Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 (11 page)

 
          
 
Dick regarded Winchell in the viewer.

 
          
 
"He still bathes himself and dresses
himself . . . ?" Dick said.

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"He still feeds himself, and he responds
intelligently when people talk to him?"

           
 
"In the character of Leishman ... yes.

 
          
 
"He still seems aware of everything that
Leishman thinks or does?"

 
          
 
"We have checked periodically on the
factual aspect of it, and this does seem to be the case."

 
          
 
"I find it difficult to understand how he
manages to respond to two separate environments and not grow confused, not
become aware of the contradictions in the situation."

 
          
 
"Well, it is similar to the classic
paranoid reaction where the patient can function relatively well in his normal
environment yet still believe he is someone else, somewhere else."

 
          
 
"I think I see, sort of. How long do you
figure this will go on?"

 
          
 
"No way of telling yet, as I've said
before. But I agree with Lydia that it is a situation worth exploiting. Let it
sink in. She can take care of personality tailoring later."

 
          
 
"What about the trip I mentioned?"

 
          
 
"The way that I see it is that if he
really is going to benefit from this exposure, he should have had enough of it
by spring. I don't see why the cord can't be cut at that time, and let the
adjustment begin."

 
          
 
"Good," Dick said. "About
Lydia..."

 
          
 
"Yes?"

 
          
 
"I was just wondering. With all these new
developments, is she still the best therapist for Dennis?"

 
          
 
"Is there something about her you don't
like?"

 
          
 
"No, not that I just wanted to be sure
Dennis had the best."

 
          
 
"He does. Lydia knows Dennis better than
anyone else. It would take months for another therapist to catch up on
something like this—and then there is the matter of her rapport with him. It
could prove disastrous to pull her off the case and bring in someone else at
this point."

 
          
 
"I see. Just wanted to be sure."

 
          
 
"Is something bothering you—about
her?"

 
          
 
"Not at all. How do you feel the verdict
on the Leishman case will affect him? The man is bound to be convicted."

 
          
 
"Some depression, most likely. Still,
Leishman seems something of a stoic, according to the psychiatrists who
examined him. Dennis will simply take it the same way he does."

 
          
 
"It shouldn't be too far off."

 
          
 
"No. This week, I'd guess."

 
          
 
"Well, keep me posted."

 
          
 
"I will."

 
          
 
Dick decided to take his secretary to lunch
and think about other things. And he was not surprised some time later when
Leishman was found guilty. It was the sentencing that troubled him.

 
          
 
"I did not think they would take the
psychiatric angle that seriously," he said to Winchell as soon as he heard
of it.

 
          
 
"I did. There was always a possibility of
this. Basically, it was his attorney's doing. I would not take it all that
seriously."

 
          
 
"Well, they have him up at the State
Hospital in Las Vegas, so he is still too close to Dennis—and now, if they
start giving him therapy ... What will happen if they put him on drugs or fool
with his brain? I don't like it."

 
          
 
Winchell was silent for a time. Then, "I
see the point. I had wanted to keep Dennis—and us—out of the whole thing. Now,
though, we had better find a way of keeping posted as to what course of
treatment they plan for Leishman. Perhaps we can still keep it quiet. I will
see whether I can work out something with the hospital. If not, we may have to
go through the court."

 
          
 
"Well, we had better do something,
quickly. The kid is screwed up enough as it is."

 
          
 
"Right. I will call them now and let you
know."

 
          
 
"I still think we ought to move out of
range and let it go at that."

 
          
 
Winchell gnawed his lip.

 
          
 
"Let's save that for last," he said.

 
          
 
I thought I had caught glimpses of him earlier
in the day, but I was not certain until late afternoon, when he came by the
reading room where I sat alone, turning pages. He parked the cart he had been
pushing, blocking the doorway with it, stepped in, gave a low whistle and
winked when I looked up.

 
          
 
"Quick!" I said. "What—?"

 
          
 
He raised a finger to his lips, turned and
fetched in a carton from the lower shelf of the carryall. He brought it over
and placed it on the opposite side of my chair, out of sight from the hall.

