February Fever (18 page)

Forty-One

“Oh my god!” I
stripped off my sweater and pushed it at the hands he held at his throat. “What happened?”

His eyes were spinning like a terrified animal's. I looked around in a panic. We were surrounded by blinding snow. I kicked at the train.

“Help!” Glancing up, I saw people still in a panic, pressing against each other and the windows. “Goddamn it, get out here and help me!”

It was no use. They were too scared to see what was going on. I fired up the walkie-talkie, reached Jed, and told him to get to the viewing car as fast as he could and to bring some big guys. Then I rehols-tered the device and returned my attention to Terry. I swallowed my stomach, steeled myself for the gore, and pushed his hands away. His throat sported a three-inch gash, a wicked red smile that was leaking blood. I dabbed gently at it with my sweater and was relieved to discover that it wasn't bleeding too heavily.

“It's long, but it isn't deep,” I said. I drew in a deep breath of icy air and realized I was trembling. I pushed my sweater harder against his throat. “Who did this to you?”

Terry started to shake his head and then thought better of it. “He was wearing a mask.”

“Where were you?”

“Car Five. I was going to get my duffel when he came at me from behind. I felt it,” he said, swallowing audibly, “like a paper cut. You know how the pain is sharp and buzzing? But I didn't know what had happened. I turned and saw his back. Then the blood started flowing.”

“Was anyone else down there with you?”

“A couple people, but they screamed and ran.”

“Any chance they got a look at the guy?”

“I don't know. Probably.” He was growing pale.

I pulled a corner of the sweater away, no mean feat given how I was shivering. The bleeding had all but stopped. “Can you walk into the train so we can get a better look ?”

“Sure, as soon as I catch my breath.”

I nodded. “Take your time.”

Jed showed up minutes later, towing the hairy hermit who'd stopped me earlier in the day. They helped Terry into the lower level of the viewing car and into a booth. A staff member ran for the first-aid kit and pulled on some gloves to clean the wound, butterfly bandage it, and wrap some gauze around the works. Both Doghn and the conductor located us before the first aid was done. Terry told them what happened.

“He's a professional, whoever he is,” Doghn said at the end of the story. “To walk up those stairs, take off a ski mask before you reach the top, and blend in? That's no amateur.”

I studied Doghn. His face was flushed. He appeared almost aroused by this new development. “And you?” I asked him. “Where were you when this happened?”

He drew back. “I was with the conductor the whole time.”

The conductor coughed. “Not the whole time. I had to check into the engine car briefly.”

Doghn scowled. “Where were
you
?” he asked me.

“With Jed.” I scanned the lower level of the car. A crowd had gathered, but no faces I recognized. “Where's Reed?”

“Why do you want to know?” Doghn asked.

Because I sensed that he was somehow connected to this. “Terry, was the man who did this to you wearing gloves?”

Terry shrugged, then winced. “Didn't see him well enough to know. Probably, though.”

“Can you describe the other witnesses who were down here when it happened?”

“There were three on this level, maybe more on the stairs.” He went on to describe them with a police officer's detail. None of the three sounded familiar.

“I think we should find them and ask them what they saw,” I said. “Particularly if someone was on the stairs while your attacker unmasked himself running to the second level.”

The conductor shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't allow any of you to put yourself in any more danger. I'm putting the train on lockdown. Everyone is confined to their assigned seats. No one goes anywhere but the bathroom, and they don't go there alone.”

“
What
?” I couldn't believe it. That was going to create a mutiny for sure.

“He's right,” Terry said, coughing. “We're no longer looking for clues. Right now, the game is to stay alive.”

Forty-Two

The staff, on the
buddy system, was bringing twenty-four hours' worth of food to each person on the train, starting with the last sleeper car and working their way forward. I watched them travel past, sitting in my chair in a funk, Mrs. Berns across from me.

“You wanna talk it through?”

I didn't. Stress makes me quiet. I did want to sketch it out, though, so I yanked out a notepad and a pencil. Here's what I knew: Aimee, her mom, and her dad had boarded in New York. Her mom and dad had been nervous, or had at least grown nervous sometime after they left and before I'd met them. Reed had also been on at least since New York, as had Ms. Wrenshall next door. Mrs. Berns, Jed, and I had gotten on in Detroit Lakes. An escaped prisoner had boarded in Fargo immediately after murdering his colleague at the Fargo train station. So had Terry.

That night, Aimee's mom, Sofia, was murdered next door. Ms. Wrenshall was awake when it happened, and Reed was in the hallway. One or the other of them was lying about whether Reed had been called. Doghn had boarded in Glendive, interestingly, and would get a lot of publicity if he could solve this crime. I'd thought I'd spotted Aimee at least twice since then, but it could have been a trick of my eyes. Since we'd been stopped in the Rockies and Terry, Doghn, and I had identified ourselves as investigators looking into this case, Terry had had an attempt on his life. And Terry himself was a wild card, a man who claimed to be a PI but who had stolen Jed's pot.

