Vinny glances at the paper, squinting at the scribbles on the side of the ticket. "What is that?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me."

  "No idea."

  Not good enough. The killer is trying to say something only a crewmember would know. "Think. I need your help, Vinny."

  "Help?" he says with a shriek. "Sorry, but I’m not a freaking detective. I have no idea what’s going on in his crazy-ass mind, and I don’t give a damn. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph how the hell did I get on the same shift as a serial killer?"

  This isn’t going well at all. "You need to calm down."

  "Calm down? You tell me one of my employees is running around butchering people, and I’m supposed to—what? Keep doing my job like nothing’s wrong?"

  "That’s exactly what I need you to do right now."

  He lets out a growl of frustration, as though Jules is asking him the impossible. And she might be. Not everyone can keep it together in a crisis.

  Looking at Vinny, she realizes he’s about to pop. The guy has a vein throbbing on his forehead, and round beads of sweat roll down his face even though the temperature of his control room is a frigid fifty-three degrees. He’s blowing his cheeks out like a wounded walrus.

  The very last thing she needs is the conductor of the train keeling over. Jules pats his meaty arm. "You’re doing great so far. Hold it together just a little while longer. Can you do that for me?"

  He sucks in a breath, nodding. "I won’t do it for you."

  "There he is," she drawls, turning away from him.

  An employee waits for her when she exits the conductor’s car. Herb steps forward, looking anxious. "How can I help?"

  Finally, someone with a backbone. She notices the rest of the crew seems checked out of the situation. Either they don’t care, or they’ve got something to hide.

  Jules tucks the clunky ear-container under her arm and shifts the two tickets between her fingers. Damn, did she smudge the ink? No, it’s still just a jumble of scribbles. They slide over one another, the teeth-like edges forming boxes.

  "Wait a second. Is that what I think it is?"

  She lines up the writings on each ticket so that they join to form four long columns and several rows of boxes. There’s a puncture through one of them, looking suspiciously like an x.

  "That's a map of the train." Herb leans over, pointing at it with his pinkie. "See those? They’re seats. That’s car two, where Brandon was. He's marked here."

  Her eyes burn as she squints at the etched boxes. Row 8. Seat A. "You’re right."

  They scour the drawing, searching for more marks, and then Jules stabs at one in the upper right-hand corner of the makeshift map. "What is that?"

  "Looks like a bathroom. Car four."

  Another body?

  She opens the lid of the plastic container and drops the tickets inside. After a thought, she returns to Vinny’s compartment and slides the container near his feet.

  "Keep the ear safe."

  "You’re not leaving that thing here with me! Hey!"

  The swinging door shuts out the rest of Vinny’s protests as she charges down the hall, Herb following her close behind.

  "Do you think he’s waiting for you?" he asks, anxious.

  "Probably sprinkling more breadcrumbs, but I’m not taking any chances." Her service revolver is attached to her hip. She draws it out now, and several passengers scream, leaping out of the way.

  The bathroom in the fourth car might be where he’s keeping the hostage. He might have another body part to taunt her with, or he might simply be there, waiting for her to show up.

  The bartender in the third car lifts his arms when she enters, gun drawn. "Everything all right, Detective?"

  She ignores him and proceeds to the next one, stopping before she reaches the door. "Herb, I need you to stay behind."

  The young man protests. "But I want to help."

  "Someone has to secure the perimeter. No one in or out. Understand?"

  "Fine," he says sulkily.

  Jules watches him go with a bounce of his light curls and smiles to herself when he stands with his back against the glass, arms crossed against the passengers attempting to peek at what’s going on. That kid has more cajones than the whole crew.

  "All right, everyone! Hands up where I can see them!"

  They yell when they see the gun pointed in their direction. With her left hand, Jules holds her badge out. Jules watches in disgust as one man throws his wife in front of him as a shield.

  "What the hell are you doing?" the woman roars.

  Sheepish, the man looks at her with a look that says, Oh crap. "Sorry, honey. I panicked."

