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“As would I,” Anna says, her sharp tone making Reggie flinch. “But I haven’t. And I won’t. All I care about is keeping them alive. I need—”
“To bring them to justice. I know. But a lot of people would take issue with your definition of that.”
“Including you?”
“Yes,” Reggie says. “You’re not the only person who lost someone during the war, you know.”
“You did, too?” Seamus chimes in.
“My father.”
Reggie looks away, annoyed at himself for revealing even that much about his past. He hates talking about it, which is why he never does. People love a good sob story, and his is a doozy. Lucky for him, Anna Matheson and Seamus Callahan know what that’s like.
“I’m sorry for your loss” is all Seamus says. Anna responds with “Likewise.”
Reggie drops into the nearest chair, suddenly exhausted. “Even though I understand your reasons, what you’re doing here is dangerous. Not to mention borderline preposterous.”
“There’s nothing borderline about it,” Anna says. “It’s crazy that I thought I could do it. I assumed one, if not all, of them would threaten me.”
“Hence his gun,” Reggie adds, jabbing a thumb toward Seamus.
“Are you armed?” Seamus says.
Reggie pats his jacket pocket, where he stashed his gun before leaving his room. “Better to be safe than sorry,” he says. “Hopefully we’ll have no need to use it.”
Anna starts pacing the room, moving back and forth in front of the wide windows, casting occasional looks outside. There’s nothing to see there. Just streaks of white as the train hurtles through the blizzard.
“What do we do now?” she says. “We can’t just wait for whoever’s doing this to kill again.”
“Who do you think is the killer?”
“Lapsford,” Anna says.
At the same time, Seamus replies, “Dante Wentworth.”
Reggie clocks the wary look that passes between the two of them. It’s the first crack he’s noticed in their otherwise unified front. “A difference of opinion, I see. I guess the only way to find out who’s right is to interrogate everyone on this train to find out where they were when Edith Gerhardt was killed—and if any of them had a reason to want her dead.”
He stands, makes his way out of the car, and faces the others still clustered in the hallway of Car 13. To say they look confused would be an understatement. All of them strike Reggie as downright befuddled.
“I’m Special Agent Reginald Davis,” he says. “Starting right now, I’m in charge of escorting all of you to Chicago.”
The reactions of those in the corridor are as predictable as the sunrise. Herb Pulaski’s face goes pale. Sally Lawrence gasps. Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford, just accused of murder, huffs in annoyance. And Dante Wentworth, also accused and also annoyed, says, “Are you arresting us?”
“No,” Reggie says. “Not yet anyway.”
He regrets the words as soon as he says them. Now there’s a target on his back—and any one of them might try to take a shot. Reggie realizes he’s going to have to be extra careful around this crew.
Staying out of the way is no longer an option.
Twenty-Four
Herb Pulaski nervouslystuffs a cigarette between his lips.
“Mind if I smoke?” he says, even though he shouldn’t have to. It’s his room, after all. The only reason Anna Matheson and this FBI guy are here is because they forced their way in. They told him they need to talk to everyone on the train and that he’s first. Now they perch side by side on the bench seat while Herb squirms in the chair by the window.
“Not at all,” Agent Davis says.
Herb lights up and lowers the window an inch, letting in a whistling gust of icy wind. A few snowflakes ride in with it and pinwheel across the room. Herb doesn’t mind. He’s been sweating like a pig all night, with good reason. Anyone finding out they were tricked the way he’s been would do the same. He should have known this wasn’t a get-rich-quick scheme the moment he opened that damn invitation. But he was desperate—and that always leads to poor decisions. He knows that from experience.