“Good morning Mr. O’Leary,” Dr. Combs said from behind him.

  He actually jumped at the sound of her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered. “I didn’t realize you were so deep in your thoughts standing in the middle of the isle.”

  Michael agreed with Stiles completely, about the women they had met on this assignment. He never did understand how a woman’s brain worked. Lizzie’s face popped into his mind. Her he understood. Most of the time.

  “Good morning, doctor. I’m afraid my nerves are getting the best of me. Not your fault at all,” Michael said.

  Quickly she responded, “I can give you something to relax you. If you’d like.”

  Startled by her suggestion, he replied in the negative.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine but thank you, no.”

  She passed by him and headed for the dining car.

  “I just can’t figure her out,” Reginald said as he walked up to stand by Michael.

  “I don’t understand most women,” Michael answered.

  Reginald nodded his head in agreement.

  “Breakfast?”

  Michael let Reginald lead the way to the dining car. As they passed Stile’s berth the door opened. He followed after them.

  Calvin was already at the table pouring coffee when they entered.

  “Good morning gentlemen. Mrs. Warrant is dining in her berth this morning. She asked me to tell you, she’ll most likely see you at luncheon,” he said.

  “I think I’ll just have oatmeal this morning, Calvin,” Michael said. “Not feeling up to sausages and eggs.”

  Michael listened while Stiles and Reggie order a normal breakfast. Most of it made him feel nauseous. Calvin hurried away and brought Michael’s oatmeal first. He also set a small pitcher of coddled cream on the table.

  “This might be better than butter and sugar on your stomach,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Calvin left to check on the other men’s order. There was only two other people in the dining car. A man and woman both looking lovingly at each other. Honeymooners, Michael thought. Under the table he felt Stile’s hand on his knee. The smile on his face didn’t quite make it to the sadness in his eyes. Michael knew he longed for what that couple had just as much as he did.

  The moment was broken when Calvin returned with the rest of their breakfasts. Michael wanted to be home in their house having breakfast at their table. Taking a bite of his oatmeal, it was a tad bitter. He added a drop or three of the coddled cream and took another bite. The cream did sweeten the oatmeal but that underlying bitter taste was still there. He pushed the bowl away and picked up his coffee cup. The room began to spin. The edges of his vision turned dark. Something had been in the oatmeal. Something that made it bitter. Poison! He had been poisoned. He called out to Stiles and the world went dark.

  When he awoke, his entire body ached and felt weak. He was startled when someone touched him. Fully awake now, he looked to see Stiles sitting beside him. It was his lover’s hand that had touched him so gently.

  A rush of memories came back as he lay there staring at Stiles. Whose face was a mix of worry, relief, and anger. Why was Stiles angry with him?

  “Why are you mad at me?” Michael said.

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at whoever tried to kill you. If they had succeeded, I probably would have killed everyone on the train,” Stiles looked exhausted.

  That bitter taste from the oatmeal still lingered in his mouth.

  “I was poisoned!”

  “Yes. Thankfully, you only ate two bites from the bowl. Not enough to kill you; but enough to make you very sick and sleep for several hours. This is the first time you’ve been lucid enough to speak. Most of the time, everything was garbled nonsense,” Stiles said. He leaned up to leave a kiss on Michael’s forehead.

  “I’m so grateful, you woke up,” Stiles admitted.

  Michael smiled at him, and said, “I’m thirsty. That bitter taste is still in my mouth. Can I have some coffee?”

  “I’ll ring for the porter.”

  Shortly a tap at the door alerted them to Michael’s coffee being served. Calvin brought a tray in with the coffee and some small sandwiches.

  Michael was surprised that he was hungry after he drank the first cup of coffee. No bitter taste reassured him, it was all right to drink and eat. After eating everything on his plate, he turned his attention to Stiles.

  “Do we know what type of poison I ingested. It was nasty tasting. That probably saved me from eating more of the oatmeal than I did. What a waste of some excellent coddled cream,” Michael said.

  Stiles laughter rang out in the small berth.

  “You’re going to be fine, and I have this,” he said as he lifted a leather notebook from beside him on the floor.

  “Is that Dr. Combs journal?”

  “I managed to lift it while she was doting over you,” he said. “I don’t think she’s missed it—yet!”

  “Anything interesting?” Michael finished his coffee and pushed the tray aside.

  “Nothing I could read. It was all in some sort of shorthand,” Stiles said.

  Stiles let Michael nap for a while. Around four a familiar knock stirred him from his sleep. Reginald opened the door and peeked inside. His brow was furrowed with lines. The man actually looked concerned. Michael couldn’t ever remember Reginald concerned about anyone but himself.

  “Calvin’s here with a tray. I opened the door for him,” he said.

  Michael wondered where Stiles had gone off to, but the aroma of beef stew assailed him. Not only stew, but fresh bread and butter was on the tray with a pitcher of tea and a glass of ice. His stomach grumbled loudly.

  “Sounds like you’re ready for this,” Reginald snickered.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. McCullough,” Calvin said, closing the door behind him as he left.

