“Of course.”
“They realize we probably have a serial killer on our hands, don’t they?”
If a tone could sound like a shrug, Foucault’s did. He said, “I’m not sure they’re looking too closely at that. The train has lost tens of thousands of euros just sitting still like it has. I suspect the cost of any further layover is being weighed. This Mr. Rodin—did his alibi check out?”
Adele exhaled deeply, nodding, then realizing he couldn’t see, she said, “Yeah. Allard called before I called you. Martin Rodin was in the dormitory car all morning. Three separate witnesses. No way he touched Ms. Mayfield…”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Adele frowned in frustration. “So what then? We continue investigating from back at headquarters? A moving crime scene is hard to track. Moving passengers and staff notwithstanding, our suspects will be on the move.”
“Yes, well, I thought about that, Agent Sharp. One of you needs to stay with the train.”
Adele flinched. She glanced over her shoulder now, across the car to where John Renee was now reclined against the couch furthest from her, his eyes closed, his arms over his chest as he breathed heavily.
“One of us?” she said.
“We don’t have the funds for both, and the company refuses to discount. They already think we’ve cost them enough as it is.”
“Your bureaucrats? Are they no help?”
“They’ve set aside one sleeper car. Either Renee or you will stay on. I know my pick.”
Adele waited, but Foucault didn’t provide this information. She considered the case, and glanced out toward the station’s skylights again, her eyes drinking in the reflection of the moon. Still early in the night, but plenty more time for another victim to fall. Plenty of time for the killer to strike.
But she also thought of Paris, thought of her mother’s killer, loose and about. She wanted to hunt that bastard, but she knew if she left, then no one would remain behind on behalf of the passengers…
Not only that…
But as she sat there, the same feeling of foreboding she’d sensed back in Foucault’s office, and again in the lounge car—it filled, rising like a tide in her chest and threatening to cut off her breath.
She exhaled slowly, trying to place the source of the emotion. She was talking to Foucault again, but was now starting to wonder if perhaps her sense was coming from internally. Maybe she’d misread the Executive… She couldn’t quite place the feeling, but it clawed and cloyed at her chest.
She glanced over to where John was still napping on the couch furthest from her. Perhaps it was good they were separated for now. Things hadn’t gone back to the same. Perhaps they never would.
She wasn’t sure she could allow John to take the case over… It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him to solve it, but the last time she’d left a case in his hands, a killer had escaped. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to think like that, but Adele had a job to do—lives were on the line. Then again, if she stayed, then who would find her mother’s killer?
She thought of Ms. Mayfield, of Mr. Dupuy. Two victims, two trains, two countries…
And again, the same clawing sensation of deepest foreboding…
“I’ll stay,” she said at last. “Sleeper car, you say?”
“Not much to look at—certainly not first class. But it should suffice.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said, sighing. “I guess there’s no chance at going for a morning jog on a train.”
“I hear they have a gym. Are you certain, Adele? I’m sure Agent Renee wouldn’t mind—”
“I’m fine, sir. I don’t need any more time off. I’ll stay.”
“Well, good luck. And Adele, be careful… As you’re aware, the worst part about a killer you don’t see is if they see you. And on a train, in such close quarters, there won’t be the protection of other agents, of places to run, to hide, to call backup. You’ll be on your own until we can stop the train and send help. It’ll be different protocol than you’re used to.”
“Got it,” she said. “If the killer knows I’m trying to find him, and if he’s here, he’ll take a shot at me. I expect it, sir.”
“Just so long as you’re aware. Good night, Adele.”
“Yes sir. You too.”
***
She listened to the quiet chug of the train as it moved through the night, finally released from its station and allowed back on its merry way in the North of France as it continued toward Germany. She twisted, remembering in her mind’s eye the look of hurt on John’s face when she’d woken him and told him she’d be working this one alone. That Foucault wanted him back.
Hurt. Such a strange thing for him to express, almost as if he’d taken it as some sort of rejection. But hadn’t that been the tenor between them recently? Hadn’t they been going cold? Not just their friendship… but everything.
Still, John hadn’t seemed to want to leave and when he had, he’d stomped off, leaving the train without so much as a goodbye.
She twisted and turned in the small, cramped room in the sleeper car. Certainly not first class, and according to the Executive, this sleeper was normally reserved for staff. She’d been in prison cells with nicer cots. Her back ached, and her foot tingled from a frigid draft gusting through a window that refused to fully close. The rush of air through the small gap made a soft whistling noise like a tea kettle and twice Adele had resisted the urge to punch the glass.
She twisted again, sitting up at last, her feet dangling over the cramped space toward the floorboards.
She heard a creak.
Adele froze, staring toward her door. For a moment, she glimpsed a flash of light, as if from a flashlight beneath her door frame. She didn’t hear anything. Someone had stopped outside her compartment. Her hand darted toward her nightstand where she kept her weapon. She held the comforting, cold metal in one hand.
The light remained… She thought she could hear someone breathing.
A second later, though, it passed by, disappearing.
Frowning, Adele got to her feet, gripping her weapon and holding it behind her back. She pushed open the door and glanced up and down the hall.
No one in sight. Four other doors in this sleeper car, all cramped together.
She waited, looking for another flash of light. But none came. Maybe one of the other passengers had taken a bathroom break?
Or maybe…
Had the killer come by? Looking for her?
She closed her door again, her feet cold against the wooden floorboards, and eased back on the rough cot, careful not to throw herself too hard against it, as the cushions alone would do little to protect her back.
She reclined against the poor excuse for a pillow, staring up at an overhead luggage compartment.
No one in the hall, like a ghost. But ghosts weren’t real.
What if the deaths really were natural causes, and they were hunting ghosts in the night? What if she was making things too personal…? She could feel this need to catch the bad guy. A need to not let him get away again.
Again?
Again. She frowned at the thought. Her mother’s killer had escaped John. She didn’t want the same thing to happen here. Ghosts in the night… Maybe they were all fooling themselves…