he had told her. And that was the

easy part. The hard part was what he was going to tell Mr. Fielding about the checkup. Like

most doctors, he did not like telling a patient he was going to die. But with Mr. Fielding, it

was like being part of a sin.

Fielding noticed immediately that the runty Dr. Goldfarb had trouble telling him something. So Fielding

pressed him on it, and got the answer.

"A year to fifteen months," said Dr. Goldfarb.

"There's no operation possible?"

"An operation is useless. It's a form of anemia, Mr. Fielding. We don't know why it strikes

when it strikes. It has nothing to do with your diet."

"And there's no cure?" asked Fielding.

"None."

"You know, of course, I feel it's my duty to myself to check other authorities."

"Yes, of course," said Dr. Goldfarb. "Of course."

"I think I'll find you correct however," said Fielding.

"I'm afraid you will," said Dr. Goldfarb and then he saw the most shocking thing from a terminal patient. Dr.

Goldfarb had experienced hostility, denial, melancholy, and hysteria. But he had never seen before what he

encountered now.

James Orayo Fielding grinned, a small controlled play of life at the corners of his mouth, a

casual amusement.

"Dr. Goldfarb, bend over here," said Fielding, beckoning the doctor's ear with a wag of

his forefinger.

"You know something?" he whispered.

"What?" Goldfarb asked.

"I don't give a shit."

As Fielding had expected, Dr. Goldfarb was right. In New York City he was proven right.

In Zurich and Munich, in London and Paris, he was proven right, give or take a few months.

But it didn't matter because Fielding had devised a great plan, a plan worth a life.

His manservant Oliver watched him closely. Fielding had rented a DC-10 for their travels

and turned the tail section into two small bedrooms. He took the seats out of the main section

and installed two large working desks, a bank of small computers, and five teletype

machines. Above the main working desk, Fielding had installed an electronic calendar that

worked hi reverse. The first day had read one year (inside) to fifteen months (outside). The

machines. Above the main working desk, Fielding had installed an electronic calendar that

worked hi reverse. The first day had read one year (inside) to fifteen months (outside). The

second day of flight on the

short hop from Zurich to Munich, it registered eleven months, twenty-nine days (inside) to fourteen months,

twenty-nine days (outside). It was the countdown, Oliver realized, to what Mr. Fielding had called his termination.

As they left Munich, Oliver noticed two strange things. The outside date had been changed to eighteen months,

and Mr. Fielding had Oliver shred a three-foot-high computer printout, which Fielding had studied for hours

before angrily writing across the top: "Money is not enough."

"Good news, I trust, sir," said Oliver. "You mean on the new outside date? Not really. I'm hardly even bothering

myself with the outside date. What I've got to do has to be done within the inside date. The doctors in Munich said

they had seen someone live eighteen months with this, so maybe I'll live eighteen months. You'd like that,

wouldn't you, Oliver?" "Yes, Mr. Fielding." "You're a liar, Oliver." "As you say, Mr. Fielding."

On a flight from London to New York City, Oliver was ordered to shred three days of teleprint from the

teletypewriters that clacked incessantly in the main section. On top of the thick pile of papers, Fielding had written:

"Chicago grain market not enough." "Good news, I trust, sir," said Oliver. "Any other man would give up at this

point. But men are bugs, Oliver." "Yes, Mr. Fielding."

In New York City, the plane stayed parked three days at the La Guardia Marine Air Terminal. On the first day,

Oliver shredded heavy reports

topped by Fielding's note reading: "The weather is not enough."

On the second day, Mr. Fielding hummed Zippety Doo Da. On the third day, he danced

little steps between the computer and his desk, which had become a meticulously organized

pile of charts and reports. A very thin manila envelope on top of the pile was labeled:

"ENOUGH."

Oliver opened it when Mr. Fielding bathed before dinner. He saw a single handwritten

note.

"Needed: One average public relations agency, radioactive waste, construction crews, commodities analysts -

and six months of life."

