CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

 

Spring was showing off again, filling the world with wonder. Eyes were brighter, hearts lighter, hormones hornier, people moved more briskly through the clotted streets and, once in a while, smiled at strangers.

That early-Sunday-morning siren-announced invasion of Omega by the law, subsequent arrests of Hank and Dane and me, swift removal in ambulance of Wintersong and Belking, followed by our interrogation and provisional release in the late afternoon was six months in the past. It was the end of April now. For a week the days had been unseasonably warm but comfortably so, cooled by sweet, spring breezes, and once in a while it seemed to me the world was wrapped in glory. But only once in a while. Because that “wrapping” wasn’t glory, it was the thousand mingled shades of smog’s pollution-brown and petroleum-gray mixed with the unappetizing hues of impacted colons.

I could almost believe what more and more ordinary citizens were saying these days: that earth was dying. At least, I wasn’t inclined to disbelieve them, especially not this morning. I’d been having curious, disjointed dreams which, unfortunately, I remembered on awakening. And last night one of the most disturbing of them had returned for a second time, which was twice too often, and it was still darkening the edges of my thoughts like an old bruise.

In the dream, it seemed I was just “somewhere” watching—in some kind of “space” that was, apparently, space—for I could see the beautiful tiny round ball of earth floating in velvet blueness, moving closer, becoming larger, until I was viewing rich brown soil and abundant greenery, sparkling jade-and-emerald seas, silvery lakes and streams. But then I realized earth’s skin, its billion-year crust, was everywhere ravished grossly marked by pustulent scabs and sores like bubbling sarcomas, not fixed in place but moving, growing.

Slowly, so slowly it was difficult to know it was happening, I became aware of bright crystal air dimming, earth darkening, serpentine rivers moving more and more sluggishly while the seas they fed thickened, and I knew earth’s bloodstream was choking and slowing and saw Alph, the sacred river, black and still as a frozen vein, and other things I blocked even from memory within a dream.

Earth’s antlike parasites—two-armed, two-legged, erect, hyperactive—swarmed upon the skin of their host: some raced along curving lines that ended at their beginnings while others marched in ragged waves like billions of cells metastasizing; some clumped in amorphous groups producing toxins and garbage and wastes which they disposed of in the planet’s blood; and some, a few, a special army of specially-privileged soldier-priest parasites—by their own inviolable definition wiser than others, wiser than earth—deliberately and mechanically pumped endless streams of rainbow-colored poisons deep into the billions of bodies of their peers and simultaneously, into the single great and holy body of their host.

I watched them idly, watched streams and rivers stilled, and gray seas fermenting; watched centuries of living forests felled and toppling like splinters then on fire, flaming, the breath of earth burning; watched waves of greenery caressing earth’s crust turning brown, then ashen-black, shriveling. My final view was of the tiny ball at last embraced by death, covered with disintegrating corpses, itself alive but dying, still spinning wondrously, and beautiful still....

That had been at four o’clock this morning. At least, that was when I’d awakened, shivering. And I had a hunch my whole day was ruined. It didn’t help that, after coffee and three bites of my lumpy-mush breakfast, I read the morning newspaper and watched ten minutes of news on This Is Your World which, even on good days, was pretty depressing.

I’d gotten into the habit, during the last month or so of checking the obits for Hank’s name—I’ll get to that in a minute—but, once again, there was no Hernandez, Henry, M.D. And, once again, I sighed involuntarily, with gentle but sweet relief.

IFAI was continuing to spread, incidence increasing and mortality rising, according to all the experts. Hank and I had hoped, even expected, that the admissions we’d gotten from Dr. Wintersong—and especially the revelations from his “head” on our homemade half-hour videotape—might be enough to completely derail the speedily rolling IFAI juggernaut, if only temporarily. But we hadn’t even slowed it down much. . The FDA had given final approval for Phase III testing of the IFAI vaccine, or widespread experimentation on willing victims—only it was not the Wintersong vaccine.

It was the Starr-Danweather vaccine—perfected by two physicians/medical researchers and their infectious disease team at Memorial Sloan-Kettering in New York. The Starr-Danweather monkey-kidney soup was apparently identical in composition, safety, and effectiveness with the discarded Wintersong vaccine, since the FDA had merely substituted the one for the other and kept rolling along.

