The scenery was something else. As Remo motored south from Dogwood, past the handful of small businesses that were the town, he understood why tourists might be drawn from other states. It wasn’t Yellowstone, but there was simple beauty here, perhaps a fond reminder to the city-bound that life wasn’t confined to steel and concrete, traffic noise and air pollution.
Maybe—for a few of them, at least—it felt like coming home.
Highway 11 branched off to his left, a small sign making sure he didn’t miss it. Remo signaled for the turn, although he had the highway to himself, and kept within the posted limit as he headed east. Based on the directions he was given, he was almost there.
Chiun had taken one look at their motel room and grunted in disgust. The television was an ancient, black-and-white with rabbit ears, which seemed to get four channels and a lot of static. There were two small beds, with bedspreads that resembled terrycloth, and other bits of furniture that would have made a swap meet seem like shopping on Rodeo Drive. The bathroom was an afterthought. Any sudden moves while sitting on the toilet, and you risked collision of your elbows with the sink and the adjacent wall.
Chiun was mollified, to some degree, when he located a new infomercial on Channel 4. It was for something called a Fat Blaster. He settled on the floor, legs folded in the lotus posture, frail hands resting on his knees. His recent, inexplicable passion for football seemed to have died off, Remo thought. Or had it been a pretense, a front, for some other preoccupation at the time?
“Beware of any and all who would say you have a ‘purdy’ mouth,’- the Master of Sinanju had warned, eyes locked upon the television screen.
“Will do.”
He saw the sign now, coming at him on the left, nailed between two upright posts set back a few yards from the road. The overhanging trees almost obscured it, and it would have been no trick at all to miss the sign if Remo hadn’t known what he was looking for. Ideal Maternity Home. He wondered what prompted Dr. Quentin Radcliff, with two decades of his life invested in genetic research, to bail out and spend his golden years providing care for unwed mothers. It was a most unusual step in the man’s career path.
And what did any of it have to do with Thomas Allen Hardy, much less carbon-copy killers with his face and fingerprints?
There were no answers yet, but now he had a likely starting point. If Dr. Radcliff’s name still troubled Jasper Frayne, more than a decade after they had parted company and the Eugenix Corporation was dissolved—more to the point, if Jasper, with his dying breath, blamed Radcliff for his own assassination—then the doctor must be worth a closer look.
Remo had never been a great believer in coincidence, especially where murder was involved.
Beyond the sign, a one-lane gravel track wound out of sight among the trees. Another pair of upright posts had been erected at the entrance to the driveway. These were steel and painted black, a chain stretched out between them, decorated with a smaller sign that cautioned PRIVATE DRIVE—NO ENTRY.
Remo drove on past, another mile or so, until he found a handy place to turn around. His second pass confirmed that there was no chance of observing Dr. Radcliff’s operation from the highway. He would have to penetrate the grounds on foot, and that was something he preferred to do by night.
He didn’t know what to expect in terms of security. After all, what kind of risk could pregnant women pose to anyone except themselves, or possibly their unborn children? Remo understood the urge for privacy, especially if Dr. Radcliff drew his clients from among the semi-rich and famous, but there was a world of difference between discretion and defense.
Still, the early indications were that something was different here.
Correct or otherwise, the late, lamented Jasper Frayne had seemed to think his executioner was sent by Dr. Radcliff. The killer had been somehow linked to Thomas Allen Hardy and the late Eugenix Corporation. Radcliff, by his own admission was once the top dog in genetic research at Eugenix. And if Jasper Frayne still, feared him, after almost fifteen 1 years.
Then, what?
A vague suspicion loitered in the back of Remo’s mind, reached out to nudge him every now and then, but he resisted the suggestion, unwilling to follow where it led.
His mind rebelled at driving back to the motel so soon and sitting in the squalid little room for hours, waiting for the sun to disappear. A drive would do him good, check out the local scenery and get a feeling for the back roads, just in case he had to beat a swift retreat.
The Chrysler handled well enough, if Remo took it easy on the speed and watched for potholes in the road. Squirrels dodged across the road in front of him, defying him to run them down, oblivious to the repeated evidence of others who lost the game. At one point, Remo stopped to let a turtle cross the highway, keeping one eye on his rearview mirror while the brightly colored reptile took its time.
He had to give the doctor credit, if there was some kind of plot in progress at the home for unwed mothers. Dogwood was the last place anyone would think to look for something sinister. It was the perfect cover, tucked away in Nowhere, USA.
And it could still be nothing, Remo thought.
But told himself, Don’t bet your life on it.
There were certain hallmarks about the operation, sight unseen. Remo recognized them from a distance, long exposure having sensitized him to the nuances.
He was picking up a pattern that spelled death.
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.