The Domino Pattern (Quadrail Book 4)

by Timothy Zahn

  [I will not be treated by that Filiaelian,] Strinni cut me off. [I will not be so debased.]

  He’d said the same thing earlier, during the drug-driven fracas in his coach car. At the time, I’d assumed it was the necrovri talking. Apparently, it wasn’t. “I understand your reluctance,” I said. “But still—”

  “Frank,” Bayta said, touching my arm warningly.

  Grimacing, I nodded and shut up. There was a lot of specism in the galaxy, lurking in the dark corners where supposedly civilized people didn’t like to look. In general, Shorshians and Fillies got along reasonably well, but there were fringe elements in any group. “Fine,” I said to Strinni. “I gather you don’t have any such reservations about Dr. Witherspoon?”

  [Why would I?] he asked. [Dr. Witherspoon is part of our group.]

  I stared down at him. “He’s what?”

  [He’s a physician with Pellorian Medical Systems,] Strinni said. [He sat in with the contract team during many of our meetings, and travels now with us to Rentis Tarlay Birim to examine our facilities.]

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, giving Bayta a quick look. Judging by her expression, this was news to her, too. “How come no one ever mentioned this to me?”

  [Why was it any of your concern?] Strinni countered. [You’re not part of our group. Neither have you any official authority or investigative position—]

  He broke off in a fit of loud, wet-sounding coughs. “Are you all right?” I asked as the coughing showed no sign of stopping.

  And then, abruptly, the mottling of his skin dissolved into a chaotic flow of black, white, and gray as all semblance of a normal Shorshic color pattern disappeared. “Bayta!” I snapped, grabbing for Strinni’s arm as his body began convulsing.

  “One of the conductors is getting him,” she said tightly. “Shall I have Dr. Aronobal brought up, too?”

  “Yes,” I said. The hell with Strinni’s prejudices—his life was on the line here. “Where is she?”

  “In her normal seat,” Bayta said. “Eighteen cars back.”

  I swore under my breath. Eighteen cars was a long ways away. “Yes, get her here,” I ordered. Maybe Strinni was in better shape than he looked.

  I had barely completed that thought when the Shorshian gave a final convulsion and collapsed into an unmoving heap on the table.

  Not breathing at all.

  “Get Witherspoon here now,” I snarled at Bayta as I grabbed the bright orange LifeGuard unit off the wall by the drug cabinet. I punched the selector for Shorshic configuration and hurried back to 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.

  “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. He 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 seat 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 for 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.