He had assumed it was one of his grown children. Drew was surprised by the voice on the other end of the line.
"Dr. Drew, there is an emergency at Folcroft," the tart voice of Harold Smith said. "I need you here immediately."
Lance Drew could not remember Director Smith ever calling him at home before. Drew had been helping his wife do the dishes. When he glanced at her, she saw the look of concern on his fleshy face. "What's wrong?" Drew asked into the phone.
"I'll tell you when you arrive. Please hurry." The phone clicked in Drew's ear.
Lance Drew felt a tingle in his ample gut. Another odd case. Had to be. It was the only explanation for Smith's troubled tone and the fact that the Folcroft director was personally calling him back to work.
"Sorry, hon," Drew said, tossing the wet dishrag in his hand to the counter. "Duty calls."
Grabbing up his jacket from the hallway coat rack, he hurried out the front door.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, Dr. Drew was on the sprawling side lawn of Folcroft, Director Smith at his side. Smith's rimless glasses were trained on the southern midnight sky.
It had gotten much cooler since Drew had left work at five. Long Island Sound churned cold and foamy white at the shore. Drew could just see the old boat dock behind the building. It rose and fell with the waves.
Wind whipped across the water and up the back lawn of the sanitarium to where the two men stood. Dr. Drew's hands were shoved deep in his pockets. He was wiggling his cold fingertips when the rumble finally sounded in the distance.
The wind almost covered it. When the Navy helicopter appeared over the dancing trees, it did so in a shock of sound. Claws of yellow searchlights raked the grass.
As soon as the lights found Director Smith and Lance Drew on the side lawn-a pair of orderlies waiting with a stretcher behind them-it lowered quickly to the ground.
Even as the aircraft settled to its wheels, Dr. Smith was running toward it. The howling downdraft from the rotors blew his thinning hair wildly.
Dr. Drew and the others hurried in behind him. Before any of them could reach the helicopter, the side door slid open. Two men Drew recognized from his years at Folcroft jumped to the ground. One was a young Caucasian; the other was the ancient Asian who had suffered the mysterious viral infection years before.
"It looks bad, Smitty," the younger one said. Although he didn't seem to shout, his voice was crystal clear over the helicopter noise.
The sanitarium director barely acknowledged the presence of the two men.
"Stand back," Smith demanded, straining to be heard over the roar of the blades. He waved for the orderlies to hurry.
The patient was lying inside the helicopter. Scampering inside, the two Folcroft attendants strapped him to the collapsible stretcher. Only when the man was brought out onto the lawn did Dr. Drew get a good look at him.
His jaw dropped. "It's Mr. Howard," he gasped. Folcroft's assistant director was unconscious. A large purple welt colored one temple. His wide face twitched with spastic tics.
Smith's steel-gray eyes fixed on Drew's. "Treat him," he commanded.
Drew quickly recovered from his initial surprise. He spun to the orderlies. "Get him inside!"
Dr. Drew ran alongside the two men as they crossed back to the sanitarium.
"Smitty, I-" Remo began.
"Later," the CURE director snapped. Without a backward glance at his enforcement arm, he ran after the others.
As the Navy helicopter was lifting off, Dr. Lance Drew was flinging open the side door of the facility. Running up behind, Smith grabbed the door from him, ushering the doctor and the others hastily inside. He ducked in behind them.
There was nothing more Remo and Chiun could do.
Faces as cold as the wind from the Sound, the two men glided across the lawn and slipped inside the big building.
Chapter 30
The examination took more than half an hour. Harold W. Smith watched every second of it, face drawn in lines of paternal concern.
Even before Dr. Lance Drew finished the exam, he knew his original assumption had been correct. This was an unusual case. But while unusual, it wasn't unique. Dr. Drew was certain this was connected to the still unexplained incidences in New York and elsewhere.
When he was through, the doctor instructed an attending Folcroft nurse to draw additional blood for testing. As the woman did as she was instructed, Drew was pulling off his latex gloves. He stepped across the small examination room to his anxious employer.
"This man should be in a hospital," Dr. Drew insisted in a hushed tone.
Smith shook his head firmly. "Folcroft is adequately equipped for his needs, Doctor."
"I don't even know what his needs are." Drew shot a troubled glance at Mark Howard. "There's been a rash of cases like this in the past few days."
A thought occurred to him. "I assume you've read about them?"
Dr. Drew didn't mean to insult, but Director Smith gave the impression of a man not fully in touch with the events of the everyday world. Drew wanted to be certain that Dr. Smith knew what they were dealing with here.
"I am aware of what is going on," Smith said icily.
"Oh. Well, then you must know that this is more than we can handle here."
"I know nothing of the sort," Smith replied tartly. "Folcroft certainly has enough room for one more patient. And as I understand it, none of those other cases have been cured. Those afflicted like Assistant Director Howard have been sedated and warehoused in other hospitals pending a cure."
"That's true," Drew agreed slowly, "but if there is a breakthrough-"
"Then and only then will we send Mr. Howard for treatment if need be," Smith interrupted. "Until that time, Folcroft takes care of its own."
Dr. Drew could see there would be no arguing. "Very well, Dr. Smith," he sighed. "But given what we know of those other cases, I insist we keep him under heavy sedation."
Dr. Drew nodded to the sleeping form of Mark Howard. He raised a bushy white eyebrow when he saw that the crazed twitches that had afflicted the young man since his arrival had stopped. A nurse continued to fuss over the unconscious young man.
"I not only agree, I insist," Smith said. "Do it. And report back to me hourly on his condition."
With that the Folcroft director left the room.
As the big examination room door sighed softly shut, Dr. Drew watched through the window as the gaunt, gray man hurried up the sterile hallway of Folcroft's security wing.
The creases of Dr. Drew's pronounced frown lines deepened. His employer had an unerring ability to make the greatest physician feel like a lowly janitor. Drew dismissed the thought the moment it passed through his mind.
"That's not true," Lance Drew muttered. "He treats the janitors around here like he cares whether or not they quit."
Grunting unhappily, he turned to the nurse.
"I need a walk. I'll be back with the patient's sedatives in a minute."
"Yes, Doctor."
Drew pushed open the door and stepped out in the hall.
Across the room, unseen by either Dr. Lance Drew or the Folcroft nurse, a pair of yellow predator's eyes peered at them both through razor slits.
Chapter 31
Eileen Mikulka's thumbnail was bitten nearly down to the quick. Nerves, she thought as she chewed the ragged end. All nerves. All because of the terrible news.
Smith's secretary had been a nervous wreck ever since she'd found out that poor Assistant Director Howard had been brought back to Folcroft by some sort of emergency life-flight helicopter.
Mrs. Mikulka normally went home at five. But two long-term Folcroft patients had recently passed on and, as was her custom, Smith's secretary had dutifully retired their files to the storage room in the basement.