The Domino Pattern

NINE

Witherspoon wasn’t willing to take my word for it. Or the LifeGuard’s electronic evidence, either. Silently, grimly, he set to work with analyzers and hypos and modern medicine’s magic potions.

In the end, he accepted the inevitable.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he said wearily, stepping over to the side of the room and touching a switch. A seat folded out from the wall, and he sank heavily onto it. “I should have stayed here with him.”

“He told us he’d ordered you to go get some food,” I reminded him.

“So what?” he countered. “I’m a doctor, not a servant.”

“No, but when your patient orders you away, there’s not a lot you can do,” I said.

“I could have ignored him,” Witherspoon said, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Or I could have stayed just outside in the corridor where I would have been available when he needed me.” He hissed between his teeth. “Instead, I was out feeding my face.”

“For whatever it’s worth. I don’t think you could have done anything even if you’d been here,” I said. “He already had too much cadmium in his tissues. We don’t have the facilities aboard to have cleaned it out fast enough.”

“I know,” Witherspoon said. “I should have been here anyway.”

For a minute the room was silent. I gave him another minute to mourn his companion, or to sandpaper his conscience, then got back to business. “Di-Master Strinni said you were part of his contract team.”

“Yes,” Witherspoon acknowledged without hesitation. “Though technically, Mr. Kennrick and I are with Pellorian Medical, not the contract team per se.”

“It might have been nice to know this earlier,” I commented.

He turned puzzled eyes on me. “Why?”

“Because in case you’ve forgotten, this is a murder investigation,” I said. “High on the list of useful things to know are the relationships between victims and suspects.”

A whole series of emotions chased each other across his face, with outrage bringing up the rear. “Are you saying I’m a suspect?” he demanded. “How dare you!”

“I dare because we now have three unexplained deaths aboard our cozy little Quadrail,” I said calmly. “And because you were in recent contact with at least two of the three victims.”

“That’s a gross misstatement of the situation,” Witherspoon insisted stiffly. But his expression was rapidly fading from righteous anger to cautious apprehension. He’d surely seen enough dit rec thrillers to know how high the victims’ doctor usually ended up on the cops’ suspect list. “Besides, all three victims were showing symptoms before I was brought in.”

“True,” I agreed. “Tell me about Terese German.”

He blinked. “Who?”

“The young Human woman you had the consultation with over dinner last night.”

A flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Oh,” he said. “Her.”

“Yes, her,” I said. “What did you—?” I broke off as another set of hurrying footsteps sounded out in the corridor and Dr. Aronobal came charging into the dispensary, her chest heaving even more than Witherspoon’s had been at his entrance. But then, Aronobal had had farther to jog. “Dr. Aronobal,” I greeted her gravely. “My apologies for dragging you all the way up here—”

“How is he?” Aronobal asked, slowing to a fast walk as she headed toward the table.

“—especially as it turns out to have been unnecessary.” I finished. “I’m afraid di-Master Strinni has passed on.”

Aronobal shot me a look as she came to a halt by the body. “My bag.” she said tartly, jabbing a finger at the Filiaelian medical kit locked in the drug cabinet.

Obediently, the Spider unlocked the cabinet and handed over the bag. For all the good it would do. “Where were we?” I asked, turning back to Witherspoon. “Oh, yes. Terese German.”

Witherspoon’s eyes flicked over my shoulder. “What about her?”

“Let’s start with what you talked about,” I suggested.

Witherspoon hunched his shoulders in a shrug that I was pretty sure was supposed to look casual. “Not much,” he said. “I’d noticed that she seemed to be having stomach or digestive trouble—frequent trips to the restroom and all—and I asked if there was anything I could do.”

“You noticed that all the way from two cars back?” I asked. “You must have eyes like a hawk.”

“Well, no, I—I mean,” he stammered. “I mean—”

“Your seat is two cars back from hers, right?” I asked.

“Yes, but—” He broke off, his eyes flicking over my shoulder again. “I mean I noticed at the times I was in that car. When I was visiting Master Colix, Master Bofiv, and Master Tririn.”

“And was there?”

“Was there what?” he asked, thoroughly lost now.

“Was there anything you could do for her?”

Again, his eyes flicked over my shoulder. “I really can’t say anything more. I’m sorry.”

I looked over my shoulder, wondering what Witherspoon found so fascinating over there. Aronobal was standing squarely in Witherspoon’s line of glance, hunched over the table with her back to us. “You do remember that this is a murder investigation, right?” I asked, turning back to Witherspoon.

“It would be hard to forget with you reminding me every two minutes,” Witherspoon said acidly. With the brief break, he was on balance again. “I’m sorry, but this is a matter of doctor/patient privilege.”

“Dr. Witherspoon?” Aronobal called, not turning around. “A word with you, if you please?”

