by Blake Pierce
She reached out, suddenly finding her fingers trembling. The blanket wasn’t moving. The lump seemed strangely motionless. Her heart began to hammer. She felt a strong sense of foreboding rising in her gut. “John,” she said, her voice trembling.
Agent Renee stepped next to her, one hand on his hip, his eyes fixed on the motionless form beneath the blankets.
“Conductor,” Adele said. “Johnson,” she said, louder now.
She could feel the eyes of the two other staff fixed on her, and her shoulder blades itched. She reached out now and grabbed the arm beneath the blanket and shook the man. The body went limp and fell toward her. For a moment, her chest locked up, and her hands went still.
But then, suddenly, as if roused from a deep reverie, the conductor beneath the blanket jolted. He sat suddenly upright, gasping and cursing. The man’s head collided with Adele’s elbow, and just as quickly as he’d sprung up, he rebounded back, his head flopping onto the thin pillow.
“What on earth,” he said, muttering, his voice creaking from a lack of sleep.
“Johnson,” John said, shouting, “stay still, stop moving.”
This, Adele decided, might not have been the best instruction for a man who was already motionless, with two looming shadows staring down at his sleeping form. The moment John’s voice echoed out, it was clear Johnson realized he didn’t recognize them. His eyes widened in fright, and his hands gripped the edge of the blanket, as if preparing to use it like a shield. He struggled away, sliding on his back and kicking with his feet to wedge up against the corner of the cot as far from them as he could manage, which wasn’t a long trip.
“Who are you?” the conductor shouted.
“Hands where I can see them,” John returned, at the same volume.
“Careful,” Adele said, hesitantly. “Mr. Johnson, I’m with DGSI, and I’m here to talk—”
“Get away from me—don’t—get back!” he snapped. Then he started shouting, “Help! Help, I’m being robbed!”
Adele quickly held up her hands, releasing the blankets she’d been holding without realizing it, her fingers grazing against the fabric. She held her hands out in mock surrender, taking two quick steps back. John reluctantly followed suit. And for a moment, the light from the TV screen behind them no longer cast their shadows over the reserve conductor’s face. The man had a fading hairline, combed over, and a cherubic nose which spoke of youth, but crow’s-feet eyes that contradicted the nose. He blinked, still clearing his eyes and trying to come to. The moment he spotted how large John was, he quailed back again but then his gaze found Adele, and his brow furrowed. “DGSI?” His sleep-deprived brain caught up with her words. “What are you talking about? What do you want from me?”
“Sir, we need to ask you to get out of the bed, please.”
The man, though, seemed hesitant, some of the original fear creeping back into his posture, his eyes narrowed now. He held the blanket up over him, as if protecting himself in a cocoon against imminent attack.
“Were you on the LuccaRail?” John said, cutting to the chase, his shadow larger, and more foreboding than Adele’s as it stretched from the light of TV across the small cot.
“Yes,” the reserve conductor said, hesitantly. “But what does that have—”
“Yesterday were you a second on the Normandie Express?”
He frowned now. “I was, but I got here about eight hours ago. What does that—”
“Sir,” Adele said, “were you aware there were dead bodies on both those trains?”
Now, the man was shaking his head, and it wasn’t the only part of him trembling. His hands clutching the fabric of the blanket were turning white past the knuckles, and his cheeks went a similar hue. “Hang on just a moment,” he said, hurriedly. “Are you implying that I had anything to do with that? Those were heart attacks. Two heart attacks. It’s just a coincidence. You’ve got to be joking.”
“Get out of bed,” John said, sharply.
“You better listen, Johnson,” shouted a voice from near the couch, as the waiter and waitress were now watching the events closer than they’d been staring at the TV. “The big one tried to punch Martha.”
“I did not,” John growled. “I don’t even know who that is. Shut up,” he added, pointing a thick finger behind the privacy curtain.