Oliver did not see the single small gray hair that had been atop the envelope. James Orayo

Fielding did when he returned. The paper hair was now on the desk. It had been moved

from where he had placed it on the envelope.

"Oliver," said Fielding, "we're flying home tonight."

"Should I inform the crew?"

"No," said Fielding. "I think I'd like to pilot myself."

"If I may suggest, sir, you're not checked out in a DC-10, sir."

"You're so right, Oliver. Right again. So bright. We will have to rent a Cessna."

"A Cessna, sir?"

"A Cessna, Oliver."

"The jet is faster, sir. We don't have to make stops."

"But not as much fun, Oliver."

"Yes, Mr. Fielding."

When the Cessna took off, a hot muggy summer

morning broke red over New York City, like a warm soot blanket. Oliver saw the sun through the open door to

his left. He saw the runway leave underneath him and the houses become small. He smelled his own breakfast

coming back up his throat and into his mouth, and he returned it to the world in a little paper bag he always

brought with him when Mr. Fielding flew the Cessna. At five thousand feet, Oliver became faint and lay back

limply as Mr. Fielding sang, "A tisket, A tasket, I found a yellow basket."

Over Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Mr. Fielding spoke.

"I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing, Oliver," said Mr. Fielding. "As you know, I

have eleven months, two weeks to live, inside date. Maybe even less. One can't trust the

human body. To some, this would be a tragedy. Would it be a tragedy to you, Oliver?"

"What, Mr. Fielding?"

"Would death be a tragedy to you?"

"Yes sir."

"To me, Oliver, it's freedom. I am no longer bound to protect my image in Denver. Do

you know why I cultivated my image in Denver, keeping my fun to El Paso and places like

that?"

"No sir."

"Because the bugs crawl all over you if you're different, if you frighten them. Bugs hate

"No sir."

"Because the bugs crawl all over you if you're different, if you frighten them. Bugs hate

anything better than them."

"Yes sir."

"Well, in a year, they can't get to me. And I'm going to get them first. More than Adolf Hitler or Joseph Stalin

or Mao Tse-tung. I will get a million. A billion at least. Not millions. A billion. A billion bugs, Oliver. Me. I will

do it. And none of them will be able to bother me again. Oliver, it will be beautiful."

"Yes sir."

"If you knew you were going to die, Oliver, would you stop saying 'yes sir' and say 'fuck

you, Mr. Fielding'?"

"Never, sir."

"Let's see, Oliver."

And James Orayo Fielding snapped on his oxygen mask and brought the plane up to where he saw Oliver

slump back, unconscious, and he reached behind himself and unsnapped Oliver's safety strap and put the twin-

engine Cessna into a dive. Oliver flipped back out of his seat and was pressed by the force of gravity into the rear

of the plane. When Fielding leveled the Cessna at three thousand feet, Oliver curled into a ball on the floor.

"Ohhh," he said, regaining consciousness. He lifted himself on his hands and as his head

cleared and as he breathed more easily, he felt himself being pulled forward. Mr. Fielding

had put the plane in a slight dive. And Oliver was going forward, toward the door on the

left. Suddenly the plane banked left and Oliver was going out through the door. He grabbed

the bottom bar of a seat and clutched.

"Mr. Fielding, Mr. Fielding! Help! Help!" he yelled, the air whipping at his midsection, the

liquid of his bladder running out through his trousers.

"You may now say 'fuck you'," said Fielding.

"No sir," said Oliver. .

"Well, then, don't say I didn't give you your chance. Goodbye, Oliver."

And the plane rolled farther to its left until Oliver was holding on to the seat, now above

him, and as it cruised that way, Oliver felt his hands grown numb. Perhaps Mr. Fielding was

just testing him, knew exactly

how long it would take, and then would turn the plane aright and help him back in. Mr. Fielding was a peculiar sort, but not

totally cruel. He wouldn't kill his manservant, Oliver. The plane snapped back abruptly over to its other side and Oliver

found himself holding air, his body moving forward at the same speed as the plane, then downward. Very downward.

