McClendon's Syndrome (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  He started to hit his stride with his third glass of wine.

  “Where did you live before you become a spacer?” he asked her.

  “Out and about. I was in Aurora, Colorado, for a while. That’s in the Greater Denver area,” Catarina said, easily reaching for some more salad.

  “Nice place,” Frido said. Wyma Jean nudged him.

  “Colorado? I knew a woman in Colorado once. She owned a cat,” Boo-Boo exclaimed to fill the void.

  “You know a woman, Bernie? That’s unusual,” Frido said lightly.

  Bernie proceeded to explain. After about ten minutes, Rosalee looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Bernie, nobody gives a rat’s ass.”

  That ended discussion for a while. Bernie went back to shovelling vermicelli.

  Catarina was sitting to my left. As she leaned over to adjust her napkin, she whispered very softly, “Are they always this friendly?”

  I nodded and watched Frido out of the corner of my eye.

  “Hey, Catarina, you sure you wouldn’t like a glass of wine?” Frido asked loudly.

  “No, I really don’t drink anything alcoholic,” Catarina said politely.

  Frido persisted. “Better for your body, I guess. Hey, do you like working out?” I saw Wyma Jean stiffen.

  “No, not really,” Catarina said.

  “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t want to get muscle-bound like some women I know,” Frido said cheerfully.

  Rosalee Dykstra developed a crease between her eyebrows. She carefully laid her fork and spoon down on her plate.

  “But nobody on this ship,” Frido added hastily.

  Rosalee nonchalantly picked up her tableware and started eating again.

  I had the seat nearest the door. “Well, I guess we’re ready for some more pasta. Anybody want anything else?”

  “I think we could use some more salad. Here, let me help you, Ken,” Catarina said smoothly.

  “Hurry back,” Frido commented.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into Frido,” I said as we stepped outside. “Overactive hormones, I guess. Rosalee almost put him through a bulkhead, and Wyma Jean is not taking this well at all. I expect him to end up with a plate of spaghetti in his lap any minute now.”

  “Carrying a congealed weapon,” Catarina agreed.

  We went into the galley, where Catarina pulled the salad out of the refrigerator while I refilled the pasta bowl. “I can see why Annalee volunteered to take the conn,” she commented.

  “Oh, Annalee and Rosalee absolutely despise Frido. Anything the two of them have to say to the man they relay through Wyma Jean. In fact, I’m not too sure Annalee likes men very much in general. Sorry you signed on yet?”

  She smiled. “No problem, Ken.”

  As we headed back, it appeared from the silence that the discussion around the table had ended. I caught a glimpse of Frido through the doorway and whispered to Catarina, “Frido must really be guzzling the wine. The whole side of his face is flushed.”

  “Ken, it’s not wine, that’s a handprint,” Catarina whispered back.

  “Well, it wasn’t Rosalee, because his head is still attached.”

  “You know, I was thinking, Catarina,” Frido said as we walked in. “I hear you play racketball. I used to be a champion racketball player. I got some pictures I could show you...”

  “Oh, yeah? You going to show her pictures of your kids, too?” Wyma Jean sneered.

  “Hey! They’re not my kids!” Frido said to her, obviously stung by the remark.

  “That’s not what the courts said,” Wyma Jean retorted. “It’s a pain in the tail keeping your paternity suits straight.”

  “Look, I didn’t want to fight it Can we drop the subject, huh?”

  Bernie kept methodically spooning up pasta. Davie Lloyd opened his mouth sharply to say something, but didn’t. Rosalee slapped her napkin down and walked out.

  As Wyma Jean’s little side discussion continued, Catarina whispered to me, “This is getting somewhat embarrassing. Any thoughts on how to get a message through to Frido? Short of punching him out, I mean.”

  “I’m not sure he’d catch on if you did punch him out.”

  She took in the remark and waited for a pause in the discussion, then spoke softly but firmly. “Well, Frido, I’m sure your pictures are nice, but I think the only person I’ll be playing ball with around here is Ken.” She deliberately laid her hand on my arm for emphasis, and I froze.

