The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (46 page)

I waited a full minute to
be sure no one was hustling this way, then trotted back to the
now-unlocked burn-bin. That thick sour smell seemed even stronger
now, maybe because my heart was pounding slightly and I was
breathing more deeply.

Whatever the reason, the
putrid stench was clogging my nostrils and itching like acid at the
back of my throat. Almost gagging, with an unusual quivering
tightness between my shoulder blades, I gripped the bin’s metal
cover and lifted, raised it and shoved, pushing its top edge over
against the wall.

Then I looked down into
the bin—and turned away.

After a few deep breaths,
sucking in stink but also more oxygen, I turned around and looked
again. Made myself look carefully as impassively as I could. Nearly
filled with the bodies of animals. Bodies. And parts of bodies.
Visible, concealing whatever was beneath them, were corpses and
pieces of corpses—of mice, probably several hundred mice, plus some
rats, and guinea pigs, two bantam chickens and a brightly-plumaged
bird, frogs, rabbits, cats, dogs, three small monkeys.

Near the bins right side,
atop the heap and stiff with rigor mortis, was the body of a mature
Irish setter, red coat still shiny, healthy-looking. Closer to me,
almost directly below my eyes, were two Siamese cats, with the
breed’s distinctive beige-and-chocolate-brown markings, with open
and glazed eyes, staring blue eyes. I could see the tops of both
cats heads—or, rather, the upper curves and convolutions of their
exposed brains. An oval portion of each skull had been removed, for
what purpose I could only guess, because there was no longer
evidence of whatever had been done to the cats before they
died.

Hank’s little camera was
still in the breast pocket of my jacket. I took the camera out,
concentrated on making sure it was correctly focused and on
snapping the first shot from where I stood. Then I hoisted myself
onto the bin’s side, stood for a few wobbly seconds up there on a
right-angled corner and took two more shots. Then I hopped down at
the bin’s left end, steadying myself by pressing one hand against
the wall. Or, rather, intending to steady myself—but my hand
pressed not wall but that metal panel I’d glimpsed a few minutes
ago, when looking up here from the storeroom. It slid sideways and
I stumbled, almost fell. The shiny metal panel was about three feet
square, and I remembered Hank describing a “sliding metal door” at
the top of the chute.

The door had moved from my
right to left about a foot; I pushed it open all the way, revealing
something that looked like a yard-square galvanized-metal
air-conditioning duct, slanting down. I could see into the opening
for only a few feet because a baffle of some kind, made of a black
material that looked like rubbery plastic, hung from the chute’s
top and concealed everything beyond it. There wasn’t any unusual
heat perceptible here, which figured.

The incinerator would be
well beneath this floor, and undoubtedly the chute was equipped
with many additional screens or baffles like the one I could
see.

For a few curiously
depressing seconds, I looked into that yard-square opening, and
mentally all the way down to the flames, imagining everything I’d
just seen in the burn-bin in a kind of slow motion sliding,
spinning down the slick metal chute into fire, becoming a small
pile of powdery ash. And I wondered how many thousands or hundreds
of thousands of dead animals, how many tons of stiffening corpses,
had already been turned into fluffy gray ashes and bits of white
bone.

I could only guess. But I
knew Omega was just one medical-research facility of thousands,
many of them smaller and some much larger than Omega, not all with
jim-dandy crematoria of course, but all determinedly,
scientifically, and above all efficiently, turning the brothers and
sisters of Fido and Coco and Squeakie into easily disposable
homogenized miscellany in order to save mankind from
sickness.

Scowling, I slid the metal
door shut, lowered the heavy cover down onto the stinking bin, and
got the hell away from there.

The sick, sour smell was
still present, heavy in the air, but for some reason it didn’t
bother me much any longer. Oddly, or perhaps not oddly, the
multiple whimpering-yapping-barking-whatever, still constant, did.
In fact, it bothered me even more now, irritated me, plucked at my
ears and nerves and brain. Worse, unless I’m pounded severely on
the head, I never get a headache, but I was getting a
headache.

