The Death Gods (A Shell Scott Mystery) (40 page)

I slowed the Cad to under
twenty miles an hour. “Dane, does Wintersong—does anybody—know I’m
with you, that I was going to drive you here?”

“
No, I don’t think so. At
least, I didn’t mention it to anybody except you. Does it
matter?”

“
It might. You say
Wintersong phoned you early this morning, changed your interview
time to half an hour after noon?”

She nodded. “You didn’t
mention your car trouble, delay, anything about getting another
ride?”

“
No, I didn’t. I’m sure of
that. I didn’t even know my little Taurus was bollixed until after
I spoke to William, so I couldn’t have told him about
it.”

Her expression indicated
sudden worry, or at least concern. Maybe she was picking up some of
that prickly anxiety I’d begun feeling.

“
Shell, why are you asking
me that?”

“
Some quick advice, Dane,”
I said, “which I hope you’ll take. Don’t get mouthy with
Wintersong, just do your interview stuff and say Thanks-Goodbye,
don’t mention Duncan Sherwood, or Dr. Hernandez, or even me if you
don’t have to.”

“
What in the
world—?”

“
There isn’t time to lay
out the coincidences and funny patterns bugging me. But some
disturbing, unlikely things have been going on around here—somehow
connected with this joint, with Omega, or, with Wintersong,
or...hell, I don’t know.”

“
Wonderful, wonderful. Damn
you, Shell, are you trying to frighten me? What is it?”

“
Maybe it isn’t anything.
Really, maybe there’s no reason for me to be itchy,
but....”

We were barely rolling,
now only about twenty yards from the closed gate. As I was
speaking, a man stepped from the gatehouse and stood on the asphalt
next to it, hands on his hips, looking toward the Cad. Even before
seeing his face, I’d tagged him, recognized the swaggering, almost
arrogant, way he moved. Francis Harris, Grinner. Again.

What the hell does this
guy do, I wondered, live here? Could be, of course, that only for
the last day or two, had he been guarding gates all the time
instead of breaking and entering, mugging citizens. Or maybe the
horrible truth was that Grinner was my fate, karma, nemesis,
doom—or maybe life was getting even with me for shooting so many
guys just like him.

“
I mentioned some
disturbing things,” I said to Dane. “There’s one of
them.”

I’d stopped the Cad and
turned off the ignition, front bumper about a foot from Grinner’s
legs. He hadn’t moved, stood there, hands on hips still, smile
stretching his face. Or, rather, grin stretching it. For he,
clearly, had recognized me also. Because he raised his right fist
from his hip, extended the index finger pointing it straight
through the windshield at me while wiggling his thumb, down and up
again, down and up again. Twice. Bang-bang. In that cute way he
had, as when yesterday I’d driven from this same spot, but going in
the other direction.

“
He...he’s scary,” Dane
said, almost in a whisper.

While Grinner was still at
the Cad’s front end, I looked at Dane and said rapidly, “I’ve
already danced with that guy and a pal of his. They’re hoods, both
of them, heavy-time losers. Why would hoods be working at a medical
research center? Why this one? Plus, those losers maybe, just
maybe, took a whack at running over my client with a two-ton
van.”

Grinner was walking toward
my side, the driver’s side, of the Cadillac now. So I finished,
“just don’t make any waves until I figure out what the hell’s
happening, okay?”

“
Yes,” she said softly.
“Yes, of course. Shell, you... Oh, dear, I didn’t even think to ask
before. You are going to wait here for me, aren’t you?”

“
Of course I
am.”

Grinner rapped on my
window. I pressed the little lever, started rolling the window
down, saying to Dane, “In fact, I’ll wait for you inside,
if....”

