The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (63 page)

I went on, “You should be
glad we tried the experiment on him first, Wintersong. That could
be you back there. Fortunately, Hank and Maillander learned from
the Belking mess what not to do. I hope you realize how lucky you
are, doctor.”

Judging by what I guessed
was Wintersong’s expression, he didn’t feel all that lucky. And,
again, he was unresponsive to questions for a while. Hank said,
“You would be wise to cooperate. Mr. Belking—your Hobie—cannot help
you now. Only I, and Mr. Scott, can help you now. Do not worry
about anything else, doctor. Your concern should be, must be,
immediate answers to our questions. Like, who was responsible for
the attempt to kill me? Who, and why?”

Wintersong’s voice now
seemed even thinner, more frail, with less life in it. “I explained
the situation, the urgent necessity for your death, to Hobie. He
understood and took appropriate action immediately, by ordering it
done, and told them to make your death appear accidental. I
remember it was their decision that the means would be vehicular
homicide.”

Hank slanted his eyes
toward me, chopping his teeth together a couple of times. “That the
means would be vehicular homicided—why? Because I got a glimpse
into your laboratory at Omega?”

“
That, of course. But more
than that, much more. Many things. Many.”

He paused, and Hank
prompted him, “Specifically?”

“
Guenther and Helga
contracted IFAI at Omega. Our tests proved it, as much as such
tests can... Whatever it was, they were unquestionably very ill,
dying. But then they went to Hernandez.”

Wintersong spoke steadily,
automatically, gazing straight ahead into the mirror, not looking
either at Hank or me, just letting it roll out.

“
And he cured them,
eliminated the virus, strengthened their immune systems. At least
he would claim that, take credit for it, say it was his treatment.
When we did the tests on Guenther and Helga again—before employing
in the experiment—they were... there was nothing wrong with them.
They were healthy.”

Another of those long, odd
pauses. “No virus, not even antibodies to the virus. No immune
suppression. Excellent parameters. It was probably spontaneous
remission, one of those things...or the result of previous orthodox
treatment, delayed, delayed reaction. But it was certain Hernandez
would claim he cured them, saved them from a disease that everybody
has been told is incurable... invariable fatal...certain death.
And...and if the people learned a greedy quack cured two terminal
victims of IFAI, cured people infected with the deadly virus, then
there would be no need, no need for my vaccine, the
Belking-Gray/Wintersong vaccine, it would mean the end of my work
for the good of all mankind. And the Nobel....”

Wintersong stopped for
almost a minute this time. But Hank didn’t say anything, just
waited. So did I—though I had a couple of questions I was eager to
ask this guy myself, before he decided to shut up, or just pooped
out entirely.

Then, “When I reported
this, and the many other dangers to Hobie, he became furious.
Raging. And angry with me, abusive. I had been concerned, worried,
about Hernandez’s threat to return to Omega with a court order.
Legal permission to—to monitor our humane treatment of animals used
in medical experiments to help cure people—and to examine the
premises, all our buildings...which could have included my office,
the private laboratory where my animals...Guenther and Helga...the
heads...were already. And the experiments were succeeding,
brilliant experiments, filled with promise for mankind, for the
sick and dying, brain-damaged. Hobie was furious. I remember he
said, ‘we should have killed the old sonofabitch when he bugged
your ass.’ He was right, of course, he was always
right.”

Hank sighed, looked at me
raising an eyebrow, glancing at Wintersong’s again silent head and
then back to me. It was, I concluded, a plain enough invitation for
me to chime in if I felt like it, and I felt like it. Hank turned
his back on Wintersong.

I stepped in front of
Wintersong, blocking his view of the mirror. I said, “Dr.
Wintersong, my turn. Two men tried to kill me, using knives, on a
Friday night a while back in the Halcyon Hotel’s parking lot.
There’s plenty of reason now for you, or Belking, to want me dead,
I understand that. But why then? I hadn’t done anything, wasn’t a
threat to anybody then.”

