Chapter 6
"I say we leave," said Lawrence Templey Johnson.
He was a big, bluff man, the kind who ran wild in America's corporate boardrooms. Even with his suit reduced to cutoff pants and his white shirt a rag, his takecharge manner clung to him like a stale odor.
"I say we stay," said Remo quietly. "So we stay. End of discussion."
It was turning cold now on the desert. The sunbaked sand had given up the last of its stored heat, and now the chill was setting into everyone's bones.
"Why?" demanded Lawrence Templey Johnson. "I want to know why."
Remo was looking at a woman's broken arm. Lorna had put on a splint, but the woman was still in deep pain. Remo took the woman's shattered arm in his fingers and gently kneaded the flesh from wrist to elbow, not sure of what to do, but growing more confident as he worked the arm.
He could sense the breaks. Three of them, all below the elbow, and the broken pieces of bone had not been aligned correctly.
"I want to know why," Johnson repeated. He was using a foot-high rock near the hull of the burned-out jetcraft as a soapbox and he sounded like a politician in training. He was starting to get on Remo's nerves.
"How does it feel now?" Remo asked the woman.
"A little better. I think."
Remo suddenly squeezed and the woman gasped, but when the first shock subsided, both she and Remo knew the bones had been properly aligned. Remo massaged a nerve in her neck to ease the dull healing pain that would come later.
"Thank you," the woman said.
"I'm talking to you," said Lawrence Templey Johnson. "How dare you ignore me? Who do you think you are?" He looked around at the survivors, who sat, dully, on the sand near the plane. "Look at him," he told them. "Look how he's dressed. He's a nobody. He probably fixes cars for a living. I'm taking charge here and I say we're leaving."
Remo stood and casually brushed sand off the legs of his chino pants.
"We're staying because it's just a matter of time before the rescue planes come," Remo said. "If we start wandering around this desert, we might never be found."
"We've been waiting hours for these so-called rescue planes," the other man snapped. "I say we leave."
"I say we stay," Remo said coldly.
"Who appointed you cock of the walk? Let's put it to a vote," said Johnson, who had visions of a Hollywood movie chronicling how he had led his stranded fellow passengers out of the desert. Starring Roger Moore as Lawrence Templey Johnson. He would have preferred David Niven but David Niven was dead. "We'll vote. This is a democracy. "
"No," said Remo. "It's a desert. And anybody who wanders out into it is going to die."
"We'll see about that." Johnson raised his voice. "Everybody in favor of getting out of here, say 'Aye.' "
No one said "Aye." They voted with their rear ends, keeping them firmly planted in the sand.
"Fools," Johnson snapped. "Well, I'm going."
"I'm sorry. I can't let you do that," Remo said.
"Why not?"
"Because I promised myself we'd all get out of here alive. I'm not going to let you become buzzard bait." Johnson jumped off the small rock and marched toward Remo. He poked him in the chest with his index finger. "You're going to have to get a lot bigger real quick if you think you're going to stop me."
"Say good night, Johnson," Remo mumbled. And mumbled an answer to himself: "Good night Johnson." And pressed his right hand into the bigger man's throat, squeezed for a moment, then caught him as he crumpled and laid him on the sand next to the plane.
"He's not hurt, is he?" Lorna asked.
Remo shook his head. "Just asleep." He looked around at the other crash survivors, who were watching him. "He'll be okay, folks. Meantime, I think all of you ought to move closer together to try to keep each other warm. Just until the rescuers get here."
"They're really coming?" the little girl asked.
"Yes," Remo said. "I promise."
"Good. Then I'm going to sleep."
Later, with the stars wheeling in the ebony sky above their heads, Remo and Lorna slipped away from the others. "You've never told me your last name," she said, as she took his arm.
"I don't have one," Remo said. He sat on a slightly elevated dune and the young woman moved down lightly beside him.
"I thought you were a real wiseass back on the plane, even if I was attracted to you. But I was wrong. You're no wiseass."
"Don't get too close to me," he said.
"What?"
He took a long look at a big moon, perched atop a spire, miles away. It looked like a futuristic desert lamp. The wind blew a fine sand spray off the tops of the small dunes. The sand hissed.
"When the rescue planes come, I'm leaving. My own way. I'd appreciate it if you'd just not even mention me," he said.
"But you're the one who saved everybody. You got them out of the plane. You've taken care of them since then. That little girl . . . she adores you."
"Yeah. Swell. But I'm still vanishing when the planes come, so just forget about me."
"Why? Are you a criminal or something?"
"Not a criminal, but something," Remo said. "You know, I never had a family. This is the first time I ever felt I belonged with people." He laughed bitterly. "And it took a plane crash to make it happen."
"It happened though," she said.
"When do you think the planes will come for us?" he said.
"Soon," she answered. "I'm surprised they haven't arrived by now."
She put her hands to his face. "But we have a little while, don't we?" she asked quietly.
"We do," he said and brought Lorna down to the sand with him. Their lips met first, hungry and sad. Remo reached for her right wrist instinctively, ready to begin the slow finger massage that was the first of the thirty-seven steps of the Sinanju love technique.
Then he remembered how it had always been with Sinanju love techniques.
"Hell with it," he mumbled and he just took her. Their bodies joined pleasurably, unrhythmically. Each time one of them came to a peak, the other slid off it. It was long, elemental, sometimes frustrating, but natural, and when the peak did come, it came to both of them at once.
And that made it worth all the effort in the world, Remo thought.
She fell asleep in his arms and Remo looked at the sky, knowing their first time together was also their last.
The telephone had been ringing, on and off, for hours but Chiun had declined to answer it. It was probably Remo calling and if Chiun answered it and then asked him had Remo yet spoken to Nellie Wilson, Remo would have some lame excuse about how he had been too busy, and it would all just annoy Chiun, the way Remo always did. And it was also good to let Remo wait awhile, lest he develop the habit of telephoning and expecting Chiun to answer immediately, like a servant.
Three hours of intermittent telephone ringing seemed like enough punishment to Chiun so he went to the telephone in the corner of the hotel room, lifted the receiver, and said slowly, "Who is speaking?"
The receiver crackled and hissed in his ear. "Who is there? Who is there?"
More crackling and hissing and Chiun said, "Fool device."
"Chiun, this is Smith," came the voice.
"Emperor Smith. I thought you were Remo."
"Why?" asked Smith sharply. "Have you heard from Remo?"
"No, but I expect him to call at any moment."
"You don't know where he is either?" Smith asked.
"I have not heard from him," Chiun said.
"Chiun, I have a report that indicates Remo may be in Detroit. He is trying to kill America's top automobile executives."
"Good," Chiun said. "At least he is working."
"No. You don't understand. He's not on assignment."
"He is practicing then," Chiun said. "That is almost as good. "
"Chiun, I think he's free-lancing for someone else."
"Strange," Chiun said under his breath. Louder, he said, "He is perhaps trying to earn extra money to donate to the impoverished of Sinanju. That would be nice. "