A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (5 page)

There was a knock at the door, prompting Celia to exclaim in relief, “Here he is.”

But the person at the door was Faye Glass, the twins’ aunt. A rotund woman with marble-white skin, except where it was dark under her eyes, she was wearing a skirt that had been unstitched and restitched many times to accommodate weight loss and gain, and a pink cardigan that she loathed the look of but that felt nice. Today her beautiful straight hair was coiled like a resting snake atop her head. She wore an expression of anger and urgency.

“You’ve seen the news, Aunt Celia?”

They hadn’t switched on a TV all day, having been too busy packing the boys’ belongings.

“You haven’t,” said Faye, seeing the boys were all ready to leave. “I’d better come in.”

Billy and Tom were sent upstairs, confused. They played with identical teddy bears Will had bought them. Inside were recording devices. Pulling the string on the bears’ backs activated the device. Pull it again, and the bear would play back the message.

Tom recorded a message. “Is something bad happening?”

Moments later, Billy’s bear said, “Has our new daddy had an accident?”

“Why did he do this?” asked Celia in a hushed tone to Faye and Robert. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“We don’t know him well enough to know what makes sense.” Robert’s sharp mind was working fast. “Suspect, not murderer?”

Faye nodded. “That’s how the networks are describing him.”

“At the behest of the police.” Robert wanted to calm down. “He’s on the run?”

“Yes.”

“Suggests culpability.”

“Or fear.” Faye was as sharp as her uncle. “He’s running because he has no choice.”

“He told us he was once connected to the military. Do you think the murder is something to do with his past?”

Faye replied, “I don’t know. So far no one does.”

Celia sensed confrontation. “We know
what
has happened. We don’t know
why
it’s happened. But we do know we have to pick up the pieces.”

Robert waved his hand dismissively. “Why hasn’t he called us?”

“Why would he?” Celia was the smartest of the family.

Robert snapped, “To tell us he can’t be a father to the twins because he’s gone crazy and killed a woman! We need to keep this from the boys for as long as possible.” Robert placed his arms on Faye. “Faye, my love, can you come and stay with us for a while?”

“Why?”

“Because it may well be you’re the only one young enough to look after the boys. But I know you can’t do that alone. We have to pull together now, until we find out what we’re dealing with.”

I
’d been watching Amtrak’s neoclassical Philly station for fifteen minutes, looking for signs that law enforcement were all over the place. There was nothing unusual, but I could tell from the number of people entering and exiting the place that the station was jammed with commuters. And I had to go in there to find out the time of the next train south and to buy a ticket. Doing that was immensely risky.

But I had no choice.

I entered the vast hall. It was a modern interpretation of how stations looked in the nineteenth century. Big lights resembling lanterns were hanging from the ceiling. The walls on either side of the wide marble concourse must have been at least thirty feet high and were covered with massive windows that were letting in feeble gray light from the rainy sky. Symmetrical benches were on either side of the hall. Men, women, and kids lounged on the seats. And in the center of the concourse people were moving.

I estimated there were at least 320 people in here.

On the plus side, some of them would be preoccupied with their travel arrangements.

On the minus side, others would be bored while waiting. Many of them would be people watching.

With my head low, I walked alongside a wall. All the training in the world doesn’t give you the ability to turn invisible, so this was all I could do. Stay away from the center of the hall, avoid eye contact with anyone, and take a chance.

I purchased my ticket. The next train south was due in thirty-three minutes.

I walked casually to the platform to wait.

Half an hour to wait? Jeez.

I felt like everyone was looking at me.

And there was nothing I could do about that.

P
ainter and Kopa
ń
ski arrived in Philly, together with their two uniformed NYPD escorts. Their vehicles screeched to a halt in the parking lot of the Philadelphia Police Department headquarters on Race Street. They’d made the journey in sixty-seven minutes.

Captain O’Shea met them in the lot and ignored the pleasantries. “I’ve put extra uniforms on the streets. But I can’t afford a shootout. The governor’s in town to commend my men on their anticrime work. It’s being televised. A gun battle is the last thing I need.”

Kopa
ń
ski said, “We want to capture Cochrane quietly.”

“What’s his plan?”

“We’ve no idea. In all probability he hasn’t got one.”

“Coming here was random?”

“Looks that way.” Kopa
ń
ski wondered how the senior district commander was going to react to what he was about to say. “Detective Painter and I have been given authority to operate in other states on this case. But we’re not here to throw our weight around.”

O’Shea eyed Kopa
ń
ski. “Just as well. But you want to get him quiet?”

“Yes.”

The captain’s cell rang. He listened to the caller, hung up, and said to the detectives, “He’s just been sighted on a platform in Thirtieth Street Station. Next train in’s headed to Baltimore. I can flood the place with uniforms.”

Both detectives recalled what Knox had said about everyone dying if Cochrane opened fire.

Painter said, “You don’t want a serious situation today. Plus, the station has too many exits. Cochrane will probably escape if he sees uniforms. Let me and Kopa
ń
ski deal with this. But if we can borrow three of your officers, that would be useful. When’s the train due to arrive?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

I
boarded the train. My gut was in knots of anxiety. I felt like I was on a covert job.

I had to put fear to one side. My absolute priority was staying alive. I knew that if the shit hit the fan, I’d stop anyone who tried to capture me. That wasn’t bravado. It was what I’d been trained to do. For some reason, I was exceptionally good at it.

