McClendon's Syndrome (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  She could tell when I hit a low spot. The day before we were due to arrive, she asked me softly, “You’re pretty down, Ken. What’s really bothering you?”

  I thought for a minute. “You know, at first, trying to figure out who Frido’s murderer was was something exciting. Now, it’s just a job, like repacking the starboard impeller.”

  “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be done, although I’d rather not have you doing it.”

  “True. It does need to be done, and I guess I nominated myself to do it. Frido may have been a stupid, clownish, immature louse, but he was still our louse, and it’s not something we can overlook.”

  “You’ve got a cop’s mind, Ken. No, it’s not something we can overlook. Are you sorry you got involved?”

  “No, that’s not it. When we get to Schuyler’s, they’ll figure out who did it and make him or her disappear. That’s okay. But then they’ll take you off the ship and make you disappear. And Iron-Ass will get himself another loan and hire another Frido and maybe another Elaine, and I’ll probably tell him to shove it.”

  “You’ll have Guild out-of-work benefits to tide you over. You’ll be stuck on Schuyler’s for a while, but you’ll get a berth, probably a better one. You’re good, Ken. Maybe better than this bucket deserves.”

  “This is going to sound crazy, but I like it here. It’s almost funny, considering how many times I’ve threatened to quit.”

  “No, it’s not so crazy.”

  I stuck my hand through the slot and twined it around a couple of her fingers. “Too much cargo in the hold for that. What do you think will happen?”

  “To be truthful, I don’t think Davie Lloyd is going to be able to get a big enough loan to bail him out of this, certainly not on Schuyler’s. I doubt anyone else will try and fix the Scupper up.”

  “So we all might end up on the beach. What will you do?”

  “I imagine my choices will be limited. Have you ever thought about a ship of your own?”

  “Only about three times a day. I’d walk over hot coals to get one,” I admitted. Her hands were warm and on her hand was a heavy seal ring I couldn’t recall her wearing.

  “It’s my old school ring,” she said, as if she were reading my thoughts. “Maybe I’ll show it to you some time.”

  I nodded, oblivious to the fact that Catarina was not in a position to witness the gesture. “I’d still really like to solve Frido’s murder before we have to turn the case over to the Navy. All Schuyler’s has is a class E naval base, so they’re probably not going to be able to do a whole lot with it.”

  “How big is class E?” she asked innocently.

  “I’ve been wondering what there was you didn’t know.” I thought for a moment. “A class E has trouble putting together a foursome for bridge. There’s a passed-over commander in charge. I met him once, but I’ve forgotten his name. We’ll dump the mess in his lap.”

  “Ken, I’ll tell you this. When we get to Schuyler’s World, everything will sort itself out. I can’t tell you how or why I know, but trust me.”

  “Okay, I trust you. Did you knife Frido?”

  She chuckled. “No. Did you?”

  “It depends on who you talk to. The latest rumour in the corridors is that I bumped off Frido to enjoy the fair Wyma Jean’s charms.”

  “Not a well-founded rumour. Clyde seems to have the inside track.” She waited a moment. “Do you want to talk about the rest of it?”

  I sighed. “ I guess I ‘m just disturbed that one of my shipmates took a crack at me. Several cracks, in fact. Or maybe it was Clyde, who I’m actually beginning to like.”

  “I know. It hurts. And you don’t even know which one.”

  We sat there for a few minutes. “Ken, you need to get some sleep,” she finally said.

  “Right as always. Okay. ‘Night.”

  I had a few tins of sardines I was keeping in her room, where they couldn’t be tampered with. She handed one to me and I stopped by the galley to open it, but for some reason they smelled a lot more like sardines than sardines should and I lost my appetite.

  As I was standing there, I thought I heard a faint whisper of noise. I peered under the cabinets to find Bobo’s cat.

  “What are you doing under there, Sasha Louise? Haven’t you learned it’s dangerous to be wandering around here?”

