Page 112

Reggie nods in both sympathy and understanding. “You know how to make that happen.”
Anna spares a thought for Seamus, the man who embarked on this journey knowing he likely wouldn’t reach the end. His final words now sound loud in her thoughts.
You know what to do. You can end this.
Anna can.
And, with one sudden pull of the trigger, she does.
Arrival
More than twodozen FBI agents are waiting on the platform when the Philadelphia Phoenix slides into Chicago’s Union Station. Although ten minutes late, the train pulls up with such ease that anyone passing by would think it had just finished another regularly scheduled overnight journey.
But there are no passersby present. The station was cleared an hour ago, leaving only cops in the concourse and FBI agents shifting nervously on the platform.
When the train comes to a stop, they force open the door to Car 13 and pour inside. With weapons drawn and hearts pounding in anticipation, they storm the Phoenix, moving from car to car, room to room.
The first discovery they make, in Car 13, is the dead bodies of Judd Dodge, Edith Gerhardt, and Herb Pulaski, each one tucked away in their individual rooms.
They find three more people in a single room of Car 12. Sally Lawrence, Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford, and Dante Wentworth. All remain very much alive, although there’s some initial concern when they see that one of them is holding the other two at gunpoint.
Dante drops the gun and raises his hands. “They’re all yours, boys.”
The agents making their way to the front of the train don’t encounter another soul until they reach the baggage car just behind the locomotive. That’s where they find one of their own—Agent Reggie Davis.
He sits on the floor, a bloody hand clamped over a fresh bullet wound. One shot to the leg took him out.
Jerking his head toward the open locomotive door, he says, “They’re in there.”
Sure enough, the agents find Anna Matheson and Kenneth Wentworth at the front of the train. Wentworth stands at the controls while Anna remains slightly behind him, pressing an FBI-issued gun against his lower back.
She raises her hands when the agents swarm the front of the train and says, “My name is Anna Matheson. Beside me is Kenneth Wentworth. He is directly responsible for the deaths of thirty-eight people, including my father and brother, and indirectly responsible for one more—my mother.”
The team’s lead agent gingerly takes the gun from Anna and, with equal gentleness, places a hand on her shoulder. “Miss Matheson, we’ve scoured the evidence you provided and know what he did. We’re deeply sorry for your loss.”
Other than Seamus, no one had ever said they were sorry for her loss. That simple, basic kindness almost causes her to break down. Under such circumstances, not even Aunt Retta could disapprove. But the tears will have to wait just a little bit longer.
There’s one more thing Anna needs to do.
After getting her various cuts and bruises tended to, she stands outside Union Station, watching the guilty be carted away. Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford is first. He limps handcuffed toward a black sedan, guided by two federal agents who ignore his protests thathe’s done nothing wrong, that Anna Matheson is a liar and murderer just like her father. The bellowing stops once Lapsford is shoved into the back of the car.
That’s when he begins to bawl, as a photographer from theChicago Tribuneswoops in for a picture.
Sally Lawrence is far more mannered as she’s taken into custody. No sniveling tears for her. Instead, she walks briskly, head held high. When she passes Anna, she asks the agents to stop.
“Anna,” she says.
And that’s all she can say, the words she intended to speak seemingly gone. Anna understands, for she also finds herself at a loss for words. There’s so much that needs to be said. But as they face each other, Anna and the woman she’ll always know as Sal settle for silence. It’s not an apology, and it’s certainly not forgiveness. But it’s close. Enough for Anna to know that it might be all the closure she’s going to get with Sal. If that’s the case, she’ll take it.
Kenneth Wentworth offers no such satisfaction. The man who caused Anna so much pain can’t bring himself to look at her as he’s taken away, not even after she spared his life. Wentworth is too busy badgering the FBI agents escorting him.
“What’s this evidence you keep talking about? Have you even looked at it?”
“We have,” one of the agents says.
“And what does it show?”
“That you’re going to die in prison.”