Sleep still clung to the cobwebs of his brain. He thought he heard someone speak his name. When he opened his eyes a bone-tired slit, he thought he glimpsed a face. It was wrinkled and old and reminded him of something he had seen in a dream long ago.
Remo couldn't see very well. There was something heavy wrapped around his own face. Bandages. Only his eyes and lips were exposed.
The old vision of a dream long gone was talking in an angry singsong.
"A white? You would have me train a white? Why stop there? Why not have the Master train for you a chimpanzee? Put it in a diaper and sit it on a unicycle and have it peddle around the American countryside flinging sticks and dung at the enemies of your crown. Believe me, it would strike more fear into their hearts than this whatever-he-is."
"I told you, this is your pupil," insisted a second voice, this one as sour as a pail of squeezed lemons. Lying in the fog of semisleep, Remo groaned.
"I think he's coming around," the lemony voice said.
A moment later Remo felt a pinch at his arm. A sedative. The warmth of sleep melted through him once more.
The voices floated down to where he was sinking into the bottom of a deep, dark well.
"I will do what I must, for I have made an agreement," said the first voice reluctantly. "But I will not enjoy it."
"No one is asking you to."
"Good," insisted the singsong voice as Remo faded into sweet oblivion. "Because I guarantee you I won't."
Chapter 6
When he finally regained full consciousness, the first thing Remo Williams saw clearly was the grinning face of the monk looking down at him. Over the face glared a white light-a mockery of a halo. Remo blinked.
"Looks like our baby's gonna make it."
Remo groaned. His limbs felt cold and leaden as though asleep for a thousand years. His wrists and ankles burned with pain where the electric straps had seared flesh. His face was sore, as if someone had been punching him repeatedly while he slept. His mouth was dry, his tongue like a sponge. Nausea swept up from his stomach and enveloped his brain. He thought he was vomiting, but nothing came out.
The air smelled of ether. He was lying on some sort of hard bed. He turned his head to see where he was, then stifled a scream. His head felt as if it was nailed to the mattress and he had just ripped out part of his skull.
Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom. His temples screamed. He shut his eyes and groaned again. He was breathing. Thank God, he was breathing. He was alive.
When a nurse offered sedatives, the monk refused them.
It took hours for the pain to subside. Remo was in and out of sleep the whole time, grateful to be alive. When the pain finally fled and Remo fully awakened, the monk with the hook was chasing a nurse and two doctors from the room.
Locking the door, the man rolled a tray to Remo's bed. With his hook he lifted the gleaming silver dome. Beneath were four lobsters, oozing butter from slit red bellies.
"My name's Conn MacCleary." He spooned two lobsters onto a plate and handed it to Remo.
"Bully for you," Remo said, cracking open a lobster claw. He scooped out the rich white meat with a small fork and swallowed without even chewing. His stomach rumbled. He was amazed at how hungry he was.
"You've been out for two weeks." MacCleary's voice became a low grumble. "I was worried we might have lost another one," he said to himself.
Remo had found the draft beer that MacCleary had wheeled in with the food. He drank greedily.
"I suppose you're wondering why you're here."
"Mmm," Remo said, reaching for the second lobster. Crushing the claw in his hands, he sucked out the meat.
"I said I suppose you're wondering why you're here," MacCleary repeated.
"Yeah," Remo said absently as he dipped a white chunk of lobster meat into a mug of melted butter. "Wondering."
Remo saw that something had been stamped on the side of the mug. The faded legend "Property Of Folcroft Sanitarium" was written in blue ink. It was the sort of stamp a business might use on furniture or expensive equipment. By the looks of it, the words on the mug had worn out several times and had to be reapplied. There were shadowy remnants of the phrase beneath the current one. Remo wondered briefly what exactly Folcroft Sanitarium was and what kind of nit would waste his time stamping and restamping a cheap, stained, easily replaceable coffee mug.
MacCleary had drawn a chair up next to Remo's bed. He frowned as the kid studied his mug of butter. He hoped for a moment that he hadn't wasted CURE's resources shanghaiing a flake. Probably the ordeal. After all, few men who had been executed had ever lived to tell the tale.
When Remo put down the mug and resumed eating, Conn started talking. He talked about Vietnam, where a young Marine named Remo Williams had entered a farmhouse alone and killed five Vietcong. He talked about death and life. He talked about patriotism and country. He talked about CURE.
"I can't tell you who runs it from the top," MacCleary said, "but I'm your boss." He stared into Remo's cold, brown eyes. In that moment he knew he was looking into the eyes of a born killer. "I promise you terror for breakfast, pressure for lunch, tension for supper and aggravation for sleep. Your vacations are the two minutes you're not looking over your shoulder for some hood to put one in the back of your head. Your bonuses are five minutes when you're not figuring out how to kill someone or keep from getting killed.
"But I promise you this." MacCleary lowered his voice. "Some day America may never need CURE, because of what we do. Maybe some day kids we never had can walk down any dark street any time and maybe a junkie ward won't be their only end. Some day maybe honest judges can sit behind clean benches and legislators won't take campaign funds from gamblers. And all the union men will be fairly represented. We're fighting the fight the American people are too lazy to fight-maybe a fight they don't even want won."
Standing, MacCleary turned from Remo and paced at the foot of the bed. "If you live six months, it'll be amazing. If you live a year, it'll be a miracle. That's what we have to offer you." He stopped dead, resting hook and hand on the base of Remo's bed. "What do you say?"
MacCleary's eyes were reddened, his face taut. Sitting in bed, Remo was picking lobster meat from between his teeth with a fork. "You frame me?" Remo asked.
"Yeah," MacCleary said without emotion.
"Good job," Remo said. He reached for another lobster.
"I'M NOT GETTING any younger," Remo said, irritated. He leaned against a set of parallel bars in the Folcroft gym.
For some reason MacCleary had made him dress in a white costume with a white silk sash. The older man had said it was necessary in order to show proper respect.
"Hold your horses, kid," MacCleary called. He was waiting near the open door at the far end of the gym.
"This better be worth it," Remo grumbled.
It was more than a week since he'd awakened from his drug-induced sleep. Remo's face was still sore. He had caught his reflection in the glass door of an emergency fire-hose box on the way to the gymnasium. The bruising was healing.
It was still a shock to see his own reflection-to look in a mirror and see someone else staring back. His cheekbones seemed higher, his eyes even deeper than before. When he'd finally seen his reflection in the silver serving tray that first day, Remo's own eyes had unnerved him.
MacCleary had told him the plastic surgery was necessary. No point going through such an elaborate frame-up only to leave the victim with his own face. Just another thing CURE had stolen from him.
Remo was absently taking inventory of his own face with his fingertips as MacCleary waited near the gym door. A .38 Police Special dangled from MacCleary's hook.