Destroyer 85 - Blood Lust by Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir

Author:Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The house was dark.

Remo had walked all the way from Folcroft. He had not started out for the house. He had never expected to set foot in it. Ever again. Too many memories, as he had explained to Smith.

What had happened was that he had started to feel the call in his blood. The call of Kali. He had first dragged out a silken scarf to satisfy his craving. But it had only made him yearn for her more.

Jerking every scarf from his pockets, he threw them against the walls.

"You don't own me!" he cried. "You'll never own me."

The scarves slipped into little piles like limp discarded hand puppets'-which was exactly how Remo felt inside his soul. Limp. Helpless. Cast off.

A cold shower had not helped, so he had stepped out into the hot night to walk, wearing underwear three sizes too small so his uncontrollable tumescence wouldn't be too obvious.

The heat only fired his blood. So he walked.

And in time he found himself on the tree-lined residential street that lay snug under the hills of the Folcroft Golf Course, where he had been living in a Tudor-style house. Remo had purchased it on recommendation from Chiun, only to learn later that he had been tricked into becoming Harold Smith's neighbor. For Smith owned an adjoining home. The Master of Sinanju had explained this away with a flowery platitude about the royal assassin needing to dwell close to the seat of power.

Remo's was a modest house. Nothing fancy. Not even the white picket fence he had once dreamed he'd have. It wasn't a white-picket-fence kind of neighborhood.

As he passed through the zones of the pale yellow streetlight illumination-nightfall had come to Rye, New York-Remo's eyes went to the dark blank windows.

It looked empty, that house. As empty as Remo Williams felt.

He walked past it, his eyes glued to the windows, half-hoping, half-fearing to see a familiar wrinkled face in a window. He had lived there less than two years-an absurdly small segment of his total life, but such an overwhelming wave of nostalgia washed over him that Remo abruptly turned up the walk.

It was, he thought, as if he were drawn to the place.

At the door, Remo dug around in his pockets. Then he recalled that he had thrown the house key away in Tacomaor was it Chicago?

The Yale lock cylinder resembled a brass medallion in the painted wood. Remo simply set his hard fingers around the edges. He twisted.

Slowly the lock turned like a flush dial. Wood and metal squealed, settling into a long low groan of protest. A panel split under the powerful force exerted by his inexorable fingers.

Wounded and beaten, the door fell open.

Remo stepped over the theshold, flicking a light switch that produced no light.

"Smith," Remo muttered. "Cut the electricity to save two cents." Remo grunted. At least Smith was consistent.

He went from room to room, his visual purple adjusted to the darkness. In the bare living room the big-screen TV lay idle, a video recorder and several stacks of tapes resting atop it.

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