  McHugh, who was about the farthest thing imaginable from a cat person, had played skeet-cat with Sasha a couple of times, and I remembered Spooner telling me that Bobo had accidentally locked her out one night and Frido had spent a few hours following her around with an electric prod.

  The cat tensed until she figured out who I was. Then she started licking herself.

  “Okay, Kitty, it’s your funeral.” I noticed she had a little cup suspended around her neck with a little pair of dice in it.

  “Want to wager?” I waved the sardine can enticingly, which brought her out double quick with her back arched. “Boy, I wish you could tell me what’s going on around here.”

  I took the dice, flung them against the wall, and immediately crapped out. Snake eyes.

  Before I could say anything, she pounced and batted the dice back up against the wall. Her first hit was a natural. After that, her point was six, and it took her a few taps to make it. Then she looked up at me and began licking her paws.

  I gave her the can. She went through a couple of sardines the way Sherman went through Georgia, and then she carefully picked the can up with her mouth and trotted off.

  “Goddamn,” I said to myself. “Maybe the cat did do it.”

  I stood up and shuffled back to my cabin. Almost as soon as I had the door closed, I heard someone moving in the corridor outside.

  “Who is it?”

  “Wyma Jean. Please, Ken. Let me come in.”

  I walked into our common area and opened the door. Wyma Jean was standing outside in a blue silk robe with little dragons on it, so I let her in. Running one-handed watches had affected us differently. I was four kilograms lighter. Wyma Jean ate when she was nervous; she was fast acquiring a permanent case of rosy cheeks and beginning to bulge at the seams. She looked like a blue beluga whale.

  “Catarina, Wyma Jean’s here!” I called. “Wyma Jean, what can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk, Ken,” she said breathlessly. She looked around. “Do you always lock your door?”

  “Lately, I’ve fallen into the habit, at least the door to my bedroom,” I answered pointedly. “Don’t you lock yours?”

  “Oh, Ken! Don’t shout at me! I can’t stand it.” She clutched me by the arms, dribbling mascara on my shirt.

  “It’s okay, Wyma. What’s up?”

  “I don’t know how you stand it. You’re different. You’re like a machine, somehow.”

  “Not as different as you might think. It’s probably the squeaky moving parts that fool you.” I caught a whiff of stale beer. “You’re here. What do you want to talk about, Wyma Jean?”

  She pulled at my arm. “Not here. Let’s go in your room.”

  I shrugged. “Enter into my parlour,” I said, pulling free and sliding inside the door.

  I had my souvenirs from the Schenectady market scattered on the desk, and she picked up a green can and began fumbling with it.

  “Don’t play with it, it’s an aerosol and you’ll get it all over the place.” I took it away from her.

  “What is it? I can’t read the label.”

  “The label’s in Arabic. Just don’t play with the can, or you’ll wish you hadn’t. Wyma Jean, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m pretty tired. Is everything okay? How’s Clyde working out?”

  She stiffened. “Oh, damn that little sneak thief! I want you to take him. I want him off my shift. He hides things from me. I don’t trust a word he says.”

  “Are you sure you can handle it alone? You’re really not looking very good.” Wyma Jean didn’t look too steady on her feet, so I steered her toward the bed and pulled my chair over to where I could sit. />
  She pushed herself on to the bed and let her cheeks sag until the words came dribbling out.

  “Ken, I don’t know. It’s frightening. Everything that’s happened frightens me, and I think it frightens everyone else. I know you don’t think Catarina killed Frido or did any of the other things, but why can’t you just let it lie? You never liked Frido all that much. I was the only one who did, and he was a rat. Just like the other one is.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked her. There were two people in this dialogue, but I wasn’t sure I was one of them.

  That really got to her. She pounded her fists on my pillow. “Oh, Ken! Why do you have to keep asking questions? Don’t you think the rest of us have things we don’t want people to know about?”

  “Hold on. I’m not sure I understand. Maybe it would help you if we talked about it.”

  I have a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. She came off the bed with her eyes flashing. “Oh, don’t you treat me like a child, Ken MacKay. You’ve got your vampire, Bernie’s got his cat, Davie’s got his ship. What about me? What have I got? A thief who doesn’t tell the truth! You just tell me how it’s going to help any of us to find out who killed Frido.”

