Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  “Umm, sorry,” said a hesitant voice. “Excuse me, but those are for passengers only.”

  A young valet was frowning at her, wearing a red staff uniform and shaking his head. An older man was watching the entire exchange from a window seat across the aisle, seemingly trying to hide a smirk.

  “Sorry,” Adele muttered, placing the bottle back on the cart. “Did either of you see anything… useful,” she added, emphasizing the word.

  The old man was still smiling, and the young valet frowned at the sullied water bottle, now placed among the other, unopened ones. Delicately, as if lifting a soiled napkin, he reached out with two fingers, plucked the bottle, and handed it back to her. “I suppose it’s all right just this once,” he muttered. “Just don’t tell my boss—he’ll have my job.” This last part was muttered beneath the young valet’s breath.

  “Oh—he’s a hard boss, is he?”

  “He’s fine,” said the valet quickly, glancing sharply over his shoulder. Then the young man leaned in, whispering. “The woman you’re talking about, I saw her. She left the car, that way—” He pointed in the direction of the glass divider separating first class from the remodeled car with the body. “Towards the restrooms. Then I heard something break.”

  “No, no,” the old man interrupted, shaking his head. “It was a scream. And I heard it too.”

  “You both heard a scream?”

  The valet hesitated, glanced at the old man, then shrugged. “I heard something. Those of us in earshot went to investigate, and found Margaret—that’s her name, right? We found her on the ground…”

  The old man was no longer smiling and he shook his head, staring out the window now. “A true pity, that,” he murmured. “She was so young, so full of life.”

  The valet, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, nodded as well, shooting a look toward where Bella was now making out with Richard. His cheeks reddened and he hastened quickly away, leaving Adele and her purloined water bottle sitting across the table from the two lovebirds.

  As best as she could muster, Adele concealed her look of disgust, rose to her feet, and moved back through the compartment in the direction of the restrooms. She passed the body, pausing for a moment, alone in the still car and staring down at the unfortunate soul now turned a pile of cold sinew and flesh. She sighed, standing beneath the hatch they’d used to enter the train.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, quietly, staring at the body of Margaret. “I’ll find him. I promise.”

  Then she turned, heading in the direction the valet had mentioned—the restrooms. She pushed through the door to the women’s, on the far side of the second car, just within the divider. She scanned about, but the restroom was clean and smelled faintly of cinnamon apple candles, which were tastefully arranged around the sink.

  She glanced behind the toilet bowl, in the sink, along the walls. No blood splatter—nothing illicit. No clue.

  Adele frowned, crossing her arms as she stood alone in the bathroom, its slight shaking responding to the motion of the train on the tracks.

  No one saw anything—one of them heard a loud crash, another heard a shout. No physical evidence on the body she’d been able to see. And the sense of foreboding was now claustrophobic, practically smothering her like a blanket made of wet wool.

  She was missing something… she had to be.

  But what?

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  John massaged the bridge of his nose, regretting his decision to switch with Limpy the Italian. The back of the train was where the staff hung out on break, and while John was glad he’d never learned German, he was beginning to wish he’d never picked up English either.

  A couple of the older staff—from the dining car judging by their uniforms and spaghetti sauce splatter, were giving him a piece of their mind. They were both equally wrinkled, short, and had introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Something. Smole? Smile? No.

  John shook his head. It was so hard to concentrate with such incessant yammer.

  Mr. Something was shaking a finger in front of his bald head. Mrs. Something looked nearly identical to her husband, even with nearly matching spaghetti stains, with the addition of a wig that resembled a dry mop in John’s opinion.

  “But Agent,” Mr. Something was moaning, “if there is a body on the train why won’t we stop? Surely it’s not sanitary…”

  John winced, straining to pick up the English words amidst the German accent. He shook his head slowly, still massaging his nose. “We are heading to the nearest station. There, people may disembark. Now, about the dead woman. You’re saying you never saw—”

  “We told you already!” said Mrs. Something, shaking her head and causing one of her chins to jiggle. She reclined in a lazy boy, staring up at a screen displaying some sort of dance competition. She took a long sip from a lager and glanced up to where John stood in the center of the compartment, trying to maintain the attention of the couple. “No clue who she is. Dinner hasn’t even been served. We’re not on shift till then anyhow.”

  “You mentioned,” John said, grimly. “Do either of you know anything useful?”

  The husband and wife shared a look, and the woman brushed her mop-like locks out of her eyes, and then she shrugged. “Not sanitary to be with a body,” she said. “How’s that for useful?”

  John clenched his teeth now. For one, he’d managed to get nowhere interviewing the staff. For another, he wasn’t entirely certain what the word “sanitary” meant in English. He’d have to look it up. But either way, he was sick of the complaining and needed some air.

  “Say,” called another voice from the back of the compartment.

  John looked and watched as two new waiters entered and collapsed on a soft couch. “Are you with the feds?” one called. “We hear there’s a body in the new compartment. Is it true?”