But the words from the waiter watching TV seemed to have their effect on Mr. Johnson. He continued to shake and tremble, and refused to rise from his cot. “Please,” he was saying. “I have a family. A wife, two kids. Look, my wallet; I have a picture of them. Don’t hurt me. I wasn’t—”
“We’re not here to hurt you,” Adele said, firmly. She could feel her mind spinning. A competing swell of emotions, which included sympathy, frustration, and worry clashed with the evidence. This man had been a second on all three trains where the bodies were found. The only common staff among them. She set her jaw and said, “Please rise from the bed. We just need to talk. Do you have any belongings here?”
“It’s just a coincidence,” he murmured, his voice frail. “Two heart attacks. I know, strange. But it’s just a coincidence.”
“Sir, there have been three heart attacks. Another one on this train. You just so happen to have arrived directly before the murder.”
The man’s fingers went stiff. The blanket fell from his grip, tumbling onto his lap and revealing a sleeping T-shirt with stains as if from wine. “You’re joking,” he said, his eyes wide.
Again, Adele’s emotions competed with her intellect. She knew psychopaths could act. They were tactical liars who perfected the craft over a lifetime of deceit. But also people telling the truth behaved in a similar way. The shock, the surprise, the note of tremor in his tone. All of it tugged on her heartstrings. But the cold hard facts competed. Three trains, three countries, three murders. Exactly one common point among them. She stared at him and his wine-stained white T-shirt.
“Get up,” she said, firmly. “Now.”
When the man continued to refuse to comply, John growled, reached out, and grabbed the man’s wrist. As if he’d been shot, Johnson shouted suddenly and began kicking, trying to keep John back. “Get off me, get off!”
“What are you doing to him!” shouted one of the waiters.
“None of your business,” John retorted. “Get up!” he bellowed. He yanked hard at the man’s wrist.
The second conductor was pulled sharply from the bed, and sent stumbling to the ground. He was wearing sweatpants. His head nearly collided with the wall on the opposite side.
“Abuse!” shouted the waiter. “They’re attacking Johnson!”
No one else seemed to hear the shouts, though. “I’m recording,” the waitress screamed, and Adele glimpsed a black device lifted, aimed toward where John was standing over the fallen form of the trembling conductor.
“Put that away,” Adele said, beseeching.
In response, the woman pointed the phone at Adele, now jutting her chin out defiantly. “You can’t just go around doing whatever you want,” the woman snapped. “You just threw him to the ground. He didn’t do anything!”
“He killed three people,” John retorted, snarling. “You’re too stupid to realize maybe he would’ve attacked you next! The last victim was your age!”
The woman gasped in shock, now aiming the camera at John, as if she were flashing a middle finger.
Vaguely, Adele remembered John’s track record with cameras, and in her mind’s eye she glimpsed a particularly horrible event where a camera crew’s equipment had been tossed off the edge of a cliff. Wincing, Adele quickly stepped between John and the recording woman. She held out a placating hand toward her partner, whose own hands were at his side, fingers clenched as if preparing to rip something to pieces.
“Calm down,” she said, firmly. “Calm down.”
John stared at her, his eyes blazing. In the past, whenever she placed herself between John and a terrible decision, he often listened, if only reluctantly. Now, though, he seemed at wa
r. It seemed to take an extra amount of self-will to listen to her. Had things really gotten so cold between them? Didn’t he care anymore what she thought?
At last, John spat, turned, and stomped over to the corner of the dormitory car. One large hand reached out and began rummaging through a duffel bag, which had been crammed in the side cabinet next to the beds.
“You don’t have permission to go through that!” the reserve conductor was saying, shouting from where he was still sitting on the floor. He was massaging his elbow, and wincing, but he was at least no longer trembling as he stared at John’s back.
Adele approached the fallen man, saying, “I’m sorry. Please, if everyone could just calm down. We do need to speak with you though.”
The conductor stared up at her, seemingly emboldened by the camera pointed in his direction. “I didn’t do anything,” he snapped. “You’re insane. Why are you even here?”