  “Don’t you want to see justice done to Frido?”

  “Frido was then. This is now.”

  “I suppose,” I said flatly.

  That stung her. She stood up and put her hands on the arms of my chair so she could look me eye-to-eye. “Ken, Frido doesn’t care anymore!”

  I didn’t want to say it, but I said it anyway. “But I do.”

  “Would you say the same thing if you knew that your friend Catarina killed him?”

  “Probably. But she didn’t.”

  Wyma Jean looked at me scornfully. “Well, Bernie thinks she did.”

  I nodded. “Bernie also thinks she turns herself into a pillar of smoke and comes sliding under the door.”

  She straightened up and closed her eyes. “You know, Ken, I keep thinking about you curled up in here with your books, looking down your nose at the rest of us. Frido was a rat, but at least he was honest about it.” Then she sank back down on the bed and burst out crying.

  It was a little awkward. I don’t carry a handkerchief, and I couldn’t very well offer her the corner of my shirt. I walked over and found a box of tissues, paper ones. “It’s okay, Wyma Jean. Here.”

  She took one and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ken. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just so frightened about what’s going to happen to us.” She burped.

  “I am, too. No hard feelings.”

  I listened for about twenty minutes more and ended up pushing her out the door.

  “How’d it go?” Catarina asked after I got her out.

  “I had a headache,” I told her.

  “What do you think?”

  “Who knows?” I said. “Either she was being honest, or she needs some more acting courses.”

  I stretched out for a couple of hours, but I couldn’t sleep. I got up and walked down to Ironsides’s cabin to rattle his chain. He stuck his head out and looked about the way I felt.

  “Davie Lloyd, open up the safe. I want to look through Frido’s stuff again.”

  “What?” Ironsides asked.

  “Open up the safe, Davie Lloyd. I want to see Frido’s stuff,” I said patiently. “I’m half the evidence committee, remember?”

  Davie Lloyd puffed out his cheeks and tried to think of a reason to tell me to take it to the toads. Failing in this intellectual endeavour, he put on a bathrobe and walked with me to the bridge. I waved cheerily to McHugh and Dykstra while Davie Lloyd opened the safe. McHugh and Dykstra appeared somewhat surprised to see me.

  Frido’s stuff was still in the safe. The bags of powder were gone. Ironsides looked nonplussed.

  “The white stuff seems to have disappeared,” I commented.

  “I wonder where it went?” Ironsides said weakly.

  “I bet you’re going to tell me Bernie has the combination inscribed on his lucky rabbit’s foot, if anyone’s interested,” I added helpfully. “May I have Frido’s junk to look at?”

  I watched varying emotions pass across his face as he handed me the box. McHugh had her head turned. She started to say something, then bit her lip.

  I stalked off to my boudoir, locking the door behind me.

  Spread out on the bed to paw through, Frido’s prized possessions didn’t amount to much. I dismissed the polo shirts and the rest of the fancy clothing. That left junk food, a tawdry book that read like the Karma Sutra, another one entitled De Vermis Mysteriis, and assorted knicks and knacks. I opened up a bag of genuine Schuyler’s World Brazil nuts and trickled them through my hand.

  I stopped halfway through. One of the nuts felt smaller and lighter than the others. I looked around for something to crack it open.

  The only tools I had handy were a screwdriver and the piece of pipe I was carrying around in my pocket. I thought for a minute and then put the littlest nut in my pocket to look at in the morning.

  I went into the bathroom to shower and shave before I went on watch. With the circles under my eyes, I looked like a racoon. As I looked in the mirror, I noticed that there was a tiny crack in the bottom left corner.

  “I wonder how that got there?” I asked myself. “This is wonderful, the mirror isn’t the only thing that’s cracked in this room. Not only am I getting paranoid, but I’m talking to myself.” I thought for a minute more. “I’m mostly paranoid because someone’s out to get me.” It made me feel better, and a long shower made me feel better still.

