The Domino Pattern

the table. “Here,” I said, pulling the arm cuff free of its holder.

Bayta took the cuff and fastened it around Strinni’s arm. “Ready,” she said. I made a final check of the breather mask I’d set over Strinni’s face and punched the start button.

The LifeGuard chugged to life. I gazed down at Strinni’s face, knowing full well that this was almost certainly an exercise in futility. But I had to do something.

And then, to my astonishment, Strinni’s eyes stirred and opened to slits. [Compton,] he murmured, his voice muffled by the mask.

I frowned at the LifeGuard. The device hadn’t finished running its diagnosis, but red lights were already beginning to wink on all across the display. This had to be the most heroic effort at last words on the books. “I’m here,” I said, leaning closer to him as I gazed into those half-closed eyes. “What is it?”

[Don’t desecrate …my …body,] he said, his voice fading until it was almost too soft to hear. His eyes closed again, and the lights on the LifeGuard’s display went solid red.

I looked at Bayta. “Don’t desecrate my body?” I echoed. “What in the world does that mean?”

“Probably that he doesn’t want an autopsy,” she said, her eyes aching as she gazed at this, the third dead body she’d seen in two days. “He’s a member of the Path of Onagnalhni, remember?”

“Right,” I murmured. “I’d forgotten.”

There was the sound of racing footsteps out in the corridor, and I turned as Witherspoon burst panting into the dispensary. “Don’t bother,” I told him as I stepped aside to let him see the unmoving figure on the table. “He’s dead.”

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.