by Dancer, Jack
When she looks up and sees that Monica, and I are both stunned speechless she blushes and says, “Forgive me. I am traveling with colleagues. I asked them to retrieve the camera from the photographer. I can tell you from standing out there myself that the scene in here was unique to say the least. Not something you see everyday on a train. At least not on this route,” she snickers.
“Oh, my God,” Monica says, “those photos could be on the Internet by tonight.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I say.
“Not just Jesus, Tucker. Al,” Monica says.
“And Ebba,” I say.
“Screw Ebba. You're not married to her,” Monica says.
“Right. But, still.”
“Still nothing, Tucker. Ebba doesn't mean squat here.”
“No, you're right.” You obviously don't know Ebba. This won't be good. In fact, it's bad already; I'm thinking. “But you're not married to Al, either I thought.”
“I told you, Tucker, we're divorcing, and this is just something else he'll try to use against me, don't you see? Bad mother, all that.”
“Maybe I can help,” chimes in the little woman.
We both turn, “How?”
“I'm not sure exactly. Let me think about it.”
“Exactly who are you anyway?” I ask the little woman.
“My name is Doctor Libica. Doctor Drusilla Libica.”
“I had a hunch you were a doctor. That's why the conductor stood down and left,” I say.
“That's correct Mister?”
“Tucker Blue, and this is Monica Reyes,” I say.
“Well, Mr. Blue . . .” She starts to say.
“Tucker, please. I think you now know us intimately enough to call us by our first names.”
“Okay, Tucker. As for your question, I'm not entirely sure how I might help. I need to give this some thought. I do have some influence with the Perpignan police, and though I can't promise anything . . . Let me think about it. In the meantime, I have a private compartment at the other end of the car. It might be best if you two were to go and remain there until I can work this out.”
“Okay.” Turning to Monica. “That'll at least give us some time, so we can figure out what we should do.”
“Alright,” she says reluctantly. “But, I also don't want to do anything that would end up causing us even more trouble.”
“I'm not sure how much more trouble we could have right now. Why? What’re you thinking?”
“I don't know. I just don't want to do anything illegal is all,” she says.
“Dear, do not fret about that. I am not suggesting you do anything illegal because I would not be a party to such a thing. I have a reputation,” the good doctor says.
“I'm sorry doctor. I'm not suggesting . . .” She says flustered, “I'm just concerned that . . . well; we're Americans, and we know nothing about how this sort of thing is handled in France. I just don't want to do something that might cause us any extraordinary trouble. If we knew better I mean. That is, if we were French citizens, we'd know not to do. Do you see what I mean? I'm not being clear. I'm sorry. It's all just so unclear to me,” Monica pleads.
“Do not worry dear. This is all just a simple formality with the Perpignan police. It shouldn't be a problem.
Boy, has her toned changed, I'm thinking.
“This man simply had a heart attack. No one caused it, and no one is to blame. It is something that happens. I'm a doctor. I can provide them with all the answers they'll need. Frankly, I don't see any reason you two need to be involved at all. You had nothing to do with it. The man apparently seized during the second lurch of the train, lost his balance, and fell through your cabin door. There's really nothing more to it and no reason for an inquiry. That's what I'll tell the Perpignan police, and I'm sure they'll take my word for it,” she says confidently.
“But, what about this being a big story and all? How are we going to keep this out of the newspaper? Won't they insist on talking with us?” I ask.
“Let me handle that dear,” she says patting my arm and pulling out her cell again, “Let me call my colleagues. They're in my compartment. I'll have them clear the aisle outside and escort the two of you to my compartment. You can stay there while I speak with the authorities - like I said; I have contacts. I'll stay here in your compartment with Mr. Whatshisname there,” nodding at the prostrate body on the floor, “until we arrive in Perpignan. Actually, for you two it's a simple stopover but for my colleagues and me, Perpignan is our destination. It is our home and if I'm successful, it may be that we simply depart at Perpignan, and you continue on to . . .”
“Barcelona,” I say.
“Barcelona, and you'll never even have to speak with the police at all. I’ll tell them the whole story, and that you are very upset, and you need not be further engaged,” she says.
“Not further engaged. I like that.”
“So do I,” says Monica.
“Good. By the way, where will you be staying in Barcelona?”
“At the Fira Palace,” I answer.
“I'm surprised you didn't fly to Barcelona then. I know the Fira. It's a favored hotel for flight crews of airlines.”
“We did fly into London . . .”
“But we decided to take the train instead,” Monica interrupts. “You know, to see the countryside.”
“I see. So, you're not with a flight crew?”
“Actually, we are . . . well, we were supposed to be traveling with our friends who're part of the flight crew coming over, but we couldn't make the flight . . .” I say.
“Companion passes,” she says, “you're flying companion passes. Or at least, you were.”
“How'd you know?” Monica asks.
“I was married to a pilot in another lifetime.”
“Oh. That explains it,” Monica says.
“Yes. Well. While you two get your bags together, I'll call my colleagues and have them come over and escort you to my compartment,” she says dialing up her cell phone.
