Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(42)
He never would figure him out, of course, which was the fun of it.
A tug came on his shirt collar. Though Marshall’s arm was still gripping the bunk for balance, he complied easily with the motion, letting Benedikt pull him closer.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” Benedikt started when they parted for breath, “but the walls are quite thin.”
“I’m very aware,” Marshall replied. As if on cue, there was a loud thump on the adjoining wall, and he frowned, turning to look instead of leaning in again. Reluctantly, the two of them stilled, listening for further noise, wondering whether it had been a warning knock because they’d been too loud.
Then there was another thump… not against the wall, but the sound of something heavy hitting the floorboards instead.
Silence.
“What was that?” Benedikt asked. His voice had dropped to a whisper.
“I don’t know,” Marshall whispered back. He wasn’t sure why they were even taking care to be quiet. They waited a while longer, trying to envision what could possibly be going on in Danila Andreyevich’s room to cause such a ruckus, but there was nothing more.
Only a gurgle from their own room, which could be attributed to Marshall’s stomach.
Benedikt glanced at his wristwatch for the time, then poked Marshall’s chest. “Let’s go to the dining car.”
“Must we?” Marshall tried to catch Benedikt’s hand. Benedikt only poked him again, more aggressively.
“Come on, solnishko.”
They composed themselves and entered the passageway. Marshall very narrowly avoided colliding with a girl who was hurrying by with her thermos, pressing against the wall to let her pass. She glanced up briefly, flashing a polite smile before proceeding into the next carriage. Marshall and Benedikt went in the other direction, walking only a few steps before sliding open the door to the dining car, one carriage over. The strong aroma of something tomato-like hit Marshall’s nose immediately, though there seemed to be a variety of dishes laid out in front of the passengers who had already found seats and started to dine. White tablecloths adorned each setup, topped with a glass vase holding a single daisy. The train bounced, jostling utensils against plates and passengers standing shoulder to shoulder around the bar at the back.
“Gentlemen!”
Marshall ignored the voice at first, still inspecting the tables and looking for free seats. When the voice came again, however, Benedikt nudged his elbow and whispered, “I think he’s talking to us.”
At one of the tables, there was a boy sitting alone, waving eagerly. He was just a kid—fifteen years old, maybe younger. His muddy brown hair stuck up in two different directions, as though he had been intent on brushing everything smooth before a strong gust of wind had its own ideas about what was currently in style. He was also dressed in a Western suit one size too big, the shoulders stiff and square upon his small frame.
“Hello,” Marshall returned. “Do we know you?”
The boy shot up to his feet, seeing that he had succeeded in inciting conversation. Abandoning the bowl of soup at his table, he hurried in front of Benedikt and Marshall, extending his hand.
“Lev Grigoryevich Vodin. How do you do?”
Hesitantly, Marshall shook Lev’s hand. “Where are your parents?”
“My uncle is the train officer on board, actually,” Lev replied. “And I am an aspiring journalist. Do you have time for some questions?”
Benedikt nudged Marshall’s elbow again. It was a signal that said, Absolutely not. Benedikt was usually great with children, especially toddlers, but Lev Grigoryevich seemed just old enough to press into the busybody almost-adult category instead. The boy was bobbing up and down on his toes so eagerly, though, and Marshall thought it would be too mean to turn him down.
“I feel rather famished at the moment, so perhaps later,” he replied. “You can find me at—”
A terrifying scream pierced through the train.
Benedikt swiveled around so fast that Marshall felt the air turn frigid around him. A second scream tore into their surroundings again—from the same source, high-pitched and feminine. The moment Marshall turned and lunged in that direction, unthinking, Benedikt snagged his elbow, hissing, “Wait, wait.”
“Ben, someone might need help—”
“Well, does it have to be you—”
“Ben!”
“All right, all right—”
Then Benedikt surged forward, back the way they had come, pushing past the door and returning to the soft-class carriage.
“Hey!” Marshall called after him. He remained still for a moment, thrown off by the switch in roles, before hurrying through the door too. Why was Benedikt like this? “I didn’t mean you should go without me—”
As soon as his shoes skidded against the carpet of the carriage, Marshall almost slammed right into his husband. He reached out quickly, grabbing Benedikt’s shoulders to steady himself. Before he could ask why Benedikt had stopped, he saw the provodnitsa outside Danila Andreyevich Popov’s room. She was heaving to fill her lungs. It didn’t take much to conclude that she had been the one screaming, since her face was as pale as a sheet of ice. Marshall wanted to believe that she had simply seen something unsavory—perhaps the room was too messy, perhaps there was a rodent that had chewed its way into the compartments. But the knees of her trousers were covered in blood, as was one of her hands, coated up to the wrist.