I walked away from the bin
and the smell, turned left, then paused, stood unmoving for a few
seconds. The last time I had approached this same front hallway I
stopped just short of it, peered around the wall’s edge, carefully
made sure no other person was here with me. This time, I simply
walked straight out into exposed openness, turned left, headed for
the door that said “Director”—the same door I’d burst through
yesterday moments before colliding with Dane.

Only after I’d done it did
I realize I had simply blundered out here without any of the normal
care and caution that keeps guys like me alive. Slow down, I told
myself; don’t get jerky and blow the whole bit.

I had to slow down
briefly, whether I wanted to or not, at the door marked “Director,”
because it was locked; the knob didn’t turn at all. Set into the
doorframe was one of those combination locks with three rows of
three numbered push buttons. I remembered watching the
white-smocked gal yesterday afternoon, bending forward and poking
at a similar lock across the hall.

Fortunately, I had written
the sequence down, because I couldn’t remember any of it now. I got
out my notebook, poked 1-9-3-3-8-8-1, heard a metallic click, and
the knob turned. I eased the door open, slipped through and closed
the door behind me, Colt Special ready in my right hand.

No problem; the big room
was empty, at least empty of people. There was shadowy movement
within the thirty or forty animal cages lining three walls, but
nobody stood at the two long workbenches where yesterday I’d seen
men washing equipment in stainless-steel sinks. In the far wall
ahead of me were the three solid-wood office doors, closed, and to
the right of that third door—on which I recalled was the large
gray-painted door with the bright-red warning: DANGER – LETHAL
RADIATION – DO NOT ENTER.

I went straight to
Wintersong’s office and was not in the least surprised to find it
locked. There was, however, no nine-number panel here like the one
I’d pushed to get inside; so I took out my set of lock-picks, and
got to work.

It took me three minutes,
and I was sweating before finally getting the door open. Sweating,
primarily, not because of the minimal effort involved but because I
kept thinking somebody was behind me, eyes fixed on the back of my
head, silently approaching as I worked on the lock. That
nervousness, or subdued fear, was baseless, because nothing moved
in the big room except those caged animals, but I couldn’t shake it
entirely. Partly, I suppose, because the room was so quiet; I could
hear the soft sound of movement, occasional clink of chain or brief
rattle of metal door, but not any barking or chittering or howling,
no sound of animal voices.

So when the tumblers moved
and the lock was open I pushed the door inward and stepped into
Wintersong’s office, closing the door again quickly and leaning
back against it—in darkness. I found a light switch, flipped it and
bright overhead light bathed the room. This, I remembered well.
Dark-brown carpet, black desk with large padded-leather chair
behind it and small angular chair in front, nearer me. Also the
large shockingly bright abstract painting on the wall to my right,
the painting which I now knew was exactly the same size as some
kind of door concealed behind it.

The black desk was just as
neat and uncluttered as when I’d first seen it. Two precisely
aligned black-plastic baskets, gold pen and pencil set, small
square clock with its black face and white numbers—and speedy white
second hand racing around the dial. Plus what I was after: a
telephone.

I had assumed that if
there was anywhere in this joint a phone with its own direct line
outside Omega, it would be the Director’s. That assumption was
correct. Seated in Wintersong’s swivel chair, I picked up the phone
and heard a welcome dial tone; pressed in Hank’s number and got
Eleanora, and five seconds later, Hank.

I had also assumed
correctly that Hank would have several dozen questions. He would
probably have asked them all, one after another without pausing for
breath, if I hadn’t cut him off.

“
Hold it,” I said. “I don’t
have much to tell you—yet. And that’s not why I called. I need your
help.”

He didn’t interrupt while
I told him that I’d made it inside Omega without difficulty, was in
fact using a phone in the Director’s office, and then explained my
concern about Dane Smith, repeated what I’d overheard Wintersong
saying.

“
Sedated?” Hank said. “That
is not good.”

