A few dozen people filed off of the Blue Train. As soon as they had pushed their way onto the platform, the new passengers holding tickets started to board. Ernie and I waited until the last minute-when the Blue Train started to roll forward-to sprint to the train and hop on. We took a seat in the last car, one arranged for us by Inspector Kill. At first we did nothing, just stared ahead at the sea of black-haired Koreans in front of us.
The uniformed conductor came by and punched holes in our tickets. The stewardess smiled as she walked by but didn’t make eye contact. A vendor came by with a tray strapped around narrow shoulders, selling dried cuttlefish and ginseng gum and tins of imported guava juice.
Ernie fidgeted in his seat. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply.
I felt bad about the rape of Mrs. Oh Myong-ja, the first victim, and worse yet about the rape and murder of Mrs.
Hyon Mi-sook, especially considering that her children were forced to huddle in the bathtub while she was systematically humiliated and then sliced to death. But those were crimes that I had no personal hand in, crimes that would have been impossible for me to prevent. The murder that bothered me most was the murder of Specialist Vance, the young technician who worked at the Mount Halla Communications Center.
“We shouldn’t have left him there alone,” I told Ernie.
“Bull,” Ernie replied. “At the time, we had no way of knowing Parkwood was the killer.”
“Sure we did.”
“How?”
I explained it to him. First the stalker of the Country Western All Stars. We hadn’t taken the musicians’ complaints particularly seriously, assuming they were random acts. But what had disappeared was a microphone, a pair of the bass player’s underwear, and finally a lone cowboy boot. All three of those things were among the piled-up junk in the G.I. living quarters on Mount Halla.
“That could’ve been coincidence,” Ernie replied. “And anyway, how were you going to pick them out?”
“And the checklists,” I continued. “When you work at a remote signal site, your life centers around checklists: maintenance checklists, communications checklists, electronics checklists. That’s all you do, hour after hour. Day after day.”
“Parkwood had checklists on the brain, you’re saying,” Ernie said.
“And he was about to be barred from reenlistment for lousy performance on an IG inspection,” I said. “He knew things had been going wrong for too long there at the Mount Halla commo site. He’d never correct it all.”
The third reason I should have known was by Vance’s demeanor. He was frightened, covering up the unscheduled absences of his partner even though he himself claimed never to go to the ville.
And finally, Parkwood had tried to run us off the road.
“Maybe he’s just a bad driver,” Ernie replied. “There’s plenty of them around.”
To Ernie, whatever happened, happened. No sense stewing about it. No sense blaming ourselves.
A half hour north of Taegu, rice paddies started to give way to woodland. The Blue Train was rising into the Sobaik Mountains. Once we reached the summit, we’d be on our way down into the broad valley that held the city of Taejon. It was then, during our descent, that Inspector Kill had instructed us to begin our search. That way, by the time the train pulled into the Taejon Station, Parkwood-if he was aboard-would be in a panic. He’d flee from the train, right into the arms of the waiting Korean National Police.
Inspector Kill’s plan, however, didn’t take into account the possibility that if Parkwood was on this train, he might harm someone-particularly Marnie-before we reached Taejon. Ernie and I felt that we couldn’t wait any longer. We started our search.
For the moment, we didn’t check the rear baggage compartment. We wanted to check the people in their seats first. Ernie waited at the end of each passenger car, ready to provide cover, while I walked down the center aisle, slowly working my way forward. I took my time, making sure that Parkwood wasn’t lying in between two seats or hadn’t ducked down to avoid us.
Was he carrying a weapon? I doubted it. Not firearms, at least. In Korea, there’s no such thing as a convenient gun shop to stop in and pick yourself up a Saturday night special. If Parkwood were armed, it would be with a knife or a club or a straight razor. Still, since Parkwood not only kept himself in good shape but had also proven himself to be ruthless, we had to be careful.
The Korean passengers stared up at me curiously as I passed. Some of the men frowned. Occasionally, a woman smiled. For the most part, I was glanced at and then ignored.
In the third car forward from the rear, there were a few American passengers. Some of them were reading, some of them trying to catch some shut-eye. None of them was Parkwood. One was a private first class wearing his khaki uniform, munching on the contents of a can of potato sticks. A brown leather briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. I sat down.
“You the courier?”
He nodded to me, mouth open, lips still moist with flakes of pulverized potato. His name tag said Arguello.
“De donde eres?” I asked him. Where you from?
He told me. Someplace in Texas.
I described Parkwood to him. He said he hadn’t seen anyone like that.
“Were you watching?” I asked.
He shook his head warily. “No. This is a pretty boring job. I just read.” He glanced at a stack of comic books.
“Okay, partner,” I said, rising to my feet. “Don’t overdo the potato sticks.”
Ernie and I continued to search the train.
We worked our way through the three rear passenger cars until we reached the dining car. I found the head cook and explained the situation to him; he claimed he’d seen no American man who matched the description I gave him. By now, the conductor had gotten wind of what we were up to, and he joined us. I showed him my badge and explained why we were here. He nodded gravely. They’d already been notified by the KNPs that two American detectives would be on the train.
I asked him if he’d seen anyone who matched Parkwood’s description. He said he couldn’t be sure. There were a number of Americans scattered throughout the train, and he really hadn’t paid much attention. The only Americans who were attracting attention were the tall blonde and the small girl sitting up front in passenger car number two.
“When did you last see them?” I asked in Korean.
“Only five minutes ago,” he replied.
“Are they all right?”
“Fine. Except the little girl doesn’t like guava juice.”
“Can’t blame her for that,” Ernie said, understanding what the conductor said.
We continued to search the train. The bathrooms were located at the end of each car, near the door that led to the open-air walkway. We checked each one. If it was occupied, we lingered until it was vacated, just to make sure that Parkwood wasn’t hiding inside. After all, he’d used a Blue Train bathroom as the venue for his first outrage.
There was no doubt now that we’d passed the summit of the Sobaik Mountains. The train was visibly tilted downward, and at times it swerved to the right and to the left as it navigated treacherous terrain. Rain spattered the windows.
Oh, great, I thought. Just what we need. Another complication.
Finally, we entered Marnie’s car. She and Casey were easy to spot. A patch of blonde and a wisp of brown in the midst of monotonous rows of straight black hair. When we reached her row, I knelt and said hello. Casey’s brown locks were puffed into a curly bouffant. She stared at me with bright, amber-tinted eyes.
“I’ll be damned,” Marnie said. “What are you doing here?”