I scribbled as I thought, underlining, crossing out, and ultimately finding myself no better off than I'd been when I started. Why had Sofia Ramos been murdered? And if Emilio, Aimee's dad, wasn't the guilty one, as the attack on Terry suggested, why was he hiding? And what was the murderer afraid we'd discover in our interviewing process?

“Hello?”

My pencil lead snapped. I'd been pushing too hard. Across from me, Mrs. Berns was snoring. Ms. Wrenshall was at our door.

“Hello,” I responded. I was on edge. Every corner in the room seemed sharp, and Ms. Wrenshall's eyes were too wary. The whole train felt like a convoy of murderous looters.

“Can I still join you for lunch?” She held up a tray. We must have gotten our food delivered while I was obliviously scribbling away.

I closed the notebook. “Sure.” I indicated sleeping Mrs. Berns. “Maybe in your cabin?”

Ms. Wrenshall studied her feet. “It's dirty. The porters aren't cleaning, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said, not having the patience for her eccentricity at the moment,“they have bigger things to worry about.”

She nodded and turned away silently. I followed her next door. Together we cleared the pile of clothes off of the second chair and we both settled in, surrounded by the clutter and reek of stale cigarette smoke.

I pointed at the tray in her lap. “What do we have?”

“Sandwiches, water, and chips.”

It sounded good to me. She handed me a turkey and cheese and selected a roast beef for herself. That left six more sandwiches, three bags of potato chips, and seven bottles of water. “Is that all for you, or are we sharing between cabins?”

“They haven't brought us food yet,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich. “You live as long as I have, you always make sure to bring your own.”

I peeled the clear plastic off of my sandwich, sniffing at it. No telling how long she'd been hoarding it, but it smelled okay. I bit into it. My mouth watered immediately. I tried to remember the last time I'd eaten. The bite of roll seven hours ago?

“So, what's your story?” I asked her.

She put down her sandwich, a smile creeping across her face. She still wore all the gaudy jewelry she'd had on when we first met, but she'd given up on the make-up. I found I liked her better without it. She had a strong face, sagging at the edges, with watery brown eyes and a big nose.

“You're just coming out and asking me?”

I unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and took a swig. “If you haven't heard, we're on this train with a killer. It's snowing outside like it'll never stop, and we're on lockdown. I'm past the pleasantries stage.”

“All right,” she said slowly. “Here's my story. I used to be rich. I'm not anymore. I had friends when I had money. Now, I've got a grand-nephew whom I've never met. He lives in Spokane. He doesn't know that I'm broke. I haven't decided if I'll tell him yet. I don't know if I can stand to find out I've never meant anything to anyone.”

She delivered this sad tale in a short, matter-of-fact breath, then she tucked back into her sandwich.

I'd stopped chewing. My turkey hoagie suddenly tasted like shredded paper. “What about his parents, or their parents? You must have had a brother or sister, right?”

She nodded in agreement and reached over to open a sack of chips. They smelled like salty burps. “A brother. He stopped talking to me when I stopped paying his bills. I didn't want to support his alcoholism. He died of liver failure two decades ago. Left behind a son. That son died in a car accident and left behind a son of his own. Jason Wrenshall. He looked me up a few weeks ago. We agreed to meet. I'm sure he still thinks I'm rich.”

Her big wet eyes met mine, not a lick of self-pity in them. What was there was much worse: the utter, raw realization that she was alone. It wasn't fear, it wasn't exaggeration, it was truth. My throat felt tight. “You don't seem like a bad person.”

That smile shadow found its way back onto her face. “You can be honest.”

I put my sandwich down. “Honestly? You seem kinda high maintenance.” I gestured at the room. “And messy. But also unique, and I like that. You've got this eccentric vibe.”

She glanced out the window. “I used to be a painter.”

“Yeah? Anything I'd be familiar with?”

She looked back at me, weighed me, and made up her mind. She placed her chips and sandwich on the tray and waded through the clothes on the floor to the narrow closet. She pulled out a portfolio and slid it open. It contained twelve photographs of paintings, each of them about 11 x 17. If the photos were even half as gorgeous as the originals, she was a woman of amazing talent. The art reminded me of a sharper Matisse, gorgeous jewel tones evoking landscapes and emotions.

“These are incredible.” I meant it.

That sad smile again. “Thank you. Do you think my grand-nephew will like them?”

Her unspoken question trailed behind that one—
even if I'm not rich?

