Vermeulen dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. "What do they have? The lock that Castor ruined was replaced before the paramedicais got there. Your weapon was taken away. You had an accident, slipped on a piece of soap and struck your head, that's all. Our people in Wednesday, some very high-placed officials, will take care of all that."
He was probably right, Dunski thought. But too many immers had become involved in getting him out of this mess, and too many knew one or more of his identities.
Vermeulen said, "You've covered your tracks well. However, there may be witnesses, people who looked out from the nearby buildings and saw you."
"It was raining hard, it was dark, and I was wearing a coat and hood," Dunski said. "Could I have another drink? Thank you. Some people did come out just as I was getting into the van, but they didn't get close. And the clouds stopped the sky-eyes from following me."
"I know that," Vermeulen said. "The organics will work on this until close to midnight, then they'll close shop. They'll leave messages for Tuesday's and Wednesday's authorities. But those will consider the matter closed. Castor, an obvious psychopath, has been killed. End of the trail. Today, though .. there's all those corpses. That's Thursday's business only, but the immers in other days will be notified of this so that they can come up with something to erase all tracks. A false explanation, maybe. That might be best." His face lit up. "Any explanation, if it seems to fit, will be better than none. They'll keep an unsolved case in the bank, theoretically always active. Solved, it'll be in the history section."
Dunski fought to keep his eyes open.
"That's probably the best plan. Only ..
"Only what?"
"What about Snick?"
Vermeulen shook his head and said, "Garchar went too far." (Garchar must be the man I called "Gaunt," Dunski thought.) "I wouldn't have condoned killing her, though the mutilation would have been blamed on Castor, a very good idea. But I don't think I could have done it. I can't fault Garchar. He was in command and had no time to check with us. Still ... anyway, that's past. Snick will stay stoned and will be put in a safe place."
Vermeulen church-steepled his fingers again.
"Today won't miss her. They'll think she's off on her own chase, if they'll think about her at all. Castor's kept them pretty busy. And what happens tomorrow? Will Snick appear at organics HQ with her visa and her orders from Sunday? No, she won't. So, how will Friday know that she's supposed to appear? It won't, and the following days won't know about her, either. Nobody will know that she's missing until Sunday comes and she doesn't report to her superiors. Sunday can do nothing about it except to leave inquiries for the following days. When Sunday comes again, it will get the news that Snick disappeared on Thursday. We'll have plenty of time to get ready for then, and we might not have to do anything at all."
"I hope so," Dunski said. He thought about Panthea Snick, cold and hard, stuck somewhere, perhaps for centuries, until she was found, if she was ever found.
"Poor man," Mia Baruch said, patting his hand.
Dunski looked at her, and she said, "Your wives ... murdered, so ghastly."
"He got his revenge, anyway," Vermeulen said.
She snatched her hand away and moved away from him. Of course. He had killed a man. It did not matter that he had done so in self-defense or that Castor should have been killed. She was repulsed by the idea of sitting so close to such a violent man.
"I know that revenge doesn't bring back the dead," Dunski said. "It's an old clichй. But revenge does have a certain satisfaction."
Baruch sniffed and moved further away. Dunski managed a tired grin and said, "What about Rupert von Hentzau, my wife?"
"She's been notified," Vermeulen said. "She'll set up your dummy for you in your cylinder. Or, as I suggested, she should leave the commune tonight, tell them that you and she are divorcing them. Some excuse. If she does leave, she'll go to an emergency stoner. She'll take your tomorrow's bag with her. Whether she leaves or not, she's made arrangements to get your bag to you. She sent her love to you and said she'll see you tomorrow. That is, next Thursday."
Dunski saw no reason to tell him that he had planted duplicate bags around the city.
Vermeulen paused, then said, "As for you, you'll stay here. There's no problem with that, is there?"
"You know that my wife, Friday's, is in South America on an archaeological dig?"
"Of course. I had to inquire about her because I had to make sure about your situation."
The man knew too much about him, but it could not be helped.
"I'm very tired," Dunski said. "I'd like to shower and then get to bed. It's been an ordeal."
Vermeulen stood up and said, "I'll show you to your room. When you wake up, we'll probably be gone. You can get yourself breakfast and let yourself out. I've left a message for your superior, tomorrow's, that is. I just told him that you'd transmit the relevant data. I suppose your superior will get in touch with you as quickly as possible."
"It depends on whether he thinks it's necessary."
The bedroom was luxurious and had a king-sized bed that could be let down by chains from the ceiling. Vermeulen pushed a button on a wall panel, and the bed lowered slowly, then settled on its legs, which had extended from the posts during its descent.
"If anything happens before Mia and I stone, I'll leave a message. That strip there," he pointed, "will be flashing. You can get a night robe from that closet."
"Very posh," Dunski said. "I'm not used to such high class."
"We have greater responsibilities, so we deserve more," Vermeulen said.
Dunski bade him good night. After Vermeulen had closed the door, Dunski tried the door. It was locked. He brushed his teeth with a disposable brush he found in the bathroom cabinet, showered, and got into bed. The sleep he had expected to come so quickly was not on schedule. Derailed somewhere. Images of Ozma, Nokomis, and Castor tramped through the hall of his mind. He began trembling. Tears flowed, though they did not last long. He got up and went to a small bar in a corner, another luxury, and poured four ounces of Social Delight No. 1, another luxury, into a glass. Fifteen minutes passed while he walked back and forth, his legs drained of strength but unable to stop moving, the drink in his hand. Just as he was downing the last of it, he saw Wyatt Repp, grinning under his white ten-gallon hat.
Wyatt said, "I should have been in that glorious gunfight, Shootout on Jones Street, not you! I would've loved it!"
"It isn't midnight yet," Dunski muttered as Wyatt faded away.
After he got into bed, he began weeping. Images of Snick cold and hard as a diamond were reflected on all sides in the crazyhouse mirrors of his mind. As he floated into a gusty sleep, he thought, I shouldn't be grieving more for her than for the others. It isn't right.
Friday-World
VARIETY, Second Month of the Year
D5-W1 (Day-Five, Week-One)
Chapter 20
Wyatt Bumppo Repp strode from his apartment, went down the hail, and stopped before the elevator. His white ten-gallon hat, scarlet neckerchief, ruffle-necked and balloon-sleeved purple shirt, factory-grown black leather vest, huge belt with a massive buckle embossed with a cowboy on a bucking bronco, tight sky-blue jeans fringed with leather at the seams, and high-heeled white tooled leather boots bearing decals of crossed six-shooters were worn by only one man in Friday. Wyatt Repp, the great TV writer-director-producer of Westerns and historical dramas. The only item lacking-he was irked by this-were elegantly tooled holsters and elegantly embossed toy pistols. The government said no to that. If little boys could not play with toy weapons, why should this big boy? He would set a bad example.