  "How dare you!"

  Jules slides her gaze from the bickering couple to the wide-eyed passengers, their hands held up high. She points toward the men’s bathroom. "Has anyone been inside?"

  "No."

  She wheels around. A college-aged boy flinches at the gun.

  "It’s broken. No one can get the door to work."

  "Did someone use it before it got busted?"

  He shrugs. "Maybe, yeah. I think some people used it."

  "Anyone with a big suitcase?"

  "I’m not sure."

  Of course not.

  Sighing, she faces the bathroom. At first glance, it looks natural. The red Occupied sign is lit. When she squeezes the handle, it sticks. She’ll have to bust the door down.

  "Everyone give me some room!"

  They back up like frightened cattle as she holsters her gun. The door groans as she rests her foot against it. Testing its strength, she applies more pressure. Something jams in the lock. She kicks, and it rattles. An inexperienced cop might be tempted to ram their body into the door, but she knows that’s a good way to get a dislocated shoulder.

  Lifting her leg, she gives it a more robust kick. It refuses to budge. Damn her five-foot-six frame. It will be impossible to make this damn—door—open!

  The series of kicks echoes in deafening bangs, and people scream as though she’s firing her weapon into the crowd. Ignoring them, she bashes the door. Bits of plastic fly everywhere as she keeps launching herself at it, and then a good chunk rips off the side. The door swings inward, revealing a lake of red.

  The smell of iron hits her nose, and she’s transported back to her college years when she took a tour through the university’s slaughterhouse. There was no red lining the stainless steel walls and floor, but the smell saturated the air so thickly she could almost taste it. The stench clenches her guts, the nausea made worse because the blood is human.

  High-pitched screams pierce Jules’ eardrums as people glance inside the gore-splattered bathroom. A dark red pool covers the entire floor and sink, where there are bits of flesh clinging to the faucet. Ignoring the horrible seizing in her stomach, she leans over and looks down the drain. It’s blocked with clotted, dark-red chunks. The drops of water on the sides suggest the killer made a piss-poor attempt to clean up that was promptly abandoned. Bright fingerprints smear all over the porcelain and walls. Soaked dishrags lay in a pile with footprints of the man’s shoe—easily over a size ten in men’s. Waves of blood follow a circular motion, as though the killer laid a rag flat and moved it around with his foot. Then it looks like he concentrated instead on clearing a splatter-free space near the door so he could wipe himself down. There’s not enough here to fill a body. It’s possible he decapitated the corpse to empty it out, and then sawed through the rest of the limbs on the floor. This isn’t where he murdered the first victim. It’s where he cut him into bits.

  He even left her a macabre souvenir. Another turn brings acid into her mouth when she notices the discarded finger.

  "Sick! This is—oh my God!" The scream is followed by gagging and a wet sound that does nothing to settle Jules’ stomach.

  Shaking, she pulls out her cell phone and takes photos of the scene, doing her best not to touch anything. Using her jacket, she closes the door to the obscene sight and faces the hysterical passengers.

  The horror in the bathroom runs down her spine like a cold digit, and for the first time in her career, Jules doesn’t know what to do. The bullet-points of police procedure run through her head in a tidy list. She opens her mouth. Freezes.

  A man shouts at her. "Do something!"

  Her frozen limbs move a fraction of an inch, and then the speakers overhead blare with the killer’s warped voice.

  "How do you like my present, Julia?"

  The taunt kindles a fire in Jules' chest. White-hot rage floods her veins as she leaves the crime scene, searching for anyone with a speaker held to his lips. The passengers jump out of the way as she surges through the aisle. "Where the hell is he? Everybody, hands up!"

  Jules is certain he’s in a car close to her. Every incident so far has been in the first four. Gun drawn, she proceeds to the third as the voice continues. Herb opens the door and follows her silently.

  "This is a message to you—and my father."

  What the hell?

