The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (24 page)

“
What kind of people is
that, doctor?”

“—
but he cannot deceive his
peers, legitimate physicians and trained scientists who recognize
what he is. We know Hernandez to be a despicable fraud who preys
like a vulture on diseased and terminal patients solely to satisfy
his criminal greed, not caring whether those tortured human beings
live or die. Oh, he is clever, even brilliant, I will give the
devil his due. But that is what makes him so dangerous. He is
persuasive, and to laymen often almost hypnotically convincing.
Like many quacks.”

When he paused I didn’t
comment on his remarks directly. Instead, I said, “Dr. Wintersong,
I‘ve been told you’re trained as a neurosurgeon, a brilliant one by
all accounts, and for several years specialized in brain and spinal
surgery, difficult and delicate operations much admired by your
peers.”

I had more to say, but
already I was perplexed. I had assumed that no matter what
Wintersong thought of private eyes, or Dr. Hernandez, he would
appreciate hearing even me tell him how wonderful he was. But his
expression, not one of unalloyed joy to begin with, became perhaps
even more sour and forbidding.

I continued anyway, “Even
that you originated a spinal operation immediately adopted by
others as an elegant improvement on then-current procedures. Some
kind of way to cut out vertebra or disk, or slice around some kind
of whatsit—”

He winced. “The Wintersong
Excision,” he said flatly. “It reduced the incidence of unavoidable
paralysis slightly. Only slightly. But the technique itself pointed
the way toward several superior procedures. At least, that
possibility was evident. Still, the technique remains standard
among neurosurgeons confronted with similar trauma of the spine.
Standard, even today. I could...” He paused, moistened his lips.
His right hand had been resting on the desk top, fingers curled
underneath the palm, but I noticed it was now tightened into a
fist, the skin tight and almost white over his knuckles. But he
went on with his voice unchanged, “Someone should have improved
upon the technique since then. It was a simple thing, a trifle.
Merely an innovative way to...slice around a whatsit.”

I let it go. “That part of
your career, I understand, occupied half a dozen years or so, until
circumstances, and perhaps your own desires, led you into research.
So you’ve been totally involved in medical research for fifteen or
twenty years now. Right?”

“
Yes, yes,” he said
impatiently. “Sixteen years, next January. Is there some kind of
point to this, Mr. Scott?”

“
Just that I’m a bit
puzzled. You’re Director of a world famous research facility here,
engaged in work that’s light years from what Dr. Hernandez is
doing. He’s just a general practitioner, I guess is the term. Kind
of a family doctor, just poddling along. I’m puzzled that the
prestigious Director of the renowned Omega Medical Research
Institute would be so concerned about the poodling practice of a
mere GP.”

“
Poodling,” he said, as
though mouthing a fungus. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn what you’re
puzzled about, Mr. Scott.” Then he closed his eyes, slowly opened
them. “But I will do my utmost to enlighten you. Perhaps even you
are familiar with the well-known statement, ‘The only thing
necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do
nothing.’”

I said pleasantly, “One of
Edmund Burke’s better moments, wasn’t it? I’ll bet it was either
him or Benvenuto ‘Moose-Nose’ Cellini, who was always saying
well-known things to his fellow Mafiosi. Unless maybe it was Eddy
‘Cancer-Ass’ O’Tooke—”

He interrupted, “I can do
without your smart mouth, Scott.”

I smiled. “Suits me.
Thought I’d let you know I can do without yours,
Wintersong.”

Either he blushed
remarkably or entered the early stages of seizure. At least his
face became marvelously red, and briefly appeared hot enough to
radiate light invisible to the naked eye. But only for a few
seconds. Then he inhaled deeply, let his breath out in an audible
sigh, and won a little of my respect. Only a little, and not for
long.

