The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (25 page)

I looked into his burning
eyes for a moment longer, then shrugged, and with his “fascinating”
folder clamped under my arm, got out of there.

* * * * * *

In my apartment at the
Spartan, I sped into the bedroom, tossed Hank’s folder atop the
bed, stripped in record time and hopped into the shower. I was
lathering up like a maniac when I forced myself to slo-ow do-own. I
was acting as if I were still stuck in that time warp I’d slipped
into at Omega. So what if I was a few minutes late getting to the
Sybaris Lounge? Dane would forgive me, wouldn’t she? That lovely,
bright, busty lady couldn’t possibly be such a stickler for
promptness as was that dingdong Doctor William
Tardiness-is-Unforgivable Wintersong.

So I finished soaping with
the alacrity of a sloth, rinsed leisurely, and for half a minute
let steaming water stream into the short-cropped hair atop my head,
hot enough perhaps to stimulate circulation in the brain, as when
poet Shelley would lie down with his head cooking near the
fireplace before tossing off a verse or two. Then I turned off the
hot water and briefly whooped in the shocking cold.

And in the middle of a
whoop I thought again of Wintersong. Wintersong, almost tyrannical
about time, obsessed with a visitor’s promptness: half a minute
late and “you’re outa luck, pal, the Doc won’t see you till next
Tuesday.”

I’d been much more than a
half-minute late. Supposed to be in his office at two-thirty, out
at two-forty, chop-chop, you’re dismissed, hurry-hurry. But when
Wintersong had split, without so much as a “Your ten minutes are
up,” his clock with its speeding second hand had shown the time, I
remembered, as two fifty-eight p.m.

And what, I wondered, did
that mean? Maybe that I should steam my head more often? Maybe that
Wintersong had needed those extra minutes to tell me something—or
learn something from me? Maybe nothing?

I rubbed down with a
rough, nubby towel, padded back into the bedroom and dressed in a
custom-tailored dark suit, white dress shirt with an extra
half-inch rise in the collar and silver-nugget links in the French
cuffs, plus a white-silk tie with a neck-snug Windsor knot. Also,
shoulder harness and Colt .38 in the clamshell holster. But not any
noticeable bulge or ripple in the fine weave of the dark
cloth.

Admiring myself in the
full-length mirror, I thought: Pret-ty snappy. I looked like a
large, tanned, somewhat beat-up private eye dressed for chow at the
Halcyon Hotel. Or maybe a muscular mortician about to bury some
billionaires. I realized that my momentary dubiousness was due to
the fact that I am unused to so little color in my garb, so I found
a red-silk handkerchief and stuffed it into the suit jacket’s
breast pocket. It helped. Not enough. But I was through fiddling
and ready to go. With twenty-eight minutes to get there.

Turning from the mirror, I
saw Hank’s folder filled with fascinating excitements where I’d
tossed it atop the bed, half of the papers spilling out onto the
spread. I stuffed them back into the folder and put it on my
bedside night table, noticing that the top item was a stapled
slick-paper article entitled, “The Rife Microscope—Is It Back?” and
just beneath it a photocopied page headed, “Koch and his
Glyoxylide: The Failure of Success.”

I smiled, without joy.
Microscopes, Glyoxylides, maybe even clippings about germs or
photographs of colonic adhesions. I was going to have a grand time
with this stuff. Hank Hernandez didn’t know me as well as he
thought. Momentarily, I wondered if that might be true of other
things Hank thought he knew.

But then I
split—hurry-hurry again—with twenty-six minutes to Dane.

* * * * * *

Dane Smith smiled
brilliantly, beautifully, like an angel on spring vacation lamping
something much more interesting than a billionaire’s undertakes, as
I slid into the black padded-leather booth opposite her.

She was radiant, skin
glowing healthily pink—partly reflection from the rose-colored
tablecloth, mostly just glow from inside her—wearing a strapless
cocktail dress the cool dark green of new leaves in forest shadows.
It made her eyes seem more sparkling, brighter, bigger, deeper and
very wise. That chestnut-red hair like burning rust was piled on
her head, arranged—or maybe a better word would be coiffed, or
professionally styled—in swirls of softness burning
bright.

