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, tracking 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.
“What?” Adele said, trying to keep her tone gentle.
The young man, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, muttered, “The conductor would like to speak with you. If it’s not too much to ask. I know you’re busy, and I can tell him, if you’d like, that maybe—”
“The conductor?” Adele said, slowly.
For a moment, she hesitated. She didn’t have the time to be yanked around every which way. But as she continued to think about it, she remembered the staff list. They had cross-referenced the same staff list, which had said two people were common between the murders on the train cars in France and Italy. The bartender, whom they had cleared. But the conductor also.