“What is it?” Witherspoon asked, getting up and crossing to the table.

I crossed to the table, too, circling the foot and coming up on the other side from the two doctors. “Look at this,” Aronobal said, pointing to Strinni’s hands.

The forefinger of Strinni’s right hand was curved around to touch the tip of his thumb like an okay sign, the other fingers sticking stiffly straight out together. His left hand, in contrast, was curved like he’d been holding on to a thick pipe that had been subsequently removed. “What did you do that for?” I asked.

“I did nothing.” Aronobal insisted. “They were like this when I first reached him.”

“Were they, Frank?” Bayta murmured as she came to my side.

“I don’t know,” I had to admit. “I wasn’t focusing on his hands at the time.”

“Was he holding anything earlier?” Aronobal asked. “In either hand?”

“No,” I said. That much I was sure of. “There was nothing within reach, either.”

“Your arm, perhaps?” Aronobal suggested, reaching over the table and wrapping her hand experimentally around my wrist.

“No,” I said again. “I have no idea why his hands would have curled—”

“It’s sign language,” Witherspoon said suddenly.

I studied Strinni’s hands. Now that Witherspoon mentioned it, they did look like finger-spelling letters. The letters F and C, in fact.

My initials.

“Can you read them?” Aronobal asked.

“Just a second,” Witherspoon said as he started contorting his own hand. “The left hand is the letter C,” he said. “The right hand …that’s an F.”

“CF,” Aronobal murmured thoughtfully.

“More likely FC,” Witherspoon said. “That’s the order they’re in as you look down at them.”

“Or even more likely pure coincidence,” I said. Whatever had happened with Strinni’s hands, the last thing I wanted was for Witherspoon or Aronobal to think there was a connection there to me. “Some trick of that last set of convulsions. He had enough breath to warn us not to autopsy his body, after all—if he’d wanted to leave a dying clue, he could have just said something.”

Witherspoon looked sharply at me. “FC,” he said. “Frank Compton.”

I held his gaze, a sinking feeling running through me. Damn. “That’s ridiculous,” I insisted.

“Is it?” Witherspoon countered. “Of course he couldn’t say anything, not with you and your friend the only ones in the room. What other clue could he leave?”

“Okay, fine.” I said. “Let’s say those really are F and C signs—”

“Oh, please,” Witherspoon growled. “There must be a hundred encyclopedias aboard that can confirm that.”

“I meant as opposed to random hand configurations.” I said patiently. “That still leaves the question of how di-Master Strinni learned Human sign language in the first place. Come to think of it, if we’re going down that road, we ought to be looking into what those mean in Shorshic sign language.”

“There is no such thing,” Aronobal said. “Deafness is curable or treatable among Shorshians, and hence is essentially unknown. Any signing system would have been lost generations ago.”

“Ditto for most other species,” Witherspoon agreed. “If di-Master Strinni knew any sort of sign language, it would be the Human variety.”

“Which still doesn’t prove he actually did know it,” I said. “Besides, I only met him yesterday. What possible motive would I have for killing him?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Witherspoon said, his tone going all dark and ominous. I le would have been great in a dit rec mystery. “Perhaps we should get Mr. Kennrick in here and see if he can shed some light on this.”

“Mr. Kennrick isn’t an investigator,” I said.

“No. but he seems to know something about you,” Witherspoon said. “Maybe there are some dark secrets in your past—”

“Just a minute,” Bayta spoke up suddenly, her eyes unfocusing. “Usantra Givvrac is in great pain. He’s asked a conductor to bring him a doctor.”

“You sure it’s Usantra Givvrac, and not one of the other Filiaelians?” Witherspoon asked, a sudden anxiety in his voice.

“I’m sure,” Bayta said. “But one of the other Filiaelians in his car is also feeling ill.”

“I’d better go,” Witherspoon said, gesturing to the Spider to hand him his bag.

“I’ll do it,” Aronobal said calmly, laying a hand on Witherspoon’s shoulder. “I have more experience with Filiaelian medicine than you.”

“You both need to go,” Bayta said. “A Filiaelian four cars back, Osantra Qiddicoj, is also calling for a doctor.”

“Four back?” I repeated, mentally doing my own count of the cars. “Di-Master Strinni’s car?”

“Yes,” Bayta confirmed.

Where Strinni had been poisoned with both heavy metal and a hallucinogen. Interesting. “Sounds like we suddenly have plenty of patients to go around,” I said, looking back and forth between Witherspoon and Aronobal. “How do you want to sort it out?”

“Dr. Witherspoon can treat Osantra Qiddicoj,” Aronobal said, already halfway to the door. “I will treat Usantra Givvrac and the other in his car.”

“And I’ll go with Dr. Witherspoon,” I volunteered, falling into step behind Witherspoon as he headed toward the door.

“That’s not necessary,” Witherspoon said.

