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 mood 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.