But at least Wintersong
looked straight at me and said, “You were quite right to take
umbrage. I invited your offensive response, Mr. Scott, and I should
not have done so. I think it was because I become so disturbed
whenever Dr. Hernandez is discussed. You ask why I care what he, an
unimportant GP, does. I care because I have concern for his
patients—his, or those of any other charlatan of similar ilk—human
beings with a right to the best possible medical care who are
prevented from receiving its proven benefits by conscienceless
peddlers of snake-oil and useless, often harmful, nostrums. Dr.
Hernandez is a menace, a danger to the health and even life of
every unsuspecting patient who walks through his door. That is why
all legitimate physicians—not only myself but all, those in general
practice or board-certified specialists or even medical
researchers—have a duty, a moral obligation, to prevent such men
from continuing to injure their misguided victims.”

I thought I heard a very
faint buzzing sound. It was very soft, but insistent. I couldn’t be
sure, because Wintersong was still talking—and apparently he hadn’t
heard it. Maybe it was some kind of engine or machinery miles
distant, or even a little gnat hovering near my ear.

But, no, it wasn’t a
far-away engine or nearby gnat. Because something very strange
happened then.

Wintersong was continuing
heatedly, “... not only injures but kills, yes kills. He is a
murderer! He has already been tried for murder in a court of law,
and we will accuse him again and again until justice—”

He stopped suddenly, eyes
widening. And his reaction then was not merely surprising, it was
alarming. His smooth pink face blanched, became white, literally
turned from healthy pink to pasty whiteness between one second and
the next. His eyes widened even more and his mouth sagged
open.

I thought he might be
having a stroke or some kind of coronary disaster because for three
or four stretched-out taffy-like seconds he was unmoving, rigid,
apparently not even breathing, with his features frozen into what
at another time might have been an almost comical
grimace.

And that soft buzzing
continued insistently, very near. It was the only sound in the
room.

The only sound, at least,
until Wintersong let out his breath in a soft puff, yanked a ring
of keys from his pocket, found one—it was red, I noticed, a red
key—and stabbed with it at a lock in the upper-left drawer of his
desk, stabbed again. Then he twisted the key, yanked the drawer
open and thrust one hand inside it. The buzzing stopped.

He looked briefly at me,
his eyes still wide and mouth open, as though staring through me,
not seeing me at all. Then he moved that hand inside the drawer
again, pulled it a few inches back toward him, and I heard a click.
From the corner of my eye I saw slight movement of that part of the
wall on my right which I’d thought, when I’d first come in here,
looked like a door without a doorknob or lock. It moved only an
inch, maybe half an inch—but away from me, inward toward that
“Danger/Radiation” room next to Wintersong’s office.

He was already out of his
chair, stepping swiftly toward what, obviously now, was a door
without a knob that allowed entrance to the adjacent room—not
another look at me, not a word—and then through and out of my
sight, pushing the curious door shut behind him with another click,
just like that first one. Also, like the somewhat louder click I’d
heard when the white-coated lady had poked out a combination on the
door across the hallway.

What the hell? I thought.
Not for the first time today.

I stood up. First, I
wanted to push against that knobless door and see if it moved
inward, which I was almost certain would not happen. Then I meant
to check that upper-left drawer of the doctor’s desk. But I didn’t
even have time to move my feet.

Behind me a high hard
voice said, “Where’s the Director? And who the hell are
you?”

I turned. First, I saw the
uniform. Neat, maybe even custom-tailored, smooth over wide
shoulders, nipped in at narrow waist. The man was about
five-eleven, solidly built, black haired, with a tanned face and
large mustache completely covering his upper lip like a black
cushion for his more than adequate nose.

“
Dr. Wintersong is in
there,” I said, pointing. “And I’m Shell Scott.”

No reaction. Most likely
he already knew who I was, or at least knew who’d had a two-thirty
appointment with the Director. I thought I could guess who he was,
too, but I said anyway, “May I ask who’s asking?”

Thinking of that
two-thirty appointment I glanced at the clock on Wintersong’s desk,
surprised to note that it was now two-fifty-eight p.m.