“I don’t mind,” I assured him.

Witherspoon stopped dead in his tracks. “Let me make it clearer,” he said coldly. “I don’t want you along.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “Let me make it clearer: I don’t give a damn what you want. You’ve got a sick patient. We both want to see him. You want me to stay here, you’re welcome to try and make me. Otherwise, stop complaining and get moving.”

He pressed his lips tightly together. “Fine,” he said. “You first.”

I rolled my eyes and moved into the doorway in front of him. “Bayta, stay here and watch di-Master Strinni’s body,” I said. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

We headed out, Aronobal hitting the corridor and branching left. Witherspoon and I branching right. “What is it with all this Filly stomach trouble?” I whispered over my shoulder to Witherspoon as we reached the first coach car and passed through the sea of canopied seats and sleeping passengers. “More heavy-metal poisoning?”

“It’s not acting like it,” Witherspoon whispered back. “But with gleaner bacteria in their intestines doing the bulk of waste processing and removal, Filiaelians are highly susceptible to digestive trouble.”

“Like Terese German?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. “I said—”

“I heard you,” he interrupted. “And I already told you my dealings with her are confidential. Quiet, now—we don’t want to wake anyone.”

We passed through the rear vestibule and entered the first-class entertainment car. From the faint reflections of flickering light I could see from the various dit rec cubicles as we passed, it was clear there were still a few night owls up and about. We finished with that car, passed through another coach car full of canopied seats and sleeping travelers, and arrived at last at Osantra Qiddicoj’s car.

Most of the passengers here had deployed their canopies, though a few seats contained Shorshians who, like di-Master Strinni, apparently preferred sleeping in the open air. Near the rear of the car, I spotted the soft glow of a conductor call light on one of the uncanopied seats. The scat itself was turned away from us, hiding its occupant from view, but I doubted that the call light was marking someone who merely wanted to know when the dining car started serving breakfast. “There’s our boy,” I murmured, heading toward it.

We were halfway back when I heard a soft thud behind me. Frowning, I started to turn—

Something exploded against the side of my neck, and the darkened Quadrail car went completely black.

I woke up slowly, with the nagging but persistent feeling that I wasn’t at all comfortable.

I tried to bring my hands up to my eyes to help rub them open. But the hands didn’t want to move. In fact, I wasn’t even sure where exactly my hands were. I tried turning my head to look tor them, but my head wouldn’t move either.

Was I paralyzed?

That delightful thought snapped me fully awake. With my heart pounding, I opened my eyes.

In front of me was an unrelieved curtain of dark gray, and for another horrible second I thought I’d gone blind as well as paralyzed. Then my eyes focused, and I realized that what I was staring at was exactly that: a curtain of dark gray. I was sitting in a first-class seat with the sleep canopy deployed around me.

And the reason I’d thought I was paralyzed was that my wrists, ankles, and forehead were taped to that selfsame seat.

I looked downward as far as I could. There were at least four windings of tape around each of my wrists, possibly as many as five or six. I couldn’t see my ankles or, obviously, my forehead, but I had no reason to suspect my assailant had been any less generous there than he had with my wrists.

Experimentally. I tried twisting my arms, hoping I could break free. Nothing. I tried the same move with head and feet, with the same lack of results. At this rate, I’d be pinned here like a prize butterfly until lunchtime tomorrow.

My gut gave one of its now all-too-familiar rumbles. The thought of lunchtime, or of food in general, was almost painful. I listened to the fresh growling, trying to figure out if this was the same problem as before or if my assailant had decided to go ahead and poison me while he had the chance. It certainly felt like I was dying from the inside out.

I stiffened, the sudden tightening of my stomach muscles adding a fresh burst to the intestinal turmoil lower down. There it was, damn it—so obvious I should have fallen over it. Dying from the inside out …

And then, outside my canopy, I heard something. I strained my ears, and the sound resolved itself into a set of quiet footsteps and the equally quiet but very distinctive tap-tap-tap of a Spider.

It was Bayta. It had to be. Clearly, I’d been gone long enough to arouse her misgivings and she’d grabbed a Spider to come looking for me. Feeling a surge of relief, I opened my mouth to call to her.

Only to discover that my friend with the tape had thoughtfully taken the time to gag me, too.

I heaved my shoulders back and forth to the sides, trying to shake the seat enough to catch Bayta’s notice. But it was anchored solidly in place, and I doubted I was getting up enough momentum to even disturb the canopy. I tried grunting through the tape over my mouth, but even to my own ears the muffled sound sounded pretty pathetic. Looking in all directions, I searched for inspiration.

And then, my gaze fell on the music controls by my left hand.

It was a long shot, I knew. Quadrail audio systems were heavily focused, precisely to prevent everyone else in the car from being disturbed by someone else’s music. I would have to crank it up to eardrum-damaging levels for anyone out there to even hear it.