More softness—white,
rounded, warm—was the curving swell of her breasts, revealed only a
little, but obviously a little of a lot, at the “scooped” neckline
curving down and around and up like a wide letter U, beneath which
that soft swelling continued...and continued.

I looked with unconcealed
appreciation and pleasure at Dane’s white teeth, curving lips,
eyes, hair—everything, even cheekbones, and earlobes from which
dangled long pear shaped earrings of pendulous emeralds, or green
glass, no matter.

“
Keep smiling like that,” I
said. “Don’t even stop when we eat.”

“
Okay,” she said, keeping
her lips curved stiffly and kind of sticking her upper teeth out,
“but I may sprain my mouth on the entrée.”

“
Both of us may. Dane, you
look so gorgeous—at least you did until just now—that I’m at a loss
for...for...”

“
Words?”

“
Ah, you went and spoiled
it. That’s what I was going to say. Eventually. It was on the tip
of my...”

And right then she moved
the tip of her tongue slowly between those plump red lips, left to
right, back again, pink softness caressing curving redness, leaving
her lips shining and moist. Moist and warm. Warm and receptive. Or,
so I thought. And I also thought: Wow!

“
The tip of your what?” she
asked me innocently.

“
Never mind what,” I said.
“But if you do that again, the waiter may have to make a citizen’s
arrest right here at the table.”

Wouldn’t you know? At that
instant, a tall tuxedo-clad waiter, so handsome he looked like a
flirty girl, stopped next to our booth and said, “May I he-elp
you-ou?”

I said, “Not a
chance.”

And Dane said, not to the
waiter but to me, “I got here only a minute or two before you
picked me up, so I haven’t ordered a drink yet.”

“
You’re hinting,
right?”

“
Stolichnaya Vodka on the
rocks.”

“
Sounds good to me, lady.”
Then I said to the waiter, “Just bring the whole samovar,” and he
was not amused.

I’m usually a
bourbon-and-water man, but sometimes... So I had Stolichnaya also,
then another and a second for Dane. Along with pleasant
conversation, fun, a few laughs, and the almost sinful pleasure of
watching Dane’s lips move when she spoke, or smiled, or said “No!”
and, especially, when she said “Yes!” Then a bit of seriousness,
discussion of her books, my work, even a bit about happiness and
sometimes sadness of growing up—in small towns, both of us—and then
off on a tangent to laughter again.

That’s the way it went
during the drinks, and then a truly impressive dinner in the
adjacent Gourmet Room. After the dessert, we were talking about her
current book and she said of Wintersong that he was unquestionably
brilliant and, she was sure, an outstanding research scientist, but
there seemed to be “something a little odd” about him.

“
Something a lot odd,” I
said. “But that’s just my impression from one brief meeting with
the man. You know more about him than I do, if he’s a complete
chapter in your book.”

“
I do know a great deal
about him, but mainly from research, cramming in medical journals,
interviews with other people working on IFAI—I’ve been researching
this book over a year now.”

“
Wow, if a case of mine
lasts more than a week I get antsy. But a year? I guess you don’t
just sit down at the computer and bang out a non-fiction
best-seller on weekends.”

She smiled. “Don’t I wish!
It’s a full-time job, most weekends included. I began my research a
year ago—thirteen months now—but I haven’t even started the final
draft yet. And today was the first time I’ve actually met Dr.
Wintersong. He’s notorious for not giving interviews to writers, or
reporters.” She smiled again. “Or detectives. Has he hired you? I
mean, is he in some kind of trouble?”

“
Not that I know of. Fact
is, I asked to see Wintersong, not the other way around. I’m
checking up on a couple of people who used to work for him, that’s
all. Incidentally, now that you’ve met him, what’s your impression
of Wintersong? If you don’t mind telling me.”

She shrugged. “Impression
from intellectual analysis, or intuition?”

“
Both. I’ll confess, my
interest is more than casual, even though Wintersong isn’t
personally under investigation by me. At least, not
yet.”

