Chapter Fifteen #2
“Yes.” Did she really want to get on a train with Spiker and be stuck beside him for the next few hours? Perhaps she needed to abort the planned day trip. “I already have a place where I’d hide your body.”
Spiker laughed, stretched his legs out, and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “This is exactly the kind of day I needed. One where everything feels abso-fuckin’-lutely normal.”
She leaned against the hardwood bench and wholeheartedly agreed.
“Country of origin?” he repeated. “That’s not something that rolls off the tongue.”
The dexterity of his tongue occupied Vanka’s thoughts longer than it should have.
The day wasn’t going to be normal as long as she continued making those kinds of mistakes.
Maybe she needed to see a psychologist. Therapy was one of her favorite things, though she was never truthful in sessions.
But it gave her a chance to make sense of things that were directly correlated.
Could the plane crash have triggered PTSD swoons?
Or Spiker’s unexpected desire for a sabbatical? “I have dual citizenship.”
Spiker startled as if she had poked him with a cattle prod. “Since when?”
She shrugged. “Since I was born in a hospital not too far from here.”
His jaw hinged. The overhead speaker announced an Amtrak express bound for New York City. Vanka removed her cell phone from her purse and showed him the screen: two tickets that would deposit them at Penn Station.
They boarded the train without a word. She hadn’t thought he’d be left speechless.
Truthfully, she hadn’t thought about the repercussions at all.
People made assumptions, and other than Buck—who knew far too much about her—and GSI’s HR department, no one knew the details of her legal status.
It wasn’t a topic of conversation among her colleagues, who came from all corners of the world.
Those she socialized with were more interested in the way she dropped the letter R from the end of some words than in where she’d lived.
Vanka kept her phone out so their tickets could be scanned, and they settled in at the far end of a half-empty coach, where she took a window seat.
“I’m not sure you show enough appreciation for George Washington.”
Thank God he had made a joke. “I’ll work on that.”
Spiker shifted his back toward the aisle. “I want to know more.”
“There’s not much to say.”
“Yeah, that’s bullshit.”
A train employee approached their row. “Where to?”
“Penn Station.” She held out her phone with the tickets.
The man stuck a station marker above their seats and moved on. “Have a good trip.”
“That kid,” Spiker said. “From the museum.”
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” she scolded. “I’m not trading secrets tit for tat.”
Spiker shrugged as though he didn’t care, but that didn’t hide how much he did. “Something about that kid reminded me of…” His shoulders lifted. “Of me.”
“The kid that you were speaking to?”
“The kid the others were bullying.”
She didn’t understand what he meant. Had Spiker been bullied? That didn’t make sense. Had he been the bully? Given his size and hard-edged attitude, she might be able to see that, but it would be a colossal stretch. His use of force during assignments was more for show. Vanka bit her lip.
“I could see what had happened and what would always happen unless something changed.” Spiker drew in a long breath as his gaze lost its focus, seeing something that happened many years ago. “He was ready to pop.”
“So you helped?”
His eyes retrained themselves on her, but they didn’t lose the exhausted, irritated lines that colored his expression. “The other kids, the ones egging the bully on, they knew what would happen.”
“What?”
“Hell, I don’t know specifics. The kid’d lose his shit then get his ass kicked.” He took another slow breath. “Some variation of that. It’s a bitch of a cycle.”
Spiker had been picked on. She had no idea. Even as he told her, it was almost too strange to believe. This man could scare off a crowd with a foul look and disarm an attacker with one hand tied behind his back. An unexaggerated truth; she had borne witness to both.
“Bullying’s a numbers game.”
She licked her lips and tentatively said, “I didn’t know that.”
Spiker nodded. “How many pokes and prods would it take this time? Next time?”
“What did you tell him?”
His glance bounced from her to the window’s passing scenery and back again. “That there was a fine line between acting like a pussy and throwing a punch.”
Vanka was no parent or teacher, but that didn’t seem like proper guidance. “Oh.”
“And,” he continued, “that those other kids doled out crap because they felt like shit.” He almost smiled. “I might’ve said that another way, but the message remained the same. All those kids needed help. Just different types.”
The train swayed and rumbled into a tunnel. Their car darkened, and her heart swelled. Vanka used the shadows to protect them both as she whispered, “You’re truly one of the good guys.”
He scoffed, then added, “The same goes for you too.”
They emerged from the tunnel. The discussion was over.
Neither spoke as the other Union Station stop approached.
The weekend riders always differed from weekday commuters.
Boarding took longer with confused passengers, curious kids, and stubborn strollers.
Vanka pulled up the armrest that separated her from Spiker.
She repositioned herself so she could look out the window, resting her back against his arm as Spiker let the low din of the car and the sway of the train lull him to sleep.