But it was a risk I had to take. If I didn’t get Bayta’s attention now. it could be hours before one of the other passengers wondered why this particular traveler was sleeping in so late, and got curious enough to investigate. There were already at least three Fillies out there in serious medical trouble, with possibly more to come. Unless I got out of here, and fast, we were going to have more deaths on our hands.

Cranking the volume all the way up, I set my teeth and touched the switch.

It was like sitting front-row-center at a live concert where each musician had made a bet with all the others that he could get the most sound out of his instrument. I left the music on maybe a quarter of a second before switching it off again, and even with that short an exposure it felt like the my ears were coming off at the lobes.

But I couldn’t stop now. I fired it up another quarter second, and then another. Then, bracing myself, I turned it on for a full second.

This time, it felt like the top of my head was joining my ears in their attempt to vacate the premises. I gulped a breath, fired off another full second, and another, and then thankfully returned to three more of the shorter quarter-second bursts of agony.

Bayta had had a sheltered upbringing among the Chahwyn, and had been playing a determined game of intellectual catch-up since then. Still, somewhere along the line, surely even she had learned the significance of a classic SOS.

I was midway through the third repeat, and was wondering if my ears were starting to bleed yet. when the canopy was pulled open, and I saw Bayta’s worried face looking down at me.

In the brief time I’d been away, the dispensary had become an emergency room.

Witherspoon was sitting on one of the fold-out seats along the side wall, pressing a cold pack against the back of his head, his posture that of a man who had just gone three rounds with a bulldozer. Two Fillies were twitching in obvious discomfort on fold-out slabs on the other side of the room. One of them turned his head as Bayta and I entered, and I saw it was my friend Rose Nose, the one who’d pulled me out of the scuffle with Strinni earlier in the afternoon, just long enough for Kennrick’s ribs to get cracked instead of mine.

Strinni’s body, which had been on the diagnostic table when I’d left, was nowhere to be seen. In its place, lying ominously still on the treatment table as Aronobal worked feverishly over him, was Usantra Givvrac.

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” I said, wincing as the sound of my words assaulted my sore ears. “It won’t work.”

“Compton!” Witherspoon exclaimed, looking up at the sound of my voice. “Are you all right? Someone hit me—”

“Save it,” I cut him off. “You need to get a load of gleaner bacteria from somewhere and inject it into his intestines.”

“What?” Aronobal asked, frowning down her long nose at me.

“Are you deaf?” I bit out. “Their gleaner bacteria’s been wiped out. The unneutralized waste is backing up and flooding their systems—that’s what’s making them sick.”

“Impossible,” Aronobal insisted. “What could they possibly have eaten that could have done so much damage?”

“They didn’t eat it, they inhaled it,” I said, disengaging myself from Bayta’s supporting arm and making my slightly unsteady way to the table. “I took a sample earlier from one of the train’s air filters and found traces of antibacterial sprays.”

“You can’t kill a Filiaelian’s gleaner bacteria that way,” Witherspoon said. “Everything they inhale is filtered through the respiratory system—”

“So is everything Humans inhale.” I interrupted him. “But Bayta and I are both feeling the effects of something on our own gut flora. Whatever this stuff was our killer was spraying around, it digs deep and packs one hell of a punch.”

Witherspoon looked at Aronobal. “Is this reasonable? Or even possible?”

“Do you have any other treatment to suggest?” Aronobal countered. “Very well, Mr. Compton. If your companion will ask the Spiders to find some Filiaelian volunteers, we’ll try your suggestion.”

“No,” a weak Filly voice said.

It took me a second to realize the voice had been Givvrac’s. “No what?” I asked, looking down at him.

“No need to find volunteers,” he said, his eyes nearly closed, his nose blaze gone so dark now as to be nearly black. “My contract team—Esantra Worrbin, Asantra Muzzfor, and Asantra Dallilo. They will provide what is necessary.”

“Works for me,” I said, looking over at Bayta. “Can you get the Spiders on it?”

She nodded. “Already done.”

“Compton?” Givvrac murmured.

I looked back down at him. “Yes?”

“My final wish,” he said softly. “Find this murderer.”

“I will,” I promised, wondering distantly if Filly law listed any penalties for failing to deliver on a deathbed promise. “But you’re a long ways yet from any final wishes,” I added. “Half an hour, and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Find the murderer, Mr. Compton,” Givvrac repeated, his voice trailing off into a whisper. “And kill him.”

I looked at Bayta, then at Witherspoon. then at Aronobal …and there was something in the Filly doctor’s eyes that warned there were indeed penalties for reneging on such a promise. “If it’s within my power,” I said, looking back at Givvrac, “I will.”

His eyes closed, and he gave a microscopic nod. “Then will honor and justice be served,” he murmured.

Five minutes later, he was dead.