That was all there was
time for. But, also, the instant I told Dane I might “wait inside,”
I knew I wasn’t going to. It wasn’t a logical deduction, even
though it made sense that nobody would want me roaming around
Omega’s hallways, labs and rooms, when nearly everybody else was
gone. No, it was simply a kind of resigned acceptance, not logic
but knowing, without having any idea how I knew. And I wasn’t sure
I liked the feeling. Grinner bent down, looked through the open
window at me, saying, “I swear, you’re even stupider than the other
private pimps, Scott. Thought you had enough sense not to come back
here after—”

I slapped my hand onto the
door handle preparing—momentarily—to slam the door into Grinner,
join him on the blacktopped road, and wash out his mouth with some
rocks, or knuckles, or all of the above. Momentarily, because half
a second after the burn started I knew that idea was—a lousy one
with Dane on the seat, beside me. A lousy idea, maybe, even if she
hadn’t been here. A second uniformed guard was in the small
gatehouse, his back to me, long black hair hiding his neck, nothing
hiding the heavy gun holstered at his left hip. I knew there would
be at least two, maybe more than two, on the Omega grounds or
inside the buildings.

My quickly arrested
movement wasn’t what had stopped Grinner in mid-sentence. He’d bent
down a little more, to get a look at Dane, and now he was saying,
not to her but to me, “That’s why you’re back here, huh? She’s the
writer broad, right?” When I didn’t respond, he said more loudly,
“Well, is she the broad on Wintersong’s list or what?”

I just shook my head. Pimp
for me, broad for my “girl.” Grinner wasn’t a big hit so far.
Finally he stared past me at Dane, unaware that the combination of
narrow, slitted eyes showing hardly any green, plus a compression
of expression that made her mouth appear lipless, was not quite how
the lady usually looked.

Thus, unaware, he
blundered on, “Well, you this Dane Smith that’s expected, or ain’t
you?”

She relaxed her mouth,
letting both lips come back out, and said sweetly, “Of course I’m
this Dane. And I’ll bet they call you Mr. Wonderful, don’t
they?”

It was weak, and though I
knew that given a little more warning she could probably have
ripped him wide open, even more sweetly, I was gladdened by the
weakness. For, because of it, Grinner didn’t really know if he’d
been dumped on or flirted with, and it was strange to see the way
his tentative smile frowned.

Not yet sure Grinner
looked at me again, foolish enough to think I might help him.
“Yeah, bo,” I said, “you got it. This bimbo there is the writer
broad, all right. So let us in, whyn’t you?”

He gave me a slow, cold
look, and for the first time today I was reminded of little icy
snakes coiling somewhere behind venomous eyes. “Her in,” he
said.

Then he turned and walked
away but not to the gatehouse. Instead, he stepped up next to the
closed gate in front of my Cad, raised both arms above his head and
waved vigorously. In a moment, a jeep parked near the entrance
steps before the large central building pulled away from the steps,
swung left and sped toward us over the black-asphalt
road.

Grinner moved to the far
side of my Cad, opened the door. “C’mon,” he said to
Dane.

She looked at me, a little
worry frown wrinkling the bridge of her nose.

“
I’ll drive the lady in,
Grinner,” I said. “You don’t need—”

“
No, you won’t, Scott.
Believe me.”

“
Look, I’ll come right back
out if you want. It’s pretty ridiculous to—”

He interrupted again,
voice somewhat sharper this time. “No, you won’t. You don’t do crap
except sit here, you comprehend? I got my own orders, and you don’t
go an inch past the gate, pal.”

He probably did have his
orders. But I didn’t like this song and dance. Although, logically,
since I knew I would hardly be allowed inside to roam around, it
shouldn’t make any difference whether I took Dane to the door, or
the guys in the jeep did. Guys—two of them. Nobody I
knew.

Dane slid out of the car,
looked back in at me and said, “See you in a little while, Shell.”
Her voice wasn’t as crisp and sharp as when she’d suggested Grinner
must be ‘Mr. Wonderful.’

“
How long a wait?” I asked
her. “So I don’t get impatient. Half an hour?” I asked.

“
I wish....” she didn’t
finish it.

In a few seconds Dane was
in the jeep’s rear seat; the driver spun in a circle and headed
toward Omega. I glanced toward the gatehouse. The other man, now
standing in the doorway, turned away suddenly. I got only a glimpse
of his face, a brief one while he was turning quickly, but it
triggered an edge of memory, nebulous, unidentifiable at first. He
was wide-shouldered, wide-bodied, with long greasy-looking hair,
and I tagged him: One of the two men I’d met in the Halcyon’s lot
last night, not the one I’d shot, the mugg I’d kicked in the head.
It wasn’t a sure thing; I could have been wrong, but from here on I
was going to pretend it was a sure thing.

