She shook her head. They didn’t have time. And if Tomas had been murdered, she wanted to be here to find who had done it. “Heart attack’s caused by a blockage, right? Can you do an autopsy?”
His face, already pale, blanched further. “I—I’ve never done one—”
“But you’re qualified to perform surgery, yes? You’ve been trained. You’d recognize healthy organs compared to unhealthy ones. You could tell.”
“Investigator Enid, I’m not sure it . . . it will help.”
He’d been about to say another word. Something like “worthwhile,” or “useless.” But she needed to know. Relenting, Tull searched through the cabinet for tools. Scalpels, forceps, a bone saw, a pile of rags. She helped him entirely pull off Tomas’s brown tunic, which she clutched folded in her arms. His chest still looked like it was burned. Across the skin, a scattering of curling hair was turning gray. His sternum, the curve of his rib cage, were visible. She remembered that time when she was twelve, that storm, the body caught up in the smashed building. It hadn’t looked real, either, and Tomas was looking less real by the moment. What were they even doing here?
Enid had to close her eyes a moment. This body lying here wasn’t Tomas anymore. This was a puzzle to be solved. Another investigation. This was necessary.
Tull studied every inch of him, touching joints, pressing his throat, his abdomen, any place that might show symptoms. The places where diseases might reveal themselves. Enid thought when he cut, he would start with the stomach, but he didn’t. He went to the chest, the heart. His first suspicion. Enid held her breath at the incision. Looked away when blood welled up. It didn’t flow quickly, like it should have.
The medic was careful. Probably wasn’t easy, having Enid watching him while he cut. His actions were precise, methodical. The actions of someone who wasn’t used to doing this. Wasn’t habit for him, cutting into people.
The cracking of ribs made Enid wince. Maybe this was a mistake . . .
Tull straightened, wiping his bloody hands on a rag, which quickly turned crimson. His gaze met hers. “Would you like to see?”
“What? You found something? What is it?”
Tull prodded with the end of the forceps above the meaty fist of the heart. No longer Tomas’s, she reminded herself. A series of small rubbery tubes branched out, veins and arteries, a visceral red, even now. He’d only been gone an hour . . .
“It’s blocked,” Tull said, pressing against one of the thick lengths of what must have been an artery reaching up from the muscle. The tissue didn’t give, when it seemed like it should have. Gently, he sliced into it, just a little, to show a tiny pearl of a yellowish deposit. She wasn’t a medic but that definitely didn’t look right. Her own heart seemed to clench in sympathy.
He said, “A blockage like this is what causes heart attacks.”
She sounded resigned when she said, “But he was young!” Younger, at least. Early forties was still young, even after the Fall.
“Some people are prone to it,” he said. “We used to be better about fixing things like this. I’m really sorry.”
The muscle seemed washed out, a grayish pink instead of vibrant. But she had no way to judge; this was the first time she’d seen under a person’s skin. But she couldn’t argue with what Tull had shown her.
Even if they’d been home at Haven, the medics couldn’t have saved him. The heart was a physical thing, a machine, and they didn’t have the spare parts anymore to fix a thing like that. She knew enough to guess what was wrong with him; but no one knew enough anymore to cure a heart gone bad. And so the loss felt compounded. A hundred years ago, she could have saved him.
The medic folded back bone and skin. Now, Tomas looked like he’d been torn into with a knife, like he’d been given a deadly wound. And would that have made her feel better, if he really had been murdered and she had someone to blame? She hated this town so much, she wanted Tomas’s death to be murder so she would have someone to blame. How wrong was that?
“Thank you, Tull. Just . . . thank you.”
“You want me to stitch this?”
The gesture seemed futile. What was the point of putting Tomas back together? He’d still be dead. But then, if she had to carry him back to Haven and his house there, maybe a closed wound would be cleaner. Neater.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
“Thank you.”
After he finished, they dressed the body again, and his assistants came back to help move Tomas to the Newhome cellar. Once again, Enid sat with a body in semi-darkness, a lamp for company. Tomas looked shrunken. Older than he ever had. The illness had been short, but it sucked everything out of him. Everything. What would she tell the folk at Plenty? What could she possibly say to them?
He had not been alone. That must be some small piece of comfort.
“What do I do now?” she asked him. Just in case he might answer. Studied his slack face for signs.
How was she ever to bring this news back to Plenty?
“What do I do now?” she murmured again.
The job. They’d uncovered a case of quota violation that had to be dealt with. She still hadn’t learned the circumstances of Sero’s death. She was close—if the two incidents were connected, she might be closer than she knew. She was too close not to finish, then.
She had to do the job.
That was what Tomas would say. But she was fairly sure she couldn’t do it alone.
She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and searched his body. Took his pouch with the tranquilizer patches and other odds and ends—a compass, a pocket knife. The clam shell pendant around his neck came with her. An old bronze ring on one finger. She had to work it off—his hand had swollen. But she managed it. He’d want it taken home. Searched the rest of his clothes and pockets, found no other items or artifacts that should be saved. She left his uniform with him—he’d earned it. It was a worthy shroud.
