"This damn place is off the books. Way off the books. I understand that. I'm not stupid. I know how things work. You're moving big blocks of cash if not gold to support it. All of it tax free."
Smith said nothing.
"Technically tax free. But if you want the lid to stay on Folcroft, you're going to have to kick through thirty percent to IRS coffers."
"Are you talking about a bribe?"
"Don't use that word with me!" Brull exploded. "I take nothing. But IRS takes thirty percent. In return, Folcroft goes back to you, just like we left it."
Harold Smith's glasses began to steam again.
"It is a shambles," he said, bitter voiced. "There are two dead IRS agents just down the hall. How are you going to explain them away?"
Brull looked. "I don't see anything."
"They are around the corner."
Brull left. He came back, his face the color of a sheet.
"Jesus, what killed them?"
"I did not see. I was locked in here. But I heard them being strangled."
Brull wiped his suddenly moist brow with a handkerchief. "Their necks are squeezed to the diameter of fucking pencils," he said.
"A dangerous lunatic was deinstitutionalized on IRS orders. He is obviously running amok."
"I can cover up a few more dead agents. Hell, they should be proud to have gone out in defense of the Revenue Code."
"They did no such thing," Smith said hotly. "And you know it!"
Brull waved a finger in Smith's face. "You think about what I said while I look into this, Smith. This could only get uglier if the truth behind Folcroft becomes public. Whoever it is you report to would chew your ass to rags if your cover is blown. You digest that while I have this floor policed of bodies."
Big Dick Brull turned smartly and, heels clicking, strode away.
In the solitude of his cell, Harold Smith said, "You bastard. I have the power to crush you like a bug."
But even as he said this, he knew he could not have Brull slain and solve the essential problem the IRS agent represented. That would only bring in more agents and increase their exposure. Containing the situation was the only way, but if there was a way to engineer it, Smith lacked the imagination to initiate an ironclad coverup.
It was hopeless. Utterly hopeless.
Once again Harold Smith began to wish for his coffin-shaped poison pill. Barring a miracle, it was the only way out. His failures had cost America CURE, its last bulwark against lawlessness, and his wife the comfort and security of a safe home and good husband in her declining years.
His failure was absolute, his future bleak.
Smith returned to the narrow bunk and lay down to let his nerves shake his body like a gnarled branch in a gale.
Chapter 28
Uncle Sam Beasley heard the drumming when he stepped off the elevator and into the dark and deserted Folcroft lobby. He hesitated, his hydraulic hand splayed to grasp any neck that came within reach. He wished he had the cybernetic laser eyeball the Beasley concepteers had designed for him, but the hospital bastards had hidden it too well. He had been lucky to find the hand.
The drumming seemed to be coming around a corner.
Doom doom doom doom...
It was impossible for a man with a silver peg leg to steal up on anyone, even under the cover of a monotonous drumming. But Uncle Sam Beasley tried anyway.
He turned the corner, and his tight face broke into fracturing lines of shock.
He could see the thing that was drumming. It was smaller than he expected and very, very pink.
The hot pink creature looked up at him with blank eyes and said, "Hello."
"Did I create you?" Beasley blurted out.
"No."
"Did Maus send you?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Drumming."
Doom doom doom doom...
"I can see that, you little pink turd!"
"Language, language."
At that, Uncle Sam Beasley decided to strangle the pink creature, if only to stifle that idiot drumming. It was starting to drive him crazy.
But when he reached down for its spindly neck, the creature was no longer there.
Instead, Uncle Sam Beasley found himself looking into a mirror.
It was very strange. He hadn't noticed any mirror. But there he was, looking back at himself.
What was even more weird was that his mirror image was speaking while his own mouth hung slack in surprise.
The mirror Uncle Sam said, "I can help you escape."
"I don't need any help. Especially from a cheap imitation like you."
"They will be looking for you."
"Let them. I have friends on the outside. One phone call and I'm home free."
"I can fix it so they stop looking."
Uncle Sam Beasley blinked his single eye. His icy eyebrows crawled higher on his puckering forehead.
"It will buy you all the time you need," the mirror image said.
"What's in it for you?" Beasley asked, his voice growing warm with interest.
"Revenge."
"I think," Uncle Sam Beasley said, "you and I are starting to speak the same language."
THE MASTER of SINANJU reached the Folcroft lobby by the fire stairs. The door was flung open ahead of him, and he leaped out, keen eyes going right and left.
He spotted Uncle Sam Beasley exiting through the main door.
Chiun's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. The man walked on a clumping leg. He would be easily apprehended.
The only problem would come if the illustrious Uncle Sam chose to fight.
He would be no match for the Master of Sinanju, true. But it would be unpleasant if Chiun had to injure him even slightly. What would the children of the world think of him if it ever got out?
REMO WILLIAMS was creeping around the Folcroft grounds when he heard the first muffled clump. He recognized the sound at once. The rubber cap on the end of Uncle Sam Beasley's silver leg made the identical sound.
"Damn! Hasn't Chiun grabbed him yet?"
Remo veered toward the sound, his face more annoyed than angry. It was, after all, a minor annoyance. How hard could it be to stop a man with an artificial leg?
THE MASTER of SINANJU emerged into the clear night air.
Uncle Sam Beasley had moved with surprising quickness in the few moments when he had been out of the Master of Sinanju's sight. He had almost reached the parking lot, where many cars waited empty of drivers.
Chiun flew after him, saying "Stop!" in a voice that squeaked more than it carried.
Uncle Sam Beasley looked over his shoulder and continued his energetic progress. He was all but running in a lopsided gait that was painful to behold. His entire body convulsed with every step, sending the ruffles at his wrists and throat shaking manically.
Then he turned the corner.
Chiun cleared the intervening space with a flourish of skirts. He popped around the corner, and stopped, face aghast.
The scarlet figure of Uncle Sam Beasley was nowhere to be seen.
Frantic, the Master of Sinanju rushed among the parked cars. He began looking down the rows. Still, there was no sign of Uncle Sam Beasley. It was impossible. Pausing, Chiun peered under the chassis of the neatly ranked cars.
He did not see a prone Uncle Sam or the strange feet of a lurking Uncle Sam.
Straightening, the Master of Sinanju wore his wrinkles like a puzzled web in which his hazel eyes quivered like uncertain spiders.
"It is impossible!" he squeaked.
REMO WILLIAMS took the corner at a dead run and almost collided with the Master of Sinanju.
"Where'd he go?" Remo asked.
"Who?"
"Beasley. He just came this way."
Chiun stamped a frustrated foot. "He could not. I have chased him to this spot, and he has vanished."
"Well," said Remo, looking around, "he's somewhere around here."
"But where?" Chiun squeaked. "He could not elude us both."
"There," said Remo, pointing toward the gate.