The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (28 page)

Now, though, something had
changed. Changed in me. Maybe Hank’s tirades hadn’t convinced me
everything he’d said was true, or that any of it was sacrosanct,
part of a new medical gospel also not to be questioned. But he’d
for sure shaken my thinking, forced me to look with a less innocent
and trusting eye upon such normally accepted blessings of the
medical priesthoods as “immunization” and “chemicals/drugs to cure”
and “terminal” illnesses. Because now, whether I liked it or not, I
couldn’t hear even someone as intelligent and well-informed—and
well-formed—as Dane mentioning such usually unquestioned articles
of the orthodox faith without simultaneously hearing Hank’s
heretical condemnation of them all: “Bugshit”...
“symptom-squashing”...synthetic drugs that never cure but often
“cripple or kill”... and “Nothing is incurable,
nothing!”

But I didn’t lay any of
that on Dane, merely said, “I can’t, and don’t, deny the virtue of
keeping men and women and children alive—and healthy—as long as
possible. I’m just not sure making them sick is the way to do
it.”

“
Making them sick? Shell,
you must not understand the scientific basis for immunization at
all—”

“
Who does?” I interrupted,
smiling, convinced it was time to change the subject.
“Incidentally, a couple of minutes ago you mentioned seeing police
reports, official photos and such, from the investigation of Dr.
Sherwood’s suicide. Including a statement from Wintersong,
right?”

After a brief pause she
said, “Yes, I’ve copies of most of that material.”

“
I suppose the police also
took a statement from the nurse. Name...Margaret
Fallon?”

“
Yes, It was basically the
same as Dr. Wintersong’s statement, of course. Except that when he
entered Sherwood’s office she left to inform the hospital
Director.”

“
Didn’t she go into the
office herself? I mean, did Wintersong tell her the guy was dead,
go find the chief, or did she actually see the body?”

Dane looked blank for a
moment. “I don’t really know, Shell. But judging by the photos I
have, she surely would have seen the splattered material on the
wall and desk, even if she never went inside the door. What
difference does it make?”

“
Probably none. Just poking
around, force of habit. This Fallon, do you know where she is now,
or if she’s still at Grantland Memorial?”

“
Well, that was a long time
ago, I don’t even know if she’s still in nursing. Almost
immediately after the suicide and all that scandal, she left
Grantland and went somewhere else. Florida, I think. Probably to
another hospital, but I wasn’t, and I’m not, the least bit
interested in doing research on Margaret Fallon.” She smiled. “My
book is called IFAI, you know.”

“
Right. And IFAI and
Wintersong are almost synonymous these days, so maybe you can fill
in another blank about the doctor for me. I know he made the big
career change from surgery to medical research—starting out pretty
high up in the business, as head of Omega—only a year or two after
his friend’s suicide. Not because of that tragedy and all the media
hullabaloo, but apparently because of some kind of injury to his
right hand, which you mentioned earlier. Do you know what kind of
injury or accident it was?”

“
A gunshot, a bullet from a
hunting rifle. It went through the side of his palm below his
little finger. For most people, it wouldn’t have been a very
serious wound. There was some nerve damage, but Dr. Wintersong has
almost full use of that hand and it looks normal. Just not normal
enough for a neurosurgeon.”

“
A hunting rifle? Did it
happen there, in Chicago?”

“
No, in Africa.”

“
Africa? What the hell was
Wintersong doing in Africa? For that matter, what was he doing with
a rifle...or did somebody else shoot him?”

“
Nobody shot him, Shell.
Not on purpose, at least. It was an accident. He’d been invited by
Mr. Belking—Hobart Belking, of the pharmaceutical company here in
Los Angeles—to be Mr. Belking’s guest on his annual hunting
expedition, or wild-game safari. It was in Zimbabwe that year, and
Mr. Belking’s gun went off, or he dropped it—I don’t know exactly
what happened, just that the bullet injured Dr. Wintersong’s
hand.”

“
Belking. Yeah,
Belking-Gray Pharmaceuticals... Hold it a second, Dane.”