The problem with the Wintersong vaccine was—Wintersong. He could no longer supervise preparation and testing of his lifesaving invention, since he could no longer supervise anything. Since the end of last October, he’d been in the Hobart M. Belking Hospital in Beverly Hills, in Intensive Care. Belking seemed to have a piece of nearly everything connected with death.

Wintersong never moved any part of his body except his eyes, and mouth, and lips when he spoke—though, as time went on, he spoke less and less. I understand he hadn’t said anything at all for a month now.

William M. Wintersong didn’t believe anything was left of him except his head, and nobody, not even the finest specialists, could convince him otherwise. He simply knew he didn’t possess a body any more. Hank and I had convinced him—even more authoritatively than those fine doctors who promise almost cheerfully to give you three more months—that he was a disembodied head, no more, and he had believed it to be true. Believed it then, believed it still.

The prestigious patient was hooked up to several machines, which weren’t in use all the time, but only when he started to conk out again. Mainly, he kept getting weaker because he wouldn’t eat much, just enough to supply his head with nutrients. Which was only a bite or two—of dietitian-selected hospital junkfood, at that—once or twice a day. So he was being fed most of the time intravenously, other machines shocking his heart or cleansing his blood or doing high-tech lifesaving things whenever necessary. Probably he would soon be hooked up all the time, so the doctors could keep it alive for a hundred years, if they wanted to.

I went to the Hobart B. Hospital once and looked in on Wintersong. Briefly. We didn’t talk. I remember thinking that, considering how absolutely ruined the old boy looked, pretty quick doctors would be able to dig people up from graveyards and, if they were reasonably well preserved, keep them alive in the Intensive Care Morgue, and on Medicare indefinitely. Yeah, William M. Wintersong, M.D., former high-priest of the cure-IFAI scam, was a ghastly sight, ugly, repulsive. He didn’t do much of anything while I was there, except, occasionally, drool on his chin.

You might wonder: Did I, considering everything, experience nagging guilt about my part in producing whatever it was William M. Wintersong had become? Did I feel a twinge or two of sorrow, of sympathy, feel at least a little regret?

No. Not considering everything.

Nor did I feel sorry for Hobart Belking, since there was no need to. Nothing whatever had happened to that sonofabitch, or if anything had I didn’t know about it. I did know he’d been detained by the Sheriff—as were Hank and Dane and I—but by the time we were released in the afternoon, Belking had been gone since mid-morning.

As far as I could determine—and I had more sources of info than most—Belking hadn’t been charged even with a misdemeanor, and was under no restrictions whatsoever. His claim, of course, was to the effect that he had been savagely beaten when he wasn’t looking by murderous madman Shell Scott, then forcibly abducted by that crazy arsonist and his co-conspirator, Henry Hernandez, the notorious quack, and even—horror of horrors—brutally injected, without his permission and contrary to his desire, with what he called “an unknown drug,” which was absolutely a gross violation of his constitutional rights and human dignity, and so on, and on. Do tell.

I, however, was under a few restrictions, not limited to the necessity for me appearing in court, to answer Belking’s charges, in a couple more months. I was prohibited from leaving Los Angeles County without prior approval of the court; I was forbidden to carry a concealed weapon, which left me feeling somewhat like a fly among swatters; and my private investigators’ license, issued by the State of California, had been at least temporarily suspended by the Board.

I tried to think of the enforced hiatus as my spring vacation. At least, it was spring—the always right-on-time vernal equinox that man, through oversight, had not yet improved upon—and a lovely spring it was. Warming of earth, life bursting into bloom everywhere you looked, lavish greenery and rainbow-colored flowers all over. All over outside the city, that is; no flowers, no grass or greenery, in the city.

Still, if I hadn’t been so bugged by the possibility I might get shot without being able to shoot back, and the other restrictions laid upon me, I might have thought it the most glorious spring of all my thirty years.

I really wanted to talk with Henry Hernandez, but I couldn’t because I didn’t know where Hank was, or even if that remarkable and abrasive friend of mine was still alive. I had a gut-chilling hunch he was not...that he was dead.

I’d not had a single word from him, or from anyone else about him, since that last Sunday morning in October. He’d simply vanished.

