Created, The Destroyer by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy

Author:Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy [Sapir, Richard & Murphy, Warren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Action & Adventure, Suspense
ISBN: 9780751557978
Google: ClkQBAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2014-08-21T00:07:08+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE LOCAL NEWSPAPER HAD IT in detail. “Man Kills Self on Second Try; Jump Fails, Hook Works.” They didn’t leave out anything.

The man, a mental patient from a New York sanitarium which thought him sufficiently cured for outpatient treatment, had jumped yesterday from a twelve-story building on Avenue East, police said.

They said he was guarded round the clock with no one allowed in the room. “Miraculous,” said doctors about the way he allegedly ripped open his own throat with the hook that replaced an amputated hand.

“It’s amazing he could do that,” a hospital spokesman said. “He was in traction and it must have taken tremendous effort for him to get that much pressure behind the hook. Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” the spokesman alleged.

Detectives Grover and Reed said flatly, “It was suicide.”

Meanwhile, another suicide victim was recovering in the Jersey City Medical Center. Mildred Roncasi, 34, of 1862 Manuel Street…

Remo dropped the damned paper in a trash can. Then he hailed a cab. That nut, MacCleary. That idiot. That fool. That damned fool.

“What’s holding you up now?” Remo asked the driver.

The cabbie leaned over the back seat. “Red light,” he said.

“Oh,” Remo answered. And he was quiet as the cab let him off at St. Paul’s Church, where he completed an errand, then hailed another cab that took him to New York.

Remo didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t rest in the morning. He just wandered until he reached the telephone booth at 232nd Street and Broadway in the Bronx. A stiff, chill autumn wind blew across Van Cortland Park. Children played in the drying grass. The sun was orange and setting. It was three P.M. He stepped into the telephone booth and shut out the wind. A group of Negro boys were scrimmaging in motley uniforms. They banged away at each other and piled on. Remo’s attention rested on a small boy with no helmet but his kinky hair. Blood ran from beneath his left eye. An apparent knee injury forced him to hobble when he jogged to the line from the defensive huddle.

He saw one of the big backs on the opposing team yell something and point to the boy. The boy yelled back and waved his arms in an obscene gesture. The quarterback handed the ball to the big back who followed his interference into the center of the line. Miraculously, the offense stopped, right at the small boy’s slot. When the pileup peeled off, there was the little boy with no helmet, a big cut and a bigger grin. An idiot grin by a dumb black kid who didn’t know enough to get out of the way. CURE should’ve gotten that kid. He and MacCleary. Go, team, go.

Remo slowly dialed the special number. Between five to three and five after, he had been told, it would ring on a local line in Folcroft. Smith would pick up with a 7-4-4 code signal.

Remo heard the buzzing and casually watched the little Negro return another challenge with another obscene gesture.

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