I brushed my right hand up
over my shirt, touched the Colt Special’s grip beneath my coat.
Sometimes I leave an empty chamber under the revolver’s hammer, for
safety. Last night, after the parking-lot altercation, I’d filled
that empty chamber with a sixth 258-grain pill. For
safety.

A hundred yards away, the
jeep stopped before those wide cement steps; in a moment I saw Dane
walking up them.

At the double entrance
doors, she turned briefly. I couldn’t tell if she was looking back
toward the gate, toward me. But I had a hunch she was. Then Dane
went through the doors and out of my sight.

Grinner walked to a spot
near my open window. I thought he was going to say something to
me—partly because of the sneer that began twisting his lips, but he
twirled suddenly and hurried into the gatehouse. There he pulled a
phone from the wall and dialed, standing facing me behind a
heavy-looking window. I guessed he’d forgotten, or maybe too long
delayed, his report to Wintersong that the writer broad was on
time. All I knew for sure was that he was speaking briefly to
someone, listening, speaking briefly again, then listening for
several long seconds; and that he then nodded vigorously, said
another word or two, and hung up. And when he hung up, he looked
happy.

Which did not make me feel
good all over.

If you knew a guy who
enjoyed picnicking in cemeteries, and called Frankenstein’s monster
“Frankie, Old buddy,” and hummed hard-rock music with lyrics about
fun decapitations, and you chanced to see him smiling, joyous,
suddenly happy, would you suddenly feel good all over?

After hanging up the
phone, Grinner turned away from me and apparently was speaking to
the other guard. After a few seconds the bulky man with long black
hair turned and took a step toward the far side of the gatehouse as
Grinner moved into the doorway and stood there briefly, looking at
me.

His body blocked my view
of the other guard, but when the man turned I’d seen again the
heavy gun holstered at his hip—and, this time, realized it was on
his left hip. A leftie. Like the bulky bastard last night, swinging
one arm, glitter of light on the moving blade in his hand—his left
hand.

And that did it. Maybe a
little late, but I’d tagged him now for sure. He was the mugg I’d
kicked in the head at Halcyon’s lot. I’d glimpsed only the right
side of his face, but I would have given long odds that on his left
profile, at the hairline, there would still be a large lump and
probably a sizeable scab.

I felt the sudden extra
surge of my heart, almost as if it was thumping in the pit of my
stomach. And at that moment, after staring at me for a long ten
seconds, Grinner stepped from the gatehouse doorway and moved
briskly toward my Cad.

He was grinning,
naturally, like a starving wolf about to eat Bugs Bunny, and the
fingertips of his right hand brushed the butt of his holstered Colt
.45 automatic—the same kind of pistol the other guard was carrying.
Looking past Grinner, I couldn’t see that long-haired creep inside
the gatehouse. Probably there was another door in the far wall, but
why would the guy go outside over there? Hell, maybe he was just
taking a leak. Maybe I was getting paranoid. No, the knives last
night, the still-sore cut underneath my left arm, that wasn’t
paranoia. Even so, I was still hesitant, unsure, uptight, nerves
stretching. But then I noticed two things that made up my mind, two
not-quite-right little things.

One more step and Grinner
would be alongside my Cad. The fingers of his right hand, which had
been touching the gun’s butt, were firmly around its grip now. And
the thing that really set off alarm bells for me, the small leather
strap meant to hold the pistol safely in its holster was unsnapped,
wiggling in the air.

I leaned back a little,
keeping my face turned toward Grinner but slanting my eyes right
and up to the rearview mirror. Reflected in the mirror, something
moved, barely visible above the Cad’s rear, something
brownish-beige, almost the color of the dried earth. For half a
second it didn’t mean anything, failed to register. But then it
made sense: the khaki-uniformed guard, that other sonofabitch, was
bent over—not quite over enough—moving toward the other side of my
Cad, the side opposite Grinner.