The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (27 page)

Dane sipped, closed her
eyes and said, “Mmmmm.” Then, blinking at me, “That’s delicious. It
actually tastes as good as coffee smells in the
morning.”

“
Well put. Great flavor,
all right, but there’s sure a lot of it. I’ll bet this stuff would
keep even Rip Van Winkle awake. All night. What do you
bet?”

Apparently she didn’t want
to bet anything yet, and merely repeated, “Mmmmm.” Then, “I could
become addicted to this, Shell.”

“
Probably ought to be
available only on prescription, like other drugs. Hey, maybe for a
big enough tip the waiter would inject it straight into our
veins—and neither of us would fall asleep for a week—”

“
Oh, that reminds me of an
interesting thing I just read, Shell—your mentioning drugs made me
think of it again. On the plane coming here this morning I was
reading a book about a designer drug called... something or other,
and how if affected various people. It’s supposed to open the heart
chakra, the fourth one, make people more open, more friendly, more
loving—”

“
Sounds like a winner to
me—”

“—
more caring. This one
woman said that, after taking the drug, she just sort of expanded
out of her body and into—actually seemed to become—space and suns
and stars, the universe, everything. And I was particularly struck
by one thing she said: she suddenly understood that the entire
universe, all of creation, is a continuous cosmic orgasm. I thought
that was just beau—”

“
No wonder I’m
horny.”

“—
tiful... You’re what? No
wonder you’re what?”

Charming Dane was
squinting at me uncharmingly, and finally I got it: we were having
two different conversations. And I figured out something else:
there is a time for horny and a time for not-horny, and for me this
was a time for not.

So, to smooth over an
unquestionably sticky moment, I said smoothly, “Forget it. Now,
this drug addict, er, this woman, all by herself proved the Big
Bang theory which, for years, literally thousands of scientists and
astronomers... yes? No? Well, forget that, too. Ah, I was just
wondering, Dane. Wondering—about Dr. Wintersong, I think it was.
Yeah, him. Where did you leave off?”

Lovely, charming Dane
squinted at me uncharmingly for another second or two, then relaxed
and sighed. And, almost, started to smile, I thought. But probably
I was wrong. Again.

“
I believe I’d mentioned
how important I feel Dr. Wintersong’s work on IFAI is.” After a
long pause she continued, “That was just before the waiter arrived
with his coffee beans... and hypodermic needle.”

And then she did smile.
Beautifully. So, she was no longer mad at me, maybe. Not even
miffed, maybe. At least, that is how I interpreted it, clinging to
optimism. But I merely nodded, instead of risking opening my mouth
again. And tried to nod with enthusiasm.

“
Well...” Dane went on,
getting that look of concentration once more, small frown wrinkle
between her arched brows. “There’s no doubt in my mind that the
incredible spread of IFAI is the most important, and frightening,
public-health problem in the world today. After all, that’s what my
whole book is about.”

I nodded,
enthusiastically.

“
And I do truly feel that
Dr. Wintersong might be the one researcher most likely to find a
cure. When I was talking to him today, I got the impression—only an
impression, he didn’t actually say it—that he may be very close to
perfecting a vaccine to prevent the terrible disease, may even have
done it already. Isn’t that exciting?”

“
Yeah. He didn’t come right
out and say he’d cooked up a vaccine, right?”

“
No, but if he has—or does
in the future—and saves millions of lives, that would make him just
about the most important physician, most important person, in the
world today. Wouldn’t you agree, Shell?”

“
Well, if he saved millions
of lives, that would sure make him important. Probably also get him
a whole bunch of awards, big federal grants—”

“
He’d get the Nobel Prize.
There wouldn’t be any question about it, the Nobel for Medicine
couldn’t possibly go to anyone else. I’m quite familiar with the
achievements of past winners—my first book was on the Nobel, you
know.”

“
Oh? Sorry, I didn’t know.
I haven’t been exactly up to my neck in medical investigations...
Until just lately, maybe.”

“
Well, it was my first
published title, and it didn’t get on any of the best-seller lists.
But The Nobel had a decent sale, and was very well received in the
scientific community. Dr. Wintersong told me he loved the
book.”