Oliver knew this because the plane appeared to be going up while flying level. And as Oliver spun, he saw the broad

Pennsylvania country grow clearer and bigger beneath him! And it was coming towards him. He went beyond panic into

that peace of dying men, where they understand that they are one with the universe, eternal with all life, the coming and

going of one part of all that life, just a throb.

And Oliver saw the white and blue Cessna dive. And Mr. Fielding had come down to see Oliver's

face. Mr. Fielding in a dive looking at Oliver, red-faced and yelling something. What was it? Oliver

couldn't hear. He waved goodbye and smiled and said softly, "God bless you, Mr. Fielding."

Shortly thereafter, Oliver met a field of green summer corn.

James Orayo Fielding pulled up out of the dive still screaming.

"Yell 'fuck you'. Yell 'fuck you'. Yell 'fuck you'."

Fielding trembled at the controls. His hands were sweaty on the instruments. He felt his stomach

heave. Oliver hadn't been a bug; he had shown incredible courage. What if Fielding were wrong

about bugs? What if he were wrong about everything? He was going to be just as dead as Oliver.

Nothing could save him.

By Ohio, Fielding wrested back control of himself. A momentary panic happened to everyone. He

had

done the absolutely right thing. Oliver had to die. He had seen the plan, just as sure as hairs

placed atop folders did not move by themselves.

Everything would work perfectly. Within eleven months, one week and six days.

(Inside).

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and the hot Newark night offended him, and the smells from the alley where rats scratched inside open

garbage cans filled his senses with decay and the occasional street lights cast more glare than illumination. It was summer

and it was Newark, New Jersey, and he was never to come back to this city alive because he had left it dead.

This was where he was born. Down the street a large dark red brick building with broken glass

shards in empty black frames stood surrounded by litter-heavy lots, waiting to become a lot itself.

That was where he was raised. He used to say it was where he was educated until his real education

began. That was where he was Remo Williams and the nuns taught him washing, bedmaking,

politeness, and that rulers on knuckles hurt when you were caught in violation. Later he would learn

that punishment for sin was haphazard but the effects of sin were immediate. They told in your body

and your breathing; they robbed you of proper-

ness, which could mean death. But the death was haphazard; the improperness itself was the

real punishment. In this new life, the sins were panic and laziness, and the original sin was

incompetence.

Remo thought of the ruler as he made out the old soot-covered concrete lettering above

the boarded-up door:

"St. Theresa's Orphanage."

He would have liked to have seen Sister Mary Elizabeth now. Open up his hand for that ruler and let her flail

away and laugh at her. He had tried by sheer willpower more than twenty years before. But Sister Mary Elizabeth

knew her business better than Remo had known his. Smiles were not too convincing when your hand trembled

and your eyes watered. But he didn't know then about pain. Now she could have used a kitchen knife and it

wouldn't cut his flesh.

"You there," came a voice from behind him. Remo had heard the car move silently up the

street. He glanced over his shoulder. A uniformed police sergeant, his face shiny from the

sweat of night heat, leaned out the open squad car window. His hands were hidden. Remo

knew he held a weapon. He was not sure how he knew. Perhaps it was the way the man held

his body. Perhaps it was in the man's face. There was much Remo knew today that he did not

understand. Having reasons for things was a Western idea. He just knew there was a gun

hidden by the car door.

"You there," said the police sergeant. "What're you doing in this neighborhood?"

"Putting up a resort motel," said Remo.

"Hey, wise guy, you know where you are?"

"From time to time," said Remo cryptically.

"It's not safe here for white men."

Remo shrugged.

"Hey, I know you," the sergeant said. "No. It couldn't be."

He got out of the squad car, putting his revolver back in his holster.

"You know, you look like someone I used to know," said the sergeant. And Remo tried to

remember the man. The sergeant's name tag read Duffy, William P., and Remo remembered

a far younger man who, as a rookie, practiced quick draws with his gun. This one's face was

fleshy and his eyes were tired and he smelled richly of his last meat meal. You could feel his

senses were dead.

