Authors: Ridley Pearson
Challenge (6 page)
U.S. Marshal Larson spotted yet another teenage boy—that made five in this car. Hampton had been right about the train being crowded with school-age kids. Larson was glad his focus now fell entirely on Grym. But he had a cop’s instincts, and he couldn’t help but keep an eye out for the briefcase, the kid, and the woman—everything he’d seen on the security tape. Trouble was, there were dozens of briefcases in the overhead racks, more than that many teenage boys, and
no time.
He disciplined himself to stay on track.
The police dog followed just behind Larson, and behind the dog, the dog’s handler. They passed through the first car into the second, where Larson again met with a sea of expectant faces and much of the same confusion and questioning he’d faced in the first car. Twice he stopped and asked for a passenger’s photo ID; both licenses had looked legit, and the passengers in question didn’t look enough like Grym for Larson to make a fuss. A logjam of irritated passengers clogged the car. The trio eventually reached the third car, Larson checking his watch in desperation.
Larson spotted the man at the window seat right away: he was about halfway down the car, with a pair of eyes that intentionally avoided him. Larson signaled the dog handler, and she picked up on it. Larson walked past the suspect. The handler and the dog moved closer to the subject but stayed in front of him. They had him boxed in. The only way out was through the window; and beyond the window there were TPD police officers stationed.
The suspect sat next to a middle-aged woman with graying brown hair. The last thing Larson wanted was a hostage situation. His heart raced painfully in his chest as he considered how to handle this.
Grym’s insides twisted: the cop—or fed—wearing blue jeans and a blue blazer seemed to be looking right at him. What to do? All the windows were emergency glass; he could get out if he had to. But how far would he get?
They’d squeezed him: the fed on one side, the K-9 on the other. A federal agent with brains—just his luck.
Again he considered the breakaway window. But no: they were likely to have the train surrounded.
He ignored the fed, keeping an eye instead on the dog handler, and watching for any reaction from her.
Without looking, he felt the fed’s attention on him.
“Excuse me, sir,” the fed said. And there it was.
Dread surged through him. Not outright panic. Not yet. But a clear sense of dread. Grym turned his head slowly.
The fed wasn’t looking at him—wasn’t talking to him—but instead to a man in the seat directly behind him.
“Identification please,” the fed asked.
Grym turned back around, his nerves quickly restored.
The fed continued questioning the passenger. Out of the corner of his eye, Grym saw the fed studying the man’s wallet.
The fed said, “I’d like to speak with you a minute in private, please.”
The dog growled as the man came out of his seat.
The passenger was frisked. A rumble passed through the car as he was discovered to be carrying a gun. “I have a permit for that,” the passenger complained. “You’re making a mistake.”
The fed said, “Yeah? Well, it’s mine to make. Follow me.”
Grym smirked. He contained his impatience, wanting a look at the passenger but not wanting to show his own face. He waited a few seconds and, as the passenger was about to be led away, caught a look at the man.
His breath caught: it was the man from the dining car.
The man who’d been staring at him.
Larson led the suspect to a more private area where the cars met. He spoke quietly.
“What’s the FBI doing on this train?” Larson asked in a hoarse whisper, still holding the man’s wallet.
“What’s a U.S. marshal doing blowing my cover?” the man asked.
“Explain yourself. I ask for your driver’s license and you hand me your federal credentials. The K-9 alerted on you—so I knew you were carrying a weapon. What was I supposed to do?”
The FBI man crowded Larson’s space by putting his face into Larson’s. “You were supposed to figure it out and leave me alone.”
The man was working undercover, Larson realized.
The FBI man said, “Get your people off this train now. You are interfering with an active investigation.”
Larson said, “You bear an uncanny resemblance to a terrorist suspect. I’m Fugitive Apprehension.” He let this sink in. Fugitive Apprehension was among the most elite and respected units within the Justice Department; only a handful of agents were ever selected to serve on the task force.
“Your search of the train could interfere with a three-year investigation,” the agent complained. “And don’t ask me what I’m doing on this train, because I am
never
going to explain it. My SAC will talk to your SAC, and
he’ll
never explain it. So forget about it.”