“
Not yet,” she repeated,
cocking her head on one side. “That’s interesting. Besides my
books, Shell, I also do occasional articles and personality
profiles, usually about notable doctors and scientists because
that’s my area of expertise. The short pieces pay the bills while
I’m waiting for royalties on the books. So, if you ever do start
investigating Dr. Wintersong—though I can’t imagine why that would
happen—I’d love to know when. And why.” She looked at me
expectantly.

“
Even if I didn’t have a
client requiring secrecy,” I said casually, “I couldn’t guarantee
I’d tell you the why until I know what it might be myself. Right
now there isn’t any why—or investigation. But...” I hesitated, then
continued, “after a couple of things that have happened today, I’m
not sure there won’t be. If I do start digging into this guy, I
could fill you in on any parts that might interest you, so long as
it doesn’t compromise anyone else. In return, you could probably
fill in a lot of blanks for me right now.”

“
Sort of share and share
alike?”

“
Sort of. At the moment you
know a lot more about the doctor than I do, but that could change.
Might not, but it could.”

“
Fair enough.” Dane nodded
slowly. “Where do you want me to start?”

“
Anywhere. I’d just like to
know more about the man than I do, get a better picture of him—and
his background, where he’s coming from. I know Wintersong started
out as a neurosurgeon, and switched to research after an injury to
his hand, but I don’t even know what kind of injury, or accident.
Look, you said he’s got an entire chapter in your book, so why not
give me the meat of that chapter?”

“
Like giving you an advance
peek at the galleys? Well, why not? Most of what I know is public
information, anyway. Not all, but most of it. So, I’ll share my
secrets with you, Shell.”

I liked the sound of that.
I even started to tell her so, but noticed she’d turned her head as
a busboy removed our dessert plates. And he was soon followed by
our gorgeous waiter, who asked if we would like anything
else.

Dane looked at me.
“Coffee?” she asked, raising a neat dark brow. “I’ve heard raves
about it, Shell. I think they grow their own beans, or at least do
something special with them.”

“
Fine, special coffee,
then—you sure it won’t keep you awake?” I smiled
significantly.

But she said, with a
fetching sigh, “Nothing would keep me awake tonight. I’m bushed,
jet lag, I guess.”

Would you believe none of
all that gave me even a tiny clue? Not the “nothing,” certainly not
the “bushed,” and not even the “jet lag.” So, still smiling
significantly, I instructed the waiter to bring two coffees and one
check.

As the waiter floated
away, Dane leaned back against the cushioned leather behind her and
said, “Chapter Twenty-Six, ‘Dr. William Wintersong: Waging War
Against Death.’”

I managed not to wince
visibly.

Dane went on, “The meat
for Mr. Scott. Ready?”

“
Ready?”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

I’ll confess that at first
I simply enjoyed looking at the occasional sweep of long lashes
over Dane’s green eyes, and the movement of her lips as she spoke
of Wintersong’s early years, earning his medical degree and doing
his internship—making him sound like a genius destined for
greatness almost from the crib—but then she mentioned that he had
begun his active medical career as a resident at the Grantland
Memorial Hospital in Chicago, Illinois—and I brought my attention
back from wherever it had been going.

Because “Grantland” and
“Chicago” rang a little bell, twitched a nerve of memory, much as
earlier today I’d thought the name Wintersong might somehow be
connected with monkeys. I hadn’t quite pulled it together yet; but
instead of asking Dane about it I just let her continue, and she
answered the unasked question.

“
Within four years,” she
went on enthusiastically, “he was the unquestionable ‘rising star’
of the renowned surgical team at Grantland, under Chief of Surgery
Duncan Sherwood—now remembered primarily as hero, or villain, of
the controversial ‘monkey-head scandal’ that infuriated every
animal-rights group in the country and moved Congress to legislate
an amendment to the Animal Protection Act. Barely into his
thirties, Dr. Wintersong was even then recognized as one of the
most skilled young neurosurgeons in the world, having performed
hundreds of now-classic brain operations and delicate spinal
surgery, including elegant spinal-cord microsurgery previously
thought impossible, and then originating the Wintersong cervical
nerve-block operation which is now standard procedure.”