The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (44 page)

As I slipped the stick
into gear, he said, “Vaya con Dios, me amigo.” Then, “Sheldon, I
must comment. This dangerous thing you are doing—”

I grinned. “You mean
cracked, don’t you? Hell, you’re a doctor, you’re supposed to
recognize symptoms of—”

“
Por favor! Listen, please.
I wish to say serious words... Oh well, this indubitably psychotic
enterprise upon which you are semi-or un-wittingly
embarking—”

“
Okay,
courageous.”

“—
is a previously unplanned
event of great fortuitousness, which may produce results of greater
value than can be measured. You are aware it is at this moment
important, Sheldon, but it may be of considerable more importance
than you have sensed. You also recognize well that there is danger,
but, again, this thing is more dangerous than you suspect. Indeed,
were it not that the possible benefits are so great, I would not
let you do this, for if you should fail I could not in this
lifetime—”

“
Fail? Fail? Is this Henry
Hernandez going downhill? Let me give you some help, Doc. In the
morning and at night, say over and over again, ‘Every day in every
way I’m getting bet—”

“
Go! Go!” His expression
was severe, even grave. But as I took my foot off the brake,
pressed it gently against the gas pedal, he added “...con Dios. And
try not to get killed unnecessarily. Por favor?”

As I drove away I caught a
glimpse of Hank in the rearview mirror. He was standing almost in
the middle of Mulberry Street, reflection dwindling, getting
smaller and smaller, but looking very tall.

* * * * * *

Sitting down,
uncomfortably cramped in one corner of the big crate, I looked up
at the heads of Geraldo and Robert, gazing expressionlessly down
upon me, and at clear blue sky and sunlight-faded quarter-moon
visible beyond their disembodied heads. Then, smiling a
dashing-astronaut smile, I said bravely, “Don’t forget, lads, when
I’m going lickety-split around the far side of the moon, our
walkie-talkies won’t work.”

Why did I say that? Don’t
ask me why I said that. Robert didn’t respond in any way whatever,
and all that came out of Geraldo was, “Mande?” Which I guessed was
Mexican for “Huh?” I also guessed that most people must say dumb
things when they’re nervous. At least, I knew—now—that I must.
Yeah, right, I was nervous, beginning to fill up with a vast sense
of unease.

Only minutes before, after
following the truck, driven by red-haired Robert at what must have
been ninety-nine miles an hour to within two miles of our
destination, they had stopped as per plan at the side of the narrow
road. I’d then driven a bumpy hundred yards cross-country and left
my shot-up Cadillac parked in a clump of trees, removed a few items
from its trunk, walked back to the flatbed truck, climbed into my
crate, and become a “Nuclear Resonance Analyzer,” ready for
delivery.

But now the action had
stopped, at least temporarily, and I had time to brood. While
Geraldo and Robert put the five-foot by five-foot wooden top of the
crate in place, I told myself I was a healthy fellow without the
least bit of claustrophobic weakness in my makeup; but I wasn’t
listening. Because it suddenly got very close and spookily cramped
inside the box, especially when the sun—or at least sunlight—went
out, blocked by those closely-fitted pine boards.

In another minute, Geraldo
and Robert were finished and I was completing my part of the job,
with some difficulty. Their part was simply to insert long bolts
into holes at each of the four corners up there, poking them on
down through matching holes drilled in a pair of five-foot-long
metal braces, which were already rigidly in place on opposite sides
of the crate, and three inches below its top. Since bolts were
three and a half inches long, and the braces were a quarter of an
inch thick, each bolt—if nobody had goofed—would extend through the
brace with its threaded end protruding a quarter of an inch and
ready to receive a nut. I was in charge of the nuts.

My job was merely to twist
one of them onto each bolt and tighten all four gently with a
socket wrench. The crate’s top would then be attached firmly enough
to pass inspection, even fairly careful inspection, but could be
easily removed when I wanted out. Simple, and effective; however,
it was pretty dark in here.