“
Then he’d read
it?”

“
Read it twice, he told
me—music to an author’s ears. Once when it was first published, and
again after I wrote him asking for an interview. In fact, he said
it was my unusual understanding of the many difficulties confronted
and overcome by former winners on their way to the Prize that
convinced him he should grant me the interview.”

She paused. “His exact
words were that it was my remarkably objective and sympathetic—for
a lay person—recounting of their ‘long and lonely but loving
labors’ that most impressed him. I wrote it down, maybe I can use
the quote somewhere.”

“
Assuming he didn’t swipe
it from Swinburne. Objective and sympathetic... reminds me of his
eliminating the unavoidable. I’m starting to wonder if there’s
something really wacky in this guy’s thought processes, some zigs
where zags ought—”

“
Eliminating... what?” she
eyed me blankly. “Wacky?”

“
Not important—I was just
recalling some of the doc’s dialogue with me. I gather he brought
up the Nobel Prize, at least your book about it, right?”

“
Yes, and while we were
discussing some of the great Eureka moments of the past in science
and medicine—like the double-helix breakthrough when Crick and
Watson and Wilkins solved the DNA code—I told Dr. Wintersong that
if he did discover a drug to cure IFAI or even a vaccine to prevent
it, I knew he’d be the next Nobel Laureate in Medicine.”

“
And I’ll bet he didn’t
stalk out of the room in a fit of anger.”

She gave me a rather sharp
look. “We all like appreciation or praise, particularly if we
deserve it, don’t we? And my comment was honest opinion, not
flattery.”

“
I know that, Dane. I was
just interested in Wintersong’s reaction. What did he say about his
Nobel Laureate possibilities?”

“
Just that it would be the
greatest possible honor, and one which he wouldn’t deserve. But
then he chuckled, even laughed a little—he can be quite charming,
you know.”

“
I guess it’s possible.
Also it’s possible I wasn’t exposed to any of it because I kept him
waiting for at least two minutes while I was knocking you
down.”

She smiled again. “Our
meeting was a memorable introduction, wasn’t it?”

“
Nicest shock I can
remember.”

“
Well, next time try to be
a little less reckless, and more gentle with me, Shell.”

I smiled, opened my
smiling mouth, and said—nothing. Didn’t have time. Whenever Dane
gave me an opening she instantly closed it, and this was a little
bit worrisome. Also at that moment a fragment of worrisome memory
flickered—something to do with jets and bushes and legs—but Dane
was speeding on.

“
As I was saying about Dr.
Wintersong, he laughed and commented that, should such an unlikely
combination of fortuitous events culminate in his being awarded the
most coveted and prestigious prize in medicine, the Nobel, he
feared he might find himself unable to refuse so great and rare and
humbling an honor.”

“
You’re quoting him, aren’t
you? I hope.”

“
Word-for-word, most
likely. I’ve an almost freakishly retentive memory of things I hear
or read, if they might fit into one of my books.”

“
Good. Good for you, I
mean. But this guy Wintersong, yeah, there’s got to be something
wacky about this guy.“

“
You don’t like him at all,
do you?”

“
I guess not. And I’ll bet
a buck to a bean that he’s spent more than a little time thinking
covetously about the much-coveted Nobel and his chances of actually
nabbing the Prize—despite those faint protestations of unworthiness
while chuckling charmingly.”

“
What would make you think
that?”

“
Only about nine things
you’ve told me he did or said. Yeah, the more I think—”

“
But why don’t you like Dr.
Wintersong, Shell?”

“
I’m not really sure. He
just—he bugs me.”

“
Well, I can’t understand
why you’d feel that way, Shell. I really can’t. He is—or was—a
wonderful neurosurgeon, and is a truly brilliant scientist and
researcher now, recognized as such by everybody in medicine. Don’t
forget, it was Dr. Wintersong who discovered and cultured the IFAI
virus when all attempts by others to isolate the organism had
completely failed—”

“
Couldn’t find it, could
they? Think about that. What if they were all looking for a needle
in a haystack with no needles until Nobel-coveting
Winter—”

“—
and, Shell, even you
would have to admit, wouldn’t you, that he’s a great researcher, a
great man, if he actually perfects a vaccine for prevention of this
terrible, terrible plague that’s killed so many innocent victims, a
vaccine to immunize everybody against IFAI?” She sighed, almost
reverently I thought. “If, God willing, he actually
succeeds.”

