The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [291]
McVey popped the cassette into a VCR under the TV set.
“I don’t get it.” Osborn was completely thrown off.
“You will. But there are a couple of things you ought to know first. You said that when Von Holden fell off the Jungfrau and disappeared over the side you never saw him land.”
“It was pitch-black.”
“Well, he fell, or we think he fell, into what’s called a dark ice crevasse. A deep hole in the glacier. A Swiss mountain team went, down as far as they could but found no sign of him. That means he’s either still down there somewhere and will be for the next two thousand years or—he’s not. By that I mean we can’t say for certain he’s, dead.
“The second thing has to do with Lybarger’s fingerprints. Or the fingerprints of the man calling himself Lybarger. The man both Remmer and Schneider saw and, talked to a half hour before Charlottenburg went up in smoke.” McVey coughed, and when he did, he winced a little. His burn still bothered him. “BKA fingerprint experts matched Lybarger’s prints with those of Timothy Ashford, the decapitated housepainter from London.”
“Jesus God.” The hairs stood straight out from Osborn’s neck. “You were right. . . .”
“Yeah,” McVey nodded. “The trouble is Lybarger is now like everybody else who was in that room. Ashes. So all we have is an assumption that the head of one man was successfully joined to the body of another and that the creature lived. And walked and thought and talked as if he were as real as you and I. And with no visible scars as far as either Remmer or Schneider could tell. Or Joanna Marsh, either, for that matter. She told us that in a deposition yesterday morning. As his physical therapist, she spent a great deal of time with him and saw nothing that would indicate surgery of any kind had been done.”
“The symptoms of a man recovering from a stroke,” Osborn mused, “were caused not by a stroke at all, but by recovery from a phenomenal surgical procedure.” He looked up at McVey. “Is that what the tape is about?”
“What the tape is about is between you and me and the fencepost. If anybody says anything at all, it will come from Washington or Bad Godesberg.” McVey picked up a remote and handed it to Osborn. “This time, Doctor, nobody does anything on his own. Personal reasons or anything else. I hope you understand that because there are other things we can come back to. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
For a moment the two men stood facing each other in silence. Then McVey abruptly opened the door and walked out. Osborn watched him cross an outer office and push through a wooden gate. Then he was gone. Like that, he’d taken him off the hook and let him go.
158
* * *
OSBORN SAT for a long moment in silence, then raised the remote, pointed it toward the VCR in the cart under the TV and hit “play.” There was a click and a whirring sound, then the television screen flickered and an image appeared. The scene was a formal study with a straight-backed leather chair prominent in the foreground. A large desk was to the left with a wall of books to the right. A window, only partially visible behind the desk, provided most of the light. Several seconds passed and then Salettl walked in. He was wearing a dark blue suit and had his back to the camera. When he reached the chair, he turned and sat down.
“Please excuse this primitive introduction,” he said. “But I am alone and am operating the video camera myself.” Crossing his legs, he sat back and became more formal. “My name is Helmuth Salettl. I am a physician. My home is Salzburg, Austria, but I am, by birth, German. My age, as of this taping, is seventy-nine. When you view this, I will no longer be living.” Pausing, Salettl’s gaze into the camera sharpened. Seemingly to underscore the seriousness of what he had to say. The idea of his