But I said, “Splendid. Never doubted it for a minute,” then walked toward the door.
Dr. Midland stopped me. “You're leaving now? Going out—there?"
“Yeah, out there, into the sizzling desert sands, the cold mean streets ... What's that for?"
He had taken off the coat of his brown suit and extended it toward me. “You'd better take my jacket,” he said. “Without it, you'll look like an axe murderer. Or the victim."
I started to protest, but didn't; he was absolutely right. The bloodstains on my trousers, and especially on the sport shirt, could not fail to be noticed by anyone who might see me. In fact, one of the reasons I had to leave was to return to the Registry for clothing that looked less like part of a massacre. Besides, I wanted to see Spree again. I very much wanted to see lovely Spree.
“Thanks, Doctor,” I said. “That would help."
It would, but not because I'd be wearing it. The coat was too small; I couldn't get it on without splitting some seams. “Guess I can carry it, and hide the yuck,” I said.
“If you get shot any more, throw it away before you bleed much, will you? I'm fond of this suit."
“Sure,” I said. “And if I find time to write a will, I'll leave you my entire wardrobe."
He smiled without much enthusiasm. I went out.
* * * *
First thing, I had to ditch Andy Foster's car. Alda Cimarron and maybe a dozen of his pals undoubtedly knew that red Subaru on sight. I couldn't park it at the lot where I'd told Andy I would leave it in a day or two, not while wearing these bloodstained clothes; that would have to wait for a while. So I drove half a mile, parked the coupe, and stole a Ford, a new blue Taurus.
Nobody yelled “Stop, thief!” as I drove away, but the thought gave me a twinge, a bit of a chill. I was starting to feel like a criminal. Well, maybe in a way I was; I guess it's largely in your point of view. I intended to make amends, if I could, to the guy whose name was on the registration slip in the Taurus's glove compartment; but I had a hunch he might not easily comprehend my point of view—that, perhaps, sometimes the end does justify the means. Which, of course, despite much comment to the contrary, is true.
I parked behind the Registry Resort, walked a few feet to villa 333, and knocked gently, knocked again, and right after that, from just inside the door, “Hello? Is that—you? Is it you, Sh—Bill?"
I must have been more worried about her than I knew, preoccupied below the mind's surface with anxiety and concern, even desire and suppressed longing for Spree, lovely soft-voiced sweet-fleshed Spree, because I was amazed at the tangible wave of relief joined with sudden warm pleasure that swept over me when I heard her speak, the intensity of not easily identifiable emotions that leaped up in me. I was letting this one get to me, slip into normally inviolate cracks and crevices in my armor. And that wouldn't do. At least, I guessed it wouldn't.
“That's me, same old Sh-Bill who hugged you good-bye this morning. Just came back for some hello.” I paused. “You going to leave me out here?"
Then there was the sound of clicking and clacking and the door swinging open, and there she was, smiling, both arms held out toward me, unmoving but getting closer—because I wasn't just standing out there, I was moving toward her quite enthusiastically. It was all very simple, automatic, natural. I put my arms around her shoulders, felt her arms slide around my waist, her hands pressing against my back as that incredible, magical, heart-blinding face lifted toward mine. I bent toward her and our lips met gently, tentatively, like strangers saying hello, quested, searched, accepted.
And then for a white, I'm not sure how long—who knows? A few seconds, a minute, a day and a half?—her lips and tongue and mouth, her magnificent breasts and firm thighs, the heat of her loins, and whatever the bright flame was that burned inside her, all were like an extension of me, a part of me, familiar, remembered, right.
With her hands clasped behind my back she squeezed that curving, yielding body even closer against mine, tugging with surprising strength—with one arm somehow right over the bandage Dr. Midland had so recently put there, right over the still-raw wound.
Involuntarily I drew back, letting out a grunt, something like, “Gack!"
Spree, her face flushed, looked up at me then moved her left hand, felt the bandage, dropped her gaze to my side. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Good Lord,” she said. “What in the world ... what happened to you?"