We didn't have to be told twice. We got our bags and began putting them back together, though there wasn't much to put together since almost nothing had been taken apart. We were both back in the same clothes we were wearing before the fateful shower. Monica goes back into the bathroom and collects the few things she'd taken in there. As for me, I hadn't taken anything apart though when I step over to collect my bag, I notice a newspaper lying beside it. Thinking nothing of it, I stuff it into my bag for something to read later, zip the bag and look up to see Monica watching me. She’s scared, and I can’t blame her. I give her a smile then go over and sit beside her and hold her hand until our escorts arrive.
A voice breaks over a crackling intercom, “Excussm mio massures, and madams. Please take your seats while we get underway. Thank you.”
“That's it,” I say. “That's all he has to say after throwing us from one end of the train to the other?”
So, here we are waiting. A dead guy at our feet and a woman we don't know from Adam standing with her back to us nonchalantly talking into her cell phone in hushed French. Our savior. Thank you Jesus for good Samaritans.
Leaning over to Monica, I whisper in her ear, “Just think; we've still got two hours between Perpignan and Portbou.” She looks at me, and I give her a wink.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“But we got interrupted,” I smile my best smile.
“There's a dead guy,” she nods to the body on the floor, “you wanna make it two?”
“I was just kidding.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Okay,” I admit. “But, you know honey, (there, I've made us an even closer couple, and I see she's taken notice) there's something about all this that doesn't seem quite right.”
“You think?”.
“No, I mean there's one, kind of a big thing, that I'm curious about with all this,” I whisper.
“And what's that?”
“Why's she doing this for us?”
“Why d
on't you ask her?”
“Because I'm thinking I might not want to know.”
***
The Raven.
Text Message: Subject Paulo Marti boarded train at Carcassonne 11:41 in route to final destination, Barcelona. Subject traveling alone, photo attached.
After reading the text message from Jacques the Raven pulls up the attached photo, studies it and smiles to herself.
“This is it,” she calls to the boys, “take a good look, and burn this man's face into your puny little minds. Now find him and herd him this way. Tiber you start from that end of the train and Drusus; you start from the other. We'll meet in the middle and force him into our compartment.”
“Why are we doing this again, Mama?” asks Tiber.
“I'll tell you once we have him in the compartment, and I expect to have him in there before we reach Narbonne, understand?”
“Yes, Mama,” the boys say in unison, and they leave in search of Paulo Marti while the Raven moves to the next car where their compartment is located. On the way, passing between cars, she comes upon a man standing on the platform smoking a cigarette. Without so much as a howdy-do, she catches him by surprise and pushes him off the train. His head smashes onto a railroad tie, and he expires somewhere between Carcassonne and Narbonne. Smiling to herself for that little relief of tension that's been building up, she walks into the next car until she reaches the compartment and takes a seat outside to wait for Paulo Marti.
Marti's standing at the rear of the car reading a newspaper when Tiber spots him. He pulls his cell phone and dials Drusus.
“Got him. Will be walking him your way momentarily.”
Marti watches Tiber approaching out of the corner of his eye and signals Rakim, who is standing at the opposite end. Rakim raises his camera and snaps off a couple of shots as Tiber and Marti make friendly eye contact. Tiber then turns, and standing behind Marti, presses a pistol into the man's back, whispering, “walk to the other end, quietly, and you'll live.” Marti folds the newspaper and walks with Tiber attached to his back. When they pass Rakim, the cameraman falls in a few steps behind. The train has now come to a stop at the Narbonne station, and passengers, departing and arriving, are crowding the aisles slowing their progress.
When the aisles begin to clear they pick up the pace, and before long they've made it through three cars. When they have the Raven within sight, without warning, the train lurches forward bringing yelps and cries as some people who are standing fall into the nearest seats and in some cases on top of each other. Marti is thrown backwards into Tiber, pressing him into the car's rear door. But Tiber grabs Marti and shoves his pistol into the man's back. “Keep steady,” he says. When Marti finds his footing and the train settles; Tiber nudges him forward.
Meanwhile, the Raven has climbed onto a seat and is holding fast to the overhead rack, as though she's putting luggage away. When Marti and Tiber come even with her, Tiber pulls Marti to a stop, and the Raven turns with a coat in hand, and as if losing her balance, grabs Marti by the shoulders to catch herself and with sleight of hand stabs him in the neck with a hypodermic needle. He yelps shrugging the Raven off and staggers down the car's aisle holding the newspaper in one hand and pulling at the back of his neck with his other.
When the train lurches a second-time Marti loses his balance and crashes through the door of a private compartment. The last thing he sees, as his legs are turning to rope, is a naked woman sprawled across the compartment's floor. His mind screams MOVE but his tongue does not obey, and he drops on top of her as if someone has pulled his legs out from under him. He never felt the fall, but he clearly heard the oof of breath leaving the woman’s lungs.
twelve
12:00 Hours, Monday, 1 September.
Training Toward Perpignan.
When the knock on the compartment door came, the good doctor nods for me to unlock it. I do and in walks, without so much as a word, two identical young men. Yep, twins. Weird.