“Yes,” I said. “He'd be crazy not to.”

She nodded shyly and closed the portfolio, returning it to the closet. I felt the bond settle in between us.

“What do you think happened to the little girl next door?” I asked spontaneously.

The intercom crackled before she could answer. It had been used so little on this trip that I'd forgotten the train had one. Why wasn't the conductor communicating more?

“Hello. This is your conductor, James Christmas. I am thrilled to report that the snowcutter has been dispatched from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. It will reach us late tonight or early tomorrow, whether the snow stops or not.”

The cheer reverberated the length of the train, muffled, but almost more powerful for it. “Although we will not need it, we have food and water to last us for seven more days. Unfortunately, our waste disposal is limited. As such, we are asking that no one use the restroom unless absolutely necessary.”

A drowsy-faced Mrs. Berns appeared at the door, rubbing at her messy hair. “What? I have to curb my recreational peeing?”

“In addition,” the conductor continued, “we are asking that you no longer charge your personal devices. This includes cell phones.”

I didn't like the sound of that. I had no personal devices to charge, but hoarding electricity suggested that we may be stuck here longer than ideal or that our power supply was lower than promised. What could I do about it, though? The conductor had put us on lockdown. Any non-staff member found on the train outside of their cabin or seat would be held in the conductor's office until we arrived at Coeur d'Alene, and he'd been serious as a heart attack when he'd broken that news.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, rising.

“That's how it works,” Mrs. Berns said, scooting to take over my spot and my sandwich. “They tell you what you can't do, and that becomes exactly what you must do. Didn't these people ever raise kids? They should think before they speak.”

I thought back to the last time I'd gone to the bathroom. It had been an hour ago. She might have a point. My stomach was feeling the eensiest bit queasy, though, and I didn't know if it was the sandwich or the thought of being on this train without electricity with a murderer. It'd be like the world's biggest coffin.

I steered toward our cabin before changing my mind and instead headed toward the communal bathroom. I reached for the door handle at exactly the same moment it opened toward me, and Aimee stepped out.

I reached toward her, my breath frozen.

I touched her. She was real.

“Aimee!”

Her eyes were shadowed, her face ashen with fear. Her tiny angel face was pinched, reminding me more of Noel than ever. “You can't trust anyone.”

Forty-Three

I pulled her into
a hug. She stiffened in my arms, and I let her go immediately. “Sorry, hon,” I said. “Are you okay? I've been worried sick about you.”

Aimee's eyes were big and brimming with tears. “I'm not suppose to be here. I'm not suppose to let anyone see me. I can't trust anyone. But I had to pee. I had to.”

“You can trust me,” I said, but I realized I had been seeing her as Noel, not as the scared little girl she was. She deserved better. “You're hiding on the train, right? Do you need food? Water? Is your dad still with you?”

She shook her head so her hair fell into her eyes. “If you tell that you saw me, we don't get to go free. It's at Poorland that we get to be free.”

Her five-year-old ears must have heard
Portland
wrong. “I won't tell anyone, honey, I promise. But I want to help you. Do you want to hide in my cabin? I can make sure no one finds you.”

The offer terrified her. A war was being waged in her eyes. She finally spoke. “Have you seen Mr. Bunny? I wasn't suppose to leave, but I miss him. And I had to pee.”

“Mira?”

I turned to find Ms. Wrenshall standing in her doorway, her expression concerned.

“Who are you talking to?”

I looked back. Aimee-Noel had vanished. But I had seen her. I could still feel her tiny bird bones in my arms. “No one.” I would keep my promise to her. “Just talking to myself.”

Ms. Wrenshall nodded slowly, squinting at me. She appeared ready to ask me something important but instead said, “I don't suppose you have a light? Mrs. Berns said neither of you smoke, but you seem like a resourceful woman.”

I didn't like how she was talking to me slowly, like I was delusional.

“They won't let you outside to smoke.”

“I wasn't going to ask them.” She slung a purse over her shoulder and directed her voice into the cabin. “You joining me?”

Mrs. Berns appeared at her side. “Sure. Best offer I've had all day.”

I watched them slide past me and start down the stairs. My blood pressure was still spiking. Aimee must have gone down those stairs, too. I followed them.

“You want a toke?” Mrs. Berns said, waving a doobie in my
direction.

“No,” I said. “Just stretching my legs.”

She looked at me oddly but said nothing. At the lower level, I scoured the cabins. Their doors were open, their inhabitants looking like startled zoo creatures when I peeked in. The communal bathroom was empty. I raced back upstairs and toward the rear of the train.
Good luck trying to stop me.

I didn't slow until I stood outside Doghn's closed door. I slid it open, my heartbeat pounding.

“Hello,” he said. “I was wondering how long until you figured it out.”