I checked, by feel, for
the several items I’d brought along with me: Colt Special in
holster, cell phone, and camera from Hank, I’d been given a
nut-size socket wrench by Geraldo, and had myself brought along
from the Cad’s trunk a three-inch-wide roll of surgical tape, my
favorite set of lock-picks, and a pencil flashlight, which was the
item I needed now. I didn’t expect the cell phone to be of use
within the walls of Omega, but I had it just in case. Even with
illumination of the flashlight, it took me two minutes to get all
four bolts firmly affixed. Also, I skinned several knuckles. It
would have been nice if there’d been some kind of simple lever to
instantly release the crate’s top, but I had to admit that Geraldo
had done a remarkably good job, considering the limited amount of
time he’d had available.

He had even, at the last
moment, quickly spray-painted “Box 1 of 2 in shipment” on the
crate’s side. This, after Hank mentioned that the several
components of a real Analyzer, such as the one Omega was expecting,
weighed four hundred and eighty pounds, and that “Sheldon, though
large” would total considerably less. Hank then asked me what I
weighed, and when I told him two-hundred and five pounds he said,
significantly, to Geraldo, “You see? Sheldon is two-hundred and
seventy-five pounds short!”

That had puzzled me,
briefly. Hank’s point, however, was well taken, and his concern a
sensible one. Even very dim bulbs, with IQs barely adequate for
lifting, might—if aware they were supposed to be muscling nearly
five hundred pounds—pick me up, stare off into space for a minute
or two, and then say suspiciously, “Dere, is something perplexible
about dis here box, boss.” So I was grateful to Hank for that idea,
and also for shooting down one of my own.

I hadn’t realized how dark
it would be in my package once its top was on, but it had occurred
to me that I would then be in a five-by-five cubicle, containing
not very many cubicle feet of air, which is only partly oxygen;
which is necessary for breathing; and; though I might not become
asphyxiated, I might wind up unpleasantly full of carbon dioxide if
I was in this box very long. So, trying to think ahead—not quite
far enough—I’d suggested boring a few holes in the top and sides of
my crate, in order that I might continue comfortably inhaling and
exhaling.

“
Inhaling and expiring,”
Hank said.

I wasn’t instantly certain
what he meant. But then—without, I’d like to think, gratuitous
sarcasm—he suggested boring two or three hundred holes, to be
certain the ruffians would not fail to peer through at least one of
them at their “Analyzer,” and immediately thereafter add more holes
of their own, by propelling large bullets “with terminal velocity”
into it.

He was kind enough to say
into “it,” though we all knew who he meant. But I also knew he must
have my well-being at heart, and thus was thinking only of
preventing my terminal perforation, so all that gratuitous sarcasm
didn’t tick me off. Much.

I lifted my arms, pushed
both hands against the crate’s top. It was firmly in place, very
solid. So I knocked twice on the wood, informing Geraldo that I’d
finished. He rapped twice quickly in reply, and in a few more
seconds the truck moved forward. From here, there remained only a
mile of gently-rising road, then another mile downhill to the
gatehouse. When the truck swerved—Robert missing a pothole, I
presumed—it was difficult to keep my balance, because there was no
warning, no visible point of reference, as I just sort of floated
along in almost-black darkness.

Then I felt a slight
lessening of my weight as we reached the end of that long
upslanting grade and started down the other side. So I knew we were
on the last downhill mile of narrow road, ending at those
bleached-bone buildings of the Omega Medical Research
Center.

The last mile. I didn’t
like the sound of it. I didn’t like “downhill” much,
either.

We came to a stop, and I
heard somebody with a gruff scratchy voice saying, “Whatcha got
dere?” We’d reached the gatehouse. But that voice hadn’t come out
of Grinner, or Kell, or anybody else I knew. Or anybody I wanted to
know.

The truck door slammed,
several seconds passed. The scratchy voiced man was saying, “Yeah,
nookoolar analyzer, I heard somethin’ about it. Okay.” Apparently
he was looking at papers Geraldo had prepared and then he said
again, “Okay. Take it—you ever been here before, Jose?”