For a few days, I made Henry Hernandez a priority “case,” suspended P.I. license or not, played detective and played it full-time. Result: nothing. I found no one who knew what had happened to him or his wife, or where he might be. Not even his close associates and longtime friends at POCUEH—or, if any of them did know more than they told, they just weren’t telling. For a while that thought was a comfort; but only for a while.

POCUEH itself was thriving, even more active than it normally was—as were a lot of other health-freedom and patients-rights groups and advocates. Groups like the National Health Federation, Cancer Control Society, National Association of Cancer Victors and Friends, PETA, etc. etc....Citizens for Medical Choice, Dissatisfied Parents Together, and, many others. Much of that activity was, at least in part, due to the reception given to, and subsequent anger, shock, and consternation arising from, widespread viewing of our homemade videotape of Dr. Wintersong’s bald head, answering first Hank’s questions, and then my own. But for two long months was seen only by police and a lot of lawyers, having been held in police custody as “evidence”—even though the crimes had not yet been clearly defined, nor even who’d done what to whom and how, and where’s that at in the Penal Code, Lieutenant?

It required legal action, and various people pulling invisible strings, but a court order permitted POCEUH’s lawyers—acting for the missing Henry Hernandez plus me and Dane Smith—to make one copy of the videotape in order properly to prepare our defenses.

That one tape somehow became two, then at least a hundred and maybe even thousands, shown over and over again during meetings of the mentioned animal-and-people rights groups plus, undoubtedly a passel of unmentioned ones.

Moreover, on February 13, or a few hours before Valentine’s Day, the entire shocking and possibly even gruesome forty minutes was shown once, only once, on public television—never even once on the networks, as somebody had accurately predicted. But, because it was seen nationwide, and uncut, interspersed only with warnings that “what you are about to see might traumatize the children,” that one time was sufficient. It did traumatize some children, plus a considerable number of adults as well. And many of those adults were at last moved, in some cases, positively inspired to get off their duffs and take a variety of actions, none of which variety gladdened the heart of members of the AMA, the FDA or their kissing cousins.

Perhaps not surprisingly, among those who’d viewed the 40-minute videotape—which within weeks began to seem like half of everybody—one of the biggest hullabaloos arose from Dr. Wintersong’s admission that his, and Belking-Gray’s, super-duper IFAI vaccine was useless except as a money-maker; that scientifically, the glop was less/virtuous than snake oil. Citizens howled and made nasty accusations; they’d never even thought of before; the medical fraternity shouted back that the respected and prestigious physician so obviously and obscenely tricked and tortured had been forced to lie; and, besides his lies had been misinterpreted, taken out of context, obtained by deceit and duress and criminal coercion and if presented in court were not allowable as testimony anyway, since they would unfairly prejudice any jury against the defendant.

But, whether such heresay was allowable or not, many citizens nonetheless saw, heard, and—to the horror of many Doctors, Lawyers, and Merchant Chiefs—made up their own minds. It was as though the shock of viewing the “Dr. Wintersong” videotape—the ugliness of that talking head, the ugliness of what it, Wintersong, M.D. said—initiated an at-first-gentle turbulence that continued to grow and spread until it became a kind of last-straw catalyst bringing into the open, a host of long-buried fears, doubts, and never-before-asked—or-answered—questions. Not only activists groups but individual citizens began committing the cardinal sin of questioning authority and doubting dogma, and demanding proof, of unproven claims, and even, (perhaps indicating the end of the world might be near) arguing with their doctors.

Unquestionably, there was ferment, and the fermentation was spreading. All of which pleased me hugely—and I knew Hank would have loved every minute of it. Indeed, sometimes I felt Hank must be alive, vigorous and well, out there somewhere, advising and guiding certain people, arranging protests and press releases—and things like those high-powered attorneys from POCUEH—while keeping out of sight merely to avoid arrest, or injury, or murder, remaining silent for good and sufficient reasons of his own.

Sometimes I felt that; not most of the time. And, I thought, if he was in fact alive, surely he would at least phone, give me a ring, say Hi and let me know. But there’d been no call, no ring, no Hi, and it had been six months now. Maybe I’d missed something back then, heard one thing when another was said. I remembered well the last time I’d seen Hank and even the last odd word, “weep,” he’d said to me just before they took him away.

Now, relaxed in my Hollywood apartment, on my chocolate-brown divan, glancing occasionally at Amelia’s fair fanny but thinking about Hank and Eleanora. And that last Sunday morning in October.