“
You were. Of course you
were. You had already been told everything the quack Hernandez
knew, you were already working for him. You knew we were stealing
dogs, cats, pets, healthy animals for our laboratory
work—”

“
I didn’t know it then, not
till Sunday when I found the collars, and–”

“
You spoke to Grinner and
Kell about their stealing of animals, made pointed remarks,
rustling you called it, that’s what they told me. You knew. Yes,
you knew. Besides, you phoned the police about the bullet, the hole
in Guenther and Helga’s kitchen wall.”

“
Rustling? Yeah, I guess
when you’re guilty as hell it doesn’t take much to ring your bell.
Obviously, they jumped at what was to them the logical
implication.”

Wintersong wasn’t
listening. “And you visited me at Omega,” he continued in that
gritty monotone. “You were there with me when Helga terminated, and
I rushed in. I didn’t stop to think, knew I had to get in there, to
see. But you knew of the entrance from my office, the
door.”

There were half a dozen
more questions, but only four answers, because twice Wintersong
either ignored the question or truly didn’t hear it.

However, those four
questions covered everything I needed to know, and apparently all
Hank was after, too. Wintersong had once more stopped speaking. And
apparently wasn’t going to start again, unless I started him. I
looked at Hank, raised both eyebrows inquiring.

No words were spoken, but
we understood each other pretty well by now, and I was satisfied
Hank agreed we’d gotten enough. Later, we could have at Wintersong
again, if need be; he’d said far too much to successfully deny any
of it now.

So I sighed, bent forward
a little, and said quietly, “Dr. Wintersong, I’ve something
important to tell you.”

He remained silent, eyes
still fixed on the mirror, blinking slowly.

“
Dr. Hernandez and I played
a trick on you,” I said. “Kind of a dirty trick, but justifiable
under the circumstances, as even you might agree. Especially you.
But I’ll confess, doc, we didn’t really have Maillander cut your
head off. It didn’t happen. You’re okay.”

Nothing.

I tried again. “This is
just a—a con-game, doctor. We wanted you to spill, needed to
convince you your situation was serious, the jig is up. So we
simply made it look as if somebody had done a craniectomy on
you—Hank, Doc Hernandez, can explain the medical part.”

Wintersong’s dark, empty
eyes had moved beyond me and again to the mirror and stayed there.
I said, with some asperity, “Didn’t you the hell hear me, doctor? I
said we didn’t—didn’t—cut your damned head off.”

Finally the eyes moved,
rolled a little right and then up to my face. And there was a look
in those death-dark eyes that sent a chill into my heart, stopped
my breath for a strangely sad moment.

“
Yes, you did,” he
said.

CHAPTER FORTY

Wintersong’s dry lips
moved, twitched, as his eyes dropped from my features, found the
mirror again, focusing softly but intently there, almost like a
man’s gaze resting upon a lover’s dead face.

“
I did it myself. So, I
know you did it to me. I know.”

I looked at Hank, back at
Wintersong’s head.

“
Really, doc. You’re okay.
We can undo you—let you loose—pretty quick, but you’re actually in
good shape. Going to the slam forever, of course. But you’re not
decapitated, nobody even operated on you—”

“
Why are you lying to
me?”

“
Lying? Man, you don’t know
good news when you hear—”

“
I know you did it. I know.
I have no arms, no legs, no body.” Pause. “Where is my
body?”

“
Hell, you’ve got it on,” I
said. “I mean, you’re wearing it—it’s where it always was,
dammit.”

“
You used the animal
crematory, I suppose. That’s what I did, so you needn’t try to fool
me, make me feel—feel—feel alive. I know how it’s done. I did it
myself, you know, I did it myself.”

It wasn’t exactly a
display of emotion, but the voice was getting higher, more ragged,
his face and even part of the shiny bare scalp flushing with the
effort he was putting into forcing out those words.

I said to Hank, “He’s not
going to conk out on us, is he? Choke or anything?”