She smoothed his hair back from his head and said goodbye. Goodbye, and thank you.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
When she emerged from the cellar, Dak was waiting for her. Of all people, Dak. Who was lying when he said he hadn’t been near Sero’s shed that morning.
“Enid, are you all right?”
It was none of his business, she thought testily. What did he care? “Not really,” she said softly. “But there’s nothing to be done for it, is there?”
“I’m very sorry. I don’t know if anyone’s said that to you yet, but I’m sorry for your loss.”
She managed a smile. “Thank you.”
“Can we talk?”
This sounded like a prelude to a confession. She walked with him away from the buildings, away from anyone who might be listening. The town around her looked much the same. Nothing had changed, which seemed a travesty.
Dak said softly, “I’ll go with you back to Haven. Whenever you’re ready, say the word. You don’t have to go back alone.”
As if she needed to be looked after. As if she were fragile. He made it sound like he was doing her a favor.
But, yes, something would have to be done. Carry Tomas back to his household so they could take care of him, say their goodbyes. With the solar car she could make it back in a long day’s travel, assuming the sun held out. Clouds were gathering, so it might not. But what a terrible image, her rolling into Haven with a shrouded body stashed in the back of the car. It was kind of Dak, to offer to sit with her through that. Tomas couldn’t lie in the cellar forever. She couldn’t sit in Pasadan forever, wondering what to do next. Dak was only offering the logical next step.
She must have looked so lost.
“Enid?” he prompted. She’d been silent for a long time.
“Yeah. I suppose that’ll have to be done.”
“I just want to help. We can leave as soon as you say the word.”
Her grin felt crooked, painful. “You trying to get rid of me, then? Co
nvenient, sending me off in the middle of an investigation.”
He wasn’t smiling. “Well, you can’t continue with just one of you.”
Investigators always worked in pairs. They could help each other. Keep an eye on each other. Easier to face down a whole town with two of you. Dak was right, she couldn’t continue alone. Not that she even wanted to. She looked down at her hands, the brown fabric on her sleeves, the uniform that terrified folk wherever she went. Hard not to draw a line: the job had killed Tomas. The uniform. She suddenly wanted to rip hers off and bury it in a hole.
“It’s not your fault, Enid.”
No, she supposed it wasn’t. But it felt like it.
“Can I ask,” Dak said, “did Philos really try to bribe you with a banner?”
“He did.”
“There’s folk that’d just about kill to get a banner handed to them.”
“Folk like Ariana?” she said, not really meaning to. Now wasn’t the time to make digs.
He didn’t laugh; Enid expected him to, but he didn’t. Frowning, he looked away, and she realized she had touched something tender. She was afraid to breathe, to jostle it. He said, “Pasadan seemed like a good place for children. Part of why I wanted to settle here. I’m lucky Ariana agreed to put up with me.”
Enid stared. Dak wanted a banner? She never would have expected it. But she studied the gray strands in his hair and wondered if he had started thinking of mortality. He might leave songs behind but not his voice. Surely in all his travels, he’d wooed women from households that might earn a banner and ask him to be the father? Ah, but fathering children was different than being a father, wasn’t it? Did he really want to be a father? She remembered the story he’d told, how his childhood household had been dissolved because of his father’s abuse.
Was that what he’d been looking for on his travels? A household of his own to replace the one he’d lost?
“She seems like she’d be a good mother.”
Now, he smiled. “Well, so would you. But I missed that chance, didn’t I?”
There was an invitation in that statement, if she wanted it. If she wanted to be very cynical indeed, she could go further: with this investigation, maybe Pasadan didn’t look like such a nice place for children after all. His offer to go back with her to Haven might have been more than a favor.
Enid didn’t want to think that badly of him. Did he really think she could turn her back on so much of her life, and for him? Well, maybe he did, after all. She’d done it once before. She looked at Dak now and felt sadness for her younger self, who’d known so little. She ought to forgive her younger self for that.
“You did,” she murmured. She didn’t even regret it. “I don’t think I told you—my household is called Serenity. The man I love is named Sam. We live with Olive and Berol, and the four of us have been friends for . . . for years now. And we have a banner.” Just not a baby. Not yet. They only needed patience, and patience could be learned. She said, “I already have what I need.”
He hadn’t known any of this and seemed stricken, as if she had slapped him. “You don’t need me, then.”
“No, Dak. I don’t.”
He chuckled, and the flippant, familiar Dak returned. “Well. I am very sorry for that.”
“No, you’re not. Sing a few songs, you’ll find a woman more than willing to sidle up to you. Most of ’em will even earn a banner in a few years, if that’s really what you want.” But he might have to leave Pasadan to do it.
“Sure, but none of them’ll be you.”
He only wanted her because in the end, she walked away from him instead of the other way around. Maybe the only one who ever had.
“Dak, can I take a look at your feet?”
“What?”
She had already knelt at his feet to study the laced leather, the rubber of the soles. This put her in quite a vulnerable position, she realized. He could so easily kick her in the face and run, and she didn’t have an enforcer watching her back anymore. But she didn’t think Dak would go that far, and she was right.