“
Hell, he already has...” I
stopped then added quickly, “I mean, maybe he’s already done it.
Could’ve already grown quintrillions of the little devils and
killed them in cold blood and cooked them in acid and zapped them
with cobalt and sprinkled their wee corpses with formaldehyde...
and whatever else they... No?”

As Dane began squinting at
me again, I realized there were two separate trains of thought in
my mind, headed for collision. One was triggered by clear and
almost audible recall of several statements made to me by Henry
Hernandez, M.D., possibly baseless or even crazy statements that
were nonetheless still itching inside my head. The other was that
Dane seemed almost to bristle when I waxed less than lyrical about
Dr. William Wintersong, and I knew I was probably about to make her
bristle some more.

I sighed and said, “Maybe
Dr. Wintersong will turn out to be America’s Hero, or maybe
something else entirely. Didn’t you just suggest how wonderful it
would be if he came up with a vaccine to immunize everybody against
IFAI?”

“
Of course I
did.”

“
Dane, it’s the ‘everybody’
that bothers me. What if Wintersong’s patented shots-for-everybody
turned out to be not so wonderful, actually harmful or maybe even
lethal for some people—after all mankind had been stuck with
it?”

Yeah, she was squinting at
me again. But I blundered on, “There are some people, Dane, not all
of them dummies, who say all vaccinations are harmful, that
so-called immunizations don’t really immunize. And that most of the
kids who get measles, say, or whooping cough, are the ones
repeatedly vaccinated to prevent measles... or the
whoop...”

“
What utter rot!” she said
heatedly.

I was in trouble. Dane was
shaking her head, the Gourmet Room’s subdued lighting brushing
spots of shimmering amber into her rust-red hair, and it would have
been an absolutely gorgeous sight if she hadn’t been simultaneously
bristling and squinting.

“
I simply don’t understand
you, Shell,” she continued rapidly. “Why wouldn’t it be wonderful
if Dr. Wintersong, or any other scientist, perfected a vaccine to
prevent an invariably fatal illness, or perfected a drug to cure
it? When we talk about IFAI we’re not speaking of statistics but
people—men and women and children—who are dying. I can’t think of
anything more important—at least as far as public health is
concerned—than ending this terrible epidemic, preventing the deadly
disease from spreading. You can’t possibly disagree with that, can
you?”

It was funny—funny
peculiar, not amusing—but Dane’s words fell seriously atilt upon my
ears. Most of those words and phrases sounded twisted,
warped—sounded actually dumb. And I realized suddenly that
everything she’d said would have made pretty good sense to
me—yesterday. But not today.

Before talking to, or
being enthusiastically brainwashed by, Hank Hernandez, while I’d
not been a devout disciple of modern medicine I had assumed it was
at least a better way-to-go than almost anything else available,
and at best a dedicated army of healers possessed of scientific
truth and stethoscopes and scalpels and tons of bug-poisoning
chemicals, fighting the good fight to annihilate advancing forces
of a hundred, maybe even a thousand, diseases. Diseases so virulent
and deadly that if specially anointed human beings did not attack
and destroy them, those murderous microbes would attack and destroy
us. Somehow. It was never absolutely clear exactly how... just
somehow, or other.

Entirely aside from Hank,
however, during more than one previous job I’d become acquainted
with “holistic” physicians, or orthodox M.D.s who’d strayed
from—and in at least one case become militantly opposed to—the
rigidly-enforced dogmas of orthodoxy. Moreover, my doctor friend
Paul had laid upon me a few tales of monstrous medical error or
malpractice never aired outside the medical fraternity itself and
thus unknown or too often unsuspected by the public at large. Even
so, until now I’d been inclined to say to myself, “So who’s
perfect?” and ignore most of the nagging pressure of insistent
doubt. For to doubt was to question science, universal law,
revealed truth, even to suggest that our medical gods might be not
only fallible but actually dangerous to our health.