“
It’s lousy. Right after
that, both Wintersong and Belking drove away, so I don’t know which
one she was with. Now...” I dug out my notebook, flipped some
pages. “This morning, when Belking drove away from his Museum after
our talk, he was in a new Mercedes Benz sedan, license plate number
CVY176. His wife was right behind him in a Jaguar Sedan, license
number PHS988. Unfortunately, I don’t know what Wintersong would
have been driving.”

“
That can be discovered
without difficulty, I will take care of it.”

He went on to say he would
contact many of his friends, and there would be observation made of
Wintersong’s home, and Belking’s, for me not to be concerned but to
concentrate on seeing and photographing whatever I felt might be of
value or significance, and then getting back out of Omega safely.
“Incidentally,” he finished, “how will you do that?”

While he spoke, I had been
remembering the last time I’d been in this office, and how abruptly
that interview had ended. I could almost hear again that faint
insistent buzzing, see Wintersong’s sudden shock and pallor before
becoming agitated. He had opened one of the drawers in his desk—the
upper-left drawer, so close to me now I could touch it.

The keyhole of the lock,
in that upper left drawer, into which Wintersong had finally
managed to insert his red key, looked ordinary, standard. No matter
how much doctors may know about tibias and fibulas, sulfas and
‘cillins, from a private eye’s point of view they’re laymen. And
many of them think if a front door, or briefcase, or desk drawer,
is locked, it’s really locked. Which, of course, it
isn’t.

I got out my lock-picks
again, selected one and wiggled it gently into the narrow
keyhole.

Hank was saying, again,
“How will you get out of Omega, Sheldon? You did not tell me
before. You have another marvelous plan for accomplishing this,
yes?”

Actually, the answer was:
No.

I scowled, clenched my
teeth together, wiggled my lock-pick, snorted through my nose.
Well, dammit, I told myself, a man can’t think of
everything.

“
Sheldon? How—”

“
Yeah, yeah, I heard you.
Look, don’t worry about it. I promise you, Hank, I’ll uh, worry
plenty for both of us.” That was true. I’d already
started.

Then, suddenly, the
upper-left drawer was sliding open. I pulled it out a little more,
freed the lock-pick, reached inside the drawer. Wintersong, ashen,
had fumbled in here, about halfway back on the left, was my guess.
Yeah, there was something, felt like an inch-long protuberance,
shaped like a tiny bowling pin.

I pushed it forward.
Nothing happened.

Hank was saying, “So if
there is anything of significance you have seen, or can tell
me—”

I interrupted, “Not yet,
Hank. I really just got started. But...”

This time, I pulled on the
little protuberance, it moved a quarter of an inch, and—click. It
was a solid sharp sound, the same thing I’d heard yesterday. And
from the corner of my eye, even before turning my head to look, I
saw that big bright swirl of oils on the wall move.

I jerked my head around.
The right side of the painting had again, same today as yesterday,
swung slightly away from me, toward the interior of the adjoining
room. With an inch of space all along the painting’s right edge, it
looked now very much like a door standing ajar. Which, of course,
is what it was.

I said to Hank, “... maybe
I will have, soon. Call you back later.”

“
Bueno.”

I hung up, got to my feet
and moved to the painting, put one hand against it. For a moment I
thought of that red-lettered warning, on the wall outside this room
next to Wintersong’s office, DANGER – LETHAL RADIATION. When
Wintersong had hurried through this same door yesterday, he’d
seemed unusually concerned, yes. But concerned about radiation? I
didn’t think so.

I pushed the door open.
The room beyond it was dark, illuminated only by overhead light
spilling from behind me in the office. I stepped through the
doorway. Directly ahead of me was something like a large bookcase
with shelving and bins holding coils of tubing, wires, glass bowls
and bottles, odds and ends of equipment that I merely glanced at.
The wooden structure apparently designed to provide storage space,
also blocked my view of the room’s interior because it was about
six feet high and extended all the way to the wall on my left, and
about halfway to the other, or front, wall on my right.