  John turned his attention to this new, younger couple, desperate and hoping perhaps they’d have something useful to add. “Do either of you know the victim?”

  “Victim, see,” said Mrs. Something. “There’s a killer on the train. What did I tell you?”

  Her husband nodded darkly and leaned in a bit closer to his wife, where he sat on the arm of the chair.

  The young couple looked nervous now. “There’s a killer here?” one of them said.

  “Forget it,” John replied, turning.

  “Wait, hang on,” said Mrs. Something. “I’m not done speaking with you!”

  “I’ve got to go!” John cried over his shoulder, muttering darkly and stomping out of the staff’s compartment. He moved on into the mostly empty dining car, hearing the swish of the door behind him, grateful to have escaped the incessant nagging.

  John waited a moment, exhaling softly through his nose, then looked up. Besides a bartender preparing for the evening rush, there was only one other person in the room.

  Agent Leoni was wiping sweat from his forehead and thanking the bartender as he reached out, gingerly accepting a small bag filled with ice.

  For a moment, John stared at the Italian. He didn’t like the man. He wasn’t sure why yet, but John didn’t like him, and his instincts were rarely wrong. Well… then again, he hadn’t liked Adele when he’d first met her. But she’d been teachable. His own personality had managed to rub off on her a bit, making her at least tolerable company. This Leoni fellow though—shifty, unreliable. He could see it in the eyes.

  What sort of idiot sprained their ankle while doing a simple rappel down from a helicopter?

  John snorted to himself as he reluctantly moved across the compartment toward where Leoni sat, more to escape the staff behind him than for any desire to become proximate with the Italian.

  Leoni took the small bag and lifted his foot, pressing the ice to his ankle just beneath the pant leg. Were those pants from a dinner suit? They seemed far too fine for work clothing. Again, John resisted the urge to scoff—though not too hard. The Italian clearly wasn’t a man built for action.

  His moo
d souring even more as he approached Leoni, John came to a halt. “Anything?” he said, followed by a grunt.

  Leoni dabbed at his ankle with the ice for a moment, as if finding a tolerable position, and then he pressed it against his leg, emitting a soft sigh of relief. He looked up, regarding John. “Nothing,” he said. “Sleeper cars were mostly empty—and those that weren’t had little to tell me. I understand the victim wasn’t very well-liked by everyone, though.”

  “Who is,” John riposted. He sighed, passing a hand through his hair. “Shit, it just feels like we’re wasting time.”

  “Mhmm. The train will stop at the next station; to not do so would be negligence. How do you think Adele is faring?”

  “Adele?” John asked, regarding the Italian again. The smaller man had symmetrical features and a messy strand of hair threatening to get in his eyes. Not the ideal haircut for a shooter, John thought to himself. Even the smallest distractions could prove costly. “Let’s reconvene with Agent Sharp then. Need a hand?”

  Leoni looked at John, then shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, pausing for a moment to gather his strength. “Thanks, though,” he added as an afterthought. “For… well, for saving me back there.”

  John just grunted. “Stop falling off trains and you won’t need saving.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Leoni, gritting his teeth, the ice pack tucked in his sock, lowered his leg and began limping back toward the front of the train. He paused for a moment in the doorway. “You and Adele aren’t much alike,” he said.

  John glowered. “Maybe you just don’t know her as well as you think.”

  “Perhaps. She’s a good agent—you’re fortunate to be partnered with her.” Then he turned, limping back up the train.

  John followed, frowning as they went.

  ***

  The kind-eyed man gnawed at a fingernail, staring absentmindedly out the window to the first-class car, doing his best not to look like he was eavesdropping. Every so often, he would glance over to where the blonde agent was talking to other passengers.

  She was getting close. Too close.

  She looked up and he glanced sharply away again, watching the passing countryside. There was something off about that woman—something too keen, like an overexcited hound on a hunt.

  He needed to get away from her and from her giant companion and his limping sidekick. But how? The train was still on the move, still amidst the trees. The nearest station was a half hour away. A half hour…

  He glanced back again and now found the woman was watching him.

  A half hour was too long. She was getting too close. He flashed a smile, hoping to disarm. A second later, he realized his mistake—she wasn’t watching him, she was staring out the window.

  He cursed to himself and began to move away, pushing further toward the front of the train. As he did, he felt some relief, abandoning the blonde agent and her soul-searching gaze. She was onto him.

  He could feel it. What if she hadn’t been looking out the window? Maybe she had been watching him.

  They were so close. Why would they have rappelled onto a moving train unless they knew who he was? They were playing with him! Toying with him!

  He felt a flash of anger surge through his chest.

  They were no different than the others. Not at all. Something about that woman’s demeanor spooked him. And if they were just like the others… maybe they also needed to be reminded of the way of things.

  He nodded to himself, glancing down and noting his hand was shaking as he moved along the final compartment leading to the engine.

  If she really was getting that close… there was always a solution.