“Sir, think of it from my perspective. You’re the only one who was at all three crime scenes. Moving crime scenes, I might add. Not exactly easy to sneak in and out.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. Heart attacks happen all the time. It’s one of the leading causes of death.” He spoke in a condescending way that made Adele feel her own temper rising.
“Get out of there,” Johnson shouted, toward John’s back.
But the large Frenchman didn’t seem in the mood to listen. He continued to rummage around, tossing clothing items over his shoulder. A pair of boxers landed across Mr. Johnson’s knee, draping over his leg.
Adele could feel the camera still poking toward them.
She sighed. She’d forgotten how frustrating it could be to work with John sometimes. He was a competent shooter, an excellent protector. But his ability to communicate with others without infuriating them was nearly impossible. She remembered how he’d tried to tend to Agent Leoni’s injured leg. At the same time, not everyone was in a boot camp. He was acting like the conductor was nothing more than a rookie in a military squadron. Civilians didn’t take kindly to that sort of manhandling.
“John, maybe we should—” she began, but before she could finish, John declared, “Aha!”
He whirled around. A snarl was in his voice, as he jutted an item toward Mr. Johnson. “What is this?” he declared, emphasizing the last word with a dramatic flourish.
Adele’s own protest was caught mid-sentence. She stared at the item in John’s hand, and went suddenly cold. In a clear plastic bag, she spotted a syringe—the sort of shot one might use to apply a toxin. Next to the shot, a thin bottle with clear liquid.
The shot and the unmarked bottle were both in a plastic bag. John wiggled it, aiming it in the direction of the seated conductor. “Well?” he said, sternly. “Mind explaining this? If you’re so innocent.”
The conductor gasped for a moment, shaking his head from side to side and stumbling a bit. For the first time, the waitress’s camera seemed to be centered on the item in John’s hand, rather than the Frenchman himself. At least this seemed a small mercy.
“My insulin,” said Mr. Johnson, stuttering now. “You’re going through my things. You shouldn’t do that. You’re not even allowed.”
“I’m allowed,” John snorted. “Take it up with the judge. You expect me to believe this is insulin? How come there are no markings?”
“I had to move it to another bottle,” the conductor said, quickly. His eyes widened, and his tone became high-pitched. Adele realized he was beginning to panic. Was it because he knew he was guilty? Or because he knew how it looked to have a bottle and a syringe, while being accused of causing heart attacks in three victims? Was that guilt? Or fear? Or both?
“I’m diabetic,” the man said, shivering. “The insulin is normally marked. But this one I had to move to a new bottle after the other one broke. I didn’t have time to get a new prescription. I was going on a ten-day trip, before heading home.”
“Sir,” Adele said, slowly, staring at the bottle and the syringe, “I’m afraid you need to come with us.” The man in his wine-stained shirt and soft sweatpants was shaking again. He turned toward the camera directed at him, pleading, “Please, I didn’t do anything.”
But now, even the waitress and the waiter who’d been jeering from the back were staring stonily toward where the conductor crouched. The camera was facing him, recording, and the conductor sighed, shaking his head, his shoulders slumping.
Then, as John lowered the bag, Mr. Johnson, in a surprising show of speed suggesting he’d been playing up just how frightened he was, surged to his feet and bolted past Adele, racing rapidly away.
John cursed and lunged, but missed.
Adele was knocked back, an elbow shoved into her chest, and she stumbled, nearly tripping over another duffel bag which had been left next to the privacy screen separating the cots from the TV.
Mr. Johnson raced forward, sprinting toward the divider in the back of the dormitory car.
“Stop!” Adele shouted.
John, having recovered first, jammed the insulin bottle into Adele’s arms and sprinted after the retreating form. His long legs covered the distance rapidly, his footsteps thumping into the ground. John flung himself into the air. The waitress must’ve had a degree in filming, because she didn’t seem to miss anything. She tracked with her video camera as John hurtled, parallel to the floor, arms outstretched.
