Page 1 of Her Final Hours (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #3)

Adirondack County, Upstate New York

I t looked like a beast straight out of hell.

A fiery glow emanated from the front of the LORAM rail grinder.

Hot sparks flew widely as the grinding wheels tore into the rails, shooting like a thousand fireworks in every direction.

The imposing machine with a trail of cars behind it resembled a mechanical beast from the depths of the underworld; its massive body and sharp, screeching wheels were a monstrous sight.

High-pressure nozzles mounted on the cars sprayed water continually on the tracks to keep grinding equipment cool and reduce the amount of dust and sparks.

The sound was deafening to those nearby, with a constant grinding and deep rumble that reverberated and shook the earth.

Up front in the warmth and safety of the cab’s enclosure, two men focused on the tracks ahead of them. The only sounds enveloping them came from the engine’s hum and the clickety-clack of wheels on rails.

The train’s headlights pierced the darkness, their fiery gaze illuminating the tracks with a blinding light.

The way was clear.

The evening was dry.

All was normal.

The engineer, Don Hammond, worked a lump of tobacco around in his gums before spitting a glob of black into a plastic bottle. While his job was the cornerstone of every railroad maintenance program, he liked to play it up and joke that he ran the train to hell.

He wasn’t far wrong. Rail grinders were a confusing and terrifying sight at night as the massive, unyielding machine barreled along, leaving a trail of sparks, water, and smoke in its wake.

Unlike its counterparts — the freight and passenger trains that operated at higher speeds — this moved at a steady pace of no more than 10 miles per hour when working, slowing down to even less when a heavy grind was required for a specific section of the track.

Designed to keep the rails safe and smooth by removing fatigued metal and defects, his job had him working at night to avoid interfering with other rail traffic.

That evening he was working the line up to Plattsburgh, giving a railroad freight conductor a ride back.

Hitching a ride was generally forbidden.

The rule was simple. If they weren’t on the clock, they weren’t to be on the property.

But after a day of drinking, Frank Rodriguez had missed his ride.

He’d used the freight trains for the longest part of the journey as it was faster and then called him for the last stretch to chat and share a brewski.

“I appreciate this, Don.”

“Don’t mention it. They still got you on call? ”

“Yep.” He took a bite of a sandwich, staring out.

“You never thought of jumping ship?”

“And take a drop in pay?”

“Ah, but it’s less B.S. doing this.”

“Might be right about that.”

A quiet settled between them.

“Things still good with Janice?” Don asked.

“Wouldn’t know. That ship sailed, my friend.”

“Ah, man. Come on. You separated?”

“Four months this April.”

Don shifted in his seat. “Sorry to hear that. Always liked Janice.”

“It appears someone else did too.”

Rodriguez glanced over, a smirk forming. He removed his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Hey, her loss, right?” Don said.

“Maybe, but honestly, I can’t fault her. The long hours I pull and constantly being called into work. That’s no life for her. I’m surprised we lasted as long as we did.”

Don squinted out. He was looking for any potential hazards or obstacles. Hours of staring down the line could lull an engineer into an almost hypnotic state. It could make a person see things that weren’t there.

That was why he blinked hard when he saw it.

There was something strange up ahead on the tracks.

It took him a moment to recognize that it was a figure, stumbling down the tracks, partially nude.

In all his thirty years of working the rail, he considered himself lucky never to have been involved in a fatality on the tracks.

What the hell was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

Don’s heart raced, realizing this wasn’t just someone wandering across the tracks.

She was heading straight for them.

“You see what I’m seeing?” Don said as he quickly brought the rail grinder to a stop, throttling down and engaging the brake. If he’d been running a passenger train or freight, he could have engaged the emergency brake, but he still might have hit her, and there was a chance of derailing.

The rail grinder began to slow, the motion becoming jerky and uncertain as the brakes engaged and the grinding equipment stopped.

There was a sudden and sharp grinding noise, accompanied by hissing and whistling from the brakes and hydraulic systems. The train settled into a state of relative stillness.

Don and Rodriguez jumped out of the train and hurried toward her.

As they got closer, stumbling over the uneven ground of rocks and wood, they realized it was a young teenager, maybe fourteen or sixteen, with bruises and cuts all over her body. Long, dirty chestnut hair cascaded down past her shoulders. Her wrists were bound with rope, her feet bare.

The teenager was in a daze and seemed barely conscious.

Within a few feet of them, her legs buckled, and she collapsed.

Don immediately returned to the cab and called for emergency services while Rodriguez tried to assess the situation. “Kid, hey, you can’t be in the tracks.”

As he placed a hand on her arm, she screamed, cowering back, lifting her bound, bloody wrists at him, squinting, tears streaming down her face.

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

She looked like a wounded animal. Her hair was all matted, wet, and dirty.

Dry blood was on the left side of her face and at the corner of her swollen lips. The bruising painted a horrifying picture.

“I’m Frank. That back there is Don. A friend of mine. Do you have a name? ”

“I…” she mumbled, but it was nothing but incoherent. “Don’t know.”

The two of them guided her back to the warmth of the cab to wrap her in an emergency blanket while they waited for an ambulance to arrive at the nearest crossing.

“Who did this to you, honey?” Don asked, feeling a lump form in his throat. He had a daughter almost her age. The thought that anyone would do this to a teen brought home the reality. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t know.”