Page 27

Herb leaps away from the door, not stopping until his back is flattened against the opposite wall. Anna takes his place at the doors, slamming them shut. The wind instantly ceases as the noise of the train quiets to a steady clickety-clack.
“Now that you’ve come to your senses and realized there’s no getting off this train until Chicago, I recommend all of you make your way back to the first-class lounge,” she says.
No one disagrees with her. Not even Jack Lapsford, the most contentious of the bunch. All five of them shuffle out of the baggage car, overseen by Seamus. Anna and Dante follow a short distance behind.
“Why didn’t you try to stop the train?” Anna says softly once they reach the second coach car and are filing down the aisle.
“I have my reasons,” Dante replies. “Ones that have nothing to do with you.”
He says nothing after that. No one does. Passing row upon row of empty seats, the group becomes a grim parade, struck silent by the lack of people. When they return to the first-class lounge, Judd Dodge says, “I think I could use that drink now.”
Dante steps behind the bar. “Pick your poison.”
“Gin,” Judd says.
“Works for me,” Sal announces as she drops her handbag onto the bar and pulls out a tube of lipstick.
“I’ll take one, too,” Herb says. “Seeing how this might be my last chance for a stiff drink.”
Lapsford chimes in with “Make mine a double.”
Dante gathers the necessities with the same dexterity heapplied to the piano. Within seconds the bar top is crowded with martini glasses, a cocktail shaker, and a bottle of Tanqueray.
“Anything for you, Edith?”
Edith, sitting primly at a distance, shakes her head. “Alcohol dulls the senses.”
“Yeah,” Sal says while applying the lipstick, outlining her mouth in a shade of red as bright as blood. “That’s the point.”
Dante fills the cocktail shaker with ice, gin, and two splashes of vermouth. After giving it a good stir, he lines up four glasses and runs the upturned shaker back and forth over the row until each one has the same amount. He then spreads his arms wide above the finished cocktails and says, “Come and get ’em.”
Already at the bar, Sal hovers a hand over the glasses before choosing one on the end of the row. Herb is next, snagging the one now in the center without thought. After him comes Lapsford, who reaches for one glass, changes his mind, takes the other. Turning away from the bar, he brushes against Judd, who picks up the remaining glass with his right hand and carries it to the center of the car, where he stands alone.
For a moment, they drink in silence, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. Herb takes the tiniest of sips, grimacing at the martini’s strength. On the opposite end of the spectrum is Sal, who tips the glass back, her fresh lipstick leaving a crimson stain on its rim. Lapsford keeps his glass at his lips, glaring over the drink at Anna, while Judd, in no hurry to take a sip, checks his pocket watch and stifles a yawn.
Another horn toot rises from the front of the train, long and languid in the dark night. It’s followed by a similar one from farther away. Another train is in the vicinity, roaring in the opposite direction on the set of tracks running parallel to their own.
Within seconds, the train is beside them, rattling by with acar-rocking whoosh. The lit windows of the other train pass their own in flashbulb bursts. Bright. Fleeting. Blinding in their intensity. The blink-quick glimpses of people on the other train filling coach seats, mingling in the club car, and eating in the dining car make those trapped on the Phoenix lean closer to watch with palpable envy.
Then the other train is gone, leaving them with nothing but a view of the snow-studded landscape. Anna hopes all of them are thinking about how this is their last moment of comfort before it’s taken away from them forever—and that this knowledge makes it all the more painful.
She looks to Seamus, who’d noticed the same thing and flashes her a half smile. Rare for him. A sign that, despite a few hiccups and Dante’s presence, their plan is working.
But then someone in the car coughs.
Then moans.
Then emits a sickly combination of the two.
All eyes turn to the afflicted party—Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford, who at that moment is collapsing into the nearest chair, martini sloshing. He sets it down and uses that now-free hand to clutch his chest.
“Help,” he gasps. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
Those nearest him—Sal and Herb—are by his side in an instant, uncertain how to help. By the time Anna pushes herself between them, Lapsford’s face has turned bright red.
“Can you breathe?” she asks as she kneels before him.
Lapsford’s head lolls back, neither shake nor nod. Anna grasps his free hand in both of her own. She places two fingers against his wrist, feeling his pulse. While Anna is certainly no doctor, it seems normal to her. She suspects her own heart is beating twice as fast.