  “Well, I’ll leave you be,” Reginald said. Then added, “I’ll be sure the door is locked.”

  Michael didn’t know when Stiles would be back. He really shouldn’t be here alone with Reginald, so he let the man go.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  He didn’t waste a moment digging into the stew. It was wonderful.

  Chapter Ten

  Stiles found a quiet corner in the first-class lounge. He produced his own notebook from an inside coat pocket and began to try and decipher the doctor’s notes. After a few moments, he began to see a repetition in the lines written in the journal. Several times a capital letter was followed by one or two numbers. They always came at the beginning of the line of information. It seemed clear it was intended to be a date of some sort. He also noted that the written lines seemed to be jumbled. Staring at the lines, the whole thing jumped out at him from the page.

  He felt the adrenaline rush through his veins. The letter stood for a month. D—December. Of course, the numbers were the date. Then the pattern showed itself. Every fifth line tied back to the first line in the group of five entries. The issue was the entry itself after the date. The words of different lengths and the letters in the words made no sense at all. He did find a handful of words that were repeated often. If he could just decipher what those words were maybe he could break the rest of the code.

  When they reached Flag Staff, he could call James McCullough and ask him if he knew of anything specific that happened on the dates he’d discovered. Maybe that would allow him to break the code.

  If he was correct and the entries in the journal did match with specific crimes, it would be the first real break they’d had in this case.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Stiles jumped at the words spoken over his shoulder. It was Reginald.

  “I found it,” he lied.

  “You’re lying. If there’s one thing I can sniff out, it’s a liar. I’m quite proficient at telling them myself.”

  “Fine. I managed to lift it from the doctor’s bag while she attended Michael,” Stiles said. “I found it strange that a doctor would keep a journal in her bag.”

  “True. Anything interesting?”

  “There are definite dates with coded words on each line. I’m not sure yet about the rest of it. I’m going to call James when we reach Flag Staff to see if any of the dates mean anything to the agency or the secret service,” Stiles said as he closed the journal.

  “You’ve got to get it back to her before she finds out that it’s gone. Just rip out one of the pages.”

  Stiles nodded his head in agreement.

  “I plan on leaving it where I first saw her pull it from her bag,” Stiles said.

  Stiles flipped through to the middle of the journal. Carefully, he pulled one page out of the journal as close to the spine as possible. He removed any loose pieces of paper as well. Rising he crossed the lounge to the chair where Dr. Combs had previously sat. Sliding the journal under the chair, he was sure she would be able to find it.

  Changing the subject, Reginald told Stiles that he had just left Michael enjoying a bowl of stew and fresh bread. Calvin had brought it to him, thinking he wouldn’t want to join us in the dining car tonight.

  “I’m sure he appreciated that. I don’t like that we’re changing Pullman trains tomorrow, but it will be better for Michael.”

  “Why?” Reginald asked.

  “It will be hard to work on suspects with so many people getting on and off in Flag Staff. The train trip to Los Angeles won’t give us much time. I believe that we’ll be able to narrow down what’s really going on here when we change trains there for Santa Barbara. That’s where the answers lay, I’m sure of it.”

  Stiles checked on Michael who was still sleeping and made sure the porter was still standing guard outside his berth. When he entered the dining car for dinner, he was surprised to see Rochelle at the table with Reginald. She looked well other than a sling supporting her left arm.

  “How’s the shoulder,” Stiles asked as he sat beside Rochelle.

  “Better. Dr. Combs said I should be fine. She’s going to change the dressing each day until we reach Los Angeles.”

  The rest of their dinner was quiet. Each person lost in their own thoughts. Stiles continued to think about the journal page he had folded and slipped into his jacket’s inner pocket. The need to talk to James McCullough was growing within him. He was sure this would be the clue that would break the investigation open.

  After dinner he returned to Michael’s berth. He was awake and looking much better. The color had returned to his cheeks. Stiles couldn’t help the blood rushing through his veins. He reached Michael in two steps of the small room.

  “I’m so glad you’re better,” he said as he pulled Michael into his arms.

  Michael wasted no time in responding to Stiles. It was like the feeling of coming home. The sweet taste of Michael’s lips on his gave his brain a fuzzy sensation. He wanted more, so much more.

  Michael’s low groan drew Stiles to their immediate situation. Though the door was locked, and they were alone, there was a porter right outside the door. Keeping Michael quiet could prove to be difficult.

  “Michael, you must be quiet. I know that’s hard for you, but we have an audience right outside the door,” Stiles whispered as he touched a finger to Michael’s lips.

  “Can you do that for me?”

  Michael nodded his head yes and kissed the finger on his lips.

  Stiles was too much in need of his lover to remove more than his lower garments, leaving his shirt and waistcoat on. Michael stared at him hungrily, which only heightened Stiles desire.

  Michael was still in his night shirt, which made it easy for Stiles to reach all those desirable places on his body. He began kissing his neck directly behind his left ear. Sucking and nipping at the skin until he reached Michael’s exposed shoulder. The man whimpered into his fisted hand Stiles held to his mouth. Stiles found the little pot of oil they often used to make the way easier. Using his oiled fingers, he pierced Michael’s tight entrance. Years together had made the way easier, but Stiles knew that Michael enjoyed this part as well as everything else.