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing much. Oh-oh, where's my coat? I mean, the doc's coat? He'll kill me, he'll never trust me again if—ah, there it is."
It was crumpled on the floor near a chair. I had apparently given it quite a toss.
Spree had stepped back, one hand at her throat, still gazing at my stained shirt and trousers—well, the way a woman looks at something ugly.
I said, “OK, a guy shot at me. Barely plinked me. That's all, nothing to worry about."
“But there's so much blood."
“Only because I have so much, dear. Or had. Now it's just about right. Actually I feel lots better. All that extra blood slopping around in there was driving me crazy."
She fixed those great almost-glowing green eyes on mine, shaking her head slightly, and finally smiled. It was only a small smile. Small for her, not the full treatment. Still, for a moment I felt as though I might have lost more vital fluids than I'd suspected, as if a bunch had leaked out of me when I wasn't looking. The way Spree's smile always affected me, I thought, must have something to do with witchcraft, or magic; or maybe faint memory of Andromeda, and Orion, and forever.
“Aren't you the lucky one?” she said. “Why, he might have missed you entirely."
“Yeah, that would've been a crock,” I said. “Well, hi there."
“Hi yourself. So tell me everything."
“I've found your dad."
Silence for two or three long seconds. Then, “Where—"
“He's...” I debated briefly, decided to level with her. I told Spree how I'd found her father, most of what had happened since then except the name of the motel where I'd left him, and finished with, “So he's safe for now. But because of what those guys did to him, I haven't been able to talk with your father at all yet."
“My God, what a terrible..."
She stopped, walked to the couch and sat on it. “He hasn't said anything? Not a word?"
“Not a word."
“You say a doctor's with him now, Shell?"
“Right. And he impresses me as a very good man. I'm optimistic. And I'd better get back there. Just came here to change clothes. Of course, I thought I might say hello to you while I was at it."
She smiled. “That was some hello."
It was almost an invitation to say it again, but I knew I had to get out of here without undue delay, so I went upstairs to the bedroom. Five minutes later, after a very careful cleanup in the shower, I put on pale green slacks and a matching sport shirt, added a pair of heavy cordovan shoes plus a creamy-beige jacket, and went downstairs.
Spree was still sitting on the couch.
She said, “I watched all the TV news I could, at eleven-thirty and noon. They mentioned Dad, and ... what happened last night. There wasn't anything about me, or you, either, Shell. But it isn't likely they'd know anything about us ... about our being here, would they?"
“Maybe not by noon. But that may change before long. A lot depends on how Alda Cimarron handles his end. Of course, he wouldn't want it known that he was holding Romanelle prisoner. So we may stay lucky. When's the next newscast?"
“Five p.m. I'll watch it."
“I've been trying to decide whether to call the cops myself, get some police protection for your dad. And you, for that matter. But I was hoping I could talk to him first, find out—well, find out a lot more than I know now, and that doesn't look too promising at the moment."
“Would you have to tell the police about last night? Shooting that man?"
“Honey, I'd have to tell them a lot of things. Unless something's
changed, the police suspect your dad of shooting Keats. I'd have to explain that, and undoubtedly answer several yards of other questions. All of which would keep me tied up for hours. Maybe days. And I can't risk that yet."
I was ready to go. I left the Colt automatic on the closet shelf, but under my jacket was my familiar clamshell holster, in it the unfamiliar Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver, fully loaded again. Dr. Midland's brown jacket was draped over my arm.
“Well...” I said.
“I guess you have to go."
“Yeah. I'll call you when I can."
“Do, Shell. It—it helps."
“Maybe all the problems will work out pretty soon, and we can just relax a little. Maybe your dad will be his old self by the time I get back to him. Maybe the worst is over, Spree."
“Sure,” she said.
I could tell she didn't believe it.
Neither did I.
