"I don't know how," Remo answered the unasked question. "I just know we have to."
"Why?" Chiun asked.
Remo made an exaggerated gesture at the sizzling woman. "Hello? Bad man up to no good?"
"Do not speak to me in that way, please. What kind of no good do you think he is up to?"
Remo fretted. "Who knows? Probably doing what he does-you know, poisoning all the tourists. Dosing them up."
"And he would do it in what way?"
"Same way they did us, I guess-put it in the pasta Puttanesca." Remo looked at the moon over the water. He looked suddenly at Chiun. "Or the scrambled eggs. What if he goes at night to the hotels and sprinkles his special seasoning in the food for the morning breakfast buffets? He'd get pretty good coverage."
"That would be effective," Chiun agreed.
"So we make the rounds of the hotels until we find him."
Amelia Powlik sat up. "Where you going?"
"Maybe you should keep from moving around too much," Remo said as he watched part of her upper-arm skin slough off in a black crust.
"Wait, you. You sound kinda good-looking. Stay with me and let's get to know each other."
"You gotta be kidding me," Remo said to no one in particular.
"WE GOT A CALL for a paramedic backup," the dispatcher said.
"Take a message!" answered Chief of Police Checker Spence as another huge boom shook the police station, like a subterranean explosion. "Where's Weil and Lambert?"
"On their way," the dispatcher said.
There was another boom. This time it sounded different. Less resonant. The Coke on a nearby desk sloshed inside its bottle. "What about Fornes? Is he coming?"
"Fornes is dead, Chief," the dispatcher reminded him. Spence stiffened, then nodded. Fornes had been killed by Alan from the tourism department, who bit a chunk out of his neck. The wound was huge. Fornes bled to death. And then Agnes, that nice old lady, had tried to do the same thing to Chief Spence.
The floor shook with another boom from below. That would be Alan from the tourism department. And dear old Agnes. And the rest of the insane maniacs they had transported from the aircraft to the police lockup down below. They had been prone to violence, but at least they had quieted down eventually. Chief Checker Spence liked his maniacs quiet and cooperative.
So he became perturbed when the maniacs in the lockup started getting excited again an hour ago. Soon they were pounding the walls. Now they were pounding the doors. And Checker Spence had a sinking feeling...
Another boom, this time accompanied by a crunch. The steel door hadn't failed, but the concrete that held the bolts had crumbled.
Spence rushed to the top of the stairs. "Simone!"
"They're breaking through, Chief!" Officer Simone called up.
"Get the hell out of-"
Another boom and then a creaking sound, followed by a powerful crash.
"They're out!" shouted Officer Jacot from somewhere out of sight.
Spence shouted. "Simone! Jacot! Get out of there now!"
Simone came into view at the bottom of the stairs, but he was looking back the way he'd come. His handgun was drawn.
Spence hurried down the stairs. "Do not fire your weapons!"
He was almost drowned out by the thunderous gunfire and shouting. It wasn't Simone. Simone was just standing there.
Chief Checker Spence reached the bottom just in time to watch Officer Jacot die. The man was triggering his gun in every direction, shouting at the mob of bloody, battered, silent figures who encircled him. They moved ponderously, without speaking, ignoring those among them who fell from gunshot wounds. Jacot ran out of bullets and the mob closed in. They grabbed his arms and legs. They grabbed his head. They sank their fingers in the flesh of his torso. Jacot was lifted off the ground.
Jacot realized his fate then. He made an ungodly sound. Then the eerily silent mob pulled his body apart.
"CALL THE MAINLAND!" Chief Spence barked at the dispatcher as he dragged Simone out and slammed the door, locking it with a dead bolt. "Call the army!" The dispatcher ignored him and looking around worriedly. "Where's Jacot?"
Officer Simone giggled. "He's all over the place." One glance told Captain Spence that Simone had gone out for lunch and might never come back.
"Oh, great," he said. Then he heard the sodden clomp of heavy feet on the stairs.
"Are you calling for help?" he asked the dispatcher.
"Who you want me to call exactly?" she asked, getting worried now.
There was a crash against the door to the basement. They were throwing their whole bodies against it. The dead bolt was already buckling.
"Forget it," Chief Spence said. "It's too late. Let's go."
THE UNION ISLAND MUSEUM of Natural History had a sophisticated security system, but Dawn Summens had an override code. She punched in the code, commanding the alarm system to maintain a silent but active state. She didn't want the museum curator to notice that his little green LEDs had blinked off.
Curator Matthew Builder was just a nosy old busybody two years ago when he retired from the University of Florida at Miami. Greg Grom had been on his way to the top, laying the groundwork for his wild popularity spree, and had already moved into the Union Island Tourism Promotions Department. Grom rarely made intelligent decisions-it was sheer stupid luck that got him everything he had-but latching on to the old codger from Florida State had been a rare smart move.
When Professor Builder told Grom his dig sites on the island were of marginal value in terms of the greater archaeological research record, Greg Grom had suggested otherwise. Grom suggested, in fact, that it was the most important Native American site in the Caribbean islands.
"Why would I think that?" Professor Builder had asked as the GUTX laid his self-determination in Greg Grom's lap.
"You'll think of a reason," Grom told the prof. And sure enough, Builder did. He claimed discovery of a series of hieroglyphics that showed the little-known Miytec of pre-Columbian Union Island had been rulers of far-reaching power, maybe for centuries. Newly translated Miytec hieroglyphics told how Miytec priests claimed to wield power over "all the kings of the earth." How the Miytec priests would receive the kings of all the lands. All rulers of power and influence were invited to drink the Miytec priests' sacred brew. The great secret was that, once the brew had been consumed, these men invariably became pliant to the suggestion of the Miytec priests.
Greg Grom had almost panicked when he heard the tale. It was too close for comfort. But even Professor Builder did not believe that the priests had ever had this power-he only claimed that this was what the priests themselves believed.
Professor Builder's reputation was rock solid. That's why Grom chose him. Despite a lack of archaeological verification, his theory was widely accepted. Even those who thought he was wrong still considered his claims worth investigating. Union Island became the subject of serious scientific inquiry, which boosted its prestige. Greg Grom got all the credit for it.
Professor Builder, at Grom's suggestion, returned to Union Island to serve as director of research for the Union Island Museum of Natural History, where a well-paid management staff took care of the day-to-day operations and Builder spent his days immersed in his research while the grant money, thanks to a few more well-placed suggestions, poured in too fast for the museum to spend it all.
Builder was always at the museum late into the evening. This was well-known among the Union Islanders. His car was also well-known-an electric golf cart with orange curling hot-rod flames painted on the doors. The cart was invariably parked in Builder's reserved spot at the private entrance in the rear of the museum. It was there now. From the third-floor research labs a single office blazed with light.
Dawn Summens knew the old professor would be buried in his research. She was pretty sure she could get in and out of the museum without attracting his attention.