What in the world could have been so funny to an old sourpuss like Dr. Smith?
What she wouldn't give to know.
"OH YEAH, REAL FUNNY, Junior," said the disgruntled voice out of the speakerphone.
"The Associated Press took a really nice photo, Remo," Mark Howard said, unfolding the newspaper when Mrs. Mikulka was gone. "The Rye Record's got it right on the front page. 'Who Smashed Digger-And Why?' Listen to this-"
"No, thanks."
"No, just listen," Mark Howard insisted delightedly. "'Digger the Dinosaur never hurt a soul during his short life. In fact, the purple dinosaur with pink spots was only six weeks old. Yesterday, however, his brief existence was snuffed out when vandals smashed the two-ton fiberglass figure to pieces in the parking lot of the Carefree Vacation Condominiums development in Pigeon Fudge, Tennessee."'
"Boo-hoo for the Carefree Vacation Condominiums," Remo said sourly out of the speakerphone. "There's more. 'The vandalism occurred yesterday afternoon, but police say they do not know how the dinosaur was destroyed. "He was so new he was still shiny," said Max Scheaffer, president of Carefree. "Who would have thought somebody could do such a heinous act."'"
"I know you think this is the most fun ever, but could we get on to business?" Remo grouched.
"This is business," Mark protested. "Your stunt turned out to be the curiosity-of-the-day in papers and newscasts around the country. You came pretty close to exposing the organization. Not to mention that it was just, well, a heinous thing to do."
Mark Howard stifled a chuckle.
One corner of Dr. Harold W. Smith's mouth twitched, very slightly.
"Hello?" Remo demanded. "Are there any adults in the room?"
"Remo, this could have been a real problem," Dr. Smith said, his voice almost, but not quite, as sour as ever.
"You're welcome. Thanks. No, really. Just doing my job."
"What are you referring to?"
"Tracking down the source of the poisoners? Remember? The job you couldn't do?"
"Yes, I assumed you would be able to do so," Smith replied. "But the little melee in Pigeon Fudge scared the islanders back home. A Union Island spokesperson claimed President Grom and his entourage were attacked by American ultranationalists. All the islanders were rounded up and flown out before they could be examined at the local hospital."
"They wouldn't let that happen because they've all have their brains melted, except maybe for the president himself," Remo said. "I think it's him, Smitty. That punk kid Grom. He's a sniveling, self-important little brat. I don't have to tell you about those kind."
"What evidence points to Grom?" Smith asked. "The same evidence that led me to this can of nuts in the first place. None."
"So why do you think it is Greg Grom behind all the outbreaks of violence?" Smith demanded. "We still don't know what he has to gain from any of it."
"You got me there," Remo said. "Maybe he's using some kind of mind-control potion. Maybe that's what got him where he is today."
Smith stared at the phone. "You mean, he drugged the people of Union Island to get himself elected? That's absurd."
"You wearing that butt-ugly green tie every day for forty years, that's absurd. Greg Grom spiking the coconut milk on Union Island, that makes perfect sense."
"If he did, then every resident of the island would be violently insane," Smith protested. "That's clearly not the case."
"Yeah. I don't have all the details worked out, but I do know Grom didn't get elected because of his charisma or his credibility. He doesn't have either."
"Maybe," Smith said. "We must consider the possibility that whoever is causing the poisonings had no connection to the islanders until he or she joined up with the group on the mainland. Which means we could see continued outbreaks in the South-Central U.S., even with the entourage back on their island."
"Nope," Remo said determinedly. "It won't happen. My gut says it's Grom."
Smith stared thoughtfully at the newspaper photo of fiberglass splinters. "I don't feel as confident, but going to Union Island is the logical next step until we have another occurrence. Mark?"
Mark Howard nodded. "I agree. Even without evidence it seems likely that whoever it was behind the poisonings, they were with the islanders."
"But we need hard evidence before we start assassinating the presidents of U.S. protectorates," Smith warned. "President Grom is off limits until proved guilty."
"Don't worry, I'll find proof," Remo said. "I won't snuff the punk until I have it."
"That would be heinous," Mark Howard said.
"Ha-ha-ha click," Remo said acidly.
Dr. Harold W Smith suppressed a subtle spasm in both corners of his perpetually sour mouth.
Chapter 29
The short buses were painted with parrots and palm trees. Tropical Transport was the name of the tour company. All the buses had a cardboard sign duct-taped to the front window with Chartered hand-lettered with a big black marker.
More cardboard-lots of it-had been used to cover the windows.
There was nobody inside yet. The four buses waited at the end of the Union Island International Airport's one and only runway. The bus lights were out. The runway lights were out. There were no flights scheduled to come in until the first morning tourist shuttle out of Miami at 6:00 a.m.
That was five hours away. Still, the lights of an aircraft appeared in the distance. They came closer, descending for a landing.
The runway lights blazed to life at the last minute, and the wheels of the chartered 747 touched down seconds later. It slowed fast, then came to a squeaking halt at the buses. The aircraft powered down at the same moment the runway lights faded to blackness, and there was nothing left except for a few yellow flashlight beams.
The Union Island Police Department wheeled the stairs into place and marched up to the aircraft doors. They had their billy clubs out. The doors opened and the police went in.
"Jesus Cheee-rist," Chief of Police Checker Spence grumbled. "It's a damn loony bin."
The aircraft was stuffed to the gills with lunatics. Most of them had the dead, sightless, unfocused eyes of a human vegetable. Their mouths hung slack, and when they turned to look at the police, their heads lolled from one side to the other, as if too heavy to control properly. A few of them were excited, yanking and pulling at their belts. Not one of them spoke.
Every man and woman had their hands cuffed behind their backs, which had to be a pretty uncomfortable way to fly. They all had their seat belts on. Otherwise the limp ones would have flopped to the floor.
"Hey, it's Alan from the tourism department!" One of the officers was aiming his billy club at a drooling, cadaverous figure in an aisle seat. The island government was tiny-everybody knew just about everybody.
"Hey, Alan, you feeling okay?" The officer leaned close.
Alan, from the tourism department, turned to face the officer. Spence could see the utter lack of vitality in the eyes, eyes that belonged in a corpse. He and his officer were both taken off guard when Alan from the tourism department bit a huge chunk of flesh out of the officer's neck. The officer went down screaming in the aisle.
"Jeesus!" Spence stormed down the aisle. He wasn't sure what he intended to do. For one thing, get the hunk of skin and muscle that was dangling from the teeth of Alan from the tourism department in hopes it could be reattached to the officer who was now pumping blood onto the aircraft floor.
Captain Spence didn't let his shock slow him. "Get the ambulance!" he shouted back to his other officers as he dropped to the floor beside the wounded man and applied heavy pressure to the wound. He felt the spurt of blood against his hand like water from a garden hose, and he knew he was feeling an open carotid artery. How many pints of blood had his man lost in just the past few seconds?