* * * *
I parked behind the motel again, walked around and knocked gently on the door of the room I'd left forty minutes earlier. In a few seconds Dr. Midland peered out, then pulled the door wide. I went in, handing him his brown coat and saying, “Thanks for the partial disguise. How's Romanelle doing?” At least that's what I started to say. But I only got as far as “How's Rom—"
Because somebody else in the room spoke then, in a strong vibrant voice. And what the man said was, “Well, either you rented that crazy head in a costume shop or you must be Shell Scott."
Chapter Eighteen
I jerked my head around, saw Claude Romanelle still sitting in the chair where he'd been when I left, only now upright, leaning forward, one arm resting on his knee, looking up at me with a half smile on his face.
My reaction was delayed. Only for a few seconds, perhaps because the voice and critical nature of the comment were not unfamiliar, or maybe because shock and disbelief momentarily tilted my brain. But I scowled across the room at him and said, “Listen, Romanelle, if you were about to make some crack about ‘rented for Halloween’ or...” I stopped.
And then if hit me.
When it did, the shock was like an unexpected blow. It stiffened my muscles, plucked at my nerves. Unquestionably, that was Claude Romanelle looking at me, talking to me. Where was the drooling idiot I'd left here less than three quarters of an hour ago?
It took two or three minutes for Dr. Midland to bring me up to date, in part because Romanelle kept interrupting. One thing Dr. Midland said was that he thought the electroshock had temporarily paralyzed, or stunned, that part of the brain controlling speech, so that though Romanelle might have known what he wanted to say, and have been thinking—at least part of the time—with reasonable clarity, he just couldn't get the mind to instruct his tongue and vocal cords to correctly form the words and make them audible.
“It wasn't merely that area, of course,” Dr. Midland continued. “The entire brain was affected. Fortunately, not irreversibly. It could have been much worse."
“Just couldn't talk worth a damn, and half the time I couldn't think worth a damn.” That was Romanelle again. “But I was aware of part of it and remember part—like you hauling me around in some kind of goddamn tent, Scott, and throwing me into a car, half squashing me, banging me around. Hell, I thought you must be the enemy, maybe working for Cimarron. Or the Nazis—"
“Will you knock it off?” I asked him. “I realize, from your carefully reasoned point of view, I should have taken more time getting you out of the Medigenic, and handled your invalid bod with much greater care, in order that Cimarron could shoot both of us several times, instead of just me. I also realize—"
He interrupted. “Shot? You got shot?"
“Only once today. I know this must disappoint you—"
Then Dr. Midland got into the dialogue somehow, saying, “Mr. Scott received a superficial flesh wound, which I've bandaged. But it certainly was a gunshot wound."
Romanelle seemed slightly taken aback. But all he said was, “Indeed. That was ... nice of you, Scott."
“Will you listen to him?” I said to Midland. “He must not be feeling well."
But then I took another look at Claude Romanelle, still marveling at the change in him. I knew he was fifty-eight years old, but—even after all the man had been through lately—he might have passed for five, or even ten, years younger. He had sharp features, long nose, wide brow slanting down to a narrow chin, a full head of straight dark hair streaked with gray. He did look slightly satanic, as I'd thought when I first saw that photograph of him, but he was not a bad-looking man at all. In fact, some might have thought Romanelle handsome.
I turned to the doctor, who was gathering his things together and preparing to leave. “When did he come out of ... well, what I left here?"
“About ten minutes before you returned,” Midland said. “And quite suddenly, as I expected would be the case."
“He put some little drops in my mouth, and zing, it was like lights started going on inside my head—"
Midland interrupted his patient this time, probably having practiced it during the ten minutes before I got back here. “I mentioned to you, Mr. Scott, that at the proper time I would administer homeopathic acetylcholine, which should reestablish normal transmission of electrical impulses among the brain's cells. When I put the drops under Mr. Romanelle's tongue, his response was almost immediate, and extremely gratifying."
“I wish I'd seen it,” I said. “But would I have believed it?"