After she had measured the length and width of his feet against her hands, she returned to standing. She’d have to check against her notes. Later. She’d do it later. The day had already exhausted her.
“I didn’t do it, Enid.”
“I never said you did. I think I’d like to be alone for a little while. Thanks for the offer of going back to Haven with me. I’ll let you know when I decide.”
He went away without argument, for which she was grateful.
When he was gone, back in the direction of Newhome, she took a walk to Sero’s house. She needed to look at that shed one more time.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
The rough, scuffed prints outside the shed, near where someone had put a bloody hand on the wall while fleeing, matched Dak’s footprints. It wasn’t definitive proof—plenty of men in town had his height and build, and probably even wore similar sturdy boots. But it gave her some leverage.
She still didn’t know why. She didn’t have the story of it clear, yet. Why Dak would even confront Sero, much less harm him? She couldn’t imagine him harming anyone—but that was her own bias, wasn’t it?
And she still hadn’t decided if she wanted to go through this alone, without a second investigator to help. Maybe she ought to send for help. Maybe she ought to leave it to someone else. The heat, the crying, had given her a headache. Her mind didn’t seem to be working right, so she went back to the committee room, curled up in a chair, and tried to think of what to do next.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
The sun had started to set when a knock came at the door, and Enid stretched, realizing she needed to go to the bathroom and she could do with a shower; her whole body felt knotted.
“Come in,” she said.
It was Miran, who crept in cautiously, holding a basket that smelled of roasted something or other.
“I brought you some dinner. Fern said you should eat something.”
Enid didn’t want to eat, but she had to acknowledge the hollowness in her belly. She hadn’t had anything since breakfast. Breakfast with Tomas. She should eat something, he would have told her. Enid invited her in, and she set the basket on the table and started putting out a dinner of mutton stew.
“Does Fern ever deliver her own messages?”
Miran smiled thinly at the basket. There were also rolls and salted green beans. “She doesn’t like leaving the household much. Makes her nervous.”
“Well. It’s good she has you, then.”
“I suppose.” She finished laying out the meal, including a mug of lemonade, and Enid felt tears starting again, which she wiped away. “You need anything else?”
“Maybe company? You mind staying?” It was a lot to ask, but Miran didn’t hesitate to pull out another chair and settle in.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “We’re all really sorry. I know he was an investigator and all. But he seemed nice.”
“He was. We grew up in the same household. Knew him my whole life.” He’d always been there to pick her up when she fell. Now here she was ruining an investigation, and what was she going to do?
“Is it hard what you do? Being an investigator. Going into places where you’re a stranger and no one likes you. I don’t think I could do it.”
“Yeah. It’s very hard sometimes. But it’s important work. Like digging latrines or butchering chickens. Someone’s got to do it, yeah?”
“I suppose.” Her hands were clenched in her lap, her brow furrowed with anxiety. She was worried about something. Enid set down her fork.
“Miran. Did anyone know what Philos and Bounty were doing? Did Kirk know?” He had to have his household’s help. They were implicated.
She shrugged, which could have meant anything. “Folk don’t much like arguing with Philos. He’d say to leave a thing alone . . . and most of us would, since he always seems like he knows what he’s doing
. We mostly didn’t ask.” Tears sprang in her eyes; she was so sensitive. “I should have known what was happening. That something was wrong.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Enid reassured her. “Not unless you saw something specific.”
Shaking her head, she said, “It wasn’t anything I saw. It was . . . it was Kirk. He was so sure that Bounty would get a banner soon. Positive. Talked like it had already happened. He was so proud, and he said . . . he said he wanted me to have it, that he wanted it to be ours, mine and his, that we should have a baby together as soon as they got that banner. And I, and I—I wasn’t sure. He wanted me to come live at Bounty, but Fern needs me so much, I couldn’t leave her. So I told him I wasn’t sure. I’m only eighteen; I don’t know that I want a banner right now. I—I don’t think I’ve earned it, right? I’m not ready to be a mother, not yet. I know everyone’s supposed to want a banner and a baby, and I’m sure I will someday. But I’ve got to earn it, and he kept on, and on—”
“And you told him no,” Enid said.
She hugged herself, one hand rubbing the back of the other arm. An unconscious gesture, touching the anomaly of the implant under the skin. Get a banner, have the implant removed. That thing you never thought about until you had to.
“I tried to, but he wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t accept. Like he couldn’t believe I’d say no. I think . . . maybe he thought I was hiding something. That . . . that . . .”
And there it was, laid out like a newly made road.
“That you wanted to share a banner with someone else.”
She nodded.
“Thanks for talking to me about this, Miran.”
Sniffing, she scrubbed at her eyes and pulled her shawl more tightly around her. The shawl had a loose lacework pattern in a rust red yarn, pulled and worn. Enid wondered who had knitted it for her—it looked too old to be something Miran had knitted herself. There was history in that shawl.
She said, her voice cracking, “Hard not to feel like it’s all my fault somehow.”
Enid knew exactly what she was talking about. “Miran, one more thing. Can you find Dak and send him here?”
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