“I’m not worried about your case. I’m worried about my suspect. If your case involves my suspect, tough luck. I’m taking my guy off this train.”
“Actually, you’re getting off the train. And you’re doing it right now.” He pulled out a cell phone.
“Can’t do that,” Larson said, grabbing for the man’s wrist.
The man pulled away. “You’re going to force me, I suppose? Trust me: you don’t want me to make this call.”
Larson said, “I have ten minutes to sweep this train—five now, if I’m lucky—and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Engaged in the phone call, the FBI man explained his situation…listened…then glared at Larson with intense and angry eyes. He cupped the cell phone and said, “You got a name for this suspect?”
“Who’s asking?”
“What’s the name?”
“It’s need to know,” Larson said, “and you aren’t on my need-to-know list. And your boss isn’t either.”
The FBI agent shoved his cell phone at Larson, who reluctantly accepted it.
“Larson,” he announced himself.
The tense voice on the other end ordered Larson off the train.
“I’m running out of time here. I’m not leaving this train until Amtrak forces us off.”
Five minutes later, Larson, Hampton, and the dog teams were back on the platform.
Larson reeled with anger. “This is wrong.”
“Yes it is,” Hampton agreed.
“If I hadn’t pulled this guy out of the crowd,” Larson explained, “I don’t think he would have stopped us.”
“Their case—whatever they’re doing on this train—it’s gotta be our case. Right?” Hampton asked.
“Not necessarily. I would doubt it. Theirs was probably planned way ahead of time. Ours was last minute.”
“So what’s going on? What’s next?”
The train started up and pulled away.
Larson said, “I make some calls of my own. But I’ll tell you one thing: we’re not done with this train. Not by a long shot.”
Grym decided not to leave the train in Toledo, afraid authorities might catch him.
He knew better than to test his luck. He needed the briefcase; the briefcase was everything.
And a briefcase didn’t just disappear out of a baggage car, no matter what the conductor had said. If the bag didn’t turn up by Cleveland, it would be time for a little one-on-one chat with the boy. He’d carefully watched departing passengers in Toledo, and he hadn’t seen the boy or the mother among them. They were still on the train.
A person had to eat. Grym would watch for them in the dining car.
He’d look for them everywhere. He wasn’t in any great hurry. He knew not to force the matter. The boy would show himself.
D.C. was still a long way away.
Natalie Shufman had no idea what the contact looked like. The whole idea of a dead drop was that she could leave the briefcase without ever meeting the contact. Likewise, she doubted the contact had any idea what
she
looked like—unless he’d already been on the train watching her at the time she’d made the drop, and that seemed possible, but unlikely.
She’d returned to the train after the awful conversation with her contact in the station, having come away from it with the sense that someone might hurt the boy. She knew better than to involve herself with these people, but it was much too late for that: she was in this knee deep. There was no quitting, no going back. But the boy…His only crime was trying to do a good deed. He didn’t deserve any trouble.
But how to find him and warn him? Where was he? She’d searched the train top to bottom a number of times, walking from one end to the other with no sight of him. She might have passed his mother or father, for all she knew—but that was just the point: she didn’t know. She had no clue what anyone looked like beyond the young man who had approached her on the platform.
Frustrated and angry at herself for not having handled the situation on the platform better, she kept looking, walking the entire length of the train a sixth time.
And then she saw him: only the back of a head, but she was pretty sure it was the same boy. A moment later, when he happened to glance over his shoulder, she knew she was right. But there was one slight problem: he recognized her as well.
He took off like lightning.
Natalie hurried to follow, one car to the next. But the boy was shorter—harder to see—and fast.
Gone.
She stopped at the end of a sleeper car and turned around.
He had to be in here someplace.
Steel knocked on the compartment door.
“Who is it?” A girl’s high voice. Kaileigh.
“It’s me! Hurry up!”
She pulled back the privacy curtain on the compartment door, and he glimpsed her face. Then he heard the lock turn. She opened the door, and Steel pushed his way through.
“What the…?” she said.
