by A J Rivers
Chapter Twenty-One
I've been on the train for just over two hours when an announcement comes through the car telling passengers the snack car would be closing for a lunch break. As soon as I hear that, I close my computer and put it away. The intense blue eyes follow me as I make my way through the sliding door. Lunch break for the snack car often means the conductors are taking a break as well. That gives me a short time to move through the cars without Thomas being there to sweep me back to my seat.
The sticky note pressed to my palm, I move through the first car and then the second. My eyes follow the curves of every face in every seat, ensuring I remember them, seeing if anyone new has appeared, but they are all the same. No one is paying attention when I get to the end of the second car. The lull of the train keeps them from noticing I haven't turned back around. Instead, I walk up to the door Thomas mentioned is locked. I press the button, and the door slides open.
I dip through as quickly as I can, satisfied by uncovering the lie, but not wanting to be noticed. The empty car is eerie in its silence. Rows of seats look strangely abandoned in the dark car, though I know they were occupied only hours before. Now that I'm inside, my steps slow, and I follow the aisle gradually. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for, but I hope to find it. There are no notes tucked into the spaces above the seats. Overhead compartments stand open, ready for the luggage of passenger’s hours in the future. There isn't even an errant candy wrapper on the navy blue carpet.
At the end of the car, there's another sliding door. The only light coming through the window is sunlight, casting shadows into the next car. I press the button, not expecting it to open. It doesn't, so I search it for a mechanism I can release. Eventually, I tuck my fingers into the gap between the door and the frame and apply pressure, forcing it apart. If there's one thing I've learned about safety mechanisms in public places, it's that safety comes before security. The doors might technically lock to stop passengers going into certain cars, but they don't seal or clamp in place. Though rare, train crashes do happen, and it's critical passengers be able to get out of the cars, even if they have to pry the doors open.
The second door requires a bit more convincing, but finally, it opens, and I walk into the next empty car. Halfway down the aisle, I notice something different from the first passenger-less car. Tucked into the mesh pouch on the back of a seat is a pair of earbuds. The black wire is barely noticeable, but when I look at it closer, I notice it's not just the buds hanging from their cord in the mesh. Instead, they are looped over a magazine and attached to a tablet partially hidden out of view.
I'm tempted to touch it, to pull it out and examine it, but I stop myself. Instead, I use my phone to snap a picture of it. The sticky note feeling hot on my palm, I leave the seat and continue to the end of the car. The window is dark and shadowy like the last.
It feels like I'm in a continuous loop, with each train car leading me to one that brings me back to the first. Through the window on the top half of the door, I see another darkened car. More abandoned seats. Overhead compartments mostly open. Not even bothering to try the button, I push my fingers into the gap and tug on the door.
It resists. More than it should. I gather my breath and spread my legs to brace the sides of my feet against the walls on either side of me. I pull harder, but the door still won't move. It feels heavy, straining against my movements. I change positions, turning to push my back against the wall so I can put my hands in the gap and shove forward. Finally, the door gives way and shifts out of place. Only this time, it doesn't move smoothly and easily open.
The body leaning against it stops it partway.
I stumble back, catching a stunned gasp in my throat, as the body slides away from the door and topples backward into the aisle in front of me. It's a man, and as I get closer, I see his throat has been slit.
A dark veil of blood runs down the front of his neck and soaks into his T-shirt. There's little question as to what caused the injury. The hilt of a knife embedded in his stomach sends more blood cascading down his body to pool under him, and pins something to his darkened shirt.
The position of the body at the end of the aisle, sprawled on the carpet in between two walls, means the sunlight coming through the windows isn't enough to fully illuminate him. I use my phone to shine light down on him.
This isn't Mr. Jones. I’d expected the uncomfortable-looking man from across the aisle, but instead, it's a younger, heavier man with a blond beard speckled with blood. The light hits the knife and the object it's holding in place. It's a note, the bold black handwriting large enough to read without picking it up.
You should have gotten on your train, Emma.
My stomach turns. I lift my head to take a breath. I force the bile in my throat back down and try to keep my breathing under control as I take slow steps away from the body. As I do, my phone flashlight sweeps up just enough for me to notice congealed blood drips down the wall in front of me. I follow the trail to reveal words in rough black marker scrawled across the bottom of the door leading into the last of the empty passenger cars.
Want to watch a movie?
My blood turns to ice, and my heart hammers out of my chest. The simplicity and disconnection of the note is chilling. Sickening. I read it again and again, trying to figure out if I'm missing something. I look at the letters, how they're formed. Wondering if there is something else.
Suddenly a thought flashes into my head. I rush back up the aisle to the seat with the earbuds and the magazine. Carefully moving the magazine aside, I pull out the tablet. The screen is black, the battery long worn down, but I flip it over and find a note taped to the back.
Your train. Your responsibility.
Time to play a game, Emma.
Hide-and-seek. Find one before I hide another.
Are you good at keeping secrets?
Is Sam?
You better be.