  Michael’s body began to quiver under Stiles’ ministrations.

  “More, please Stiles, more.” Michael begged.

  Stiles gave him what he wanted. He slipped into his lover, pushing past the tight ring and settling into the channel that welcomed him. He waited patiently until he was sure Michael was feeling no pain. He began pushing his hips up to encourage Stiles to move.

  “Move,” he demanded.

  Stiles made him wait no more than a few seconds, then he pulled back enough to force himself into Michael all the way. He could see Michael had bitten his lip trying to stay quiet. The trickle of blood on the man’s lips stirred Stiles’ soul. He licked it up with the tip of his tongue causing Michael’s eyes to widen. The iris’s turning nearly black with lust. There was no turning back until the two of them reached their climax at nearly the same instance.

  Having forgotten the porter outside the door, they both fell exhausted into each other’s arms.

  “I sincerely hope you do not expect a second performance this night,” Stiles whispered. He couldn’t help the chuckles that followed his admission.

  “Well, that’s a letdown,” Michael answered, a deep sigh of relief coming from his body. “Never mind that I’ll not be able to move again until morning, you goose.”

  Not even bothering to clean up the mess they had created, Stiles drifted off as soon as he heard Michael’s soft snores. Sleep was filled with a peace he hadn’t felt since this assignment had started. All the questions in his mind drifted away.

  A violent pounding on the door to the berth, startled Stiles awake. Michael stirred under him. Stiles shushed him and they listened as outside the door two people argued and fought. The sudden hush of quiet brought both men up out of the small bed. Hurriedly, ignoring the dried mess on their bodies, they dressed. Opening the door, they found the corridor empty. A small, black, ladies purse lay on the floor near Reginald’s door.

  “Rochelle?” Michael asked.

  Just then Reginald came through the door of the dining car to the berth car.

  “Did you see anyone leave this car heading toward you?” Stiles asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “This way,” Stiles said as they ran to the other end of the berth car.

  “She could be in trouble,” Michael said. He followed close behind Stiles.

  They passed through the berth car, only to find the next car’s door locked. Stiles banged on the door loudly and shouted open the door to anyone inside. A shot rang out and a scream reached all three men as the train began to cross a tall trestle bridge. There was a wide river below them. Michael leaned out the side of the car just in time to see something black go flying through the side door of the car falling into the river far below.

  “Rochelle!” he yelled. There was no response.

  As all three men looked over the railing, they could only see a large black bundle of fabric as it slowly sank into the river. Could it have been Rochelle, Stiles wondered?

  “It couldn’t have been her,” Reginald groaned. “It couldn’t.”

  The door to the berth opened with Calvin standing there looking at the group. The river behind them and many questions before them.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What’s going on here?” Calvin asked.

  Stiles banged on the door once more. Michael and Reginald stood in shock still looking at the rail behind them in the distance.

  “It’s locked,” Calvin said.

  “Who has a key?” Michael asked.

  “Head Porters from the dining cars and the lounge cars. This is the storage car. Food, linens, and other things are stored there for use by the porters. Who do you think would be in there and what on earth has you so shaken?”

  Stiles stepped back and demanded, “Open it!”

  Calvin pulled a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the door to the storage car. He stood back as Michael, Stiles, and Reginald rushed into the car. True to Calvin’s description, the trio found just what he said. But they also found a side door for loading and unloading that was open about two inches.

  “What the hell? That shouldn’t be open,” Calvin said. He walked to the door and was just about to close it when Michael stopped him.

  “Does anything look out of place in here?” Reginald finally finding his voice asked.

  “Not really,” Calvin said. He hesitated then added, “This door being slightly open, is strange but I don’t see…”

  He looked to his left and walked toward a pile of gunny sacks supposedly filled with potatoes. Bending down, he retrieved a widow’s black hat with a veil. He showed it to the men. It was the mourning hat Rochelle had been wearing on the trip.

  “How could anyone get out of here without going through the car into the next one?” Stiles asked.

  “No way that I know of,” Calvin answered.

  “Maybe we need to talk to the other porters with keys to this car,” Reginald said.

  Michael and Stiles nodded their heads in agreement.

  Three hours later the entire train had been searched with no sign of Rochelle. Michael stared at his partners, as each of them downed a third or fourth shot of whiskey. The lounge was quiet accept for the three of them. No one had said a word since the search had stopped. He knew Stiles had his doubts about Rochelle, but he would never have wanted her to be killed. Still they were left with more questions that only she could answer. The police would have to be advised of what the staff and this group thought; that someone had shot her and pushed Rochelle Warrant from the train causing her to fall into the river below the trestle as the train traveled over it. She was clearly missing. The door to the lounge opened and Dr. Combs walked into the lounge.

  “Gentleman, I am sincerely sorry for the loss of your friend,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

  She left as quickly as she had entered the car. Giving the men no chance to respond. Stiles stared after her until she had long left the lounge.

 

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