“Presumably. The CURE mainframes flagged three Sheila Strouds, but none of them match up. Two women over forty, and a six-year-old in Birmingham.”
“Adoption records?” Remo prodded.
“Nothing. I can tell you Dr. Radcliff and Ideal Maternity have no official link with any recognized adoption agency in the United States or Canada. Data on the black market is not definitive, of course—it changes every day—and Radcliff could be operating independently. His clinic there in Brandenburg, for instance, could provide him with a hard-core clientele, and word of mouth would do the rest. For all we know, infant adoptions could be written off as births, with Radcliff altering the paperwork. I will need his patient files to check that angle out.”
“Good luck.”
“Precisely.”
“What about Althea Bliss?”
“One scrap of good news.” Smith replied. “I found her right away.”
“So, tell me.”
“Althea Delaney Bliss was born in 1946 in Dothan, Alabama. Her father was a member of the KKK, but he got drunk one night and set himself on fire while he was lighting up a cross outside a synagogue. He was unemployable from that point on, and drank himself to death. He apparently lived long enough to pass his racist attitudes on to his teenage girls. Althea was youngest of the three. She graduated high school with a D+ average. She spent one year in business school, but did not do well. As soon as she turned twenty-one, she found a civil service job—as a matron at the Talladega women’s prison.”
“Sounds about right,” Remo said blandly.
“As you might guess, she. had some trouble on the job. There were a number of complaints about excessive force, though none were finally sustained. An eighteen-year-old inmate charged that Bliss coerced her into, er, ‘unwilling and unnatural relations’ in the laundry room. That case was pending when she finally decided to quit. She turned in her resignation and disappeared.”
“And showed up managing Ideal Maternity for Dr. -Radcliff.”
“Apparently so.”
“Instead of getting canned and sent to jail, she winds up with her own house full of living dolls.”
“It is still no proof of murder,” Smith reminded him, “but I am inclined to agree with you. I will be watching out for Bliss and company if they resurface in the neighborhood.”
“Twelve pregnant girls and all that staff, they can’t just disappear,” said Remo, but he knew they could and maybe had. If nothing else, he knew that Dr. Radcliff and his cohorts planned ahead.
“I am working on it,” Smith replied. “It may take time.”
“I can’t see any way around a face-to-face with Radcliff,” Remo said.
“What is the approach?”
“I’ve overdone the Bureau angle,” Remo said. “Let’s try a freelance journalist, reporting on advances in fertility research.”
“Sounds good,” Smith agreed. “At least to get you in with a minimum of fuss.”
“I can do a little snooping this way.”
“You are still going with the soft approach?”
“As far as possible. I don’t expect Radcliff to break down and confess.”
“Too much to hope for, I suppose. You will keep me posted?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Well.” Harold Smith seemed uncomfortable, at a loss for words. He settled for a brusque “Good luck” and severed the connection.
Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju who was still at the window and told him, “I’m going out again.”
“Of course. To meet with Smith’s amazing doctor who makes dead men walk again.”
“See if he’s home, at least.”
“Does he use sorcery, this man?”
“I doubt it very much,” said Remo.
“Does Smith the insane think so?”
“No I think it’s scientific. Little Father.”
“In another time, before my youth, the scientists were sorcerers. It is all the same. They play with Nature and attempt to change the way men live.”
“Is that so bad?” asked Remo.
“It depends,” Chiun told him, “on the method and the goal. Why should an old man in a coma be connected to machines that do what his own flesh cannot? Is he so great that we must keep him with us always? Or are men so afraid of what may follow death that they delay its call, regardless of the cost?”
“This life is all we have,” said Remo.
“Then by all means, live it!” Chiun replied. “If you spend all your days evading death, where is the time for life?”
“What is this? Today’s freaking inspirational sermon?”
“I am bored. You continually stuff me away in hotel rooms like some deranged spinster aunt. I must do something to while away the time. Are you going to kill Smith’s doctor?”
“Most probably.”
“It is for the best,” Chiun said. “We can end this wild-duck chase and go home.” He turned back to the window.
It’s for the best.
Could be, but Remo had to find his target first, and make some sense of what was going on. A simple hit on Dr. Radcliff would not end the story if important questions still remained unanswered. Remo had to know-what he was up against before he could destroy it.
So get on with it, he thought.
And closed the door behind him, moving swiftly toward his car.
Chapter 15
Remo followed Highway 60 south from Louisville to Muldraugh, several miles above the Fort Knox, gold depository, where he branched off to the west toward Brandenburg.
It was a gamble, dropping in on Radcliff uninvited, but he had a feeling that the doctor would be shunning interviews today, if he was given any choice. Remo was interested in seeing how his adversary dealt with unexpected visitors the morning after losing one of his facilities.
Of course, there was a chance he might not get to see the doctor, after all. Radcliff could be in hiding or he might refuse to meet with Remo. Stranger things had happened to reporters, but whichever way it went, he would be able to examine part of Radcliff’s clinic.
Whatever happened in the next few hours, he would get a feeling for the man.
The Family Service Clinic had a wholesome ring to it. A passing motorist would have to stop and read the fine print on a sign no more than three feet square to realize the clinic dealt exclusively with Family Planning and Fertility. At that, the clinic proper was concealed by ivy-covered walls and weeping willows, but the wrought-iron gate was open, waiting for him.
Remo took the bait and drove inside.
Ideal Maternity had been an older building, modernized and renovated, while the clinic was a relatively new addition to the landscape, cunningly designed to look antique—at least from the outside. There was a blacktop parking lot on the west side, with spaces for a dozen cars marked off in yellow paint. The spacious lawn was neatly trimmed and bordered, with a flagstone path that led him from the parking lot to the front door.
Inside, a blond receptionist who could have modeled swimsuits for a living greeted Remo with a dazzling smile. “How may I help you, sir?”
Women had not been pursuing Remo relentlessly since his shark-eating episodes, and his interest in them had been revived. Now he checked an urge to tell her how she could help and replied, “I’m hoping for a chance to speak with Dr. Radcliff.”
“Ah. Is he expecting you?”
“Unfortunately, no, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d take a chance.”
The smile took on a hint of frost. “And you are…?”
“Remo Washington, reporter. I’m with Newstime, working on a feature piece for next week’s issue. Infertility, its causes, new treatments—that type of thing.”
“I’ll have to see if Doctor is available,” she said, “We normally require appointments.”