  "Detective, you’ve seen what I’m capable of. I have a hostage, and I will not hesitate to kill her if the train is stopped."

  Her? So his hostage is a woman? Cursing, she moves down the third car. "Hands up!" There are only a few people in the bar car, two passengers seated at a round table. They have nothing. She does a quick scan behind the bar; there’s no one there.

  "Drop your allegiance to my father. I give you this warning once, and once only. Stop doing his bidding, or I’ll be forced to attack you. Have a pleasant day."

  The speakers crackle as he abruptly ends the conversation, and Jules realizes she’s lost her chance to find him.

  "Shit!"

  The door bursts open, and Jules raises her gun. Hicks stops on a dime, his hands in the air. "Did you hear?"

  "Of course I did." She holsters her weapon, irritated. "Get to car four and secure the crime scene. It’s in the men’s bathroom."

  "On it."

  He brushes past her, and Jules twists halfway to watch with suspicious as he races down the aisle.

  No time.

  She plows forward. The killer might’ve dropped the speaker, but he could be in the first two cars.

  A frantic buzzing in her purse makes her swear out loud. She dives her hand inside, pulling out her phone. It’s Whitlock with a text: We have a suspect. He’s an employee, and his name is Jacob Parker. Probably goes by an alias. Several priors. Sending image.

  Good God. The message was sent twenty minutes ago, but she just got the notification. And there’s no image attachment. Jules finds Whitlock’s number and hits the call button. A robot speaks into her ear: “We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

  She looks at the little phrase in the upper left-hand corner--NO SERVICE--and almost throws the damn thing against the wall. What’s the use of 4G when it doesn’t work in an emergency? Useless. She stows it away, fuming.

  "Detective?" Herb says lightly. "Ah, I couldn’t help but read your phone, and I don’t know any Jacob Parker."

  She forgot all about Herb. "Not even a Jake?"

  "Nope. Sorry."

  Great, so she has his name but no photo. "What about anyone with a criminal record?"

  "I wouldn’t know about that. It’s not something management is allowed to share with other employees. Um, what was that about your allegiance to his father?"

  Jules wondered about that, too. What the hell did that mean? Could the killer be related to someone she works with or was his nonsensical babbling just that—nonsense?

  "Okay. I need to round up all the employees and interview them."

  "I can help you do that."

  They both squeeze into the second car, Herb looking pale beside her. "Sorry," she blurts. "This probably wasn’t what you had in mind for work."

  "Are you kidding? I haven’t had this much excitement since The Force Awakens."

  "That makes me worry about you, Herb."

  He shrugs. "It’s not every day you’re asked to help take down a serial killer."

  Jules doesn’t point out that she never told him to do that, but what the hell? Let the kid believe what he wants.

  Her shoulders tense when she sees a movement to the right—a man leaning out of an open door. The cold gusts into the cramped space, chilling her to the bone. Something white swings from his hand to fly outside. Then he straightens, Jules recognizing the dark blue uniform.

  "Freeze! Hold your hands up and don’t move!"

  His back stiffens as she barks out the order. An older man’s profile slides into view. Long, straight nose and thick hair. He looks to be in his forties. There’s a good chance he’s just doing his job, but the carnage in the bathroom has her on edge. Her senses are off, every nerve sending fear to her heart in hot, steady pulses. Anyone could be him.

  "Is there a problem, Officer?"

  "Don’t fucking move!"

  "I need to close this," he says, finger hovering over a button. "Then I’ll turn around."

  The door hisses shut, and he turns the key inserted in the side, stowing it in his pocket.

  "Stay put. I’m going to search you."

  "All right."

  He seems compliant enough as she pats down his arms and waist, smoothing her palms over his slacks. Nothing.

  "Turn around."

  The man obeys, hands held in the air. They’re trembling slightly, and his dark eyes focus on the wall above her head.

  "What’s your name?"

  "Tony." He gives Herb a nervous glance.

  She fires out another question. "What were you doing just now?"

  "My job, ma’am."

