Picking Up The Pieces

Prologue

PROLOGUE

 An ancient ceiling fan, grimy with neglect, spun slowly in the still afternoon air, emitting a rhythmic squeal with each revolution. Dust motes hung in the green-gold light and a heat-drunk bluebottle fly buzzed against the pane of a single gritty window that looked out on the platform. More than an hour before, the ticket agent had taken himself off on an extended lunch break or afternoon nap, probably both, snapping the sliding door down over a cavity in the glass under a faded sign that read Billets. A heat haze shimmered off the tracks and dusty leaves dangled from the trees lining the verge while villagers dozed away the warmth of the day, digesting midday meals, the edges of their minds rounded by rough red wine.

I glanced again at the clock on the wall over the door. The next train was not scheduled to arrive until two forty-five but this was France so timetables meant little. Reaching up, I twisted my thick, dark hair into a knot, fastening it away from my sweaty neck with a spring clip. Such a hot day for early May. Alone in the station, I sat on a hard wooden bench behind the room’s only pillar, almost shielded from view from both the door to the street and the beaten-up, swinging doors that led out onto the platform. I drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly, purposefully relaxing the stiffness along the top of my shoulders and kneading the knotted muscles. I leaned my head against the back of the bench then thought better of it and sat up straight again. 

The old book lay open on my lap, the gold edges of the thin paper fuzzy with age and wear. My finger traced the words underlined in red and I studied them again, searching for a clue, a hidden meaning, anything. There had to be something I was missing.

Outside on the cobblestone street, a vehicle roared to a grating stop. A car door slammed shut. Running footsteps rapped on the cobblestones and up the steps to the station door.

“Duck,” the familiar voice spoke into my thoughts. Instantly, I dropped sideways behind the high backrest of the bench, tucking my feet up and pressing my cheek against the cool wood of the seat. The door of the station flew open, banging against the wall, and heavy footsteps thudded on the hard-tiled floor then skidded to a stop. I opened my mouth and drew silent, shallow breaths, not daring to move even my eyelids. With a muffled curse, the intruder stomped through the waiting room to the platform, flinging the doors aside.

“Look now,” the voice again spoke into my thoughts. I peered over the arm of the bench. I could see a lone figure standing with his back toward me, hands on hips, head swinging from side to side in the white-hot light as he glared up the tracks first one way then the other. Dark glasses roosted on his beak of a nose and sunlight ricocheted off ink-black hair. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears.

I lay absolutely still, concealed by the back of the old-fashioned bench. Then I saw the man turn and run down the platform. A moment later the car door slammed again. The engine roared and tires squealed as the car sped away.

I let out a long slow breath and sat up. Tugging my damp shirt away from my back, I opened the book again. As the minutes slid by, my heartbeat slowed. The ceiling fan squealed on.

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