"You look almost exactly like this guy I used to know," said Sergeant Duffy. "He was

raised in that orphanage. Except you're younger than he would be and you're skinnier."

"And better looking," said Remo.

"Naah, that guy was better looking. Straight as hell, that guy. Poor guy. He was a cop."

"A good cop?" asked Remo.

"Naah. Dumb, kind of. Straight, you know. They framed the poor bastard. Got the chair.

Oh, more than ten years ago. Gee, you look like him."

"What do you mean he was dumb?"

"Hey, any cop what goes to the chair for doing in a pusher and then screaming that he never did it, I mean,

that's stupid. There are ways to get around that sort of thing. I mean, even now when you got porkchops running

the city. You just don't stand up, screaming you're innocent. If you know what I mean. The whole thing stunned

the department."

"You missed him, huh?" said Remo.

"Naaah. Guy had no friends, no family, nothing.

"You missed him, huh?" said Remo.

"Naaah. Guy had no friends, no family, nothing.

It was just the idea that a cop would get it. You know. They wouldn't even let the poor

bastard make a plea or nothing. You know."

"Nobody missed him," said Remo.

"Nobody. Guy was as straight as hell. A real pain in the ass."

"You still practice fast draws in the John, Duff?"

"Naah," said Duffy, then backed away, his eyes wide in horror.

"That guy's dead," he said. "Remo's dead more than ten years now. Hey. Get outta here.

Get outta here or I run you in."

"What's the charge, Duff? Still confused about the correct charge?"

"No. No. This is a fucking dream," said Duffy.

"You want to see something funny, Duff? Draw," said Remo and he snapped the whole

holster off the belt leaving a light brown scar on the thick black shiny leather. Sergeant

Duffy's hand came down on empty space.

"You get slower as you age, meat-eater," said Remo and returned the holster-encased gun.

Duffy did not see the hands move or hear the small crack of metal. Stunned, he opened his

holster and parts of his revolver tinkled on the hot night sidewalk.

"Jeez. Friggin' freak," gasped Sgt. Duffy. "What'dya do with the gun? That cost me money. I'm gonna have to

pay."

"We all pay, Duff."

And Duffy's partner at the wheel, hearing the commotion, came out gun drawn but found

only Duffy, bewildered, staring at an empty holster ripped from his belt.

"He's gone," said Duffy. "I didn't even see him go and he's gone."

"Who?" said the partner.

"I didn't even see him move and now he's not here."

"Who?" said the partner.

"You remember that guy I told you about once. All the veterans knew him. Sent to the chair, no

appeal, nothing. Next to the last man executed in the state. More than ten years ago, at least."

"Yeah?"

"I think I just seen him. Only he was younger and he talked funny."

Sergeant Duffy was helped back to the car and examined by the police surgeon who suggested a

short rest away from a hostile urban environment. He was relieved of duty temporarily and an

inspector had a long talk with his family and while he was in the Duffy household, he asked where

the drill press was.

"We're looking for the power tool he used to break his gun. The police surgeon believes the gun is

symbolic of his subconscious desire to leave the force," said the inspector. "Human hands don't snap

a gun barrel in two."

"He didn't have no power tools," said Mrs. Duffy. "He'd just come home and drink beer. Maybe if

he had a workshop, maybe he wouldn't have gone apples, huh, Inspector?"

The midday sun wilted the people on New York City's sidewalks across the Hudson from Newark.

Women's spike heels sank into the soft asphalt made black gum by the heat. Remo strolled into the

Plaza Hotel on Fifty-ninth Street and asked for his room key. He had been asking for his keys across

the country for more

than a decade now. Squirrels had nests, moles had holes, and even worms, he thought, had some piece of ground

they must go to regularly. Remo had room keys. And no home.

In the elevator, a young woman in a light print purple dress that barely shielded delicate

full mounds of wanting breasts commented to Remo how nice it was to be in a hotel as fine

as the Plaza and wouldn't he just love to live his whole life here?

"You live in a hotel?" Remo asked.

"No. Just a split level in Jones, Georgia," said the woman, making a swift pouting face.