I was beginning to pin the
guy down, finally. I remembered that Hank had mentioned his name
this morning, along with something like “lion-and-elephant killer,”
but it had made only a glancing impression then because Hank zipped
and zoomed in so many conversational directions that dialogue with
him was sometimes like a verbal kaleidoscope.

But now I recalled hearing
of, reading of, Hobart Belking and his giant drug business, his
enormous wealth, his philanthropies. And, yes, his “safaris” or
big-game treks into the wilds and woolies, banging away with
everything but bazookas at any non-human life form that moved.
Something else, too, recently, that had interested me, something
newsworthy.

“
Got it,” I said. The
museum. Belking’s damned animal museum. Within the last few days
I’d read a half-page story in the L.A. Times about the imminent
opening of “Hobart Belking’s Wild Animal Museum,” accompanied by a
photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Belking. The photo was of a short,
squat, wide, very solid-looking guy who appeared to weigh a ton and
a half, smiling with teeth like sawed-off tusks, standing next to
Mrs. Belking, who was two or three inches taller than hubby and
nearly a ton and a half lighter. That is, she appeared to be not
quite six feet tall, not quite a hundred pounds, and not quite
anything else wonderfully appetizing. The sober, even sour,
expression on her long thin unsmiling face contrasted sharply with
the tusklike grin stretching her husband’s square, beefy chops.
Neither of them looked like a lot of fun.

The story had appeared in
what was sometimes called the Society section, captioned as
“Happenings!” and written by a reporter whose byline was “Tuti,”
who declared that Mr. and Mrs. Belking had been interviewed “by
Tuti, personally” upon their return from Europe in time for “the
much, much anticipated opening, on Monday, October 27, of ‘Hobart
Belking’s Wild Animal Museum.’” It was also revealed that the long,
angular creature wearing the expression of one watching the Black
Plague approaching and a skirt that exposed her knee-knobs was “Mr.
Hobart Belking’s much younger and so charming wife,
Sybil.”

In truth, I didn’t read
every word of Tuti’s story. No matter, I had already become
acquainted with the most important facts, to me, about Hobart, and
those details were coming back into memory now. He was
unquestionably one of the most avid and “successful” hunters in the
country, probably in the world, since he had made almost a separate
career of killing animals for kicks, or for sport—which presumably
is why he and his brothers-in-arms called themselves “sportsmen,”
an appellation which, if accurate, means a matador is a
veterinarian—and had blown away at least two or three thousand
individual samples of life’s various expressions during his many
safaris and expeditions and plinkings and treks.

Yes, I’d tagged him now,
owner of revolvers, semi-automatic pistols, rifles and shotguns,
derringers and possibly Uzis. With one or more of those weapons,
though presumably not all, he repeatedly went big-game hunting,
little-game hunting, and anywhere-in-between-game hunting. He had
also sportily ended the gentle lives of nearly every breed of bird
that ever flew in sunny skies—duck and goose and quail, pheasant
and dove, anything bright and feathery that stretched its soaring
wings in airy blueness.

I figured if nothing else
was available Belking would shoot canaries in cages. Certainly he
would if they were blue-ribbon prize canaries, and unquestionably
should one of them happen to be the finest, grandest, most-special
yellow bird that ever lived.

Why not? He had already
“taken” or “captured” or “harvested” the biggest Kodiak bear, the
strongest Alaskan elk, the most magnificently-antlered Wyoming
deer, whatever was the best and finest and most beautiful of its
kind, and insisted he was “thinning” the herd in order to prevent
later starvation among its unsavaged remainder.

When you looked at it like
the—upside-down—you had to admit that Hobart Belking was one of the
most caring and compassionate friends that corpses could possibly
have. Some of those corpses, expertly preserved, would be on
display at his much-ballyhooed Museum; but for most of his
trophies, or prizes, he kept only the heads and threw the rest of
the former animals away.

“
Hobart Belking,” I said to
Dane. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. A sweetheart. You say he and
Wintersong are buddies? Go on safaris in Africa, have fun shooting
things together?”

