The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (61 page)

The decapitated heads of
Guenther, Helga, and Rusty were long gone, but all the experimental
equipment remained behind. So we knew each of those heads had been
positioned on a yard-square piece of polished inch-thick mahogany,
directly above a six-inch hole in the board’s center, the hole
allowing insertion of wires, tubes, probes from below.
Unfortunately, Wintersong’s head wouldn’t go through a six-inch
hole, and still had his body attached to it. So, in order to
preserve, perhaps even improve, the illusion, we’d sawed one of the
boards in two down the middle and, once Wintersong was strapped
into place, put it together again around his neck.

It was a tight fit, but
looked grand. Especially since around the doctor’s throat was a
quarter-inch strip of elastic Velcro that could be tightened or
loosened easily—not yet very tight because we didn’t want
Wintersong to stop breathing entirely. We intended that he breathe
with considerable difficulty, yes; and with discomfort noticeable
where, presumably, his neck had been sliced like a delicatessen
salami; but also that he continue to do some breathing.

From where I stood,
Wintersong’s plastic-covered bare feet could be seen touching the
floor below that five-sided, bottomless, framework enclosing his
body. His hips and both legs were enclosed in whole bag “splints,”
plastic bags filled with body-temperature water under pressure.
Much of that plus such incongruities as taut twisted-sheet ropes
extending from Wintersong to a desk on one side and a heavy air
compressor on the other, would have been visible from just about
any place in the laboratory except where Wintersong himself was.
Which impressed me as good enough. More than good enough. Up there
where Wintersong, or his head, rested slightly below my eye level,
everything looked perfect.

Dr. Wintersong, upon
seeing himself—what there was of him—reflected in a nearby mirror
we’d thoughtfully provided, was also supposed instantly to believe
those gadgets descended on down into his brain. Into his very own
brain. Which, experimentally speaking had to be far, far different
from someone else’s brain. But would he believe? Sure. Sure, I told
myself a second time, otherwise why the hell go to all this
trouble? With any luck he’d buy the whole package. Sure.

Earlier I’d asked Hank
about one of my pesky misgivings, namely, “What if the doc gets
cramps in his toes, or is seized by an uncontrollable impulse to
scratch —”

“
Not to worry,
Sheldon.”

“
That’s easy for you to
say, doctor. Hell, that’s what doctors always say, right? I mean,
do you think Wintersong will really believe he’s a head
alone?”

“
Your question is, will
Wintersong, upon becoming indelibly impressed by his perplexed
reflection before him, wonder frantically, ‘Is that all there is?’
or will he suspect devious trickery? Will he truly believe himself
still whole or departed?”

“
Close enough. Speaking
loosely. However, I think you’re getting a little giddy,
right?”

“
Yes, plus enormous
anxiety. I am worried about me, you, Dane, ten thousand others, all
of POCUEH, our hundred lawsuits, a quarter-billion U.S. people who
are about to become saved from IFAI now, and IFAI-squared later, if
he himself to believe it. On the other hand—he may not. So the
answer to your question is: Si, es possible, pero possiblamente no.
Or quien sabe?”

“
That’s about what I
figured.”

“
We must do those things I
have mentioned, to you already, doing, as you say, the convincers.
As, discussion of allowing more compressed oxygen
mixture—substitute for his missing lungs—to activate his voice box.
Unless he accepts he can speak, and believes it technically
feasible, we are not, you and I, going to hear much from him that
is interesting, informative, or life-saving. And you must remember
to ask me about Maillander. Wintersong knows that name well, so it
will be perhaps the most important convincer.”

Hank had discussed that
bit with me earlier. Dr. Charles Maillander, now seventy years old,
could probably without exaggeration have been called a
neurosurgeon’s neurosurgeon. Twice Nobel nominee, but never
Laureate, he was the widely admired practitioner-instructor pioneer
in brain microsurgery who had most impressed our own Dr. Wintersong
in medical school. Maillander had at one time been briefly
interested in research into the possibility of cranial
transplants—some years before the now notorious “Monkey Head”
brouhaha in the media—of which Maillander then approved without
reservations. He had even worked for a few months with Dr. Duncan
Sherwood, primarily helping him develop nutrient solutions that
might succeed in keeping those monkeys’ heads alive for more than
minutes. None did; all died. But that’s progress.