 
          
 
"No problem," he whispered.
"I've worked in these places before. My record is clean. Got in here
almost two weeks ago. How have they been treating you?"

 
          
 
"Observation and tests all month," I
said. "What are you up to?"

 
          
 
He stroked the side of his sharp nose and
smiled a yellow smile.

 
          
 
"We're getting you out of here, now. It's
all set up. I have the schedule down pat. The car is waiting."

 
          
 
"It's still daylight. Wouldn't it be
better if—"

 
          
 
"No. Trust me. I know where everyone
is."

 
          
 
I regarded his slight figure, his dark,
dancing eyes, pale hair, nimble fingers.

 
          
 
"You're shifty enough," I said.
"Okay. What do I do?"

 
          
 
"Get into the clothes in that bundle
while I go stand outside by my cart. If anyone comes, Til whistle and you start
taking them off again fast. I will come back inside with the box and you toss
them back into it. Okay?"

 
          
 
I nodded and began unbuttoning my shirt.

 
          
 
"No," he said. "Put them on
over your things. It's just an orderly uniform."

 
          
 
He moved back to the door.

 
          
 
"How is the shoulder?"

 
          
 
"Fine now. How are Jerry and Betty?"

 
          
 
"Well. You never got traced to
them."

 
          
 
He stood fooling with his cart, blocking the
door.

 
          
 
"Hey! There's a gun in here!"

 
          
 
"Sh! Stick it in your belt, under the
coat You never can tell."

 
          
 
I checked it. It was loaded. I stowed it. I
dressed.

 
          
 
"All right," I said.

 
          
 
"Come on out then. Help me push this
cart."

 
          
 
I stepped into the hall, got behind the cart
at his side nearest the wall. We began pushing.

 
          
 
"Where to?" I asked.

 
          
 
"Service elevator, through those doors at
the end. I have the key here."

 
          
 
We passed along the hall. He unlocked the
doors. No one in sight. He unlocked the elevator. We took the cart inside and
he pressed the button for the basement.

 
          
 
"I'll stand in front," he said.
"If anyone comes by, bend over the cart real quick."

 
          
 
"Right."

 
          
 
I listened to the hum, the occasional creaking
of the elevator about us. A wave of cool air passed from the left. I felt
myself in a kind of daze. It was difficult to believe things were happening
this quickly, with no advance warning. Just as well, too, probably. If I had
had time to think it over, I might not be moving this casually. I probably
would not have slept last night.

 
          
 
The elevator ground to a halt. Quick drew open
the gate, looked outside, nodded to me, tugged on the cart.

 
          
 
I followed him out, pushing. We were in a
half-lit hallway, but things looked to be brighter around the corner to the
left. We moved in that direction, and he gestured for me to change places with
him. I got over to his left before we turned the corner, left again. There was
a ramp leading up to an open area—a loading dock where two workmen sat on
crates, drinking coffee and smoking. The nearer man glanced in our direction as
we moved upward, wheels rattling. Quick pretty much blocked his view of me.

 
          
 
"Damn it!" he muttered. "They
don't usually take their break right on the dock."

 
          
 
A white van with the words "Simpson's
Foods" stenciled in red on its side was backed against the dock, rear gate
lowered. The door on the driver's side was open, and a man in a green uniform
sat sideways, legs dangling, checking over some papers on a clipboard, a
steaming cup balanced on the dash to his right. Quick waved to him and he waved
back. Moments later, he swiveled forward and slammed the door. Shortly after
that, he dumped the coffee out the window.

 
          
 
Quick slowed.

 
          
 
"I was simply going to close you in back
and let him drive off with you," he whispered. "No good now. Those
guys would know something was up." He jerked his head toward the laborers.
"I am going to have to go along now—and so are they, I'm afraid"

 
          
 
"Guess we don't have much choice."

 
          
 
He shook his head.

 
          
 
"We stop the cart when we're abreast of
them," he said, looking out past the truck and back down the ramp. "Then
we stroll over. Get your gun out then and get them aboard the truck."