The Domino Pattern

“Not really,” Witherspoon said, fingering his neck gingerly. “I was following you to his seat when something hit me. The next thing I knew, your friend Bayta and a conductor were standing over me, trying to get me to wake up.”

“Did you hear anything before you were hit?” I asked. “The sound of the vestibule door opening behind you, stealthy footsteps, heavy breathing—anything?”

Witherspoon shook his head. “He could have materialized out of thin air for all I know.”

“Did you see or hear anything odd alter you woke up?”

“Again, no,” Witherspoon said. “Bayta and the conductor helped me back to the dispensary—and took Osantra Qiddicoj in there, too, of course—then went back to look for you.” He grimaced. “And before you ask, I have no idea why anyone would want to attack me.”

“Maybe it wasn’t you he was after, Doc,” Kennrick suggested, eyeing me speculatively. “Maybe he wanted Compton, and you were just in his way.”

“That is a thought,” Witherspoon agreed, giving me a speculative look of his own. “After all, you were the one who figured out what was wrong with the Filiaelians. If he wanted Usantra Givvrac dead, you were the one he needed to shut up.”

“Except that at the time no one knew I had the answer,” I reminded him. “Including me.”

“The attacker still might have thought you were getting close,” Witherspoon said.

“Or maybe you had something he wanted,” Kennrick said suddenly. “You still have those tissue samples from Master Colix and Master Bofiv?”

“I assume they’re still in my room,” I lied, shifting my elbow slightly against my chest to press reassuringly against the vials in my pocket. The samples from the air filter and Givvrac’s drink were indeed an obvious target for the killer to go after, which is why they’d been the first thing I’d checked when Bayta and the Spider got me out of that chair. “Any of your stuff gone, Doc?”

Witherspoon shook his head. “If it is, it’s nothing important.”

“What do you mean, if it is?” Kennrick asked, frowning. “Haven’t you checked your pockets and your bag?”

“Of course I have,” Witherspoon said. “My pockets haven’t been touched, and he made a mess of my bag when he was looking for tape to tie up Mr. Compton with.”

I focused on the medical bag still silting in the middle of our table. “What kind of mess?” I asked carefully.

“A mess kind of mess,” Witherspoon said with a touch of impatience. “Everything got moved or shifted around, with vials and pill cartridges and all dumped in the bottom. That sort of thing.”

“He dumped everything in the bottom while he was looking for tape?” I asked.

“Yes,” Witherspoon said, frowning. “What’s your point?”

I looked at Kennrick, saw the light starting to dawn there. “Doc, no one throws a bunch of vials around when they’re looking for a roll of tape,” I said. “He wanted something else in there.”

“Kindly credit me with a little intelligence, Mr. Compton.” Witherspoon growled. “I’ve checked on all my painkillers and other potentially dangerous drugs. They’re all still there. I doubt anyone would go to this much effort just to steal a packet of QuixHeals.”

“So let’s find out what was worth this much effort.” I reached over and opened the bag. “Inventory. Now.”

Witherspoon grimaced. “Fine,” he said. “But I can tell you right now that we’re not going to find anything significant.”

“Five bucks says I will,” I said nudging the bag a little closer to him.

For possibly the first time that day, I was right.

———

Bayta was alone in the dispensary, sitting on one of the foldout seats and gazing wearily at Usantra Givvrac’s body, when the Spider and I finally returned. “You all right?” I asked, peering at her as the Spider crossed the room and put Witherspoon’s bag back under lock and key.

“I was just thinking about this afternoon, in the bar,” she said. “When you told me that putting off a conversation usually meant that person will be the next to die.”

I winced. “I’m sorry I said that.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead.” Bayta paused. “The killer’s not finished yet, is he?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” I conceded. “You listened in on our inventory of Witherspoon’s bag?”

She nodded again. “There’s a hypo missing.”

“Right,” I said. “Inevitable, I suppose, in retrospect. The three basic ways of delivering poisons are inhalation, ingestion, and injection. With the first two mostly off the table, that leaves only the last.”

“What do you mean, mostly?” Bayta asked.

“We still haven’t totally eliminated the possibility that someone added the cadmium to the Shorshians’ food after it was delivered.” I said. “Did you check with the servers, by the way, on whether Colix and Bofiv always used the same reaches for the common dish?”

“They didn’t,” Bayta said. “All three Shorshians switched off between galla bread, prinn scoops, and rokbi sticks, with no particular pattern the servers noticed.”

“So no one could have poisoned the reaches, at least not if he was targeting specific victims,” I concluded. “That leaves our killer with a choice of poisoning the common dish—or, rather, half the common dish, since Tririn wasn’t affected—or two separate individual dishes. And all that without anyone at the table noticing. Not impossible, but pretty damn difficult.”

“Unless Master Tririn himself is the killer,” Bayta said slowly. “According to Usantra Givvrac, he was one of the four members of the team opposed to the contract with Pellorian Medical. Three of the four victims were for the contract.”

“True,” I agreed. “But that runs us immediately into another problem. Two problems, actually. If he was trying to stack the vote in his favor, Master Colix’s death already accomplishes that. So why keep killing? Especially since the second death. Bofiv’s, evens up the vote again?”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Bayta admitted.

“Not yet,” I conceded. “A bigger problem with Tririn is that you’ve already proved he hasn’t been up to first class since we left Homshil, which means he had no access to Strinni or Givvrac.”

Bayta winced. “Actually, that might not be true,” she said reluctantly. “It occurred to me—a little late, I’m afraid—to ask the conductors about unlimited first-class passes. They tell me eight passes came aboard the train, but only seven of the holders are actually riding in first class.”

I stared at her. “Oh, hell.”

“I’m sorry.” Bayta apologized. “I should have asked about that sooner.”

“Not your fault,” I told her. So someone else had the same ability we did to flit back and forth between classes without a single locked door or raised eyebrow. Terrific. “If Spiders were smart enough to volunteer this stuff on their own instead of having to be asked—” I broke off. “Never mind. Water under the bridge. Very interesting water, too.”

“Because it shows that the killer had everything planned in advance?”

“And because it shows he has some serious financial backing,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of finding out who has this eighth pass?”

Bayta shook her head. “If it wasn’t used to board, the conductors won’t have that information.”

“Who would have it?” I persisted. “The stationmaster back at Homshil?”

“Yes, he would have been the one who informed the conductors about the eight passes in the first place,” she said. “But there’s no way to get a message back there until we reach Venidra Carvo.”

“Why not?” I asked. “There must be a few of your secret little sidings scattered along the way. Can’t you shoot the Spiders a telepathic message as we pass, like we did on our last trip back to Earth? They could then load the request onto a message cylinder and send it back to Homshil via one of their tenders.”

“It won’t be easy,” Bayta said doubtfully. “We don’t get very close to the Spiders when we pass a siding. That’ll make the contact difficult. We’re also going much faster then we do when we pass through a station, so we won’t be able to send anything very long or detailed.”

“Then we’ll just have to be clever.” I said, trying to kick a few of my comatose brain cells back to life. “What if