Under His Protection. Amy Fetzer J.
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which works similarly to digitalis.”
“So you weren’t far off.”
Quinn snorted. Nash knew that wasn’t good enough for Quinn, in or out of the lab.
“All it has to do is seep into an orifice or a wound, and it starts working. Winfield had a couple of cuts on his back that look like scratches to me.” Quinn showed him pictures, pointing. “Other than that, the man had skin like a baby. If he dunked under the steaming water, got even a fraction of oil in his nose or mouth, he was as good as dead if he didn’t get help immediately.”
“Judging by the burned-down candles, I’d say he soaked for a while.”
“Didn’t have to,” Quinn said. “This works fast, and although dosage would be hard to judge, there was enough in that bath tea to kill him. He’d have felt too warm first, a headache, tense, instead of feeling relaxed. I imagine he stayed in the bath for a while, hoping that would go away, but in doing so, he just made it worse by giving the toxin more opportunity to get inside him.” Quinn tapped a spot on the pictures of Winfield’s body. “Remember the red patches? That’s part of the reaction, then hallucinations. He had dilated pupils, excess salivation—proved from the residue and stains—and then pop, heart failure.”
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