That was no consolation. If I went up against Philly PD, I’d win the battle but not the war.

And it was highly probable they knew I’d just gotten on the train.

T
he two NYPD squad cars and Kopa
ń
ski’s unmarked car stopped outside 30th Street Station. Inside each car was an officer from Philly PD.

Kopa
ń
ski said to the Philly cop in his car, “You and your colleagues use our cars to parallel the Amtrak route.” He tapped the radio set he’d been loaned by O’Shea. “I’ll let you know any updates.”

He, Painter, and the NYPD cops entered the station.

T
he train had been moving for ten minutes.

Windows in the train car were steamy because of the cold air outside. I was exhausted, yet alert. I stood in the aisle; the car was packed due to the cancellation of a previous train. Passengers were irritable, swaying with each movement of the train. Most of them were likely fantasizing about getting back to their homes for dinner.

My back hurt, and my stomach muscles felt like a rolling pin was being moved over them.

Every smell hit my nostrils—musk, a man wearing too much Dior Sauvage eau de toilette, the stench of saccharine candy, and vomit from a child who’d overindulged in Philly’s finest cheesesteak. Most people were silent or talking in whispers. But a huge woman with a shock of frizzy hair was louder, berating her husband about the stupidity of going to Philly in this weather. I listened to everything around me, in case someone said, “That guy over there—doesn’t he look like the man on the news?”

But people didn’t notice me. They were consumed by their own thoughts. For now, I was anonymous.

My train ticket was to Roanoke, Virginia; from there I’d travel twenty miles to see the twins, the Granges, and Faye Glass. By now, they’d know I was a wanted man. They deserved to hear from me that I was innocent, but I had to stay on the run to clear my name and find out who was the real culprit. Then, I would return to them and take the boys to their new home. In the meantime, I had to make sure they were okay. The Granges’ age worried me; so too did Faye Glass’s state of mind. Almost certainly she had PTSD thrown into the mix of grief. After all, this was a woman who had discovered her murdered sister’s body.

I tensed. Something was happening at the head of the car, though I couldn’t see what. Two men were speaking, their voices authoritative yet unclear in the clatter of the train. Passengers were trying to move, as if to make space for the men, though it was a devil of a job given the crammed conditions. Then I saw them—a uniformed cop and a tall man who was undoubtedly a plainclothes detective. They were issuing commands to passengers, looking at the faces of males, talking to them before moving on.

I turned and pushed my way toward the other end of the car, muttering in an American accent that I needed the bathroom. People were cursing at me in annoyance. I entered the next car, desperately trying to recall what time the train arrived at the next stop and whether I’d have time to jump off there before the cops behind me completed their search. Whether the presence of the police on the train was random or connected to a reported sighting of me didn’t matter.

I just couldn’t allow them to get anywhere near me.

K
opa
ń
ski moved as quickly as the packed train would allow him to, the NYPD uniformed officer by his side. They’d reached the station with only minutes to spare to board the train from the crowded platform where the man resembling Cochrane had been seen.

Painter’s decision not to send Philly cops to 30th Street Station had been justified by what the detectives had seen when they arrived at the Amtrak hub. The crowds there and the number of exits would have probably resulted in Cochrane vanishing if they’d swamped the zone with uniforms. But the train was a closed environment. If Cochrane was on here, Kopa
ń
ski would find him. He moved onward, his hand close to his gun.

I
kept my head bowed low as I squeezed my way between passengers in the next car. But then I stopped dead, as if I’d been poleaxed.

Ahead of me were another uniformed officer and a female detective.

T
hyme Painter studied the faces of every man around her. She and her uniformed colleague had started at the rear of the train, Joe and his colleague the front. She was getting toward the center of the train and knew that Joe would be doing the same from the other direction. She grabbed the uniformed officer’s arm, twisting him away from the man he was talking to. The cop followed her gaze. At the far end of the car a tall man was staring right at them. No doubt, he looked exactly like the man in Will Cochrane’s passport. Both officers pulled out their guns and barked at everyone to get down.

I
spun around and ran, forcing people out of my way, knowing that my situation was desperate. People around me were screaming, darting looks at the encroaching cops and at me. I yanked on the emergency Stop lever. Nothing. I did so again. The train kept moving. Damn. The cops had predicted this possibility and told the driver to ignore emergency activations. God knows how they’d managed to get the driver to agree.

I put more space between me and the female detective, but now could see the tall male detective coming from the other direction, shouting orders at people, a large pistol in his hand. Some people were dropping to the floor; others remained upright or in seats. A gunfight remained way too risky. But I was trapped. I clambered over bodies to reach the door.

Locked.

The window could slide open, but was not large enough for my big frame to squeeze through. That left only one option, though I had to decide whether it meant the big male detective and his male colleague or the easier option of the woman and her male colleague. I decided on the former, but had to move quickly before the four cops converged.

“Officers,” I called out as I raised my arms in the air and moved toward them.

The male detective and the cop pointed their weapons at me halfway down their car, their safeties off though fingers not on triggers.

“I’m guessing you think I look a bit like that guy in the news.” My accent American, I tried to look nervous. “It’s been worrying me all day that I look like him.” I kept walking toward them, passengers climbing over each other to get out of my way and the line of fire.