by Blake Pierce
It soon began to dawn on her.
She remembered what Chase Fisher had said when they’d talked to him.
“Reese was having an affair.”
Of course! Riley thought.
She said, “You were having an affair with Reese.”
Joanna nodded again.
Bill asked, “But why does that make you think you might be the next victim?”
Joanna hesitated, then said, “The last time Reese was here—just before that terrible thing happened to her—she told me she thought her husband knew about us. He was being quiet about it, she said. She was afraid he was planning something, but she didn’t know what.”
Joanna gulped fearfully.
“Well, she found out what he was planning, didn’t she? And now … I’m scared half to death. Why wouldn’t he come after me next? Doesn’t it only make sense?”
Riley struggled with her thoughts, wondering what she should say—or not say.
Chase Fisher had told them he didn’t know the identity of his wife’s lover, and Riley had felt inclined to believe him. Should she say so to Joanna right now, to help put her at ease?
It didn’t seem at all appropriate.
But what was appropriate under these strange circumstances?
Riley thought for a moment, then said, “Ms. Rohm, I take it you’re aware that there was an earlier murder carried out in the same manner. We now know for certain that the two murders were committed by the same person. This leads us to doubt very strongly that Chase Fisher killed Reese. It’s hard to believe that he committed the first murder solely as some kind of preparation for the next one.”
Joanna’s expression changed. She seemed to be trying to let herself be reassured.
She said, “‘Hard to believe,’ you said. But not impossible, right?”
Riley hesitated. No, of course it wasn’t impossible, but …
“It seems very unlikely,” she said.
There was a dramatic change in Joanna’s expression. The tension of fear began to give way to an equally terrible emotion.
She said, “I hate being scared. It gets in the way of—”
She choked down a sob.
“Your grief,” Jenn said sympathetically.
Joanna nodded and wiped away a tear. Riley understood perfectly. The last thing the woman wanted right now was to be cowering for her life when she really needed to be mourning for someone she loved.
Riley wanted to say …
“Go right ahead and cry.”
… but of course, there would be time for that later, probably in another setting.
Joanna cleared her throat and said, “Reese and I met several months ago at an assisted living facility. Her mother lives there, and so does my dad. It’s been so terrible to see my dad slipping away from me. He doesn’t remember me or my name most of the time anymore. Reese had been going through the same thing with her mother. We just got to talking about it. I’d been feeling so alone about it until I met her.”
A tear trickled down her cheek, and she didn’t bother to wipe it away.
“Unless you knew her … oh, you have no idea how kind and caring and open she was. She was so outgoing and so full of empathy. She made friends simply everywhere. I fell in love with her right away. You see, I’m a writer—fiction and poetry, mostly. I’m afraid I’m not very successful at it—not yet, anyway. Which is why I work here.”
She smiled slightly.
“Yeah, I know the cliché—‘Don’t quit your day job.’ I know better than to do that. But Joanna read my work and said it really touched her. She understood every single word I wrote and just loved it. She was the only person in the world who ever made me believe I could do it—be a writer, I mean. And now …”
An expression of fear started creep over her face again. But Riley sensed that it was a different fear from fear for her life.
It was fear of being alone.
“I don’t know how I’ll go on without her,” Joanna said.
Riley wished she could remember the Oscar Wilde quote Joanna had put on her Facebook page …
Something to do with dreamers.
Joanna was a dreamer, all right. And in Reese Fisher, she had found and lost the only person in her world who had understood her dreams.
Riley fell silent as Bill and Jenn continued to ask Joanna some routine questions. She was quietly amazed by the irony of it all. She remembered the sadness in Chase Fisher’s voice when he’d talked about Reese’s lover—how he’d hoped that she’d found some rich and cultured man …
“Somebody who could take her to art galleries, plays, symphonies, the opera.”
The truth was quite different. Reese’s lover was a struggling woman writer, not some wealthy man. Even so, part of Chase Fisher’s hope for his wife had proven true. She had found somebody who …
“… could really help fill what was missing from her life.”
What would he think if he knew? Riley wondered.
She quickly pushed the question from her mind. It was none of her business, after all.
When Bill and Jenn wrapped up their questions, Joanna asked, “So you really think I’m safe?”
Riley and her colleagues exchanged glances. She sensed that Bill and Jenn felt the same way she did about the question.
What does “safe” even mean?
Of course, an FBI agent’s job was to ensure the safety of people like Joanna.
But who could say what might happen to this woman when she left work tonight, or at any other moment in her life?
No, Riley didn’t think she was in any danger from the railroad killer. But she couldn’t know that for absolute certain.
Besides, the world was full of countless other dangers.
For a moment, Riley flashed back to last night’s dream—of trying to save countless bound women from the inexorable, crushing force of an approaching locomotive.
Her whole life’s work was like that.