The uniformed man said,
“Baxter, Chief of Security. Were you leaving?”

I looked at him. “Guess
so, Chief. I had a couple more questions, but Doctor Wintersong
left all of a sudden, before I could ask them.”

The Security Chief struck
me as unusually nervous, or twitchy. His eyes kept flicking around
the room, landing on me and then shifting again. The fingers of his
right hand brushed the bone grip of a holstered gun at his hip. He
waved his other hand, motioning me toward the door he’d left open
when he entered.

He was right behind me as
I went out. I said, “Maybe you can help me with one of those
unasked questions. Can you tell me the names of those two guards at
the gatehouse?”

“
What’s it to
you?”

“
Just wondering what to
call Grinner besides Grinner.”

Walking alongside me
through that big “lab” room where I’d bumped into Dane, the Chief
stretched his lips, not exactly in a smile, but like a man silently
saying “Yeah.” “Ah, you’re that Scott, are you?” he said, perhaps
telling me more than he’d meant to. “You’re the private dick,
right?”

“
Yeah, right. So what do I
call Grinner?”

“
Officer Harris. Not that
it’s any of your business, Scott.”

And that was the zenith of
Chief Baxter’s helpfulness today. He escorted me out of the big
room, up the polished hallway, out through the wide glass doors and
all the way to my Cad. As I started the engine, I saw Baxter wave
to somebody in the gatehouse, which didn’t make me feel really
wonderful. But nothing unpleasant happened as I drove slowly
through the already-open gate.

Except that, standing in
the doorway of the guardhouse, Grinner gave me a sort of wave,
composed of extended index finger and wiggling thumbtop, the way
cute kids playing cops and robbers go “Bang-bang!” and shoot the
bad guys dead.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

I wheeled into the
palm-lined driveway leading to the Halcyon Hotel’s entrance, found
a spot in the parking lot, trotted over black asphalt and into the
hotel’s spacious lobby. When I headed for the arched entrance of
the Sybaris Lounge it was exactly one minute before six
p.m.

Getting here in time had
taken some doing. After the drive back into L.A. from Omega, I’d
stopped briefly at Hank’s office. At least, I’d intended for the
stop to be brief, but it was forty-five minutes before I got out of
there.

I reported on my visit
with Dr. Wintersong, including his precipitate exit, and told Hank
of seeing at Omega the driver of a green van like the one that had
almost run him down. He was interested, even excited, but had no
better explanation for those events than I did. But, naturally, he
had plenty to say about Wintersong, the guy I knew as Grinner, and
approximately forty-seven other subjects of “piercing
interest.”

When I was about to leave,
Hank picked off his desk a manila folder at least two and a half
inches thick, and pressed it upon me, saying, “These are a few
copies I made especially for your fascination, for you to examine,
enjoy.”

“
Enjoy? Good God,” I said,
“you don’t expect me to read all this stuff, do you?”

“
No, no,” he replied
smiling. “Merely look through the materials.” He brushed one half
of that neatly-trimmed mustache, nodding slightly as he beamed at
me. “But unless I am much mistaken about you, Sheldon, some of
these things will fascinate you splendidly.”

“
Yeah, sure, I’m getting
giddy already.“

“
Just go through the
materials a little bit. That is all I ask. Consider it, if you
wish, and essential part of this case, your investigating work for
me. Actually, it will in time become evident, it is
that.”

“
OK, I’ll flip here and
there. That much. But I may not do much more.”

“
Is sufficient. You may
surprise yourself and find some of these informations of huge
excitement.”

“
That would be a surprise,
all right.”

“
Trust me.” He smiled
again. “We are not so different as you may think, Sheldon. You
enjoy investigations, the finding of things hidden and previously
unfound, seeing of things previously unseen. I believe that for
you, as for me, discovering truth capable of upsetting mental
apples-carts is always exciting, true?” He stabbed a finger at the
thick folder under my arm. “This is people,” he said. “Everything,
in the end, is people.”