“A woman. Following me,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“The briefcase.”
“What is it with this briefcase, anyway?” She spoke a little too loudly.
Steel hushed her.
“Don’t shush me,” she complained. “This is my cabin!”
At that moment, with his eye to the edge of the privacy curtain, Steel saw the blur of the woman’s profile as she passed by. He raised his hand to silence Kaileigh. The woman stopped, as if sensing him. Then she turned around, and he could see her clearly; it was the woman from the platform!
He released the curtain and spun around with his back to the compartment’s wall. His face was ashen. He waited a long time before daring to take another look. The passageway was empty; the woman had moved on.
He looked around. “Whoa!” he said softly, admiring the oversize compartment. “You
must
be rich. You have this all to yourself? It’s huge.”
“It feels small to me.”
“Small? You should see ours,” he said.
“Did the cops question you?” she asked.
“My mom handled it. You should have seen her.” He paused. “What about you? I thought for sure they’d get you. It was you they were after, right?”
“Not. They stopped here, and I told them my mother was on the train somewhere, and that she hadn’t come back when the announcement had been made. The cop didn’t seem too surprised. He was tight with it.”
“Your nanny never boarded?”
“She’s not my nanny.” She paused. “No. Not that I know of, no,” Kaileigh said. She sounded almost disappointed. “Maybe she went straight to Washington. Maybe she’s waiting for me there.”
“I thought you didn’t want her to find you,” he said.
“I don’t.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Shut up,” she said. “You’re safe now. You can go.” She indicated the door.
“Please, could I maybe stay a little longer?” He raised his voice hopefully.
“I guess.”
“Do you regret running away? Coming on the train?”
“No way!” she said. For a moment she sounded almost convincing.
“We need a plan,” he said.
“What kind of plan?”
“One for you. One for me.”
“I don’t need your help,” she complained.
“Sure you do. How are you going to get to the hotel?”
“Take a cab.”
“You have money?”
“Of course I do. My parents left Miss Kay a whole bunch of cash for groceries and stuff.” She paused and looked away. “I kinda borrowed it.”
“You stole her money?”
“It isn’t her money. It’s my parents’ money. It was meant for me.”
“This is not good.”
“Trust me: it won’t stop her. Slow her down a little, maybe. And there’s no way she’s going to tell my parents about it. She likes her job.”
“Maybe not after this, she doesn’t,” Steel said.
“Good point.” Kaileigh smiled. Then the smile faded and she turned to Steel intently. “So what’s in the briefcase?”
He considered lying to her, or just not telling her at all, but it seemed to him they’d formed a team of sorts. “A photograph.”
“A picture? So what’s so important about a picture?”
“It’s of a woman. She’s tied up. She looks scared. Her mouth is taped. I think someone kidnapped her.”
“What? Seriously? Then you have
got
to tell the police.”
“I know.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t.”
“Do you know how moronic that sounds?” she asked.
“You want to make it to the science challenge, right? Well, so do I. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for taking that briefcase. What was I supposed to do, let the guy get the briefcase back? What if he’s the kidnapper? I don’t think so.”
“You have
got
to tell someone,” she repeated.
“It’s better if I just get the briefcase to the cops and let them handle it. It’s locked. There’s no way they’re going to think I saw what’s inside.”
“So do it.”
“I’m going to.”
“Like, when?”
“Soon. I’ve got to figure out how to do it so I don’t get in trouble.”
“Telling them what happened might help.”
“Shut up,” he said.
“What if that’s why they boarded the train: your briefcase? Do you know how stupid you were not to tell them this?”
“A lady—the lady just chasing me out there—brought that briefcase on board. I saw her. Obviously she was supposed to leave it for someone—the guy in the baggage car, remember?”
“Of course I remember!”
“So who is he?” he asked. “I messed everything up. Now they’re both on this train looking for
me.
What if they’ve paid off the conductors to help them? Who am I supposed to tell? How am I supposed to get the bag without them getting
me
first?”
“You were supposed to tell the cops when they were on board.”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?” he snapped at her.