I winced, closing my eyes
in the darkness. I didn’t care how big or tough this gate-guard
was, he had to be speaking to Geraldo, whose barrel chest and
muscled arms had impressed me as awesome. Which gave me a hint that
this egg was either unusually reckless, or blind.

But then I heard Geraldo,
whose English was plain old everyday English with only a slight
Latin flavoring, say, “No, seynyooore, these ees forst time,
seynyooore. Please?”

I grinned, relieved, and
opened my eyes, everything looked the same as when they’d been
closed.

Scratchy voice: “Run it
around back, you’ll see a loadin’ ramp back there, coupla big
double doors. Think you can handle it, Jose?”

I closed my eyes again,
grimaced, waited.

But Geraldo replied
smoothly, “I believe so, sir. I don’t expect to encounter
insurmountable difficulties in my search for the building’s rear,
and once that’s accomplished I’m confident I’ll be able to locate
the ramp, which should make finding those double doors a piece of
cake.”

I did not stop grimacing,
or anticipating disaster, until I heard the truck’s door slam
again, and we began moving forward. In what seemed like no time at
all, the truck stopped, and this time Robert turned off the engine.
Soon I heard more voices, but couldn’t make out what was being
said. Half a minute of silence, broken by the sound of another
engine outside, crunching as if tires were moving over gravel, then
a different crunch, and clunk and I was airborne.

I was being lifted,
apparently by a fork lift, the crate wobbling slightly, its boards
squeaking, like an old ship in gentle seas. In darkness, the
sensation of movement was weird, a slow almost dizzying swirling,
most of it in my stomach.

Geraldo’s voice: “Easy,
easy there, that’s delicate equipment, man.”

“
Who’s doin’ this? Shut
up.” Something not unfamiliar about that voice.

Geraldo: “Pretend it’s
glass, huh?”

“
Didn’t you hear me? Shut
up!”

Clunk, creak, wobble, and
thud. I was delivered. Half a minute went by. The flatbed truck’s
engine started; its sound moved away, becoming fainter. Then there
was no sound at all, not even the rustle of movement near
me.

I started worrying. Or,
rather, continued to do so. The whole reason for this
deliver-the-crate caper, was to get me inside Omega. Even the
Trojan Horse was just a large, funny-looking wooden horsy, of no
utility until it was pulled inside the walls of Troy. A silent
minute dragged by.

But then I heard a voice.
Sharp, angry, loud—and familiar. “What the crap you goddamn
hemorrhoids think you’re doing? Get off your asses and put that
shipment inside.”

“
Yes, Sir!”

“
Yes, Sir, right
away.”

The men sounded like two
privates speaking to the commanding general. But it wasn’t a
general, not exactly. That had, unquestionably, been Hobart
Belking. So Belking was still here. If Belking, maybe Wintersong?
And...Dane?

Moreover, I’d made that
first guy, too. From “Who’s doin’ this, shut up,” minutes ago to
“Yes, Sir, right away” just now, the voice had moved from not
entirely unfamiliar: to Grinner. So perhaps—I couldn’t tell merely
from the “Yes, Sir”—the other hemorrhoid was Kell.

I can’t say the conclusion
made me feel glad all over. I wondered, if the two men were indeed
Kell and Grinner, how come they seemed almost eager, perhaps even
accustomed, to obeying orders from Hobart Belking.

I also wondered what would
happen if, for any reason, I needed to get out of this
bolted-together box of mine in a hurry.

And right then, maybe at
the worst possible time for it considering the unanswered question
in my mind, there was a bunch of dialogue, part of it in yet
another familiar voice and at the same moment I felt a jarring thud
followed by jerky movement.

The man speaking was
William Wintersong, and—just as my crate was suddenly lifted a foot
or so by one of the men operating some kind of machinery the doctor
said heartily, “Good, good, the Analyzer. Splendid! Run it into the
storeroom for now. And be careful with it, very
careful.”

Right after that, the hard
flat voice of Belking again. “Harris, I’m sure you know you’ve been
on borrowed time ever since that screw-up with Hernandez, but
letting Scott get away from here today was perhaps fatally
inexcusable. Isn’t that right?”