Kennrick looked at the archway where Terese had just exited. “You think she’s the one who poisoned them?”
“No idea,” I said. “But she seems to be the only one who was in the victims’ immediate vicinity who’s also noticeably ill.”
“Yes, but her?” Kennrick persisted. “She doesn’t exactly have that icy killer look about her.”
“Not very many icy killers do,” I said. “Maybe her stomach trouble has nothing to do with this. But if it does, I’d like to find it out before someone else joins the choir invisible.”
“Point,” Kennrick said heavily. “Any idea where Witherspoon might be?”
I looked at Bayta. “His seat is two cars back from Ms. German’s,” she said. “I don’t know it he’s there, though.”
“But there are only fifteen third-class cars,” I added helpfully. “He has to be there somewhere.”
“Thanks,” Kennrick growled. “If and when I find him, where will you be?”
“In my bed.” I said, yawning widely. “I’m still way too short on sleep.”
“I know the feeling,” Kennrick said. “Talk to you later.” With a nod at Bayta, he left the dining area and headed toward the rear of the train.
“Do you want me to see if the Spiders can locate Dr. Witherspoon?” Bayta asked.
“Even if they could, I’d just as soon have Kennrick wander around on his own for awhile.” I said. “I know he’s worried about his precious contract team, but I don’t especially like having him underfoot. How’s the disassembly of the air filter system going?”
“Slowly,” Bayta said. “I don’t think one of these has ever been taken apart while the train was in motion, and the mites are having to figure it out as they go. Do you think Ms. German is the killer?”
“My first impression is no,” I said. “But I’m not ready to write anyone off the suspect list quite yet. She’s certainly had enough access to the victims over the past two weeks. And she’s definitely hiding something.”
Bayta looked at the archway. “Do you suppose she could be running away from home?”
“Jumping a Quadrail is a pretty pricey way of escaping Mom and Dad,” I reminded her. “On the other hand, without access to the Spiders’ station-based records, there’s no way to know the circumstances of her coming aboard.”
“No, there’s not,” Bayta murmured thoughtfully. “Do you suppose that’s why the killer chose a cross-galactic express? So that we wouldn’t be able to get anyone’s records?”
“Could be,” I said. “Or so we wouldn’t be able to call for help, get quick and complete autopsies, or get out of his line of fire. Pick one.”
Bayta shivered. “You think he’s planning more killings, then?”
“I would hope that two dead bodies would be enough for anyone,” I said soberly. “But I wouldn’t bet the rent money on it.”
“No.” She took a deep breath, and for just a moment her mask dropped away to reveal something tired and anxious. It was a side of her that I didn’t see very often, and there was something about it that made me want to take her hand and tell her, don’t worry, it’ll be all right.
But I didn’t. I didn’t dare. Among his other tricks, the Modhri employed something called thought viruses, suggestions that could be sent telepathically from a walker to an uninfected person. In one of the lowest ironies of this whole miserable business, thought viruses traveled best along the lines of trust between friends, close colleagues, or lovers.
Which meant that once the Modhri had established a colony in one person, the walker’s entire circle of friends was usually soon to follow, lemming-like, in the act of touching some Modhran coral and starting their own Modhran polyp colonies. The Modhri had used that technique to infiltrate business centers, industrial directorates, counterintelligence squads, and even whole governments.
Bayta and I were close. We had to be, working and fighting alongside each other the way we were. But at the same time, we had to struggle to maintain as much emotional distance between us as we possibly could. Otherwise, if the Modhri ever got to one of us, he would inevitably get the other one, too.
Bayta knew that as well as I did. The moment of vulnerability passed, her mask came back up, and I once again forced my protective male instincts into the background. “So what’s our next move?” she asked.
“Exactly what I told Kennrick.” I yawned again. “I’m going to get some sleep. You coming?”
“I think I’ll wander around a little longer,” she said. “Maybe go watch the air system disassembly. I don’t think I could sleep just now.”
I eyed her, that brief flicker of vulnerability coming back to mind. But her professional self was back in charge, cool and confident and competent.
And it wasn’t like she would be alone out here. Not with hundreds of people milling around and other hundreds of Spiders watching her every move. “Okay,” I said, pushing myself off the bar stool. “Just be careful. And let me know if anything happens.”
“What if what happens isn’t especially interesting?” she asked.
“This is a murder investigation,” I reminded her grimly. “Everything is interesting.”
This time I got nearly four hours of sleep before I was awakened by a growling stomach, the realization that I hadn’t eaten since last night, and the delectable aroma of onion rings.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Bayta said as she carefully balanced the onion rings and a cup of iced tea on the edge of my computer desk’s swivel table.
“Very,” I confirmed, sniffing at the plate with mild surprise. Offhand, I couldn’t think of any other time when Bayta had brought me something to eat purely on her own initiative. Either she was finally getting the hang of this girl-Friday stuff, or else I was looking even more old and decrepit and pitiable than usual lately. “Thanks. Have a bite?”
“No, thank you.” she said, her cheek twitching. “My stomach’s been bothering me a little today.”
“You’re probably just hungry,” I suggested as I sat down and took a sip of the tea. It was strong and sweet, just the way I liked it.
“No, I had a vegetable roll a couple of hours ago,” she said. “I’m just feeling a little odd today, that’s all.”
I frowned at her as I bit into one of the onion rings. “Odd enough to have you checked over by one of the doctors?”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” she assured me. “Like I said, my stomach’s just a little sensitive.”
“Okay,” I said, making a mental note to keep tabs on her digestive rumblings. With two confirmed poisonings, and Terese German apparently heaving her guts on a regular basis, I wasn’t ready yet to chalk up Bayta’s oddness to normal travel indigestion. “Any news on the air filter?”
“It’s almost ready,” she said. “Another hour, maybe.”
“Good,” I said, biting a third out of the next onion ring in line and washing it down with a swig of tea. “You didn’t happen to bump into either Kennrick or Dr. Witherspoon while you were wandering around, did you?”
“I didn’t spot either of them,” Bayta said. “But I wasn’t really looking. I was mostly talking to Tas Krodo.”
“Who?”
“Master Colix’s other seatmate,” she said. “The one Ms. German said he mostly talked to.”
I frowned at her. “You talked to him? Alone?”
“Not alone, no,” she said evenly. “There were other passengers in the car.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, setting down a half-eaten onion ring. Was that what the unexpected tea service had been all about? Some kind of preemptive peace offering? “Interrogation is an art, Bayta.”
“It wasn’t an interrogation,” she said, her voice stiff. “We were just two people having a conversation.”
I took a careful breath, the old phrase poisoning the well flashing to mind. Putting potential witnesses on their guard—or worse, accidentally planting suggestions as to what you wanted to hear—could wreck an entire session. Especially when aliens and alien cultures were involved. “Bayta—”