Centuries earlier it had been the home port of pirates, fortified against the Normans and attacks from across the channel. Like so many other places in France, the walled city had been almost completely destroyed during World War II. After the war it had been painstakingly restored including those stone walls.
The rail station was within walking distance of the main street. Passengers departed for hotels, or headed for cars in the car park. Others entered the rail station to wait for the next train returning to Paris.
They hadn't spoken on that long ride from Mont St. Michel. Now, as Kris glanced at him, she saw the effort it took just to keep moving in the tight set of expression on his face.
They'd left the rental car at the car park at Mont St. Michel. They could probably rent another one in St. Malo, but not until morning. It was late, everything was closed for the night, including the car rental counter at the rail station.
“We need to find a hotel...”
James shook his head. He was pale beneath the stubble of two-days growth of beard, and she wondered how much blood he'd lost.
“Check the rail schedule to Paris,” he said, keeping his voice low as they entered the station along with several other passengers, including a family with two young children.
“I don't think you're in any condition...”
He cut her off. “Two tickets to Paris. Have you enough for the fare?”
“Credit card.”
He nodded as he leaned back against a column, the front of his jacket zipped over the bloodied shirt beneath.
“Stay where I can see you, and don't talk to anyone.”
The ticket windows were all closed this time of the night. She purchased two tickets at the automated kiosk.
She glanced around at the other passengers who waited for their rail connection, but had no idea what she was looking for—a face from a crowded airport, glimpsed in those few seconds as someone brushed past her, or an encounter at her hotel in Inverness?
It could be anyone—someone who had followed them from Mont St. Michel, someone who might even have been on the bus.
Watching them even now?
She returned with the tickets. “The next train leaves in thirty minutes.”
They sat together on a long bench against the wall in the waiting area of the station with other passengers.
She found herself watching them—older couples, a young family, what appeared to be several older students, bottles of water and rain gear tied to their backpacks. Again she wondered, was Brother Thomas's killer among them?
Then the overhead display lit up with the arrival information for that next train to Paris.
James pushed away from the wall where he'd been standing. He wrapped a hand around her arm and pulled her close as the other passengers made their way to the platform.
“Stay close,” he told her as his hand tightened.
They might have been any other couple returning from holiday as they stepped out onto the platform under the covered awning. But she saw the way he checked out everything and everyone as they boarded the sleek silver-and-blue passenger car, quick glances in both directions, equally quick glance back at the rail station and the parking area beyond.
The rail car was only half full, twin rows of double seats lining both sides with baggage racks overhead filled with an assortment of backpacks, overnight bags, a child's stroller, and the usual collection of jackets, coats, and umbrellas.
They took two seats at the rear of the car, and again she was aware of the way he scanned everything as he had at the inn that first night, then again at the abbey.
When she would have taken the second seat next to the window, he shook his head and indicated the aisle seat. She was running on raw nerves and was about to ask what the hell difference it made which seat she took when he leaned over her.
“Take the aisle seat. I'll take the other across the way.”
“You're giving orders now?” What the hell difference did it make?
The look he gave her said enough.
“Fine.”