Time is ticking. If it runs out, if either train stops, if the police come
You blow it.
Catch me if you can.
I dial Sam, fighting to control my breathing so he'll be able to understand me.
"Hello?"
"He's here," I whisper frantically, my words rattling.
"What? What are you talking about?" he asks.
"He's here. At least, he was. I need—I need you to get away from other people so I can video call you."
The few seconds of muffled sounds seem to stretch on endlessly before he finally stops.
"Alright. I'm not near anyone. What's going on?" he asks.
"I'm switching to video."
I hit the button and wait while the screen shifts into an image of Sam. He's standing in the train bathroom with confusion and worry etched on his face, the lights looking impossibly bright and artificial behind him. I walk back to the sliding door and turn the camera toward the body on the floor.
"Oh my God," Sam gasps.
Turning the camera back to me, I nod. "He knows I got on the other train, and this man died because of it. He's taunting me. But it's not just this train. The note says I'm responsible for the train you're on, too. He knows you're on it."
"Show me the note," he says.
I direct the camera at the paper, my eyes sweeping across the words as he reads them.
"’Find one before I hide another’," I read out loud. "There's another body already, and he's going to kill more."
"Emma, it's more than that—" he starts, but the sound of the sliding door opening pulls my attention away.
I turn toward the door, and my stomach lurches up into my throat. My hand drops, so my phone is no longer pointed at my face. All Sam will be able to see is the carpet and the body a few feet away.
"Emma? Emma, what's going on?" he calls. I slide my thumb across the screen to mute him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Positioning myself in the middle of the aisle doesn't do much. There's not enough of me to completely conceal the space behind me, and even
if there was, he already saw the body. In those seconds after he opened the door and his eyes locked on me, I was doing nothing to block his view of the end of the aisle. I take a step toward him, holding up a hand to try to calm him.
"Thomas, I need you to listen to me," I start carefully.
The call is muted, but Sam is still on the phone. He can hear everything I'm saying. I want him to know what's happening, so at any second, he can react.
"What the hell is going on here? I told you these cars are empty, blocked off from passengers. What are you doing back here?" he demands.
"Before I explain, I need you to close the door behind you. The fewer people who know what's happened, the better," I tell him.
"Excuse me?" he asks incredulously. "I find you creeping around in a closed car with an obviously injured person, and you're giving me instructions?"
"He's not injured," I say.
It's obvious he hasn't looked closely at the end of the aisle. From his position, the message on the opposite door is concealed, and even the blood is not visible behind me.
"So, he just had a couple too many in the lounge car and is taking a nap?" he scoffs.
"Thomas, he's not injured. This man is dead."
The conductor’s face goes pale, and he takes a step back away from me.
“D-dead?” he stammers.
“You can't leave,” I say. “Please, you need to stay here with me and let me explain what's going on. You can't let anyone know what's happening right now. It's not safe.”
“Are you threatening me?” he asks.
“No. I'm not threatening you, but there's someone else who might. Whoever killed this man could kill someone else. He might already have. And if you go out there and start telling people, then he definitely will. The killer must still be on this train, and we can’t tip him off.”
“Why should I trust you?” he asks. “Why should I believe anything you say? For all I know, you could have killed him.”
“My name is Emma Griffin. I'm with the FBI." I reach into my back pocket for my badge and show him, then I hold up my phone and unmute it. "This is Sam Johnson. He's the sheriff in my town. He's on the other train following this route."
“You’re both law enforcement?” Thomas asks, still not sure whether to be suspicious or relieved.
“Yes,” Sam tells him. I glance at the screen and see him reach into his pocket to pull out his badge. “Sherwood County Sherriff Sam Johnson. Here. Look.”
The conductor looks at the star and gives a tense nod.
"I'm going to step aside and let you look at the body, is that alright?" I ask.
The surprise of the body tumbling out of the vestibule has passed, and I'm no longer uncomfortable with the corpse. My years in the Bureau have made me so familiar with death that I'm just as comfortable with corpses as I am living people. Sometimes more comfortable. But I'm well aware not everyone has the same level of ease as I do. For many facing a body, especially the victim of a murder, the shock and disgust can be overwhelming. It's not just the body itself, the bluntness of a human devoid of life, or even the injuries. It's the reality of what one person can do to another that's sickening.
I need to be careful with Thomas. His presence in this space is like static electricity. Unstable, sparking. At any second, he could bolt. The train car would swarm with others, and the dangling threat of the sick game, whatever it is, would burst around us. My caution keeps him steady. Holds him in place for another second, another heartbeat. And that means control and safety exist for a heartbeat longer.
He's completely still for a second. I'm not even sure he heard me. I'm about to repeat myself when he finally nods. It's barely perceptible, and his widened eyes don't change, but it's enough for me to take a step back and move to the side. Thomas walks forward to get a better view of the body. The sharp breath pulled into his lungs almost knocks him backwards, and I reach up as if to steady him.
"Do you recognize him?" I ask.
