Toward the back of the dimly lit saloon a ghostly white young man appeared to be firing bolts of lightning from his fingertips. The arcing current was pounding against a figure that was sprawled back against the bar.
Despite the apparent amazing abilities of the first man, it was the second figure that shocked McQueen more.
The thing appeared to be half man, half spider. Twisted arachnid legs jutted from a sparking torso, thrashing as if in pain with every surging burst of power.
When Roote attacked, Gordons had tried to assume a shape that would frighten the man into retreat. With his circuits overloading, the transformation hadn't been fully successful.
As McQueen watched, the powerful hum that seemed to rise up from Roote slowed.
Confusion marred Elizu Roote's pale face.
His power charge was weakening. Cutting the juice, he wheeled from Gordons. Staggering slightly, the thin young man disappeared down the shadowy hallway and was gone.
Mr. Gordons reeled away from the bar. His face showed no emotion as his spider legs flailed in space. Pitching forward, he fell against a chair.
Extra furry arms kept him from falling. He pushed himself back to his feet, staggering for the door. Near the entrance to the Roadkill, Stewart McQueen shook his head, snapping himself from his trance. Racing over, he grabbed Gordons up under his human set of arms. The writer was relieved when he received no shock.
A soft word croaked up from the belly of the android.
"...survive, survive, survive, survive..."
Gordons didn't seem to be aware of where he even was.
Stewart McQueen nodded tightly, struggling to support the android. He was amazed by how heavy Gordons was.
"I can help you to survive," McQueen promised. "Just remember, one hand washes the other."
He hurried the android outside, dumping him into the back of his rental car. McQueen tumbled in behind the steering wheel.
With fresh images of New York Times bestsellerdom dancing in his head for the first time in months, Stewart McQueen thanked the prince of all that was unholy before tearing off into the night.
Chapter 17
Remo had to swerve a dozen times to avoid fleeing cars. They were barreling up the middle of the road away from the Roadkill Tavern and into oncoming traffic.
One of the vehicles in particular headed straight for him up the double yellow line. Twisting the wheel to one side, Remo scraped sparks from the sides of three parked cars. The menacing black shape tore past them.
"Wasn't that another one of those boohawdle vans?" Remo growled as he pulled back onto the road.
Chiun was carefully scrutinizing the escaping van in the side mirror. "One ugly American vehicle looks the same as the next to me."
Given what they had seen already, Remo was reluctant to let the van get away. Hoping that their giant spider wasn't caged inside it, he continued down the road to the bar.
When they pulled into the parking lot a minute later, the police had just arrived. Remo waved his FBI ID under as many noses as was necessary to gain them admittance.
Inside, the two Masters of Sinanju noted the fresh black burn marks on the floor. There were two of them. Side by side, they traced the approximate oval shape of a pair of shoe soles.
Remo and Chiun exchanged a quick glance. They had seen similar marks before.
It was Remo who shook his head dismissively. "Can't be," he insisted. "He's dead. Besides, look at this." He indicated the severed limbs lying on the floor near the bar. The rest of the drug dealer's corpse lay in a bloody heap nearby. "This is something different."
Chiun nodded sharply.
There was greater police activity in a room behind the bar. When Remo and Chiun stepped through the door, they found an even grislier scene. One man's head looked as if it had been sliced off by a portable guillotine.
As Remo examined the corpse, he glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "If I didn't know better, I'd think this was your handiwork, Little Father," he commented.
Chiun shook his head. "This butchery was done with an implement," he said, his face registering disgust.
Remo nodded. "Not a single blade, either," he said. He noted the slight irregularity on either side of the neck. "Looks almost like a big pair of scissors."
As he stepped around the body, he felt something under the heel of his loafer. Turning, he scuffed his foot across the floor. Chiun's gaze tracked the movement of his pupil.
On the floor were tiny black flecks, so small they would have been invisible to the average naked eye. Crouching, Remo gathered a bit of the residue on one finger, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. His fingertips barely registered the presence of the frictionless material.
"More spider poop," he pronounced, dusting the thin black powder from his hands. "And just what the hell kind of spider sheds metal anyway?"
Tipping his head low, he found a few larger fragments scattered beneath a desk and chairs that sat back against the wall. Judging by the many bullet holes in the wall, they had apparently been blown off the creature.
Remo rose, fragments in hand and a dark cloud on his face. "Dammit, we should have followed that van. You get a look at the driver?"
"Of course," Chiun sniffed.
"And?" Remo asked after a brief moment of silence during which the old man said nothing. Chiun shrugged. "He had a big nose, big hands and big feet. I would say he was a typical white."
Remo's lips thinned. "He wasn't driving with his feet, Chiun," he said.
"I merely extrapolated from that which I could see," the wizened Korean replied. Eyes growing conspiratorial, he pitched his voice low. "Although I have toiled in this land lo these many years, Remo, it remains a mystery to me to this day how you people are able to tell each other apart."
"Yeah, our lives are just one wacky Patty Duke Show episode after another," Remo said. "Guess we're screwed."
He found a plain white envelope on the desk and dumped the black fragments into it, stuffing the envelope deep in his pocket. Hands clenching, he turned back to survey the macabre scene.
He was thinking about how hard it would be to track an eight-legged opponent. Did eight legs mean it could run four times faster than a man?
"Of course," Chiun observed all at once, "there are always those numbers to differentiate one of you from the next."
"What numbers?" Remo asked, turning slowly. "The identifying numbers on the back of the vehicle that drove directly at us," Chiun replied. "You know, Remo, the numbers that you failed to note since you were preoccupied with the task of not even glancing at the driver."
"You got the license-plate number?" Remo asked.
"Of course," Chiun said. A knowing sadness touched his weathered face. "And need I point out yet again that my eyes will not always be here to see for you?"
The dark lines of Remo's face grew firm. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "You're not sucking me in with that now, Little Father, so you can just save the morbid stuff for another day. I've had enough lemonade making lately. For the moment my life's gonna be about the here and now-not some far-off time when everything's supposed to come crashing down around my big white ears. And right now I've got a bug to squash."
Face resolute, he went off in search of a phone. Behind him Chiun considered his pupil's words. Remo hadn't spoken in anger, merely with determination. And in his heart of hearts, the Master of Sinanju knew that his son's resolve was correct. The future would come in its time and would be whatever it would be.
Nodding silent agreement, the old man padded off after his pupil.
THE MIDMORNING SUN BURNED fiery hot over Cape Canaveral. The sunlight dragged across the halfopened venetian blinds, slicing perfect yellow lines across the hard-edged face of Administrator Zipp Codwin.