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"WHAT THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL DID YOU DO?!"

The well-dressed wolverine, breathing carefully through his aristocratic nose in long, deep draughts, kept his muzzle clamped shut so that the scream that his mind had so carefully constructed did not, in fact, come blasting out of his mouth at decibels sufficient to shatter glass. (In his youth, when he had given himself over to the discipline of operatic training, his most profound bass notes had the potential to match the resonant harmonics sufficiently to do just that.) This was not the time nor place for the outburst, although he had to promise himself some sort of release before the day was out, whether it be physical exercise or beating the living crap out of something.

"Burma," he said at last, and quietly.

"What did you say Burma for?"

"I'm panicked."

Sitting across from him in the small waiting room, with the small uncomfortable chairs and the uncomfortable closeness of police officers and other officials just beyond a door that hardly seemed the least bit soundproofed, the crimson-scaled dragon smiled softly. "I'm glad that it still works for you, Nelson. I'm also sure that it's costing you a great deal of energy to keep your temper. I'll try not to be my usual asinine self."

"I would be grateful, Benedict." The Dean of Students continued breathing as carefully and regularly as he could. He pulled at the tie about his neck, loosened the shirt collar. Not his usual Saturday garb, but this was hardly a usual Saturday. "I don't suppose there's the slightest chance of a decent cup of tea coming out of a hospital kitchen?"

"I have The Extra Credit on speed dial. Royal will send someone quite discreet. Usual?"

The wolverine nodded, and the dragon used his tablet to speedy advantage. Nelson recalled how swiftly Benedict had taken to the technology of constant connectivity. Unlike most, who found it so addictive that they had to be fiddling with their devices every moment of the day, the drake ignored it utterly until he had a specific use to put it to, at which point he found what he wanted and hopped off of the Information Superhighway at whatever destination he had seen fit to need at that point. After a concise text conversation, Benedict put his device to sleep and looked up at the Dean. "Royal is as good as his word: He's kept a pot of my Pitch Blend fresh, and your tea will be prepared here with Royal's own portable equipment. He should arrive in perhaps ten minutes. Let's use the time wisely. I suspect that you want to know just what the bloody fucking hell happened."

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

The large dragon shifted in the chair, rearranging himself as best he could. "Medically speaking, Parker suffered physiological shock, expressed as a crash in blood pressure and sudden bradycardia. More than merely a faint, the symptoms appeared so swiftly that the doctors were worried about a ruptured aneurism - a stroke. The patient was put into Trendelenburg, given oxygen through a mask, and administered short-acting vasodilators until his vitals were restored to a normal range. No further drugs have been administered, in part because of a rather sternly-worded statement in his athletic department file folder. He is, more or less, sleeping it off. Until he wakes up, we won't know what, if any, psychological effects the event had."

"Event?"

"For lack of a word."

"Will they be scanning for an aneurism?"

"EEG doesn't show any abnormalities; they wheeled him down to radiology, and nothing appears abnormal on the x-rays." The drake shrugged. "Not conclusive, but absent other evidence - motor issues, mental issues, etc. - no reason for the MRI at this time. We'll have to wait for him to wake up and see how he responds."

"I do so enjoy waiting. Helps me to practice patience, for which my species is so very well known."

The dragon, wisely, said nothing at all.

"Do we know what caused this... event?"

"That's where it gets tricky." Carefully, Benedict raised a forestalling claw. "I'm not playing silly buggers, Nelson, merely being cautious. There are things that I can tell you that I can't bring out in any official capacity. It's perfectly acceptable for any hypnotist to induce a patient with the patient's cooperation; in fact, it's impossible to do so otherwise. Hypnosis is purely voluntary, under any normal circumstances. You can't hypnotize someone against their will."

"Normally."

The large crimson head nodded slowly. "Normally."

"The exceptions being...?"

"Drugs and dragons."

The wolverine, perhaps in an unconscious imitation, nodded as well. "Given the proper cocktail of psychotropic drugs, you can implant false memories, nightmares, just about anything you want. At least that's what the old Sax Rohmer novels tell us. I can't believe that they're truly effective, or they'd be used more often."