Had the “Death Gods” won the battle? I think not. Not completely.

 

* * * * * *

 

And, much later, it seemed to me a chunk of my life, like a chapter in a book, was, most curiously, ending exactly as it had begun. Well, not exactly. The words were the same, but their meaning, their weight, their juiciness—and the story they told—and who told it, were not the same at all.

Bassackward, Hank might have said. Just as he’d said you have to look behind the words, behind the definitions, to know what the thing really is, because truth never changes, but definitions of it do. Something like that. He’d said so many unusual things to me, and I couldn’t remember them all now.

Maybe I could ask him some day. Maybe, up ahead somewhere, my phone would ring in the middle of the night and I’d hear that familiar voice—strong, young, certainly not sick, more like a welcome voice bubbling with enthusiasm—“Sheldon...?”

I hoped so. I really did hope so.

But those thoughts were becoming fuzzy. I was almost asleep. Then really asleep. But just before then, or maybe just after, I felt Lucinda stir lazily next to me, and heard again, as I have often heard before, those same soft, warm, liquid words of ending, or beginning...

“Good night, Shell.”

 

-THE END-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About Richard S. Prather

 

Richard Scott Prather was born in Santa Ana, California on September 9, 1921. He served in the United States Merchant Marine during World War II. Richard married Tina Hager in 1945. He then worked as a civilian chief clerk of surplus property at March Air Force Base in Riverside, California, until leaving that career to become a full time writer in 1949. Tina, his wife of 58 years, passed away in April of 2004, and he passed away on February 14, 2007.

Richard Prather’s long and successful writing career began in 1950 with the publication of his first Shell Scott mystery novel, The Case of the Vanishing Beauty, published by Fawcett’s Gold Medal Paperback Originals. His successful and best-selling Shell Scott series of thirty-six novels, plus four short story collections, published between 1950 and 1987, have sold over 40 million copies in the United States and have enjoyed foreign language publication, selling millions more world-wide, and are considered classics. His last Shell Scott mystery, Shell Shock, was published in hardcover in 1987. The manuscript for The Death Gods was completed a few years before his death.

In addition to the Shell Scott mysteries, Richard penned three mystery novels under pseudonyms: David Knight and Douglas Ring. He also wrote the first novel based on the television show, Dragnet, titled Dragnet: Case 561. The book, Double in Trouble, written with Stephen Marlowe, combined the Shell Scott character and Marlowe’s character, Chester Drum. Richard’s novel, The Peddler, originally published as by Douglas Ring, was later published under his own name by Gold Medal. Then in 2006, The Peddler was reissued by Hard Case Crime.

Richard received the Private Eye Writers of America Lifetime Achievement Award in 1986, and was twice on the Board of Directors of the Mystery Writers of America. He was Editor of The Comfortable Coffin, the 13th Mystery Writers of America Anthology. His stories have appeared in numerous magazines, The Shell Scott Mystery Magazine, and several anthologies.

His biography has appeared in many reference works including Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers, Editor John M. Reilly, St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1980; 2002 edition of Marquis Who’s Who in America. Richard S. Prather Manuscript Collection, University of Wyoming, Laramie.

 

 

About Linda Pendleton

 

Linda Pendleton writes fiction and nonfiction books, comics, and screenplays, including several written with her late husband, Don Pendleton, creator of The Executioner, Mack Bolan Series. She is author of the Catherine Winter, Private Investigator Series, the historical novel, Corn Silk Days, Iowa, 1862; The Dawning; and Roulette: The Search for the Sunrise Killer, written with Don Pendleton. Don and Linda are known for their popular nonfiction books, To Dance With Angels, and Whispers From the Soul. Linda wrote A Walk Through Grief: Crossing the Bridge Between Worlds, following the death of her husband. She is a member of the Authors Guild, Sisters in Crime, and EPIC Authors. Several of her books have won awards.

Linda Pendleton did an exclusive in-depth interview with Prather and published the Exclusive Interview with Richard S. Prather, Author of the Shell Scott Mystery Series, two months before his death. The intimate look at Prather’s writing career and life turned out to be his last interview. Within the unique interview, he shares his long writing career, his personal life, his philosophy, and gives useful information on writing for aspiring authors.

 

 

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Richard S. Prather Smashwords Author Page

 

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