“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 war. 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.”