Years ago, a hugely
prestigious medical journal had published an approving article
about Maillander’s brain-feeding experiments, and their “great
promise.” The author: William Wintersong, M.D. So, no question, he
would recognize the name.

Hank had the stethoscope
in his ears again, black-plastic mouth pressed against Wintersong’s
bare back. Nodding abruptly, he said, “Now, I think.
Yes.”

“
Now what?”

“
Now we make the head
unaware it is attached to a body.”

His black medical bag was
open on a small table next to him. Hank reached inside it, brought
out a large hypodermic syringe and a paper-wrapped needle. After
stripping off the paper, he affixed the needle onto the syringe’s
end and reached into his bag again. When he brought out a small
rubber-topped vial containing an ounce or two of clear
liquid.

“
This is Xylocaine,” he
said, sucking fluid from the vial into the syringe’s barrel. “In my
bag are twenty-five gauge spinal needles, and we will do two nerve
blocks at the cervical level—that is, we’ll give him two
injections. His head will not know there is a body anywhere near
it.”

I sighed. “You know, Hank
this might work.”

“
It had better. Now that we
have committed all of...this.” Hank tightened the Velcro strap
around Wintersong’s neck stepped back. He shrugged his shoulders,
expression bleak.

I looked around again.
Part of “this” was what appeared to be the head of billionaire
Belking, about where Guenther’s severed skull had once rested with
those straining, rolling eyes I so well remembered. But we’d done a
simple job on Hobart, merely knocking him out with a drug from
Hank’s bag and fitting one of those yard-square mahogany boards
with a hole in it around his neck, leaving his wrists and ankles
taped. No need for needles or whatever “blocks” Hank had mentioned.
He had no speaking part, or any part at all, really—except to be
seen by Wintersong, hopefully as one more “convincer,” if any more
was needed by then.

When Wintersong opened his
eyes, the first thing he would see was his reflection in the mirror
we’d placed three feet in front of him, that and maybe Hank and me
examining his head with interest. But if he rolled his eyes left,
somewhat as Guenther had done yesterday, he would be able to
observe, reflected in the heavy glass of a carefully-placed
cabinet, what looked remarkably like the severed head of Hobart
Belking, kaput, Hank had given Belking a larger shot than
Wintersong’s, to be sure he’d just sort of lie there as a
prop.

Hank snapped his black bag
shut, everything put away, and said, “That is all we can do,
Sheldon. Now there is nothing except to wait.”

So that’s what we
did.

* * * * * *

I thought I saw the
flicker of an eyelid.

And for a moment I felt a
twinge of doubt about what we might have done to William
Wintersong, M.D., because God only knew what the effect might be
upon him if he really believed. But then I remembered all the rest,
and there were no more twinges.

I just watched the eye
that, I thought, might have flickered, thinking: When Wintersong’s
head, such as it was, became clear enough, with reason ascendant;
when he could clearly see what was before him, and near him; when
he could hear, even speak; and when—if it indeed happened—he became
fully aware of the unspeakable and criminally-insane thing this
sonofabitch Shell Scott and that anti-science quack Henry Hernandez
had done to him—then, well, it would be interesting to
watch.

That eyelid flickered
again, then both of them, twitched. Wintersong blinked. Blinked
again—and those eyes stayed open. Open, getting wider and
wider.

We waited.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE

When those eyes opened,
stayed open, I was on Wintersong’s right, only two or three feet
from him, Hank on his left. The eyes rested on my chest, crawled up
to my face, slid over to Hank. Wintersong’s features twisted in
sudden alarm, something close to panic. Probably he’d tried to move
his arms or legs, and been unable to, unable even to detect their
presence. His mouth opened, eyes flipping right and left,
erratically, and then stopped. Stopped, fixed straight ahead,
midway between Hank and me, frozen on the mirror before him. He
stared at the reflection of himself, of his hairless head,
uncomprehending—at first uncomprehending.

Long seconds passed. I
could hear breath sighing from his open mouth, slowly out and then
in, again, and again, faster and faster, until at last he sucked
his breath in with a sharp squeaking sound and held it. He held the
breath in, mouth wide open, eyes enormous-then Wintersong
screamed.