  Wyma Jean nodded primly, fighting back tears. “I think I’ve had enough to eat. Thanks for making dinner, Ken.” She got up and left. Frido hesitated for a moment and then followed her out.

  “I think I’ve had enough, too. What do you think, Ken?” Catarina winked. “I’m tired. Want to call it a night?”

  “Go ahead, Ken. It’s okay. Bernie and I will finish up and clean the place,” Davie Lloyd volunteered unexpectedly, staring out the door after Frido.

  Catarina and I headed back to our cabins, and I collapsed in the little sofa in the common area we shared as the door whisked shut. “Uh, Catarina...”

  “It was the best thing I could think of to get Frido back in line.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Look, I’m really sorry about Frido. I don’t know what got into him. I know he thinks he’s Don Juan, but I’ve never seen him come on that strong. Wyma Jean’s probably going to beat his head in.”

  “Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault, and the dinner you made was excellent.” Catarina pulled the chair from the desk in her room out into the common area and straddled it. “Sorry I grabbed your arm like that. I was improvising.”

  “That’s okay. It didn’t bother me,” I lied. “I was just a little startled. I’m not used to having good-looking women grab me.” I tried to smile. “Just don’t try doing that to Wyma Jean. She swears she’s been hearing ghosts in the ventilators.”

  “How long have you known Frido?” she asked.

  “Oh, three or four months, now. We picked up Frido and Wyma Jean together. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason,” she said, too quickly.

  I must have given myself away. She smiled. “I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like people who lie. Let’s just say I’m trying to puzzle something out. Well, I’d better get some sleep if we’re going to take the midwatch tomorrow.” She disappeared into her cabin before I could answer.

  The first crack in her showed the next day during a dull mid-watch.

  The Scupper was manifesting the usual crop of deficiencies to keep us occupied. We had a persistent anomaly in the starboard sidejet, and the main computer was having the electronic equivalent of a nervous breakdown trying to trace it. Catarina and I were busy making manual course corrections.

  “It’s probably picking up a ghost image from one of Anna-lee’s patchwork connections,” I said with my nose stuck in a technical journal, marking time until the impeller in the sidejet started screwing off again.

  Catarina was seated at the panel, flashing her fingers across it wearing an irritated look. “I know. Shut up and let me repatch it,” she told me.

  “Coffee?” I asked. I half thought it was that time of the month, so I didn’t pay much attention.

  She shook her head. She had her hair tied back into a ponytail, which jerked back and forth. Coffee dark was something she could drink some days, and some days not. She had laid out her cards to play solitaire, but had given up a while ago.

  “Why don’t you try and read some? It’ll calm you down so you’ll stop fidgeting.”

  “I want a chocolate chip cookie,” I heard her say with a lot more emphasis than a statement like that usually gets.

  “Go ahead. You know, the behaviour of our motley horde over the last two or three days worries me. I wish I knew what was going on around here. If this keeps up, Davie Lloyd’s hair is going to start thinning.”

  Catarina ignored me. I heard her say, “Damn, I want a cookie!” and looked up absently. “What’s the problem with the cookies?” I asked, shutting my manual.
<
br />   “My cookies are locked up in my cupboard.” She walked over and rattled the handle on her bridge locker.

  “On this ship, chocolate chip cookies are a good thing to keep under lock and key. So?”

  “I can’t find the damned key. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  I thought for a minute. “Did you leave it out anywhere?”

  “It was hanging up right beside the watchlist,” she snapped.

  I shrugged. “That explains it. No cookies for you. Iron-Ass strikes again. You’ll find it there tomorrow with a little note telling you everything you don’t want to know about physical security.”

  “I want a cookie.” Her eyes narrowed to very thin slits.

  “Davie Lloyd had the eight-to-sixteen shift. He’s sound asleep by now, dreaming of debentures. Trying to get anything out of him now would be worse than useless.” I stuffed the manual back into its shell.