Neither she nor Bill nor Jenn were in any position to make promises.
Instead, she handed Joanna her card.
She said, “Please contact me if you feel like you’re in any danger.”
Riley and her colleagues left the restaurant and got on the elevator. On their way down, she asked, “So what do we do now?”
Bill looked at his watch and said, “It’s getting late, and there’s not much else we can do today. Let’s stop by the station and pick up our go-bags and get settled into a hotel of our own. Then we can talk about what to do tomorrow.”
Riley and Jenn agreed.
As they left the elevator and headed out of the building, Riley found herself thinking about what Red Messer had told her about Fern Bruder.
“She seemed like the nicest human being in the world.”
From what Joanna Rohm had said, the same words could be used to describe Reese Fisher. Although Riley was still having trouble profiling the killer, she was starting to get a vivid profile of his victims. And she knew that somewhere, a generous, kind, and vivacious woman had no idea what kind of danger she might be in.
That unstoppable locomotive in her dream was hurtling mercilessly toward her.
And Riley had no way to warn her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The man waited a little while after the train left the station. Then he got up from his seat and walked from one passenger car to another until he got to the café car. Sure enough, there she was, sitting alone at a table, her eyes focused on her smartphone.
She hadn’t noticed him, and he decided not to catch her attention—not just yet.
Instead he stood at the end of the car and looked at her.
Her name was Sally Diehl, and she looked markedly like the other two women—the same slender face, curly brown hair, slight build. It was that resemblance, of course, that had drawn him to her. Her unwariness, too, was somehow seductive. She didn’t yet know that these traits and characteristics marked her for death.
He shuddered at the thought.
<
br /> He felt a strong urge to turn around and make his way back through the cars to his seat.
I won’t do it, he tried to tell himself. Not this time.
But some palpable force, much stronger than his own will, physically restrained him.
And the audible voice that had been saying “soon” since yesterday was whispering …
“It’s time.”
That palpable force gave him a push, and he stumbled into the café car and into Sally’s field of vision.
She looked up with a pretty smile.
“Well—imagine meeting you here!” she said.
She laughed, and he did too. It was a joke, of course. They’d seen each other three times before in this very café car. As far as she knew, it was only a coincidence that they happened to be on the same train from time to time.
He walked over to her table.
“I see you haven’t ordered anything yet,” he said.
“Hadn’t gotten around to it.”
“I’ll go get us something,” he said.
Her eyes twinkled.
“That would be nice, Nash,” she said. “I guess you already know what I want.”
He walked over to the counter and ordered two sandwiches and a couple of cappuccinos. As he stood there waiting, he wondered why he’d told all three women that his name was Nash. What did it matter, really?
But of course, it did matter.
If any of the women were to escape from his grim intentions, he certainly wouldn’t want them to know his real name.
When the sandwiches and cappuccinos were ready, he carried them back to the table and sat down.
“Were you visiting your brother again?” he asked.
Her expression saddened and she nodded. He knew she made these trips between Caruthers and Chicago to visit her younger brother, who was being cared for in a drug treatment center.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
Sally shook her head tiredly.
“Angry this time,” she said. “Trevor wants out of there, says he’s fine, that thirty days is enough time, and he’s ready to get on with his life. I just know that’s not true. He’s not ready. We’ve been through this before. He needs the full sixty days. If he gets out now, he’ll be using again in a couple of weeks.”
She looked into the man’s eyes.
“The truth is—well, this is something I don’t suppose I’d tell just anyone.”
The man was touched that she trusted him.
The other two women had trusted him too, and had felt safe confiding in him. And he’d felt good about that, being able to offer them a sympathetic ear. Poor Fern had been so anxious to tell him about that terrible father of hers, and Reese had longed to talk to someone about the woman she loved in Chicago—someone who would simply listen and not judge her at all.
“I won’t tell another soul,” he said.
Which of course was true.
Sally let out a little gasp of emotion.
“I’m angry too,” she said. “Angry for having to tell him things he doesn’t want to hear, because he doesn’t have the sense to make these decisions for myself. Angry that he resents it and—and hates me for it. Sometimes, anyway. On days like today.”
“Why shouldn’t you be angry?” the man asked.
Sally looked a little surprised at the question.
“Because he’s ill, of course,” she said. “He can’t help it. It’s a disease. And I also feel …”
Her voice faded.
“What?” the man asked.
“Guilty somehow. Guilty that I didn’t wind up the same way. ‘There but the grace of God,’ as they say. Guilty for being … all right, I guess.”
He was rather glad that she was clutching her cappuccino with both hands. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to offer her his own hand for comfort. That would be too much. It would create a bond between them that would hurt him terribly when it finally had to be broken in such a cruel and violent way.