Hank didn’t speak, merely
shook his head, gaze on Wintersong, his face a frown.

Wintersong was continuing
mechanically. “It became easier as I went along. The surgery was
intricate, but not much more difficult than a heart-lung
transplant, certainly less delicate than microsurgery on the spine.
Or brain. It was keeping them alive that eluded me again and
again... formulating a nutrient solution of proper viscosity, pH,
with the essential proteins, minerals, electrolytes... I improved
on the solution I took, stole, stole from Duncan’s papers that day
he killed himself, kept changing it, until finally it
worked.”

“
Look, Dr. Wintersong.” He
didn’t pay any attention to me, kept on going. But I tried. “You’re
really okay, you’re all right, you’re fine and dandy.”

“
So I know better than
anyone it can be done, and how you did it...to me. I did it with
thirty cats and fourteen dogs and seven people. Seven humans. Five
before Guenther and Helga, but the best experiment before them
lasted only three days. But it was working so well, so well, with
those last two.”

Pause, half a minute
maybe. “Two humans. Some people, laymen, fools, might not
understand the necessity for seven humans, but in order to save
millions. Billions of dollars—people, billions of people. All
mankind. Yes, of course, I did it of course for the god—the good of
all mankind. For all humans, living lives of quiet despara... And
the Nobel—for them, for mankind, and me, me...me....”

“
Sure,” I said.

Wintersong, without
prompting or questions, continued talking for a few minutes more.
But he spoke erratically, with longer and longer pauses, and with
less—well, less intelligence. He began pronouncing words strangely,
mixing up syllables, finally saying things like “the god of all man
goodkin....” Something quite terrible, was happening among the
neurons and dendrites and stuttering synapses in his “severed”
brain. Probably I should have felt alarm, keen concern for Dr.
William Wintersong, compassion, or pity at least.
Probably.

Hank clapped his hands
lightly together. “We have concluded. I believe it is
done.”

I looked around, almost
surprised to see Dane, and then surprised that I was surprised. How
could I have forgotten, even momentarily, about gorgeous Dane
Smith? She’d just stepped down from a heavy wooden box on which
she’d been standing while, yeah, while recording all of this with
the camcorder now clutched in both hands against her breasts. Her
very bazzoomy and crushable breasts.

I turned, stepped toward
her, saying, “Slipped my mind you were getting this on tape, would
you believe it? How—”

“
My God,” she said, close
to me now, looking up at my face. “This is hot, so hot, I had no
idea we’d get such sensational material.”

“
Well, I told you, if we
could get Wintersong to spill, there was an abundance for
spilling—”

“
I guess I didn’t really
believe that,” she said.

Dane’s lovely face was
visibly flushed, the vibrant pinkish glow making her velvety green
eyes even brighter than they usually were, more luminous. “I’ll
have to rip out my Wintersong chapter, that’s all, put this in
instead and end the book with it. My God, it’s just got to be
number one, maybe all year. And PAG won’t be able to ignore me this
year—”

“
Pag?”

“
Professional Authors
Guild, the PAG, every year they—”

“
Dane, please please, Dane,
don’t even mention any Nobels or Pulitzers or all
mankind.”

“
If I can manage to get
this tape shown even once... the networks won’t touch it, that’s
pretty sure—but with my contacts at CNN and PMM maybe
they’ll...”

She was looking raptly up
at my face, smiling ravishingly at my... No, wasn’t my face, more
like my left temple—or maybe ear—or, no, she was gazing ravishingly
and raptly at something about an inch left of, and somewhere
beyond, my left ear. I began feeling a little bit uneasy. Couldn’t
figure out exactly why, just knew I was starting to experience
something kind of uneasy.

“
It is mine, isn’t it?”
Dane said. “This tape? You said if I helped, if I used the
camcorder, made the record for you I could handle distribution,
television, you—and Doctor...and Hank, too. He said the same
thing.”

“
Yeah. Well, I suppose.
It’s really up to Hank, I guess.” I looked at him.