Adele watched in slow motion, it seemed, as John slammed into the back of the reserve conductor and brought him crashing down to the ground in a pile of limbs.
Mr. Johnson let out a croaking sob, and John scrambled on top, holding him firmly to the ground, both hands placed in the smaller man’s back. “Don’t move,” John barked. “Stay down. Don’t move. Stay on the ground.”
Adele, massaging her chest where she’d been elbowed, held the bag with the shot and the unknown substance, delicately keeping it at arm’s length as she moved across the dormitory car, toward the collapsed forms of the two men.
After another couple of curses and a flurry of struggling, Mr. Johnson went limp, and his voice probed out in the suddenly still car. “I want to call my lawyer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Mr. Johnson sat glumly in the remodeled car, shooting the occasional look of reproach toward where the body lay beneath the tarp. “I want to speak with the real police,” he muttered, darkly. “You’re not even German! Let me go!”
John turned and snapped, “Quiet. We’re almost to the station, then you can have your precious German police take you to prison.”
The man muttered a series of dark oaths beneath his breath, one hand raised, cuffed to a metal rail next to one of the bare walls.
“How much longer, do you think?” Adele asked quietly beneath her breath, addressing Agent Leoni, where he fiddled with his phone, tracking their progress on GPS.
“Five or so minutes, tops,” Leoni murmured, raising his eyes to look at the glaring reserve conductor.
“Why should it matter?” John called across the car, making no effort to lower his voice. His large frame blockaded the glass partition into first class, preventing any prying eyes. “We have the bastard.” He nodded toward Mr. Johnson. John had a couple of scrape marks along one cheek and a pretty bruise just beneath his eye.
Adele winced in sympathy, but John noticed the gesture and only glowered even more.
She sighed, passing a hand through her hair and reminding herself to take a shower first opportunity she got. Still, as she felt the train continue to rumble beneath them, she couldn’t shake the rising feeling of unease somewhere in her gut.
It all seemed off, somehow…
She regarded Mr. Johnson, feeling a dash of sympathy again. He took a long sip from the water bottle she’d managed to finagle from the valet and his cart. She figured it was the least she could have done, given how things had gone back in the dormitory car.
“I don’t know…” she murmured, glancing at John, then returning to look at Mr. Johnson.
“It might be insulin, though.”
“You’re buying that? He resisted arrest!”
“We did catch him while sleeping. And you weren’t exactly nice about it.”
John snorted, crossing his arms and slouching against the glass partition at his back. “He was on all three trains where a victim was murdered. His name wasn’t on the manifest.”
“Yes, but the manifest wasn’t his doing. Remember what the conductor said? They sometimes don’t even mark down the seconds.”
“Still,” John said, shrugging his large shoulders. “It has to be him.” He turned to regard Leoni. “What do you think, hmm? Is this the guy?” Again, John made no effort to lower his voice, and Mr. Johnson pretended to be particularly interested in the floor all of a sudden. Adele guessed he was listening to every word—she wasn’t sure if he was French, but to travel as much as he did and work on French trains, he likely knew the language.
Leoni, in perfect French, replied, “I don’t know.” He looked apologetically up at Adele. “It does fit, a bit. He could be lying about the insulin.”
“I’m not!” Johnson called.
“Quiet!” Renee retorted.
Adele felt another flash of unease. “But what motive?” she said, lowering her voice even more and turning her back fully to the man in custody. “Why would he kill travelers—it makes no sense.”
“He’s insane,” John said simply, finally—to her relief—matching her volume.
Adele paused, clicking her tongue, lost in thought. The motive simply wasn’t there. He’d had the means, the opportunity, but why? It wasn’t like anyone else fit the bill. They had no other suspects. No one else on the staff manifest or passenger list who’d been on all three trains. Why kill wealthy first-class passengers in three separate countries? Besides, as a reserve conductor, he wouldn’t even have interacted with them. How could he have poisoned them?