Free Blood on the Tracks by Barbara Nickless Page A

of your own problems. But with his temper, Albers wasn’t who I would have chosen to be driving this particular train.
    “Bastard’s on my train,” he said when dispatch put me through.
    “Albers, don’t get in the middle of this,” I warned him. “Stay in the cab.”
    “Bastard’s got no business being there.”
    “Albers.”
    “Shit, Parnell.”
    I waited.
    “Long as he don’t cross me,” he said finally.
    “Keep the air up on the brakes,” I said. “We want him to think you’ve just stopped for something on the track.”
    “I got it. Don’t get yourself hurt, okay?”
    “Thanks.” I hung up.
    Cohen glanced at his watch. He looked gray with exhaustion.
    “Long day?” I asked.
    “Not long enough to fix anything.”
    I said nothing. I was unfairly angry at him for making me think of Dougie. Plus, I had no patience for complaints of exhaustion or lack of time. I’d set my standard by the Sir, who was years older than Cohen. The Sir would take seventy-two-hour shifts dodging IEDs and terrorists, spend the next forty-eight up to his elbows in gore, and top it off with back-to-back meetings with grieving Iraqi families. After all that, he would muster up a smile for his crew and a murmured “We’re still good.”
    “Parnell?”
    “What?”
    Something must have showed in my face because a gleam of amusement shone through Cohen’s exhaustion.
    “You think I’m a pussy.”
    “What do you care what I think?”
    “What if I do?”
    That stopped me. I noticed again the sharpness of his winter eyes, the rime-edge of intelligence gleaming there. And something else in his gaze, something as far from the ice as night from day. Something I might have labeled compassion if I’d been in a more generous mood.
    I frowned. “To be honest, Detective, I don’t have any opinions about you. Good or bad.”
    Cohen leaned back. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
    “Sorry. I’m more honest than I should be.”
    He winced.
    “That came out wrong,” I said. “I—”
    “No. It’s okay. I probably deserved it.” He laughed. “I’m out of practice, but you’re pretty good at the shutdown.”
    “A gift from the Corps.”
    “I’ll bet,” he said, but it wasn’t unkind. He scrubbed his face with both hands and shook off his fatigue. “Railroad property. I assume you want to be part of the takedown. You and the sheriff can duke it out as to who makes the arrest.”
    “No, thanks. If it works for you, Clyde and I will get on the lead engine. Stay with the crew and make sure they’re okay.” And make sure Albers didn’t shoot his own brakeman.
    Nik came back from whatever mental ride he’d gone on. “I’ll go with SWAT on the rear DPU.”
    “Not this time,” Cohen said. “I need you to stay on the roof with the SWAT commander and the sheriff.”
    Nik’s eyes went flinty. “No point in bringing me if you aren’t going to use me.”
    “It was a courtesy,” Cohen said. “Situation’s a little too hot to have you on the ground, Lasko. Things don’t go well, we don’t want the jury asking the wrong kind of questions. Like, what the hell you were doing so close to the suspect when you have every reason to want to rip off his fucking head.”
    Nik balled his fists on his thighs as his shoulders came up. I’d never seen Nik this angry. Not even with Calamity Jane. He looked wound so tight that I thought maybe the only way for him to uncoil was to let it all fly free.
    “Nik,” I said.
    Nothing.
    “Nik.”
    I put everything into his name, using my voice on him the way I’d used it on Clyde when he and I were first alone together after Dougie died. Back when Clyde was so lashed with grief I thought he’d rip out my throat for the singular sin of not being Dougie.
    Nik didn’t look at me. But he didn’t fly apart, either. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and flattened his hands on his thighs. The anger fell away, replaced by a grief that pulled his face to wreckage.
    After a minute, he