“So, I could get it for you and turn it over to the cops,” she proposed.
“No way.”
“Way,” she said.
“And when they ask who you are? When they ask to talk to your mother?”
She bit her lower lip. “Good point.”
“There’s no way this is going to happen before Washington. I can just leave it in the baggage room for someone to find, or turn it over to someone then, or something.”
“Not if one of those two finds it first.”
“I know,” he said.
“It’s complicated.”
“It gets worse,” he said.
“You’ve got two people searching the train for you, and a briefcase you can’t show to anyone, and it gets
worse?”
she asked.
“There was something written on the photo of the woman. The one tied up.”
“A message?”
“Some kind of code maybe,” Steel said. He squinted his eyes shut. “G, twenty-three, colon, three dash four. Handwritten. Black marker.”
“Say it again,” Kaileigh said. This time she wrote it out on an Amtrak notepad as Steel recited it.
G23: 3–4
She studied what she’d written. “Some kind of stadium seating or something? You know how the rows are always lettered and numbered?”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“A meeting time: three to four o’clock on the twenty-third?”
“There’s no month that starts with the letter G,” he pointed out.
“A gate number,” she said. “A serial number. Maybe some kind of code for a phone number. Maybe she’s a patient in a research hospital. Maybe the woman in the photograph is G twenty-three.”
“Get a life,” he said.
“Have you Googled it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he snapped sarcastically. “I’ve spent a lot of time on my computer on this trip.”
“I have a laptop with Wi-Fi,” she said, pointing to the counter, where in fact a laptop was open and running.
“There’s no Wi-Fi on a train,” he said.
“It’s a broadband wireless card. Very fast. Pretty cool.”
“Pretty
cool?” he questioned. He pushed past her, which required some contact—it wasn’t all that big a compartment. He studied the laptop. Sure enough, it was connected to the Internet. “This is tight.”
“Go ahead,” she said.
He worked the keyboard, typing in the cryptic code he’d seen on the bottom of the photo. “I’ve got two entries for hypodermic needles,” he said.
“See,” she said. “Maybe it is some kind of test hospital.”
“Some lighting companies. Something to do with hockey.”
“Stadium seats!” she reminded him.
He flashed her a disapproving look.
He read down the list on Google. “Something to do with physics…A business journal…More lights. The National Weather Service Web site.”
“So, nothing,” she said.
“Yeah. Or more accurately, too much of everything.”
“I like puzzles,” she said.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Sudoku?”
“I’m totally there,” he said.
“So we need to solve this before we reach Washington,” she said.
“If possible, though I don’t see how. We need more data: who she is, why she’s been tied up. Something more than we’ve got. And we need to avoid being caught,” he pointed out.
“Tell your mother you’re nervous about the competition and you don’t feel good. Stay in your room. Or you can hang out here, if you want.”
“Or maybe a little of both,” he said, agreeing with her.
“Just don’t get caught,” she said.
“If I go missing or something, it’s your job to get the briefcase to someone.”
“You’re not going missing.”
“But if I”—he interrupted himself with an astonished pause—“…do.”
“What’s up, Steel? You should see your face. You’re pale as a ghost.”
“My father,” he mumbled. “He was supposed to take me on this trip. Not just my mom. Totally unlike him to miss this. But you should see my mother…. She said it was business—that something to do with business kept him from making it. But she’s been acting real strange. Getting phone calls at all sorts of hours. Says she talks to him, but never when I’m around, never when
I
can talk to him, so how do I know she’s telling the truth? What if he’s gone missing?”
“More likely they’ve separated or something, and your mother isn’t telling you about it. I have
so many
friends whose parents are separated or divorced, you wouldn’t believe it. And the first thing they do is lie to the kids about what’s going on. Every time.” She paused. “Sorry about that,” she said when she saw the effect it had on him. “Maybe that’s not what happened with your dad at all.”
“I’ve been thinking basically the same thing,” he said, still considering her remark. “But the thing is, my mom would be a basket case, and she’s keeping it together.” He didn’t like thinking about it.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said. But she didn’t sound convinced.
“I gotta go,” he said.