  I had the midnight shift. As I went down the corridor, I noticed Sasha Kitty had dropped a hairball by McHugh’s door for her to find. Clyde was sitting at the board when I came on the bridge. “Evening, Clyde, how are things?” I asked.

  He looked up. “Miss Wyma Jean is awfully mad at me. It looks like I’m on your shift now,” he said in a subdued tone of voice.

  “What did you do?”

  “I don’t know, Mister Ken. I just don’t know,” he said ruefully.

  “You can speak English. Wonder of wonders. Stop it with the ‘Mister Ken.’ Ken is fine.”

  “Okay, Ken.”

  “I’m pretty used to running the ship by myself, so if you want to go spend time in the galley, it’s all right.”

  “No, thank you. Miss Wyma Jean has been teaching me a lot about the ship, and I think I can help.”

  “You want to run through a check?”

  “Sure, man.” He ran through one. He was painfully slow, but thorough. “All green,” he announced.

  “Not bad. I’m impressed.”

  He smiled impishly. “It beats picking pockets.”

  “You spend your life on Schuyler’s World?”

  He looked down at the board. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. That’s how I got in trouble with Wyma Jean.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying not to stare.

  I read a manual and watched the board. We talked about thievery a little, and it turned out that Clyde had a simple, homespun philosophy based on the ancient rule of “finders, keepers.” The way Clyde explained it, anything that wasn’t nailed down was his to find, and anything that could be pried loose wasn’t nailed down. We were both laughing fit to die by the time he finished spinning it out. I let him go off for a cup of coffee, which he promptly poured down the drain in the head. “I keep forgetting how bad this stuff is,” he said as he emerged, staring at the cup.

  “Use my pot. I bought it on Schuyler’s.”

  “When do we arrive there?”

  I checked the board. “I’d say another twenty-nine hours in our present, crippled condition.”

  He slid back into his seat. “Ah, Ken...”

  “What?” I asked mildly.

  “Do you think maybe I could get into the Spacer’s Guild?”

  “Being realistic, probably not. The entrance boards are pretty tough, and if you have a prior conviction an
ywhere, you don’t qualify. It doesn’t make any sense to lie about it, because they’ll find out eventually. They do background checks through the navy.”

  “Oh,” he said. He thought about it for a few minutes before changing the subject. “Uh, Ken...”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Ken, Wyma Jean is sensitive about her weight. I don’t know if she’s ever told you, but she was really fat as a child, and she had to sweat off thirty kilos just to get into Basic.”

  “No, she never mentioned it. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Thanks. She thinks a lot of you—she says you’re a real sharp pilot.”

  “That’s nice of her,” I said awkwardly.

  He stared at the board for a few minutes. “Ken, have you ever run your mouth when you shouldn’t have?”

  I grimaced. “Plenty of times. I managed to screw up a marriage in just six short months. You?”

  “It didn’t take me anywhere near that long to screw things up,” he said, and that was about the last thing I heard from him for the next seven hours.

  When I got off duty, I tossed my slacks over the chair, re-locked the bedroom door, and went straight to sleep.

  Three or four hours later I dreamed I could hear Catarina calling to me faintly. I woke up when I figured out I couldn’t breathe. Air wasn’t circulating. There was a faint hiss from the duct.

  I managed to snap on the light. I staggered to the door and hit the lock. The door wouldn’t open. The electromagnet held firm; the lock was jammed from outside. I slammed my fist hard, which didn’t do a thing for the lock or for my fist. Bright flashes clouded my vision.

  I needed something to open the lock. The screwdriver was still in my pants, but it took forever to find the pocket. I concentrated on pulling the screwdriver out and grabbing the right end. Then I tried to switch it on.

  I heard it buzz, but I couldn’t see it spin. The blood was beating in my head and my ears. I tried to slam the business end in the keyhole. I got my left hand once, but struck the lock on the third try. The screwdriver shorted. I let it fall and clawed at the handle, dropping my weight against it.