"It's a home," said Remo.

"It's a drag," said the woman. "I'm so excited to be here in New York City, you just don't

know. Ah love it. I love it. George, he's my husband, he's here to work. But me, I'm aE

alone. All alone all day. I do whatever I want."

"That's nice," Remo said and watched the floor numbers blink away on the elevator panel.

"Whatever and with whoever I like," said the woman.

"That's nice," Remo said and watched the floor numbers blink away on the elevator panel.

"Whatever and with whoever I like," said the woman.

"That's nice," said Remo. He should have walked.

"Do you know that ninety-nine point eight percent of the women in America do not know

how to make love properly?"

"That's nice."

"I'm in the point two percent that does."

"That's nice."

"Are you one of those gigolos that does it for money? You're just a doll, you know."

"That's nice," said Remo.

"I don't see anything wrong with paying for it, do you?"

"Paying for what?" Remo asked.

"Sex, silly."

"That's nice," said Remo and the elevator opened to his floor.

"Where you going?" said the woman. "Come back here. What's wrong?"

Remo stopped mid-hall and smiled evilly. In fact, he could not remember feeling so

joyously thrilled with any idea he had entertained in the last decade. The woman blinked her

soft brown eyes and said, "Wow."

"C'mere," said Remo and the woman ran to him, her breasts bobbing brightly.

"You want a thrill?"

"With you? Yeah. All right. Come on. Right on," she said.

"There's going to be a man coming down this hallway in about fifteen minutes. He's got a

face like lemon juice. He'll be wearing a dark suit and a vest even in this weather. He's on the

low side of sixty."

"Hey, I don't screw fossils, buddy."

"Trust me. The wildest time you've ever had. But you've got to say something special."

"What?" asked the girl suspiciously.

"You've got to say, 'Hello, Dr. Smith. I've read about you. All my friends have read about

you.' "

"Who's Dr. Smith?"

"Never mind. Just tell him that and watch his face."

"Hello, Dr. Smith. Me and my friends have all read about you. Right?"

"You'll never regret it," said Remo.

"I don't know," said the woman.

Remo cupped a breast with his left hand and with

his right thumbed a thigh and kissed her on the neck and lips until he felt her body tremble.

"Oh, yes," she moaned. "Oh, yes. I'll say it. II'll say it."

"Good," said Remo and leaned her against the wallpapering of the hallway and moved five

doors down where he entered.

A wisp of an Oriental in golden flowing kimono sat lotus position in front of a darkened television screen. The

plush furniture of the waiting room had been moved and stacked on one side so a blue sleeping mat with its

blossoms could dominate the center of the rug.

The set had been working the day before when Remo had left to look at Newark and if someone had wrecked it

in between, there would be a body to be disposed of. The Master of Sinanju did not tolerate people interrupting

his special television shows. Remo checked out the bathroom and the bedroom. No bodies.

"Little Father, is everything all right?"

Chiun shook his head slowly, barely moving the strand of beard.

"Nothing is right," said Chiun, the Master of Sinanju.

"Has someone broken the television?"

"Do you see the remnants of an intruder?"

"No, Chiun."

"Then how could anyone have broken my machine of dreams? No. Worse. Far, far

worse."

"I'm sorry. I have a problem myself."

"You? Do you know what they have done to the beauty of the daytime dramas? Do you know the desecration

that has been performed upon the life art of your nation?"

Remo shook his head. He didn't know. But what he gathered in the next few moments was

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

WE'REFAILURESWeweresupposedtobethissupersetuptomaketheConstitutionwork.Everyonewouldhavetheirfreedomswhilethedestructiveelementswereputintheirplace."Yes,"saidSmith."Whatdoyoumean'yes'?"saidRemo."Wewereafuckingwasteoftime!Wehadapresidentwhowouldhavebeenconvictedofbreakingandenteringifhedidn'tgetapard...

展开>> 收起<<

Destroyer 021 - Deadly Seeds.pdf

共68页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Destroyer 021 - Deadly Seeds

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: