Leoni looked up, surprised, as John, despite his gruff tone, very gently removed the Italian’s shoe from his injured foot. He then placed it beneath the man’s heel, gauging how much pain Leoni was in by how clenched his teeth seemed to go. John’s demeanor was rough, but his hands moved like the cajoling fingers of a mother tending her young. His motions were efficient, still, rapid, and clearly conscious of passing time. Adele stared. John was a strange man—she’d always known it, but he always surprised her regardless.
Once Leoni’s ankle was elevated and the Italian seemed settled, John got quickly back to his feet and began striding past Adele.
“Thanks,” Adele murmured.
“We’re wasting time,” the Frenchman growled, “hurry up.”
Adele didn’t need a second invitation. She spared one last look toward her Italian friend, making sure he wasn’t in too much pain; his head was now leaning back, the sweat on his face dripping down to his chin. But, at least for now, his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be breathing steadily, trying to focus on something besides the numb sensations.
She muttered darkly, and then moved after John through the first-class compartment, onto the sleeper cars, and toward the back, where the dormitory was.
As they hastened together, Adele could feel the wheels of the train shaking through the floorboards. As if, somehow, it was a ticking clock, threatening each passing moment. Was it her imagination? Or were they slowing? Maybe the conductor had decided to help a bit after all. But they didn’t have time either way—they were almost at the station.
She pushed through the door into the staff dormitory. Inside, a couple of employees in waiter uniforms were staring up with a glazed look at a TV. Behind a veiled curtain, there were three bunks set in the wall.
“Johnson,” Adele said, wishing now she had managed to snag a first name. “The reserve conductor, where is he?” she demanded.
The waiter and waitress leaning back on the couch blinked, startled, and one of them began to protest, “Hey, you’re not supposed to be back—”
“It’s the feds,” the other one whispered, cutting him off. The girl said, “He’s over there. Sleeping. He’s not going to be happy if you wake—”
But she didn’t managed to finish her sentence either, before Adele and John rushed past, pushing through the veiled curtain and moving into the sleeping quarters with the three cots. The area was sparse, and Adele’s gaze landed on a small lump beneath a thin blanket.
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?”