The Overseer (50 page)

The man’s face lit up. “Sisters, cousins, and aunts,” he corrected, at once breaking into song.
“‘And we are his sisters, and his cousins and his aunts,/’”
the two others in the foursome immediately joined in:
“‘His sisters and his
cousins / Whom he reckons up by dozens / And his aunts.’”
Without so much as a pause, the man with the crossword jumped to his feet and in a deeply felt baritone poured forth with
“‘For he is an English man.’”
A moment later, three-quarters of the cabin were on their feet, swaying to the train’s steady rhythm and chiming in with the chorus in full glee.
“‘For he himself has said it / and it’s greatly to his credit / that he is an Englishman, that he i-s a-n E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-Englishman.’”
Sitting quietly, Sarah tried her best at a smile, wondering how wise a choice the seat had been, vantage point or not. A moment later, the cabin burst into great waves of laughter as
everyone
retook their seats, another chorus—this one an ode to poetry, as far as she could tell—picking up where
Pinafore
had left off. Remembering there were some ten to twelve operettas in the canon, Sarah knew she was in for a long ride.

It was only then, as she was settling back into her chair, that she noticed one of Pritchard’s associates at the far end of the car, his eyes scanning the passengers as if looking for a seat.
The dark suit, the thin black tie.
He, too, seemed somewhat perplexed by the regularity of the uniform, less so by the singing, clearly interested only in the few women who, like Sarah, had
inadvertently
stumbled into the chorus car. One of those unfortunate few had evidently had enough and was politely disentangling herself from another foursome halfway down the cabin, her smile one of relief as she moved past Pritchard’s man on her way to the far door. For a moment, the agent looked as though he might follow, but then decided against it, quick to return to his surveillance.
Too short,
guessed Sarah.
Still, he took the time to make sure. He was being careful.
Of course, there was the chance that he wouldn’t
recognize
her. She remembered him as the one by the car, the one who had stayed too far back to get an accurate picture of her face. And what with her clothes, hair, even the color of her skin thoroughly altered since their last encounter, it seemed unlikely that he would be able to pick her out. Then again, it was those very changes that were now making her so conspicuous among the rest of the tuneful little troupe. He
would
scrutinize her. That much was clear. Which meant she needed to create a distraction.

With that in mind, Sarah turned toward the baritone and began to mouth the few words she could make out—always half a beat behind—swaying her head back and forth. Immediately, he nodded in
encouragement
. As she had anticipated, the movement was enough to draw the agent’s attention.
Good
, she thought,
enjoy the show.
Sarah felt his gaze on her face, waited until he had begun to move toward them and then, very slowly, began to spread her legs. The short skirt inched up her thighs. Soon, her knees were far enough apart to offer a generous view of the upper leg and beyond for any interested parties. And Pritchard’s man was interested. From the corner of her eye, she saw him stop, his glance drift downward, his eyes eagerly begin to trace along the curve of her inner thigh, ever upward, enrapt by her flesh and panties for several long moments. Sarah waited, allowing him to indulge his appetite.

And then, without warning, she abruptly pulled her knees together. Her eyes were already locked on his, her expression one of shock and reproach—the wounded female having caught her violator in the act. His response was all too predictable. His face flushed, his eyes darted about before he offered a feeble smile and turned. A moment later, he was retreating in awkward haste, his hands digging into the seats for support. Sarah watched him sway from side to side, certain that, even now, he was trying to force her face from his mind. What else could he do? He had felt only the humiliation, had seen only the accusation in her eyes, not the woman behind them. And for that reason alone, she knew he would not return. He could not allow himself to believe she had been the woman he sought. His ego would never permit it.

Before Pritchard’s agent had slipped from sight, the door to her left
suddenly
flew open, the sound of wheels and wind bellowing through to drown out the choristers. Looking up, Sarah nearly flinched. There,
standing
less than three feet from her was the stocky escort from Tieg’s cellar, the man who had led her to the ramp some ten hours ago.
Tieg?
She stared in utter disbelief, her momentary triumph over Pritchard all but forgotten. The man had stopped and was looking straight ahead, undistracted by the resurgence of music. Sarah inched closer to her singing partner, an attempt to obscure the man’s view should he turn, but his gaze remained on the aisle, his eyes fixed on something farther down the car. Unlike his
predecessor
, he showed no need to scan the seats. Somewhere beyond her view, he had targeted his prey.

Very quietly, Sarah sat back, puzzled less by his appearance than by the message his expression conveyed—he was
not
looking for her. That much was clear. In fact, it seemed as though he might not even be
aware
that she was on the train.
Then what was he doing here?
A rather disturbing thought sprang to mind.
Pritchard’s boy
. But why? Before she could speculate, Tieg’s man was already halfway to the far door. Sarah slowly got up. Without so much as a nod of good-bye, she began to follow.

Keeping well back, she trailed Tieg’s man through the next three cars, at each successive door staying far enough behind so as to see him stop, size up his quarry, and then move on, never close enough, though, to catch sight of the prey herself. Only when she dared to narrow the distance between them did she finally discover whom he was tailing—
Eager Eyes.
Granted, Pritchard’s man was the only logical choice, but the question remained: Whose logic? Why would he be showing even the
slightest
interest
in the boy from Washington? Why be aware of him at all? Insecure channels aside, the target made no sense. She knew they would have been after
her. Should
have been after her.