I mean, he screamed like a
terrified woman, like a banshee, like a factory whistle—but there
wasn’t anything funny about it, nothing amusing; it was a horrible,
ear-shredding, terrible sound.

Wintersong screamed and
kept on screaming. I don’t know how long that lasted. Too long.
But, finally, he stopped, staring silently lips moving slowly, a
smear of saliva shining on his chin.

Hank stepped closer to
Wintersong’s head. He bent forward, peering at the staring eyes,
and said quietly, “Good morning, Wintersong. It is Sunday morning.
We have a few questions for you.”

Nothing. The eyes kept
staring, slack lips moving rhythmically. Hank turned his head,
looked at me. After a few seconds he scowled, pressing his teeth
together, as though trying to convey some kind of message to me. A
message, apparently of turbulent discontent.

Yeah, I remembered.
Finally I remembered. I had been so fascinated by Wintersong’s
reactions I’d forgotten Hank and I were supposed to engage in bits
of dialogue to nail down the con. But those reactions themselves
made me think little if any nailing-down would be
needed.

Even so, I said, “Is
something wrong, Hank? Didn’t Maillander say the doc would be able
to talk okay?”

“
Verdad.” Hank relieved,
stopped scowling at me. “Dr. Maillander guaranteed he could
speak.”

It appeared that
Wintersong did not realize he had just used his voice in those
horrendous screams. But was he even listening to Hank?

Apparently he was. Both
eyes moved left, and up slightly, to Hank’s face.

After a pause, Hank said
to him, “You can speak if you wish. I am sure of it. But perhaps a
little more pressure, a little more of compressed-air mixture from
the tank. Sheldon?”

I moved to my left,
pretended to be fooling with an imaginary valve on an imaginary
tank. Hank said sharply, “Enough! Take care, Sheldon. As I informed
you, is merely substitute for missing lungs, I do not wish you to
blow his brains out!”

I winced, for just a
moment. Then said, “This about right?”

“
Bueno. Is good.
Perfectamente.”

Then Hank looked at
Wintersong again. “Speak, speak. Is possible. Dr. Maillander could
not wait around, but he guaranteed to me you would be able to
converse with only small difficulty, once fully conscious. We have
questions you must answer for us. And I do not know how much time
you...how much time we have.”

I winced again; couldn’t
help it. But I guess doctors have to be cruel sometimes. For the
patient’s good.

The patient slid his eyes
from Hank’s face, back to the mirror, staring glassily. Almost a
minute went by. Wintersong studied himself in the mirror, his
features rigid, unmoving. Then at last, he opened his mouth and I
heard: “Hhhaayy.”

Close enough; soon I
realized Wintersong was merely saying “I.” But he was saying it
like a man—no, like the head of a man—not certain it would be
possible to do it. And that, as much as anything else, even more
than the screams, convinced me he’d bought our con. The game,
truly, was afoot.

“
Hhhaayy
ahmm...Daahhctorr...Winter song.”

“
Yes. Wintersong,” Hank
said briskly. “It will become easier, more natural, soon. The
entrance and exit of air mixture-artificial inhalation-exhalation
is controlled by computer to mimic your natural...trust me. My
first question for you is—”

“
I amm... I am Dahctorr,
doctor, doctor... I am doctor...doctor Winter...song. I am doctor
Wintersong, I—Oh...my...God! My God, my God, my God, my
God...”

It took a while, two or
three minutes, but finally Hank pinched Wintersong’s tear-wet
cheek, got his attention, put his face six inches from Wintersong’s
and said, “Let us not waste more valuable time. My first question
for you is this: The FDA has just given accelerated approval for
Phase Two—human—tests of your IFAI vaccine, because animal
experiments were reported to them as successful. In truth, has your
vaccine produced any immunity to anything? In anything? Be advised,
I know of those falsified results in your first
OM-IF—Omega-IFAI—experiment, the not counting of dead ones. Not
counting, also, the dying mice. And, of a surety, you understand it
would be useless for you to further dissemble now, now is too late.
You do understand that, do you not?”