“Survival guilt,” the man said. “It’s only natural. And as for the anger—well, you’ve been saddled with all this responsibility. No one else in your family is willing to lift a finger to help him. The whole thing has fallen on you. You’re a victim of your own compassion.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes a little.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said.
“Take it from me,” he said. “I don’t know anyone else who is so warm and caring and generous.”
He meant it sincerely—although it wasn’t quite the whole truth. He’d known two other women with very similar qualities.
But they were both dead now.
Sally sighed deeply.
She said, “I really appreciate having you to talk to about all this. But … it just doesn’t seem fair. It’s such a one-way street. You’re always hearing about my problems, and you never tell me any of yours.”
The man laughed a little.
“Maybe it’s because I don’t have any problems,” he said.
Sally shook her head.
“No, that’s not true. I can feel it. You’re carrying some kind of awful burden, all the time. You’re just … so sad underneath. You keep too much to yourself. And I wish I could help.”
She winced at her own words.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “When will I learn to mind my own business? That was so out of line!”
“No, it wasn’t,” the man said.
After all, she was absolutely right. He was eaten away inside by guilt and obsessions and impulses far beyond his own control. And he wished he could talk to somebody about it—somebody just like her.
He said, “Maybe someday I’ll tell you.”
He regretted the words the second they were out. It was a lie, of course. He shouldn’t have said it. It was wrong.
It was time to change the subject.
“Tell me what else is going on in your life,” he said.
She started into some familiar topics—her work as a third-grade teacher in Caruthers, Illinois, and how hard it was to be a divorced woman in a small Midwestern town.
Meanwhile, the voice in his head was whispering to him, reminding him of his plans.
She had no idea that he, too, was going to get off the train in Caruthers. She thought he always stayed on the train to Wendover, where he’d told her he lived.
The truth was, he’d secretly followed her off the train the other times they’d met, skillfully avoiding the station’s surveillance cameras, learning her every movement by heart.
He knew what to do, and he knew exactly how to do it.
The voice was saying again and again …
“It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.”
He wished the voice would be quiet.
He only wanted to drink in this woman’s words.
After today, he’d never be able to do that again.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
As Riley and Jenn flagged down a cab in the busy traffic in front of the hotel, Bill looked up at the late afternoon sky that was framed by Chicago’s towering structures. He couldn’t help feeling that it ought to be dark out by now. It had already been a long day—two long days, actually—and he and his colleagues had nothing to show for all their hard work.
And he was tired—more tired than he ought to be.
Why? he wondered.
The case was wearing him down, of course. But he knew that something else was bothering him. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly.
A cab pulled up and they all climbed into it. The cab driver drove them back to Union Station, the solid-looking building squatting among taller ones. The driver waited while they retrieved the go-bags they’d left in the station lockers.
“Where to now?” the driver asked when they got back into the car.
Bill automatically repeated the name of a modestly priced nearby hotel where he and Riley had stayed during previous cases in the Windy City. He was glad that Bull Cullen hadn’t bothered to book a crummy r
oom for them again. This time they could get three simple but comfortable rooms on the FBI’s dime.
After they checked into the hotel and dropped off their go-bags in their rooms, they regrouped in Jenn’s room to discuss the situation. As they sat down together, Bill felt another wave of tiredness. He realized that he was also hungry.
“Let’s order food,” he said. “We haven’t had anything to eat today since snacks on the train.”
“Good idea,” Jenn said. “My brain seriously needs recharging.”
He called room service and ordered hamburgers and soft drinks. As they waited for their food to arrive, Riley phoned Proctor Dillard, the FBI field office chief they’d met with earlier, to check for updates.
Bill could tell from her expression that Dillard had nothing new.
Riley confirmed that lack of progress when she ended the call. “His people still haven’t found any relationship between the two victims, and no indication that anyone had anything personal against them.”
Bill shook his head with discouragement. He was all too familiar with the stagnation that could set in during an investigation. Most cases had periods of tediously picking through theories, discarding some and following up others until something pointed them in the right direction. Or until Riley’s sixth sense picked up on something that was invisible to everybody else. So far, she hadn’t mentioned anything at all about this case kicking in her unusual powers of perception.
He said, “We’d better check in with Coroner Hammond back in Barnwell to find out the results of Reese Fisher’s autopsy.”
Jenn made that call. When it was over, her expression was as lackluster as Riley’s had been. She said, “Nothing new or surprising. Death was instantaneous, of course. Like Fern Bruder before her, she had flunitrazepam in her bloodstream. There were also telltale bruises around her neck.”
Jenn growled slightly and added, “So I guess Cullen was right about how the killer choked both victims before injecting them with a date rape drug. I know it’s petty of me, but I hate it when the son of a bitch is right.”
Their burgers and soft drinks arrived, and the three of them sat down to eat. They also did their best to brainstorm theories and ideas.
