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Page 41.

22. Thionville

A little over half an hour east of their personality changes, they turned north onto the A31 highway and in another half hour—by two p.m.—they were in Thionville, France.

The Gare de Thionville was a long, low, rather plain building east of the Moselle River.

Rick parked the car on a side street by the river, hiding the keys under the mat. "Some meter maid will eventually find it."

"Let's wipe off our fingerprints." She produced an open, half-gone roll of paper towels that had lain in the back seat.

"Oh yes, good idea."

They spent the next ten minutes wiping down any surfaces they might have touched.

It was drizzling as they walked across the main street toward the railway station.

Across the Chemin des Bains from the Moselle riverside docks was a big rail complex. It seemed huge for a small city.

Thionville was a smallish industrial city with 41,000 inhabitants, which to Rick's eyes resembled a forest-choked town of comparable size in New England and many similar locations. It was a major rail head in the northern part of France, in Lorraine, which had historically been a pawn between the German and French powers. The Allies had dropped a whole lot of bombs here during World War II, Rick had read.

Today, there was a tall building of about fifteen stories, dedicated to the national railway service (SNCF) while the city train station was a one-story building whose divergent tracks connected Metz with Luxembourg, and Thionville with Trier (in Germany).

Things went smoothly for once. They walked into the train station, bought tickets, and picked up coffees in paper cups before strolling out onto the passenger platform. They sat in the shelter, or rather slumped a bit, after all that had befallen them during the day—including the murder of Fincoff last night, and Rick's killing of Yolo that morning.

"You feel okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he lied. He was hyperventilating.

"Pills."

"I'm okay."

"No you're not."

He felt spacey. She rummaged in his backpack and pulled out more of his PTSD medicine. "You also have Prozac here if you want."

"No," he said sharply. "I hate all that crap."

"I know, dear, but you have to take this stuff in the small bottle. Come on."

He let her put two pills in his mouth and lift a water bottle to his lips. He gulped the water, more because of dry mouth than the pills. In fifteen minutes he'd be feeling more level, he knew. He tried not to think about Yolo. Why did people like that have to threaten you with guns? Why was there violence in the world? Why, why, why? He wished he could retire to someplace with no guns, no hate, no anger, no violence.

"You've had some heavy duty training in the military," Hannah said gently.

"Yeah." He drew deep breaths, as the shrinks had shown him. He held the air in, counting slowly, while playing happier videos in his head.

"You have nightmares, don't you?"

"By day and by night," he admitted. "I want to go home. I'm no good to the Army anymore. I just want to go live in as small a town as far from everything as I can possibly find."

She laid her hands over his. Her touch felt warm. He closed his eyes and let her energy soothe him. He wished he'd told JAG he was on the run now for real. Send help. But would they? Probably send the French police.

"Here is our train," Hannah said, rising.

"Great," he said. He was tired of being in France. Maybe crossing the border would change things.

He lugged his backpack, and she kept her hand under his shaky forearm as they boarded the Thionville train bound for Luxembourg-Ville—Luxembourg City—the capital of Luxembourg.

"Let's go up top," she said.

"Sure." He followed her fine, jeans-clad figure up a flight of stairs on the double-decker train. This took them into a clean, modern coach, whose plush upholstery smelled of a gentle, almost vanilla-ginger carpet cleaner. It was not crowded. Only a few persons of varying ages and appearances dotted the seats.

Rick and Hannah found a pair of facing benches all to themselves, and sat by the window. He landed facing in the direction the train was about to move. She, with a slight girlish excitement, switched from the opposite window seat to sit beside him. She sat leaning against him, as if they were on a date, and looked eagerly out the window at the wrought iron steel posts holding up the aging platform in the station. Rick rose, gestured for her to take his window seat. She slid over, and now he sat where she had. He was bigger, and put his arm around her. She leaned against him, looking pleased.

The train gave a little jerk as the air brakes released. It started gliding as if in free fall. Then it moved more definitively forward.

Without preamble, their hands slid together, interlocked, and hung over the seat edge between them.

Outside, slowly, green countryside moved past. It seemed as if everything were getting brighter.

"Is it me," Rick said, "or is the sun coming out?"

She snuggled closer. "You are hallucinating. It's nighttime."

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