“
Well, they’re friends—very
good friends now. Besides being business associates as
well.”

“
Lots of businesses, or
just Omega?”

“
Mainly the Omega Medical
Research Institute, but all by itself that’s big business. And in
time it could become mega-business, very big.”

“
Especially if they manage
to develop and patent an IFAI vaccine, right?”

“
Of course. But the patent
wouldn’t be Omega’s. They do the R&D—experimental procedures,
culturing viruses and pathogenic bacteria, testing drugs on animals
and so forth—but the patents for any vaccines or new drugs would be
owned by Belking-Gray.”

Dane told me it had been
about ten years since Belking had formed a corporation to build the
Omega Medical Research Institute, and he still owned most of the
stock. Omega was a privately-held corporation, unlike the
pharmaceutical company which was listed on the New York Stock
Exchange. She also said it was Belking himself who had offered
Wintersong his position as President and CEO of Omega. The two men
had been only acquaintances then, but were close friends
now.

And then it was time to
go. I had already paid the check, so we slid from our booth and
walked out of the Gourmet Room, through the Sybaris Lounge where
I’d met Dane two hours earlier—where now, four scraggly adolescents
were either beginning to play a bit of music or tuning their
instruments—and into the Halcyon’s lobby, then up the
elevator.

Up to the sixth floor, and
together down the hall to Dane’s room. She didn’t object to my arm
around her waist, and I didn’t object an iota to the soft
sensuality of her rounded hip moving, touching, almost—or so it
seemed to me, in the fevers that sometimes rise in fervid
imagination—promising even more intimate pressures and caresses,
soon, soon, almost now....

At her door, she unlocked
it and turned, lifting her face to look up at me, those great green
eyes filled with slumbrous darkness, with magic, with—or so it
seemed to me—even more sensual promise than her provocative
hip.

I knew, or at least
confidently assumed, that Dane would invite me inside. Perhaps with
a gay little laugh, or a “Just for a minute or two, maybe for a
drink or two?” Possibly even a couple of Martinis! I feverishly
imagined. Ah, this was the perfect ending to a marvelous evening. I
was sure glad now that I’d restrained myself and hadn’t turned her
off with more talk about bugs and vaccines and slimy
glop.

I could tell Dane expected
me to kiss her. I, too, expected it. For openers. Wow, I thought
exuberantly, kisses and Martinis and hot green eyes and sizzling
hips or, at least so far, hip... what a way to go! Kisses in the
hallway, kisses in the room, kisses outside and inside and wherever
she wanted some, including between Martinis.

Her eyes, heavy-lidded,
were on mine, growing larger, nearer and larger... and then her
parted lips—

Words failed me. Nothing
else did, but words and even whole sentences would have been
utterly inadequate to describe merely the initial pucker. To report
on the entire osculation would have required roman candles and
flaming Ferris wheels and a couple of spinning constellations
merely to commence a beginning.

When it was over,
temporarily, she squeezed my hands in her hands and moved all four
hands outward. Something new? What was she up to? I wondered. As I
wondered, she stepped back slightly.

After a few more moments,
just enough to get my bearings, I smiled joyously at Dane Smith,
and opened my mouth to say—nothing. Again. Again, she beat me to
it.

With her eyes filled with
obvious glints and gleams of lust, with her hot lips moistly parted
in wild promise, Dane said passionately, “Good night, Shell,” and
then—probably you won’t believe this; probably I won’t,
either—apparently turned into a door....

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

In my living room at the
Spartan Apartment Hotel, relaxed on my divan, heavy Cordovans
propped atop the scarred coffee table and phone still pressed
against my left ear, I wondered about Dane Smith.

Why, after bestowing upon
me a much-more-than-merely-friendly kiss, one of such indescribable
voluptuousness that parts of it were undoubtedly still volupting in
astral dimensions normally unreachable by human lips, had she
vanished? A kiss like that had to mean something. But what?
Certainly something besides “Good night.” It had to mean something
else.