"That's why you hear the term 'drug-_assisted_hypnosis.' The idea is that the patient cooperates from the beginning, and the drugs merely allow for greater relaxation, deeper trance, perhaps even more intensity of emotional sensation to help bind the new memories into the mainstream of experience. You could implant unpleasant memories, or memories of actions that the patient wouldn't ordinarily perform when conscious, but the nature of memory and self would be to fight those implanted memories that don't fit the client's self-image. Strong self-identity - ego, in the Freudian sense - would almost certainly overcome such thoughts."

The Dean arched his back, stretching his powerfully compact body, as he worked on grasping the concepts fully. "So the stronger one's sense of self, the more likely one would reject such ideas?"

"Exactly."

"And a weaker person would accept them?"

"A weaker, or intentionally weakened, person would be more susceptible. The concept was called 'psychic driving' or 'depatterning,' back in the cold war days. Prisoners in our last century or so of useless wars were subjected to extremes of thirst, hunger, temperature, etc.; many were mentally and spiritually broken. These would make good subjects for such tests."

"I take it that you're not proposing we torture young Parker in order to get him to cooperate?"

"Nelson, really. You knew better than that when you sent me in there."

"Yes, I did." The wolverine, far less panicked now than before, felt the twinge of guilt he'd been trying to deflect all day long, and he had the good grace to let it show on his face. "Benedict, I know that I've taken advantage of you, of our friendship..."

The drake raised a gentle claw again, smiling. "It's all right. In fact, I now have reason to think that our intervention is the only thing that will let us help the pup. This, as I hinted, is where it gets tricky. I was hoping that I could get Parker to talk to me, or to agree to hypnosis. I'm not sure how susceptible he might be to v-c induction, so--"

"What's that?"

"Vaso-carotid, a method that requires particular skill across species, as not everyone's baroreceptors work the same way. Proper pressure of a particular type applied to the carotid sinus -usually near the base of the neck - can cause a kind of faint; catch the faint at the right point, and the patient is put into a light, receptive doze. It's tricky as hell and usually only works in fiction, but the biology of it real enough."

The Dean shook his head slowly. "I don't know why it should surprise me that you know all this." He sighed, feeling a little self-conscious. "I take it that you weren't able to apply the draconic method?"

A crimson claw see-sawed in the air, comme si comme ça. "To some degree, I did. Just so you don't have a complete prejudice against dragons at large, not all of us can do it, neither are we the only species who can; it just takes so much practice to become adept that a long lifespan helps tremendously. You probably have the knack yourself, Nelson."

"Gods forbid." The wolverine smirked gently. "In my case, I think reputation will suffice. The point is, though, that you did try that mesmeric trick you've told me about?"

"Eye contact is important. After that, it's suggestibility more than anything else." Benedict nodded with a touch of self-satisfaction apparent in his eyes. "It's rare that a true hypnotic induction could be made simply from staring into your subject's eyes, your own eyes no doubt turning into spirals like the old cartoons."

"And perhaps a touch of telepathy?"

"Now, now, that's never been proven." The dragon brushed at imaginary crumbs down his silver scutes and thence his waistcoat before returning to a more serious posture. "I didn't get very far. His resistance was bodily; he literally tore himself from my gaze, as if something inside him wrested him away. I pursued the thoughts as best I could, verbally, while trying to reestablish my gaze. I had a low-level hook in him, and I didn't want to lose it. I hoped that I could convince him that he was relaxing enough to trust me, but..."

The Dean shifted in his small, creaking, painfully inadequate chair, shaking his head. "Benedict, my old friend, there is an unfortunate tone in your voice that informs me I won't like this one bit."

"You won't." A tiny wisp of smoke, almost like an expression of regret or resignation, rose from the dragon's nostril. "I should have seen the clues. His stoicism is one thing; the refusal of medications and narcotics for treatment of pain, another good clue. The edict actually put into his athletic dossier all but forbidding narcotics, hypnotics, or psychotropic drugs of any kind... I'd be willing to bet he's never even hefted a beer, although that's no real proof. Our young footballer won't have anything to do with any substance that might loosen his tongue, lower his guard, or otherwise give him leave to look, even accidentally, too deeply into his emotions or history. Nelson, that pup has a block the size and strength of a fortress around some memory that is at the heart of this whole affair."

"You mean, like a traumatic block? A kind of amnesia sparked by an event too terrible to remember?"

"No." Benedict shook his head carefully. "He didn't build it. It's so thorough, so intricate, and until now utterly without a single crack in its edifice. No, Nelson - it was constructed for him. Someone locked this pup's mind in its own prison, so that he would never talk about that memory for as long as he lived. And unless I'm very much mistaken, only another dragon could make that happen."