  Herb crosses his arms. "You didn’t need to open that door."

  The man laughs, a strange sound. "Oh, come on. I’ve been working on trains for ten years. You’re going to believe this kid?"

  "You were throwing something outside the train. Don’t deny it!"

  He smiles, hands held up in a placating gesture. "All right. I’m a goddamn litterbug. Will you shoot me for that?"

  "Hey, is that blood?"

  The man glances down, but he can’t see the red flecks stark against his neck. "I don’t know. Maybe. I shaved this morning."

  "It looks fresh to me."

  Understanding dawns on his face. "You think I might be that psycho on the PA?"

  "I didn’t say that."

  Angry, he turns to Herb. "Back me up, asshole! I cover your shifts, don’t I?"

  "Fine, yeah. Detective, I don’t believe Tony would hurt a fly."

  Jules doesn’t tear her gaze away from him. "It’s not up to Herb to pass judgment, though. That’s my job."

  "I’m not losing my job over a plastic bag!" he snarls.

  Although Jules doesn’t have a problem writing citations for littering, she couldn’t care less about the damn bag right now. "Follow me, sir."

  "Where?"

  "If I were you, I’d drop the nasty attitude." She stares him down until the bright fury in his eyes dims to a smolder. "Start walking toward car three."

  Last she checked, it was one of the quieter cars, and she has a feeling Tony will be an easy nut to crack. He’s too easily goaded.

  Tony’s wide shoulders move like a boulder as he walks down the aisle, Jules a step behind him. Her fingers don’t stray far from her gun.

  A loud chime pierces the air, and Jules reaches in her purse to see a text blazing on the screen: Can’t send photo. Missing girl found at Jacob’s apartment with an IED. It’s possible he has the trigger. Find and disarm him.

  Chapter 14

  1:02 PM – LA Express

  Once she finishes reading the text, Jules realizes two things. One, the killer has a remote-controlled IED. Two, the hostage isn’t on the train

  The first realization is enough to send her blood pressure sky high. Nothing in her career comes close to this train wreck. Could this get any crazier?

  Of course, it could. She shuts down that thought.

  Tony doesn’t have the trigger to the IED on him. Of that, she’s certain. She knows enough about IEDs to know the trigger could be small. From this distance, a cell phone is a safe bet. Tony has nothing on him, but she needs to be careful. This is a man who has stayed a step ahead of her the entire time. Assuming the killer is Tony—if it’s not then she’s being watched.

  The bar car is ideal for conversations. It’s quiet, deserted, and tight. Similar to interrogation rooms, but not quite private enough. Herb shuts the door behind them, folding his arms across his chest like a bodyguard. Tony rolls his eyes at the young man before throwing himself into a chair. Perhaps she should send Herb out, but Jules wants him with her. Just in case she needs to send for help.

  "Water?"

  A vein throbs hard in her neck as the pale-eyed bartender turns to her with a glass. She accepts it and downs it in one gulp. "Thanks."

  He refills, and she takes the drink with her to the table where Tony sits. Green, rolling hills slide past as she looks out the window behind him.

  "You’re wasting your time with me, Detective," Tony drawls.

  Everyone sounds like Meryl Streep when their ass is on the line. "Why’s that?"

  "Because I didn’t do anything."

  "You admitted to throwing trash out the door. What am I supposed to think when that’s how the killer is disposing of his victims?"

  He flinches, horrified. "Jesus."

  "I need the truth, Tony."

  "It was garbage! You can stop the train and find it a few miles back, but there won’t be a fucking head."

  "Watch your mow—mouth." Great, now she can’t even speak. She rubs circles in her throbbing temples, wishing she’d asked the bartender for a Coke instead. This isn’t her fault. Two days with spotty sleep. It’s a miracle she didn’t pass out the moment she sat down.

  "How long have you been working for ACT?"

  "Ten years. And I’ve never had a problem."

  She looks at Herb to confirm, but he shrugs. "I wouldn’t know."