  He could kill her before she figured him out. And the next location of import was quickly approaching. The next station, in fact—a special one. For a moment, he paused, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He could feel the fabric of his late father’s shirt, soft against his shoulders. He reached out a hand, rubbing at the smooth cloth, trailing his fingers across the sleeve.

  The shirt even still smelled of aftershave.

  A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, and his kind eyes welled up for a moment. He didn’t wipe away the tears, though. His father deserved more than that. Deserved a life he’d never been given.

  The upcoming station—another one of the many stops his father had frequented as a conductor. The kind-eyed man smiled, his eyes misting even more as he remembered the trips, remembered the many stops along the way. He also remembered the railroad switches.

  The exchanges along the way. Each station where he’d claimed a corpse, each place had the option for a switch. And each time the railroad chose it.

  But it never had chosen it for his father.

  His father had traveled the same route, again and again until the stress of eighty-hour work weeks had killed him young. The train and its occupants had been allowed to switch tracks, but the conductor? Stuck. The same path, over and over and over.

  The man narrowed his kind eyes, feeling a welling of sheer hatred.

  He turned back, glancing in the direction of the first-class car he’d abandoned. Money had forced his father to work to the bone. Money had forced his father to strive through all hours. Money and its friends had left a young boy without his only friend at too tender an age.

  And so he offered the friends of money back to the endless path. Again and again and again. First in Italy, at the initial rail switch, then in France at the subsequent one. Now, three rail switches in Germany—the first already complete.

  The second rapidly approaching. The second kill would be in Germany too. Wherever the switches were.

  The blonde agent was just like the rest of them. Hunting him down the same way they’d run his father ragged. Yes—yes, she needed to go.

  He nodded to himself, then began to make his way toward where he’d stowed his bag. The toxin was there, hidden in an old thermos. He’d need that for what he was about to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  “Nothing?” Adele asked where she stood against the farthest wall from the body in the mid-remodel car.

  John and Leoni both emitted similar sighs. “Nothing,” John said.

  Leoni shook his head, doing a better job at concealing his disgust—as the Italian had always been the more understated of the two—but still hinting at his frustration in the tightening of his brow, and the firm press of his lips.

  “Only twenty minutes left,” Adele said, looking away from the body beneath the tarp and staring out one of the windows next to a sign that read, “Under construction.”

  The passing trees and mountain passes were flattening out now, and the train seemed to be descending, looping down the slope and heading toward flatter ground. Off in the distance, on the horizon, she could see the outline of structures and buildings, and the reflection of sunlight off glass windows.

  “What do we do?” John said. “We’re nowhere. The killer could be anyone.”

  Adele crossed her arms, holding her elbows and grinding her teeth as she thought desperately, looking for some way out. She turned, regarding Agent Leoni, but he just watched her back, quiet, speculative.

  “Questioning doesn’t seem to be working,” Adele said. “No one saw anything of use. One of the valets suggested he heard something break before the woman screamed. But just as quickly, he was corrected by an older gentleman, who said he’d simply heard a scream.”

  “Something break?” John frowned. “Break in what way?”

  As if on cue, all three of the agents began glancing around the compartment, their eyes sweeping over the bare walls and the empty floors.

  “The windows are all intact,” said Leoni.

  Adele took a few steps toward the first-class compartment, her eyes fixed on the glass divider. At least this time no one was staring in. But they were stuck. She’d never been at such a loss. Equally frustrating was the knowledge the culprit was somewhere on the train with them. For all she knew, he was watching them, tracki
ng their movements as they went around like chickens with their heads cut off, from person to person, train car to train car, with nothing to show for their efforts or energy.

  Something about this kindled a rising sense of frustration that blossomed into pure anger. She hated the idea of a serial killer watching, laughing, behind placid features. Had she already spoken to the bastard? Had he been in the first-class car? Maybe he was laughing at them now, giggling to himself at the thought of getting away with three murders under the noses of the authorities.

  “We can’t give up yet,” Adele said, growling in frustration. “Twenty minutes until we reach the station. That’s still twenty minutes. We have to—”

  Before she could finish, she heard a soft rapping on the glass.

  For one strange moment, she glanced toward the external windows, looking out at the countryside. But then Agent Leoni nudged her, and she looked toward the glass partition of the first-class compartment.

  She frowned as she recognized the valet who had wanted to refuse her water. He was looking nervously over his shoulder, as if checking with the old man in the compartment for permission.

  Adele remembered his testimony about something breaking. A clue? Whatever the case, it wasn’t like they were getting anywhere fast.

  She gestured urgently at the young man, who pushed through the glass partition and came to stand in front of John. He cleared his throat, glancing nervously around, refusing to look toward the body. His cheeks had a whitish tinge, as if he were equal parts sick and scared at the same time. John had that effect on people, and corpses just a bit less.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting,” he said, stammering, “I know, I know you said not to, but, just the…” He trailed off and glanced toward John, who was glaring at him.