"How could that be? Who would go to such lengths, and for what reason, to block off a memory?"

"Someone powerful enough, rich enough, and no doubt paranoid enough to want to ensure Parker's silence, yet moral enough to avoid incurring the obvious solution."

The wolverine felt his eyes grow large at the implications. "You're saying..."

"This was someone's alternative to killing him."

* * * * *

Royal's arrival provided the Dean the opportunity to attempt digesting this astonishing information, as well as to discover some unexpected and welcome news. "There are many advantages to being an entrepreneur," the skunk observed, setting up his portable equipment on a table formerly used only as a place where old magazines were sent to die. "When one's product is in demand, one can find oneself just about anywhere. And it doesn't hurt that I'm known to provide the cliché but highly recommended free coffee to members of our constabulary."

"Go to, go to, you artful dodger," Benedict grinned. "Say on, say on!"

Proffering a large thermal container of Pitch Blend to the dragon, Royal returned the grin. "Granted, they only get the regular recyclable cups; still, it does give me the chance to drop into various secured areas."

"And you can't be faulted for overhearing things, now, can you?" The Dean prodded with only the slightest hint of frustration.

"Some, you may already know." The skunk set about adjusting what he affectionately called his electric samovar to the temperature best suited to the Dean's tea combination. "The Shepherd's name is Mark Reeves, 20, undeclared major, average grades, minor frat-related property damage and noisemaking, no actual problems with the law." Royal shrugged. "I can't be faulted for being able to read upside-down either."

"Someone reading the file?"

"Someone with business cards from Bozeman, Duckworth and Dietz."

The wolverine felt his eyes spring open even as his ears pushed forward so far that they seemed to want to fly off his head. "That's some powerful legal muscle. They're not known for taking pro bono cases."

"There's some mystery there, too. Reeves asked for a lawyer, but he never got the chance to call one, or to have one appointed by the court. The suit showed up on his own, saying that he was here to represent the pup; Reeves seemed confused at first, but the lawyer managed to convince him that the tab was taken care of."

"Taken care of..." Benedict sipped at his mug thoughtfully. "Reminds me of something Parker said, but I didn't take very close notice at the time. It happened just before... the event." The drake offered a rueful, lopsided grin. "I suppose that could be another tell-tale, but despite the forces of synchronicity, coincidences do happen. Anything else interesting, Royal?"

The entrepreneur took particular care in infusing the tea, the water temperature at the proper 155°F to bring out the best of the rooibos combination. "The officers guarding Reeves seem to be passing the time by playing amateur detectives, although they've got almost nothing to work with, not to mention that they're not keeping their own stories and information straight. Theories range from some kind of lover's revenge - heterosexual in nature, with Reeve defending the honor of some girl that Parker presumably wronged - to payback arranged by some guy that Parker jilted on the down-low. Most of it is based on little more than what Reeve actually said on the field."

"The accusations of homosexuality?"

"Very discreet of you, Dean Williamson," the skunk grinned.

"I didn't think we really needed to relive the vivid specifics." The Dean accepted Royal's offering gratefully, sniffing the steaming liquid and knowing he'd better wait a bit longer to avoid getting burned. "Although it's a good point: Why did this pup select those... acts in particular? I suppose it's a standard taunt for guys with more testosterone than brains, and just about any descriptions of any primarily gay sex acts would suffice. But why use them on Parker? Why Parker, and why that direction?"

"Because it worked." Benedict offered a low chuckle. "We don't have much information regarding what went first, although apparently the taunts eventually boiled themselves down into the set of words that set Parker off."

"I'm not sure about your first question," Royal raised a finger to make a point, "but I may have something regarding why Parker was targeted. Two somethings, both unconfirmed. One is that there were a few scouts in the stands last night, with a particular interest in Parker. Getting rid of competition is a pretty good motive on the road to the big leagues. More interesting, however, is that the cops think that there was some kind of public fight or argument between Parker and a young sorority female, a Papillion so the rumor has it - identity not yet known."

"How did they hear about it?" Benedict wondered aloud.

