Munchie bit his lip. "I suffer from low self-esteem...?" he suggested tentatively.
"You ought to. You're a murderer," Remo replied, shoving the killer along.
"I have a bad body image," Munchie argued.
"Join a gym."
They were at the fire exit at the end of the hall. Munchie's face grew hopeful. He had gotten the impression that this dead-eyed stranger was actually planning to do him bodily harm. "Will I be able to?"
"I meant in Hell. Don't let Hitler hog the exercycle."
With one thick-wristed hand he slapped open the stairwell door and shoved Munchie through.
"My mother didn't hug me enough," the killer panted as he stumbled up the stairs. He had to grab the metal railing repeatedly to keep from falling.
"If the baby you was anywhere near as ugly as the adult you, you're lucky she didn't beat you to death with a rake."
They climbed three stories to the roof door.
"I have Repetitive Stress Syndrome!" Munchie cried as Remo propelled him through the door and onto the roof. He landed on his gelatinous belly, his hands scraping pebbles.
"Sick Building Syndrome!" the killer gasped as Remo took a mittful of blubber and hauled him back to his feet.
"Psychologica Fantastica!" Munchie pleaded as he was dragged to the edge of the roof.
"Male menopause!" he tried desperately as Remo picked him up and stood him on the ledge.
The parking lot was below. The lot and the street beyond it were filled with police and emergency vehicles. Men ran for cover when Munchie appeared three stories above. The police trained weapons on the teetering figure. The crowd gasped.
Remo stayed behind the killer's bloated body, hidden from the view of the crowds and passing helicopters.
Munchie felt something being slapped into his hand.
"That's what bugs me about you run-of-the-mill maniacs these days," Remo grumbled.
With the fingertips of one hand he worked a knot of muscles in Munchie's shoulder. They were hard to find, buried as they were amid thick, sagging sheets of blubber.
"Used to be a guy killed because he was nasty or nuts or he just plain wanted the other guy's stuff. Now you're all bed wetters and bully bait. Excuses, excuses."
The muscles in Munchie's shoulder tightened and his arm shot out in front of him, aimed at the parking lot. For the first time he saw what Remo had put in his clenching hand.
The Browning automatic pistol was trained on the nearest Milford police cruiser. Sweat broke out on Munchie's forehead. Below, police yelled for him to drop his weapon.
"It's not my fault!" Munchie yelled desperately. "I've got cognitive dissonance!"
"Yeah, and all I wanted was the goddamn weather forecast," Remo said. "Boo-hoo for you."
A tiny squeeze on Munchie's back and the killer's finger tightened on the trigger. A single shot pinged harmlessly off the hood of a parked police cruiser.
That was all the gathered police needed. Weapons' fire erupted from the parking lot. Shots sang up at the man with the gun on the ledge.
Unfortunately, the killer was so fat none of the bullets that struck him managed to penetrate any vital organs. Lead piercing blubber, Munchie bounced and jiggled in place.
"Ow! Ow! Eee! Ouch! Ow!" Munchie yelped as bullets pelted his ample frame.
"Ah, hell," Remo said, shoving Munchie off the ledge.
The killer dropped three stories to the ground. Just before he hit the pavement, he was screaming something about a repressed childhood trauma and a molesting neighbor. Then he and his entire sackful of excuses went splat.
On the roof Remo turned to the invisible army that had trailed him all this way. They were still hovering nearby.
"Was that good for you?" Remo asked the air. The air didn't respond.
With a sigh Remo hurried from the roof and the area before he could be discovered.
In the supermarket parking lot down the street, a tired-looking young woman with five kids had parked next to his rental car. She was stacking groceries in the back of her minivan. Four of the five kids were screaming and fighting.
"Let us give you a hand with that," Remo said. He helped the woman load her groceries in the van. Once they were done she shook her head in exasperation.
"Thanks so much. I've got to get to the post office for stamps and bring the church bingo money to the bank. Plus there's homework, then the kids have swimming lessons and basketball practice. Every little bit helps."
"No problemo," Remo said. "We're glad to help."
The woman wanted to ask who the "we" was. But the friendly man with the thick wrists and the nice smile had already climbed into his car and driven away.
Chapter 3
Gusts of cold air rattled the frosty windowpanes. For many years instinct had awakened him at the same early-morning hour. The old man was generally the first to arise in the village. But for the first hour after dawn on this particular day, the sleeping man didn't hear the sound. He was tired and old and, after all, the howling, buffeting wind was nothing new for someone who had lived every day of his long life on the West Korean Bay.
Only when the sun began to brush the sill and cast evil yellow beams across his pillow did he finally, reluctantly draw open his tired, rheumy eyes. Another day in Sinanju.
It was a beautiful morning. A surprising thing given the uneasiness of the previous night. Although he was old and had earned the right to sleep late, Pullyang generally didn't stay in bed so long. But this day was different.
The elderly man had been awakened during the night by an awful sound-a wail of pain as loud as thunder and as clear as the night sky. The terrible sound had snapped him from a deep sleep.
When he heard the noise, Pullyang didn't go outside.
He slept in a warm bed, off the floor. Feeling his heart tremble, Pullyang had climbed out of bed. His weary bones creaked like the bare wooden floor. He crept to the window and peeked out at the dark.
It was late. The house lights were off in the village. Coal-fueled braziers burned on posts, their dying light illuminating the cold main square.
There was no one there. None of the other villagers had come out to investigate. They were fat and content and slept with the certainty of their own safety.
Pullyang's wrinkled face studied the night for several long minutes, but still he saw nothing.
Probably a plane. The Communist government in the capital city of Pyongyang sometimes practiced their games of war out over the Yellow Sea. By agreement their planes didn't fly over Sinanju itself, but the North Korean aircraft didn't have to be overhead to be heard.