  She was twisting a paper clip. “You shouldn’t do that,” I said. “Boo-Boo counts them every time he comes on watch.”

  She threw it down hard, and it skidded across the deckplates. “I want a cookie. I want one now. I can smell them in there,” she said in a very brittle voice.

  “Oh, come on. Those lockers are practically airtight, and with the wrapping they put on cookies...” I let my voice trail away because she rattled the handle again and the door came away in her hand. She snatched up a package, ripped it open, and wolfed down three cookies. I waited a couple of minutes. Her eyes softened.

  She sighed. “I feel a lot better.” She looked at me. “Why are you staring like that?”

  “You’re not supposed to be able to do that to a locker.”

  “What? Oh. Did I do that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh.” She popped another cookie in her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “Well, I did want a cookie. I had this incredible craving.”

  “Do you ever get cravings for anything else, like maybe blood?”

  She thought for a minute. “Pickles, sometimes. Gherkin pickles.”

  I took a good look at the door. The hard plastic had pretty well snapped back into shape, but the lock and one of the hinges looked like sheep dip. “I guess you don’t need help opening the jar.”

  “Hysterical strength, do you suppose?”

  “I guess. Let me see if there’s an extra hinge in stores. I’d hate to have to try and explain this to Iron-Ass.”

  “I suppose not. Well, no serious hingery done.”

  I looked at her.

  “You okay, Ken? You could use a little red in your cheeks. You’re kind of pale.”

  That may have been because of the pun, but then again, it may not have. “That’s another thing, why don’t you wear rouge or something?”

  “That hurts, coming from someone who looks like the ‘before’ portion of a home tanning salon commercial,” I told her.

  “To hide the tell-pale white? I can’t.” She touched her cheek. “It just tears up my skin.”

  I looked at the locker. “Yeah.”

  “Would you like to play some racketball when we get off watch? I think the exercise will do me some good,” she said in her serious voice.

  “Sure.”

  After Frido and Wyma Jean relieved us, we hit the court, where Catarina proceeded to smoke me for the seventh or eighth straight time.

  “I hate it when you bounce them off the cracks like that,” I commented, pulling off my headband to wipe away the sweat.

  “Let’s grab a shower and get some dinner. You don’t seem real comfortable, Ken. You haven’t been saying very much.”

  “To tell the truth, the thing with the locker really bothered me.” I looked at her.

  “To tell the truth,” she said, staring at the wall, “the thing with the locker bothered me, too.”

  Dinner was pretty quiet.

  Thoroughly Scuppered

  I had a troubled sleep that night, so I sat up with a couple of sick friends by the name of Jack and Daniels. I normally don’t drink, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about anything, particularly Catarina. It seemed like a good idea. I woke up a few hours later when somebody rapped hard on my cubicle door. I crawled in that general direction, saying uncomplimentary things.

  Catarina was back, in basic black, fingering her trademark butterfly. “Wyma Jean sounds like she’s in trouble,” she said. All the cabins on the Scupper were laid out with a small central living area and sleeping cubicles on either side. The Scupper’s only concession to luxury was private bathrooms for each cubicle. Wyma Jean and Frido were in the next cabin down from ours, on Catarina’s side.

  I crossed my eyes. “She and Frido make an awful lot of noise when they get together.”

  “No, this is different. Wyma Jean sounds like she’s in trouble. Come on.” She took off her shades for emphasis. “I hope whatever you’ve got isn’t catching.”

  The ship gave a little lurch beneath our feet and I bounced off the door. “Was that me or the ship?”

  “The ship. It’s that starboard sidejet. We were really rocking about a half hour ago.”

  “One of these days I want to tear out that impeller.” I ran my hand through my hair and sighed. “I had a dream that I was Saint George. I was trying to figure out who the dragon was.”

  She looked me up and down. “You look like your ass is dragon. Saurian you overindulged?”

  I let myself sag against the doorframe. “No more,” I said. “I’ll come quietly. It ought to be educational, anyway.”