"Disturbance reported on the quad, yesterday afternoon. A good Samaritan heard the noise, saw Parker running off, went up to the female to ask if she was okay. She was shaken enough that our fellow called over one of the campus cops, in case she might want to call an ambulance, or at least have the locals take get one of the electric carts to take her over to the Quack Shack - excuse me, Campus Infirmary." The skunk chuckled mischievously. "She declined, no name given; she was wearing a sorority sweater and was last seen ambling back toward Greek Row, and that's as much identification as we've got."

"The guess about the female, then, is some kind of unresolved sexual issue between her and Parker?" The Dean sampled his tea and let his short tail express his satisfaction with the blend. "Anything to base that on?"

Shaking his head, the young skunk shrugged. "Incoherent shouts from Parker, a few overheard tearful words from her. That's about as much as I was able to gather from my brief time on the ward. Just one other thing, and it's completely out of context: The name Riddell."

Benedict jerked his head up quickly. "Say again?"

"Riddell."

For a long moment, the room seemed still. Nelson leaned forward, forepaws holding his mug carefully, looking at the change in the dragon sitting before him. Slowly, a soft smile crept across his muzzle. He knew the look that the dragon wore, and a sequence of body tells and facial changes began to follow a pattern that was as certain as the pursed lips, closed eyes, and deeply intense looks of fictional detectives throughout history. He held up a silent paw before Royal could speak, watching the drake's eyes twitch as they saw things not in the real world but inside what mentalists and ancient philosophers called the Method of Loci, or memory palace. Dragons, as a species, boasted a near-eidetic memory in their own right; the problem was being able to locate and retrieve those memories. It was no good owning an encyclopedia without an index. For Benedict and many others, that index was the mnemonic miracle called the memory palace.

With computer-like speeds, the professor's mind traveled the halls, rooms, apartments, corridors, and stairs of his gigantic mental construct, information tagged with the items, pictures, gewgaws, treasures, symbols, furniture, and objects carefully placed in each location. Nelson saw the drake move into his search more deeply, confirmed by the tiny flicking of foreclaws in a pattern far too intricate for ordinary therians to decipher. As if evidence of a great steam engine powering the entire enterprise, a tiny wisp of smoke appeared at the dragon's nostril, rising into the otherwise still and sterile air of the hospital waiting room. With a sudden shudder of his body, as if he had been running full-tilt and stopped without warning, Benedict blinked and focused on his guests.

"Riddell. Australian clan going back well before the confederation at the turn of the 20thcentury. Powerful business interests, probably in the top five percent of the country's wealth - not as impressive as some in the world at large, but they're no pikers. Fingers in many pies, but most of the success in the States has been as horse breeders, along with various farming interests. They own and develop land in at least three states, one of them Kansas."

The Dean nodded slowly. "Snap."

Benedict had grabbed his tablet, foreclaws whipping across the surface in a search no less frenzied that the one he had just complete in his own mind. "Notoriously camera-shy, these dingoes; few pictures of any of the family over the years. Very low profile, keeps everything close to the vest. Media coverage is shunned, and very little trail even in the rough whimper of insanity."

The skunk blinked, uncomprehending. The Dean glanced at him and said, "Anagram of Information Superhighway."

"Almost nothing here. It would take more hacking than I can do from my tablet, but I'd wager my best dinner jacket that they have property near Baldwin City, Kansas - it's the right general area for them. What connection young Parker may have had with them is as yet unknown, but it would fit the rest of our limited profile."

Royal's long thick tail twitched so violently that Nelson wondered if he were about to spray, from sheer nerves. "What profile? What's that got to do with...?"

"Maybe nothing." The wolverine smiled at the skunk. "Right now, it's nothing but supposition."

"The Riddell clan could afford the legal firepower representing Reeves." The dragon chuckled. "You could shake a year's retainer out of their family couch."

"I still don't get it." Royal shook his head hard enough to make his ears rattle. "What would they have to do with Parker?"

"That part, we don't know yet. However..." The Dean looked carefully at Benedict. "Would I be right in saying that they would have the ... resources to find someone to perform the process you were talking about earlier?"

"Wealth, contacts ... oh, hells yes. Secrecy, for whatever reason, as motive."

"Why?" Nelson narrowed his eyes. "What could a poor rural kid like Parker possibly know that's worth all this?"

"I have no idea." With a heavy sigh, the dragon drank the rest of his coffee in a single draught. "Whatever it is, if we go poking around his mind to look for it, we could kill him."