He smiled. “Probably not. Results from administration of properly selected homeopathic remedies are sometimes—only sometimes, of course, and dependent upon the acuteness as opposed to chronicity of the symptoms—so swift and profound as to appear miraculous to the layman.” His smile widened. “Even to most physicians."
“The doc's going to cure my cancer,” Romanelle said brightly.
Midland winced visibly, scowled at Romanelle. “I told you not to say that,” he barked.
“I forgot. Must be because I had all those volts shot through my head—"
“Please don't forget again.” Midland looked at me, still scowling. “I have assured Mr. Romanelle that, if he wishes, I will examine him and attempt to strengthen his immune system, balance his body chemistry, restore those vital energies essential for optimum health. Sometimes when this is done—usually, in fact—the body will itself eliminate aberrant cells, among other deficiencies, and restore the patient to what should be his natural condition."
“But, hell, Doc, what I've got is a gastric carcinoma that's metast—"
Midland ignored Romanelle, looked at me again. “You might, if it is possible, Mr. Scott, remind Mr. Romanelle after I leave that I will not even attempt to cure his cancer, which is a phrase that has here been employed only by him, not by me. Nobody ‘cures cancer.’ Some physicians, a few, do improve the health and vigor of patients with conditions diagnosed as one or another form of malignancy. But the only authorized methods for treating cancer, at least in this country, are cutting by surgery, burning by radiation, and poisoning by chemotherapy—which, unfortunately, don't work. They attack only the symptoms, not the cause, thus they never have worked. Also unfortunately, while those approved methods seldom kill the cancer they often do kill the patient. Gentler methods—any other methods—are outlawed in the United States, even if they produce results vastly superior to orthodox treatment."
He mumbled something almost inaudible at the end there. I thought it sounded like, “Especially if they do,” but I couldn't be sure.
Dr. Midland, looking intently at Romanelle but with what might have been a half smile on his face, said briskly, “I hope you were listening. If so, I trust you will never again suggest that I might treat your condition by any procedure other than surgery, irradiation, chemotherapy, or burying you alive in an African anthill—unless you want me to lose my medical license and conceivably be arrested and imprisoned, like a number of my rebellious colleagues."
He paused, sighed, went on. “There is no reason yo
u shouldn't be all right now, Mr. Romanelle, even without further immediate treatment from me. Just take it easy, get as much rest as you can. On that other matter, your ... indigestion, make an appointment with my receptionist if you wish to pursue it."
Then he glanced at me. “Good afternoon, Mr. Scott. Tell Paul hello for me when you see him."
“I'll tell him more than that, Dr. Midland. Are you sure I can't pay you for—"
“No.” He shook his head. “Just ... please don't ever ask me to do anything like this again.” He paused, then added, “Entirely aside from the treatment I gave Mr. Romanelle, some of which was not entirely orthodox, I also treated a gunshot wound. Yours, Mr. Scott. I will have to report that, you understand. But I can delay the report until tomorrow, if it will help."
“It will. Thanks again."
“I'll delay it then.” He shrugged. “Since I have already broken nearly every other medical dictate today, except my Hippocratic Oath."
He went out. I locked the door behind him, then pulled a chair over next to where Romanelle sat and said to him, “Now that you can talk, do it. And don't leave anything out."
He looked steadily at me. “First things first, Scott. I hired you to find my daughter, and deliver her to me. Have you found her?"
I shook my head. I still couldn't come to grips with the almost miraculous change in this guy. In less than an hour he'd gone from a near vegetable to this tough sharp-as-before old codger. It was nonetheless true that he probably wouldn't know what had happened in the last couple of days—except what had been happening to him.
“Yes, I have,” I said. “She's here in Arizona, and safe. Once I get the two of you together my job's done. But there are a couple of problems that have to be taken care of first. And some answers I need from you."
“You've found her? She's really here? How is she—what's she like, Scott?"
“I told you, she's safe. She's fine. And, well, she's a bright, beautiful young woman. Your little Spree is a big girl now, Mr. Romanelle, and she's ... splendid."
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 28
