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“I asked if you heard anyone else in the car after you saw Miss Matheson.”
“No. Just her.”
“So there was no one else in this car but you?”
“No,” Herb says, still distracted. He can’t stop thinking of Car 13 as a coffin. They’re the same shape, after all, and now share the same purpose. Long narrow boxes in which the dead are laid to rest. And Herb feels like he’s trapped inside this coffin on wheels, about to be buried alive.
Or killed.
Because Herb’s starting to realize that’s the pattern. Judd was the first, followed by Edith. Respectively, they occupied the last room on the train and the second-to-last. If the killer continues working his way down the train, room by room, his is next.
The idea sends so much panic streaking through him that Herb can scarcely breathe. He stubs out the cigarette, suddenly craving nothing but fresh air in his lungs.
“Am I going to die tonight?”
“Not if I can help it,” Anna says.
Herb feels tightness growing in his chest. That last cigarette was a bad idea. Just like getting on this train was a bad idea. And now he’s terrified he’s about to pay the ultimate price.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” he whimpers.
“You should have thought of that before ruining dozens of lives,” Anna says.
“But what if I get killed?”
Herb becomes aware of the way Agent Davis and Anna Matheson look at him. Not with scorn and definitely not with pity. Their expressions are something in between. A potent disgust.
“I’ve made it very clear that I want you alive when we reach Chicago.”
“How long will that be?”
“A little under seven hours.”
That’s a long time trapped in a room, with two dead people elsewhere in the car, and a killer on the loose. Herb swallows hard. Anna notices and softens, just a tiny bit. A kindness Herb knows he doesn’t deserve.
“Just keep your door locked,” she says. “Don’t let anyone in. Either Seamus, Agent Davis, or I will come by to check on you every hour.”
While nice to hear, it doesn’t halt the panic spiking through Herb’s thoughts or ease the aching tightness in his chest. He still can’t breathe properly—an affliction that’ll likely last the rest of the trip.
As Anna and Agent Davis leave, Herb opens the window all the way. Buffeted by snow and howling wind, he sticks his head out the window and takes a couple of deep breaths. Inhaling and exhaling as the frigid air stings his face, Herb can think of only one thing.
He should have jumped when he had the chance.
Twenty-Five
If there’s onelesson Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford learned from his time in the military, it’s to always have a battle plan. And make no mistake, thisisa battle. War has broken out on this train. It’s him against Anna. Lapsford cares nothing for the others onboard. They’re just cannon fodder. Likely as doomed as Judd Dodge and Edith Gerhardt.
So Lapsford says nothing.
Silence is the best defense. Another lesson from his military days. When in a bind, just clam up. Don’t say a word. Don’t implicate yourself, like Judd did. The fool got himself killed the moment he admitted that blueprint was his handiwork. He’d served his confession to Anna on a silver platter and got what was coming to him.
Lapsford doesn’t know how that bastard Kenneth Wentworth roped Judd and the others into his goddamn scheme. Probably the same way Lapsford was forced to get involved—good old-fashioned blackmail. Sometimes, on nights when sleep doesn’t come easily, Lapsford replays that dinner in his mind. The way Ken Wentworth stared at him over his fifty-dollar scotch as he said, “From what I hear, Jack, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lapsford said, even though he knew exactly what Wentworth was getting at.
“Don’t play dumb, Jack. You’re no good at it. I know all about your deal with Barnett Aeronautical.”
Lapsford went cold then. He thought no one knew about his arrangement with Barnett. In order to secure a massive government contract, they promised to cut a few corners, provide airplane engines for the military at below cost, and let Lapsford pocket the cash that was left.