He nods. "He was on the train when I first started my shift. He was supposed to get off at Castleville."
"Do you see how the blood is drying? That takes time. You saw me less than an hour ago. I couldn't have killed him," I explain. “I didn’t even get on until Castleville anyway.”
He nods again.
My brain completes the thought working in my mind. “And that means we don’t necessarily know that the killer is still here. He could have gotten off.”
"Show him the note, Emma," Sam says.
I gesture to the note pinned to the body with the knife, then the message on the door, and the one on the tablet.
Thomas listens silently as I explain everything. I leave out some exact details, like the whole history of being undercover in Feathered Nest, but I lead him to believe it’s part of a case I’m working. I explain that I switched trains from the ticket sent to me out of caution and tell him that’s why I’ve been keeping an eye on other passengers. When I'm done, I stare into his face, searching his expression, trying to determine if he's followed anything I said.
"Right now, I don't know what happened or exactly how much danger there actually is. What I can tell you is, this is not something to mess around with. Do you follow me?"
He nods again as if his ability to respond to the situation has devolved down to that one gesture. It's enough. As long as he's interacting, I know he's hearing me and understands what I'm saying.
"At this point, we have to act as responding law enforcement," Sam tells Thomas. "I’ll take this train; Emma is in charge there. This situation needs to be kept under close control. The circumstances are very unusual, and in a lot of ways, we're at this guy's mercy. Since we don't know who or even where he is, we can't predict what he's going to do next or prepare for it. There's no way to bring in a team or have backup. We have to do this one step at a time."
Thomas takes a breath. It shudders in his lungs and seems to struggle to come back out. He can't seem to take his eyes away from the body, but the longer he looks at it, the more his expression contorts and his color drains. I step into his line of vision again, giving him the relief of my face blocking his way.
"You can't say anything to anyone," I repeat to him. "As of this moment, you are a part of this investigation. You need to do exactly what we ask of you for the safety of the passengers. If you don't, there could be dire consequences for everyone on this train, and Sam's train. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the conductor finally answers.
"Good. I need you to keep everyone out of this car. No one can come in here. Keep working like you are supposed to, so you don't call attention to yourself, but make sure no one comes into this car."
"Yes," he repeats.
"Good. There's just one more thing I need you to do for me." He nods. "Get me into the baggage car."
"What?" he asks, obviously thrown off by the request.
"I need to get my suitcase, so I can get my gun," I tell him.
"You can't have a gun on board," he says, shaking his head slightly. "It's against regulations for you to carry a firearm on board."
I reach out for his shoulders, gripping them. Sam will now see nothing on his phone but the light blue of Thomas's shirt, but he's slipping. I have to keep control of the situation. I need him to focus on me and make every word get through the storm rolling across his thoughts. Soon the initial shock will wear off, and there will be a crossroads. Either he will be able to handle the pressure of what we're asking of him, or he will crumble. I need him to be present in this moment, to understand the critical importance of shielding the rest of the train from what's happening, so I have a chance.
"Thomas. Thomas, listen to me. I have to have my gun. We don't know what this guy has planned or if he is still on board. If I'm going to be able to do my job and protect everyone on this train, I need my weapon. I packed it in my suitcase. So, I need you to get me into the baggage car to get it. Can you do that?" I ask.
He stares at me, and I keep my eyes trained on him,
applying pressure with my hands. I exaggerate my breathing by drawing in long, deep breaths and letting them out slowly. In and out. I guide him into the rhythm. In and out. I force him to focus on nothing but the pressure of my hands and the sound of my breaths. Gradually, his breath matches mine. It slows, calming down, and his shoulders relax. Brought back from the edge, he finally nods.
"It's at the very back of the train, past the sleeper cars. It's locked. You won't make it in. There are too many people in between," he tells me.
"Then you have to do it. I'll stay here." I pull my bag around in front of me and dig through it until I find my bag claim ticket. "Here. It's a black suitcase with a purple luggage tag with my name on it. Emma Griffin. Just bring me the entire thing. Everything is inside."
He looks hesitant, his eyes sliding across the carpet to the pale hand turned palm-up toward the ceiling and a peek of soft belly from where the man's fall pulled his shirt out of place. They move past him, to where the bloodied sliding door offers a movie. He can't see it, but he knows it's there.
"Close your eyes. I'll help you past him," I offer.
"He drank three sodas this morning," Thomas mutters, his voice distant. "One right after the other. Said he didn't like coffee."
I take his wrist and take a step down the aisle in front of him.
"Just close your eyes."
He lets me lead him down the aisle and over the body. I press my back against the edge of the door to force it the rest of the way open, then stand him in the vestibule. The smell of dry blood isn't as strong or fresh, but it's still enough to sting my nose and slide down the back of my throat as I pry open the door. I'm careful not to touch the message and only open it as far as necessary to let him through.
"Is he gone?" Sam asks a few seconds later.
"Yes," I whisper, stepping back into the car.
"Listen to me. It isn't just another body."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Emma, there's a bomb."