  “Ken, your hair is sticking straight up. And I don’t mean to criticise those avocado pyjamas of yours, but if either Frido or Wyma Jean have a weak heart—”

  I shut my cubicle door in her face, then spent a minute or two trying to drown myself and changed into slacks and an old-fashioned turtleneck. When we got to Spooner and Kundle’s door, I looked at Catarina. She gave me the thumbs-up, and I knocked. The response was immediate and loud.

  “Did you hear somebody say, ‘Frido, get your ragged ass in here!’?” I asked.

  Catarina nodded. “A little muffled. I think we’d better go in.”

  The source of the sound was front and centre. Spooner was propped up on the sofa on her belly with a pillow under each knee. She had on leg irons and had her hands handcuffed behind her back. They looked to be a matching set. That was about all she had on.

  “Wyma Jean, are we interrupting?” I asked.

  “Ken, is that you? Get me loose, my bladder’s about to explode. I’m going to kill Frido, leaving me like this!”

  “Where is he?”

  “He went to the galley to get some coffee and left me. I swear, I swear to God I’m going to slay the maggot!”

  “I can’t imagine Frido walking away from this of his own freewill,” I said.

  “You’re just repressed and frustrated,” Catarina countered. “Do you see a key?”

  I shook my head.

  “The slime took it with him,” Wyma Jean volunteered.

  “You look for Frido. I’ll stay here and make sure he didn’t drop it somewhere,” I offered.

  “Come on, Ken,” Catarina said.

  We left Spooner. “It’s unsanitary. You’d think they’d at least put down a plastic sheet before they started smearing vegetable oil all over like that,” I complained.

  Catarina smiled. “I was thinking what she needs is an apple logo in her mouth.”

  “You have a point. There’s an ample amount of Spooner, and it’s a little disgusting to see it all flopping about unconfined.”

  “Like I said, you’re just repressed.” She led me into the galley. Kundle was nowhere to be seen.

  The galley was built for economy of space. Most of the cook-ware was built in to simplify maintenance and storage, since spacers tend to be slobs. You could pull out a little table where four reasonably thin people could sit and rub elbows, but it wasn’t exactly a place where you could lose yourself among the tall trees. I reached up and slammed a cabinet shut. “He’s not here. There are
n’t too many places you can hide aboard ship. If he’s not on the bridge, he’s down in stores.”

  “Wait a minute.” Catarina tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Something’s not right.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure. Just start opening cabinets.”

  “What am I looking for?” I asked.

  “You’ll know if you find it,” she told me, bending over to check the frying pans.

  I started with the sink. Frido was stuffed under it.

  The corpse wasn’t pretty. His throat had been slashed across. His jaw was sagging, and his eyes were bugging out more than usual. Rigor mortis hadn’t settled in. His face was unusually pale, as if most of the blood had been drained from his body; there was a little of it on his shirt. It wasn’t immediately apparent where the rest of it had gone. I was uncomfortably aware of Catarina standing behind me.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” I heard her say.

  I looked at her face out of the corner of my eye. It was taut and immobile. “He’s dead, all right. I don’t want to move the body until Ironsides sees it. In fact, I’m not real interested in moving the body at all.”

  We heard Wyma Jean down the corridor. “Have you found him yet? I swear I’m going to slay the maggot!”

  I looked at Catarina. “I think somebody beat her to it.”

  Catarina bent over and put her hand on my shoulder. She was normally careful about that. I jumped a little.

  “Ken, I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t. I think. You didn’t kill him, either—I think.”

  Anyone who could have seen the colour in my face would have had serious doubts about my ability to commit murder. “I’d like to know who did,” I said, trying hard not to think about the locker.

  “Frido was in here to make coffee, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. That’s what Spooner said,” I answered dully.

  She turned her head. “The coffeepot’s been washed. Where are the cups?”

  I shook my head. She bent over and ran her hand over the floor, picking up a little whitish grit on her fingers and rubbing them together.

  “Get Ironsides in here. Let’s find the key and get Wyma Jean out of those handcuffs,” she said in an unfamiliar voice.