The questions quickly slipped from her mind as the strange game of cat, mouse, and cat began to pick up, the ensuing minutes transforming Sarah from hunted into hunter. Gliding down the aisles, she could feel her
heartbeat
quicken, her senses grow more acute—textures, sights, smells—
everything
on the train pass with an amplified clarity. And with that intensity came a sense of relief. For the first time in weeks, perhaps years, she felt in control, the voices within momentarily at peace. The chase—so simple, so much a part of herself. For three cars, she kept both men within eyeshot until, nearing the fourth, she was forced to stop on the small ledge between cars. Pritchard’s man had found his two comrades, the three in hushed
conference
midway through the cabin. Tieg’s man had likewise been forced to stop, taking the first available seat before pulling a small radio from his jacket pocket, his eyes never once straying from the trio. Meanwhile, Sarah had stepped into the shadows of the open-air vestibule, her reflection eclipsed within the glare of the sun-glazed window.

The three from Washington remained surprisingly unaware of the dual surveillance, each clearly wrapped up in his own inability to locate their common target. As Sarah had expected, her voyeur showed no signs of recounting his recent misadventure, shaking his head and shrugging along with the others, his failure, so it seemed, as complete as their own. It was only when all three seemed to stop simultaneously that Sarah realized they had not been explaining their exploits to one another. Instead, they were listening intently, their joint focus on the seat directly to their left. It was then that she noticed the shock of gray hair rising above the headrest, the familiar coat draping out into the aisle.
Pritchard
. He, too, was evidently less than pleased, his fingers darting above the seat to punctuate each of his frustrations. One point was clear. He had taken an interest in her—a very
personal
interest—and one that was forcing him to play an active role in an arena he understood only in the abstract.
So why was he taking the chance?

Pritchard stood, his tirade ended, his expression one of disappointment, perhaps even irritation, but never without the arrogance, never at a loss for the presumption.
He
would lead them on a sweep of the train—his posture said as much as he moved down the aisle. Until he suddenly stopped. For a frightening moment, Sarah thought he had seen her through the glass, but his eyes told her otherwise. It was Tieg’s man who held his attention, not her. Both men stared at each other, Pritchard frozen, his cheeks ashen in a flash of shocked recognition. A palpable fear began to wash across his face.
Fear?
She had never once seen even the slightest trace of emotion penetrate those stony eyes. Now, she saw terror, a wave of real panic rise up to stifle all motion. Gazing into his weathered face, she tried to understand, tried to answer her own confusion, but she could find nothing. For several seconds, she felt trapped by his gaze, floating in an absolute stillness, until, quite accidentally, she let her brow graze across the glass—its chill enough to release her from her stupor. And in that moment, in that instant of clarity, she sensed it—the truth, distant at first, but there in all its incongruity. He was a part of it, a part of the madness. Pritchard had given himself to the men of Eisenreich. And somehow, he had betrayed that trust.

That was why Tieg’s men were here. As Pritchard had traced her, so they had traced him. She wondered how long they had been looking for him, not bothering to question her own good fortune at having avoided the trap.

Pritchard stepped back, inadvertently bumping into one of his agents. The man awkwardly moved aside, unclear as to the sudden change of
direction
. But there was to be no change. George—Sarah’s erstwhile chauffeur—had arrived at the far door to discourage any further thoughts of escape. Evidently, they knew how to keep options to a minimum as well. Pritchard turned again, and for a few long seconds simply stood gazing down the aisle. Very slowly, he sank to the nearest armrest. His three minions, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware of what was happening around them. They
continued
to watch as Pritchard steadied himself against the seat, each
exchanging
a bewildered look before the pieces began to drop into place. But it was too late. Tieg’s men had already drawn near, their hands wedged deep within their coat pockets, the first with his mouth to the radio once again. He began to nod. Only then did Sarah realize what he was doing. He was calling for backup.

She quickly glanced through the window behind her and saw several large bodies approaching down the aisle. Stepping from the shadows, she very calmly pulled back the door and entered the cabin, heading straight for them. She kept her head up. None seemed to recognize her, the first slowing as she sidled into a vacant space so as to let them pass. Each
nodded
his thanks, the last of the four even offering a smile before moving past her and leaving the aisle free. She stepped out and continued to walk away from them, her gait casual, until she heard the door click shut behind her. They were through. She could turn. As if having forgotten something, she let out an audible sigh and spun around. None of the other passengers seemed to take any notice. Half a minute later, she was back at her perch, the scene within completely different. The men from Eisenreich had
surrounded
Pritchard and his cohorts, cleverly enough so that only someone looking for it would have recognized the tactic as encirclement. Those on the outer ring kept one hand within the folds of their jackets. Likewise, the men inside had clearly been instructed to keep their hands visible, jackets open, eyes on the ground. As Sarah scanned the inner three, she noticed that one of them had not given in without a struggle. He held his left
forearm
close to his chest, his limp hand the evident sign of a shattered wrist. The message was clear—no signals, no coordinated attacks, no further attempts to break up the happy little get-together. At center stood Pritchard, eyes shut, defeated.

“Alderton, two minutes,” the crackled voice penetrated even to the open-air ledge. “Two minutes to Alderton.”

The train began to slow, a few passengers showing signs of life, several standing in order to retrieve packs and briefcases. Fingers fiddled with
buttons
; suitcases dropped to the floor. All the while, the group at center remained comfortably detached from the growing activity. Within a minute, the train had pulled into the station, a final screech of brakes to
signal
the arrival. Doors opened, and the cluster of agents was on the
platform
, a single unit heading for the stairs at the far end. Sarah pushed open the door and entered the car, maneuvering through the newly boarded
passengers
, never once taking her eyes from the train’s windows and the group beyond. Sliding into a vacant seat, she watched as the men from Eisenreich led their captives to several waiting sedans, the boys from Washington immediately separated from Pritchard. No doubt, the three would be forced to answer certain questions before meeting their individual fates—a bullet to the head, perhaps a garrote. But all of that would come later. For now, they remained useful.

Pritchard, however, had lost all such value; he would merit no delays. Even now, as the train pulled out, Sarah knew he was already dead.