Norvell Ransome steepled his blunt fmgets. His eyebrows drew together like furry caterpillars kissing. This was unforeseen. And unfortunate. He must think this through. He had handled Project RESTORE expertly, as if he were born to such tasks. He would handle this with equal aplomb. He must not rush into a rash action. He knew where Remo was. Perhaps there was a way to lure him back to Folcroft, where he could be attended to.
There was no rush. First, it would be necessary to allow Dr. Smith to pass from this world of natural causes. The President of the United States would no doubt recognize the exemplary job Norvell Ransome was doing and ask him to stay on as director of Folcroft Sanitarium and the secret installation it concealed. During that time, he would quietly groom the governor of Florida for the White House. He was excellent presidential timber. Provided his cocaine-trafficking activities remained solely a CURE secret.
Then and only then would America become the vassal of Norvell Ransome.
Remo Williams would be just a bump on that exceedingly smooth road.
Ransome hunched over the CURE computer. It would all fall into place in time. But first there was the ultimate secret of Folcroft to uncover. What did the acronym CURE stand for? It was a nagging piece of intelligence not found in any of the files. Perhaps there were deeper levels to plumb. If so, Norvell Ransome would descend into them. The meaning of CURE might not be germane to its future, but Norvell Ransome was determined to fathom it.
Chapter 20
Remo Williams paced the floor as Naomi Vanderkloot sat at the kitchen table, her back to him, the telephone to her ear.
"Anything?" he snapped.
"I'm still on hold. Why don't you just sit down?"
"This is driving me crazy," Remo said. His hands, hanging idle from his thick wrists, brushed his dungaree pockets. He felt the bulge there, and remembered the pack of Camels.
Remo pulled them out. They were mangled, but smokable. He fished one out and took the dry paper between his lips. Forgetting that matches were no longer precious, he turned on the gas stove and bent down to light the cigarette.
Almost immediately, he felt himself gag. Naomi turned.
"You're smoking!" she cried, aghast.
"I'm nervous. Okay?"
"Smoking. I can't believe it. It's so ... so third-world. Almost no one smokes these days."
"Well, I do," Remo said rackingly, wondering what was wrong with him that he couldn't smoke a simple unfiltered cigarette.
"What's that?" Naomi said into the phone as she batted bluish smoke away from her face. "Yes, I'm still here.... Where? ... Are you certain? ... Yes, thank you." She hung up and turned to Remo.
"I just spoke with the caretaker of a place called Wildwood Cemetery in New Jersey. He sounded a hundred years old. He confirms what the Trenton administration official told me. A convict named Remo Williams was buried there after his execution by electrocution. "
"Then he was right," Remo said, sick-eyed.
"Who?"
"The Florida executioner. He said he already did me. How can I be here if I'm buried in New Jersey?"
"Look. You're not dead. That's obvious. You're the victim of some kind of ... plot, I don't know. This sounds exactly like the kind of thing the CIA would do."
Remo leaned against the kitchen wall, running one hand through his hair. The cigarette smoldered in his other hand unnoticed. Annoyed, Naomi waved the smoke away with swipes of her hand.
"I dream dreams that seem more real than when I'm awake," Remo said in a baffled monotone. "My head feels heavy. I can't think straight. What the hell happened to me?"
Naomi came to her feet and approached him, her face suddenly tender.
"Look, don't try to sort it all out at once. You're here. You're with me. And you're safe. I'll help you sort the pieces. Just, let's take our time. I have more questions. "
"Okay, okay," Remo said irritably, allowing himself to be led into the living room and onto the couch. He frowned when he noticed Naomi lift a pencil to her ever-present notepad.
"Let's start with your sex life," she began eagerly.
"What sex life?" Remo growled. "I've been on death row so long I forgot where to put it."
Naomi wrote "Crude" on her notepad. Reading that, Remo folded his arms angrily.
"Before you went to jail, then," Naomi went on. "How did you do it?"
"What kind of question is that? I just did it."
"I'm only interested in the courship and precopulation rituals you relied upon."
"The what? Look, dingbat, get this through your head: I'm an ordinary guy. I don't do it any differently than anyone else. Better, maybe. Not different."
Naomi inscribed something unreadable on her notepad and asked, "I don't suppose you happen to know how long your penis is?"
"I never thought to measure it," Remo said acidly. "Why?"
"As man developed from the primitive stage, his sex organs have enlarged and become more specialized. As the next stage in human development, it's important to know if there have been any further ... specializations."
"Important to whom?" Remo asked sourly.
"Science," Naomi stuttered. "This is the pursuit of knowledge. If I can codify the traits that make you unique, we would be able to identify others on the vanguard of evolution, and if they can be persuaded to mate, a new, improved race would emerge generations earlier than otherwise."
"So?"
"So then we can study you and your kind."
"Lady, it wouldn't work that way. It would be the Europeans and the Indians all over again. Someone would win and someone would lose. Why push it along any faster? Let it be."
"You don't understand science."
"I don't want to. I'm trying to understand my life."
"Does that mean you won't let me measure your penis?"
"Good guess. I'm an escaped felon, remember?"
Naomi smiled. "I find that extra-exciting."
Remo rolled his eyes. "You would."
She leaned closer. "You interest me," she breathed, her mouth smelling of coffee yogurt.
"I'm a killer," Remo reminded her.
Naomi inched closer on the sofa. She tossed back her hair and lowered her face so that she had to give Remo an up-from-under look. She pushed her glasses up onto her forehead.
"You probably haven't had sex in twenty years," she said.
"I definitely haven't had sex for twenty years," Remo said.
"Well," Naomi Vanderkloot said with what she hoped was a sexy smile, "now's your golden opportunity. "
Remo Williams' glance took in the foolish smile that came over Naomi Vanderkloot's thin face, went down to her flat chest, lingered on her whalebone hips, and decided beggars couldn't be choosers.
"You're on," he said, taking her by the hand. Remo led her to the bedroom, unaware that her other hand still clutched her notepad and pencil.
"What are you doing with that?" Remo asked moments later. Naomi Vanderkloot lay under him, her face flushed, one hand reaching down to his crotch. The hand clutched a pencil.
"Umm. Nothing," she said absently.
"You're holding a pencil against my tool," Remo pointed out in a reasonable voice. "I don't exactly call that nothing."
Naomi withdrew the pencil and used it to scribble a single-digit number onto the notepad by her pillow. "Are you through?" Remo demanded. "Can we get on with this?"
"Absolutely." Naomi closed her eyes. Remo noticed she folded her hands over her stomach as if steeling herself for an ordeal. He entered her slowly, watching the play of expressions on her narrow face. They began with concern, softened to delight, and tightened up again as Remo fell into a slow, building rhythm.
Just when Remo was getting into it, Naomi's right eye peeked open. Remo stopped in mid-stroke. "What are you looking at?" Remo wanted to know.