"Destroyer 022 - Brain Drain.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

"I suppose that's it," said Remo to Brother Che, turning with a relaxed smile. "And you, Arnold," he said to the pallid man who had never mentioned his name, "will tell me the truth shortly."
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Brother George brought up his Kalishnikov, the trigger finger already squeezing. But Remo spun from his chair in a motion so smooth that for the fraction of life the others had left, they would have sworn it was slow. But if it were slow, how did he get behind Brother George and so easily swing the Kalishnikov toward Brother Che? The burst of fire mottled Brother Che's gray face with red splotches the size of broken grapes. Sister Alexa tried to get a shot at the man, but all she saw was Brother George protesting his love for her. He was her man.
"I love you," screamed George. "I don't want to kill you," But his finger moved without his control, a hand so placed on his wrist that the hand, not his mind, had control of his fingers. Brother George's first shot clipped off her shoulder because George managed to jerk. It threw her back and, terrified, she unloaded her .45 at her lover. Remo got the arm just right on Brother George and this time he put her away with a burst through the chest. George's stomach was an oozing red cavity where soft .45 slugs cut a churning crazy path.
Arnold Quilt backed into the corner, shaking, not because he had been hit but because he feared he would be. He covered his groin with his hands for protection.
"Arnold," said Remo, holding up Brother George's body with a grip just above the left ribcage and controlling the Kalishnikov with his right hand, "give me any photographs of the Tucson program."
"There are none."
"Then you'll die."
"I swear there are none. None."
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"All right," said Remo and since Brother George's right hand no longer responded to the nerves, Remo dropped him, catching the rifle himself. He put Arnold Quilt away with one dull shot. And dropped the gun.
He hated guns. They were so, so ... he had no word for it in English. But in Korean it would be "out of natural control and an intrusion upon grace."
However work was work, and upstairs wanted it to look like a relatively simply homicide. Brother George had gone berserk and killed Arnold Quilt, Brother Che, and Sister Alexa, who, dying, managed to get her slayer. Remo had not been informed that Brother George and Sister Alexa were lovers, which annoyed him. Upstairs was slipping.
Remo put the gun back in George's still hand and took the tipped section of the Tucson program. He felt sorry for Quilt. Working for Smitty at Folcroft could lead a man to do anything. Then again, he should have gotten along with Smith fine. Computers and Dr. Harold Smith had the same emotional quotient. What did computer expert Arnold Quilt expect from human beings anyway? Humanity?
There would be no trouble with fingerprints. The police might find a strange set on the gun, but no cross reference ever devised could dig up the prints of a man certified dead more than a decade ago, certified by the drunken doctor at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton, where the man once known as Remo Williams had been electrocuted. After, of course, being neatly framed for a murder he didn't
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commit. And when Remo Williams came to in a sanitarium, he was offered a new life and he took it.
The name of the sanitarium was Folcroft.
Remo ran out of the hotel room, the computer program safely folded in his pants pockets, screaming: "Murder. Murder. There's been murder. There, down the hall. Murder."
He got into a down elevator with four startled men who were wearing Kiwanis buttons introducing themselves as Ralph, Armand, Phil, and Larry. The buttons said they were glad to meet anyone looking at the buttons.
"What happened?" asked Armand.
"Horrible. Murder. Twelfth floor."
"Any sex in it?" asked Ralph, who was in his late fifties.
"Two of them loved each other."
"I mean, you know, sex," said Ralph.
"You ought to see the bodies," said Remo with a big wink.
When the elevator reached the lobby, Remo left. The four Kiwanians stayed. Ralph pressed twelve.
Remo strolled out into the lobby of soft leather chairs, bathing in the new spring light that beamed through tall street windows. A confused patrolman was talking at the desk to a hysterical clerk.
"Twelfth floor," said Remo. "Four guys saw it all. Big sex scene. They're wearing buttons. They're Ralph, Armand, Phil, and Larry."
"What happened?" asked the patrolman.
"I don't know," said Remo. "Those four guys were just yelling 'murder.' "
An hour and a half away by car was Cape Cod, not yet blossomed into its full tourist season, a town
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built for summer pleasure and populated during the winter by people who served that pleasure and complained about those who enjoyed it.
Remo saw that the driveway to a small white cottage overlooking the dark foaming Atlantic was empty. He jammed the brakes and let the car skid into the driveway. He did not like using a gun and his body felt and resented it. What police technicians could pick up only with a paraffin test, his body could sense through its nervous system, now so acute that even food seasoned with monosodium glutamate would have the effect of knockout drops. A few years before, when he had still hungered for meat, he had eaten a chain-food special and been hospitalized. The attending physician discovered medically what Remo had known only philosophically: that when something becomes very much different, it becomes something new.
"You don't have a human being's nervous system," the doctor had said.
"Blow it out your stethoscope," Remo had said, but he knew the doctor was right. He had eaten the hamburger not out of the hunger of his body but out of a remembered hunger, and had found what writers always seemed to learn first-you can't go home again.
Remo opened the door to the Cape Cod cottage. The guns still bothered him.
In the center of the living room sat a frail man in lotus position, his golden morning-kimono flowing down around him. Wisps of white hair, like smooth gentle strands of silk, played from his temples and chin. The television set was turned on and Remo sat respectfully waiting for "As the Planet Revolves" to
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come to a commercial so he could speak his mind to the old man, Chiun.
Fourteen ancient lacquered trunks stood packed against a far wall, seeming almost to wait their own turn to speak.
"Disgusting," said Chiun when a commercial came on. "They have ruined great dramas with violence and sex."
"Little Father," said Remo, "I don't feel very well."
"Did you breathe this morning?"
"I breathed."
"Properly?"
"Of course."
"It is when one says 'of course' to anything that one loses what he takes for granted," said Chiun. "It is not uncommon for one to squander the greatest wealth in the world by not watching it. You alone have been given the teaching of Sinanju and therefore the powers of Sinanju. Do not lose them through improper breathing."
"It was proper. It was proper," said Remo. "I used a gun."