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The art was in not letting his full weight break the surface tension of the
water. Cold water was denser and better suited than warm. Otherwise water
running might have been impossible in Remo's weakened condition.
But he wanted to live. And so he ran, step after step, sucking the cold,
reviving air into his lungs, fighting the fatigue that threatened to engulf
him.
He ran because, like a shark, if he stopped, he would die. He could not die,
so he ran. And ran and ran and ran, his toes making tiny pattering slaps on
the choppy gray-green surface of the Atlantic.
Remo smelled land before he saw it. Remo had no idea how much time had passed.
But the smell of cooked food and burning fossil fuels and car exhaust pulled
him on.
He saw rocks first. Cold, rockweed-covered New England granite half-eroded by
relentless waves.
Remo ran for them. But somewhere in the last mile, his strength gave out. He
misstepped, lost his footing and sank into the cold, unforgiving waters-within
sight of land and life and safety ....
Chapter 8
She didn't know who she was.
Sometimes in the mirror, she thought she recognized her own eyes. Green eyes.
Emerald green. Sometimes they were sapphires. Other times a dull gray. They
looked familiar. Her hair did not, but she colored it so often she'd forgotten
its true color.
She had been told she was Mistress Kali, but the name didn't fit. Somehow it
didn't fit.
When she lay all alone in her great circular bed looking up at the mirrors on
the ceiling, she knew she was not Mistress Kali. It was a persona she assumed
when she donned the tight black leather that sheathed her supple form. She was
Mistress Kali when the silver chains clinked and tinkled. She felt like
Mistress Kali when she selected a suitable whip from her stock and donned the
yellow silk domino mask.
When she stepped out of her private chambers with its implements of pain and
discipline, she knew she was Mistress Kali. There was no doubt. Who else could
she be?
But when the silken domino mask came off, the doubts returned. They crept into
her mind unbidden.
"Who am I?" She wondered.
Once, she asked. "Who am I?"
"You are Mistress Kali," the sweet but distant voice replied.
"Before that?"
"Before that you were nothing."
"What am I when I am not Mistress Kali?" she pressed.
"Asleep," came the absent reply, dotted by the plasticky clicking of keys. The
keys that were never still. The keys that were as much a constant in her life
as the clink and rattle of chain. As familiar as the crack of the whip that
brought a thrill of power control and sexual release whenever she laid it
along a pale white spine and flicked an ass cheek into quivering spasm.
"What will I be when I am no longer Mistress Kali?" she wondered aloud.
"Of no use to me, Mother."
The slip had been strange. She put it out of her mind because the next words
chilled her so.
"Do not forget this. Ever."
And the clicking of keys continued. Mistress Kali-she was Mistress Kali
again-slid the watery blue-green glass panel back into place.
On the other side, the stunted figure at the computer terminal continued to
type without rest. She never slept.
And so long as she never slept, the long, vague nightmare seemed to have no
ending.
Chapter 9
Page 30
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
The cold water rose up to claim Remo Williams. His mind went blank. He had not
the strength to process what was happening to him.
Water touched his lips, splashed into his nostrils, stung his eyeballs.
He held his breath-and his bare feet touched cold, silty sediment. And under
it, hard, seaweedslimy granite. Reflexively his legs straightened.
It took a few seconds for the truth to sink in.
The water didn't even cover his head.
Then Remo laughed. It was a laugh of sheer relief. Of pure joy. Within sight
of land, he was standing in chin-deep water.
So he began walking, shivering once or twice when the natural protective
defenses of the human body overcame his Sinanju training, which had taught
that shivering wasted precious energy, even if the body's reflexes forced a
person to shiver in order to stay warm.
The last few yards were rocky, and the rocks scummy under his feet. Remo
didn't care. He had survived. Chiun would be proud. He had survived an ordeal
that might have beaten some of the greater Masters of Sinanju.
But not Remo Williams. He was a survivor. He had survived.
Reaching shore, Remo clambered over the rocks and found a patch of dry, cold
sand. His knees felt hollow.
There he lay down and slept until the rays of the morning sun touched his face
and a voice asked, "Where the hell have you been?"
Remo blinked, lifted his head and saw a face that wasn't at first familiar,
though the Red Sox ball cap was.
"Who are you?" he muttered weakly.
"Ethel. Don't you remember me? I gave you a lift. We had a deal."
"Oh, that. Sure."
Her lined face hovered over him, filling his field of vision.
"What kept you?" she asked.
"I was fighting off sharks." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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