Mark grabbed up the phone, pressing the blinking blue light. "Hello," he said.
"We've got major problems here, kid," Remo said without preamble. "I need to talk to Smith."
"Dr. Smith isn't here right now," Mark said.
"What are you talking about? It's one in the afternoon. Smith's never not there at one in the afternoon. What is he, counting cotton swabs in the supply closet? Get off your duff and go get him. Now."
"He's not here, Remo," Mark insisted. "He's gone to play golf. He mentioned that he was going to try to hook up with some guys he used to play with."
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Perfect timing, Smitty," Remo grumbled to himself. "Can you page him?"
"Yes," Mark said. "Remo, what is going on there?"
There was an impatient hiss on the line. "You have access to Smith's computer records?"
"Yes."
Remo said only three words: "Dr. Judith White." Mark spun to his computer. Short fingers moved swiftly over the clattering keyboard. In seconds he had pulled up the relevant CURE records.
"Judith White. Geneticist. Worked for a company called BostonBio on the Bos Camelus-Whitus." The stir of memory strained his voice. "Oh, no," Mark said worriedly. "I remember this. It was in the news right around Dolly the sheep. This Dr. White was into bizarre genetic engineering, wasn't she? She went on some kind of rampage three years ago in Boston. Oh. According to this encryption in Dr. Smith's notes, you and Chiun stopped her."
"Not good enough apparently. It looks like she's behind what's going on here."
Mark paused a beat. "Remo, it says here that Judith White is dead. I'm assuming you had a hand in that, too."
"And an arm."
"Excuse me?"
"An arm," Remo said. "As in I ripped her arm out of its socket just before she fell three stories and had a million tons of burning factory collapse on her. Sue me for assuming she'd gone to that great litter box in the sky."
Mark nodded. "Very well, I'll page Dr. Smith." He checked the time in the corner of his computer screen. "It will take him a good twenty minutes to get back here. Stay at this number. We'll call you back."
"Make it snappy," Remo said.
The assistant CURE director hung up the phone. He fished a scrap of paper with Smith's pager number from his jacket pocket. He glanced at his monitor. The blob of a cursor blinked over the J in Judith White's name.
"Sorry, Dr. Smith," Mark Howard lamented. "I hope you enjoyed your first five minutes off in forty years."
Exhaling, he reached once more for the phone.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, it had not gone as poorly as Smith had imagined.
He was rusty the first few holes, as would be expected. For working out the kinks, he had been generous keeping score-golf had always been the one aspect of his life where Smith's otherwise scrupulous honesty failed completely and utterly. But by the seventh and eighth he felt his game returning, almost as if he'd never given it up. By the ninth he barely had to cheat at all.
By the time he returned to the clubhouse, most of his good humor had returned. He tipped his caddie a generous $1.25, adjusted for inflation from his old golfing days. As the young man muttered curses under his breath, Smith carted his own clubs up the stairs to the big shaded patio that stretched out at the rear of the main clubhouse.
Tables under umbrellas were arranged around the deck. Most were filled by patrons of the club's restaurant.
Through the patio doors was the more formal dining hall. To the left was the lounge.
Smith was passing the bar on his way out to the main lobby when he heard the disturbance.
A man at the bar was choking. At least he seemed to be. Hands clutched tight at his throat.
A club staff member-Smith noted that it was the same woman who had tried to help him earlier-was slapping the man on the back, a worried look on her pretty face.
A few others came to help.
Smith was going to ignore it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was attract attention to himself.
He was passing into the hall next to the lounge when he heard a terrible sound-a soft, animal growl. The noise was followed quickly by a woman's scream.
Turning, Smith found the choking golfer leaning back at the waist, hands raised and clutched like claws.
Smith watched amazed as, with a swat, the golfer threw back one of the men who had come to his aid. It was an incredible display of strength. Far greater than should have been possible for a man that size.
The golfer spun on the female. Baring a mouthful of yellowed, middle-aged teeth, he sprang on her, knocking her to the floor. Sprawling on top of her wriggling body, he lunged at the screaming woman's throat.
There was panic in the lounge. And in that moment of panicked, paralyzed hysteria, no one seemed to know what to do. No one except one man.
The enraged golfer attacked purely on instinct. But so too did Harold W. Smith.
From his ancient golf bag, Smith grabbed a driver. Like a tired knight charging into the bloody fray, he ran back into the bar. Hauling back, he gave a mighty swing.
The club struck the woman's attacker hard in the back of the head. A swing that strong outside would have sent Smith's ball sailing nearly to the green. Here, it appeared to barely phase the growling man.
The golfer wheeled on Smith, wild-eyed. Blood dribbled down his chin, staining his white collar. He had ripped a gushing wound in the woman's neck. The look in his eyes was purely animal. He made as if to lunge.
Smith swung again.
The club cracked the side of the man's head. This time there was a reaction. A soft crack of bone. The man growled, wobbling. Still he came. Another swing. The golfer seemed finally to feel the combined effect of the three blows. His legs fell out from beneath him, and he toppled groggily to the floor.
When he finally dropped to his knees, the others in the lounge seemed to finally find their courage. The crush of heavy men fell on the semiconscious man, pinning arms and legs in place. Beneath the pile, the demented golfer whimpered like a wounded animal.
The club director Smith had earlier spoken to had raced into the bar for the end of the battle. A bartender had already called 911. Waiters from the restaurant held linen napkins to the injured woman's throat.
"What happened?" the white-haired club director panted. He stood next to Smith, surveying the terrible scene.
"I don't know," Smith replied. But there was a troubled edge to his acid voice. As he spoke, the pager on his belt buzzed to life. He checked it, noting the Folcroft number.
"Thank God, Dr. Smith," the club director was saying. "I mean- My heavens, thank God. If you hadn't stepped in, I don't know what would have-"
When he glanced over his shoulder he found he was alone.
The ancient bag of golf clubs was gone. So, too, it seemed, was the mysterious Dr. Harold Smith. Breathless, the club director hurried to attend the injured woman and await the ambulance. On his way, he nearly tripped on an empty Lubec Springs water bottle.
Scowling, the club director angrily kicked the offending bottle beneath a nearby overturned bar stool.
Chapter 12
Remo was sitting anxiously at one of the squad-room desks in the South Precinct Midtown station when the phone before him rang.
"Report," Smith said, his voice more tart than usual. It was as if his larynx had been soaked in lemon juice and had dried two sizes too small.
"We think it's Judith White, Smitty," Remo said. Around him paramedics were still tending to police injuries. One officer was being carried out on a stretcher. The pandemonium of half an hour before had been replaced by mostly grim silence, interrupted by soft whispers.