Just who these two “colleagues” are, and exactly what their relationship is to the good doctor, who knows. From the moment, she'd ended her phone call to them and their knock on our door; we didn't have time to ask Doctor Libica much of anything. We had plenty of questions but under the circumstances, we were more anxious to just get the hell out of this cabin. Then the thought crosses my mind that I should shoot a couple of photos of these Good Samaritans as part of my photo record of the trip. I would've used my camera, but they didn't strike me as the kind who'd stand for a group photo, so instead, I used my Stealth Pen and got off a couple of shots.
We thanked the good Doctor Libica for all her help then left with the twins - one in front leading and the other taking up the rear and locking the door behind us.
It was all done very quickly and efficiently, without a word exchanged. Obviously, the good doctor had given them clear instructions over the phone, and they were professional because our relocation was executed with near military precision. Even the passageway was cleared ahead of time, so no one saw our move. That was suspicious enough considering all the gawkers that had been clustering around earlier. Surely, they didn't lose their curiosity that quickly. And these guys didn't even flinch when they saw the dead guy lying on the floor. It was all very curious.
Our new quarters, unlike our previous compartment, came with four seats, two facing two and no bathroom. Monica and I took two side-by-side and our watchers or whoever they were, took the seats opposite. These guys were in their mid-to-late twenties, both well groomed, both good-looking enough, and both in good shape. Except for their clothes, you couldn't tell ‘em apart. Identical right down to the green dragon tattoos on their necks.
No one says anything. The mood is tense, like standing on glass. Enough of this bullshit.
“Hey, thanks guys we really appreciate it,” I say trying to loosen things up a bit.
“I'm so happy to be out of there,” Monica adds.
They say nothing. Don't even crack a smile.
“So, you're both with Doctor Libica,” I say.
“No spake Inglas,” snapped one.
Monica and I trade glances. We have concerns.
When the train begins decelerating and the intercom announces, “Prochain arrêt, Gare de Perpignan,” one guy turns to the other and says something in a language that sounds like a mix of French and Spanish. When the train comes into the stations both stand in lockstep. One reaches over and unlocks the compartment door then steps into the corridor. The other follows. We stay put. The first sticks his head back inside and says, “You lock and stay,” then tosses me the key and closes the door. I jump up and promptly lock the door behind him before turning back to Monica.
“Uh, oh.”
“So, what should we do?” she asks.
“Let’s go meet the cops and tell ‘em the old lady and the two jerkoffs did the guy in then shoved him through the door into our compartment where he fell on you and we’re suing them, the train and the city of Perpignan, maybe even France. We’ll tell ‘em, ask the conductor if the old woman isn’t a bitch. Bet he’d love to throw her to the dogs.”
“Jesus Tucker! You’re nuts. So what do you think we should do, really?”
“Got me,” I say, thinking, “On one hand, I think we should just give ourselves up to the authorities . . .”
“But, we didn't DO anything,” she says.
“I know. Okay, maybe not give ourselves up; maybe just try not to look like we're intentionally avoiding the authorities. That'll only make us look suspicious. Like we did something wrong, which we didn't.”
“And hiding out in this other compartment's gonna make us look like we're not avoiding the authorities?” she says.
“Hey, we're just following directions. She's the doctor.”
“Oh, please.”
“Yeah, I know. But look, if she can deflect this whole thing, if she does have the influence, she claims to have, I wouldn't mind at all having nothing more to do with any of this. I'd much prefer to walk aw
ay and let her take care of it - which is what I heard her say she'd do. That'd be fine by me as long as it doesn't come back to bite us on the you-know-what later,” I say.
“I'd like to have nothing more to do with any of this too. But, Doctor Libica spooks the hell out of me. And those two 'colleagues' (fingers quote) of hers? Were they weird or what?”
“Very weird. I don't know what they were. Military maybe? Paramilitary?”
“Or gangsters.” she says.
“Maybe. And what's with the green dragon tattoos?”
“I know. That was strange wasn't it? Maybe they're part of a gang or something.”
“Could be. I'm pretty sure they weren't nurses,” I say looking thoughtful.
“Criminies, Tucker do you ever stop joking? This is serious,” she says.
“They didn't have the right shoes,” I go on.
“You're unbelievable, you know that?”
“It's my way of coping.”
“Oh. Well, I can see that. I suppose it's as good as any and probably better than most. I'll give you that,” she says.
“I laughed at my grandfather's funeral too.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I was around eight at the time. I was in line passing his open coffin, and when I looked at him, I just started laughing. I don't mean giggling or snickering. I mean I started laughing out loud, and I couldn't stop. My aunt Bert was standing behind me, and she bent down and hugged me and told me it was all right. And he was her father. Can you believe that? I felt like such a schmuck for doing that. I've never forgotten it. My aunt told me it was my way of coping with it. God, I loved that woman. She had the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known.
And that wasn't the last time I did that either. I did it again when I was in Junior High and saw a friend of mine lying in a coffin the same way. He'd been killed after falling off the back of a moving truck. I was so embarrassed I ran out of the funeral home.”
