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Two

Judd knows because he designed it that way.

That was his job, once upon a time. Building engines for the Union Atlantic Railroad, which was peanuts compared to some of the other train lines in the nation.

Its reach was small, limited to places in close proximity to Philadelphia.

One line to New York City, another to Washington, D.C.

, a third shuttling riders to Atlantic City.

The Philadelphia Phoenix was built with expansion in mind.

A gleaming streamliner that traveled nonstop to Chicago.

Judd had beamed with pride the first time he saw the Phoenix gliding down the tracks.

Sleek as a silver bullet, it moved fast, appearing speedier thanks to a flame-orange racing stripe that ran the length of the train on both sides.

Not being a parent himself, Judd imagined it was the same feeling as watching your child take their very first steps.

Something stationary had been put into motion, and he’d made it happen.

While every car on a train is valuable in its own way, with each one serving a distinct purpose, Judd knows that none are more important than the locomotive.

Without one, the rest of those cars would remain useless atop a set of rails, on their way to nowhere.

A train can only fulfill its destiny with a sturdy engine at the helm.

Judd made sure that his engines were sturdy.

Until the one time he was told to do the opposite.

After that, he no longer had the stomach for the job, so he quit and became a professor. He certainly looks the part, with his tall, rigid posture and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Those glasses now slip down Judd’s nose as he leaves his assigned room.

Because of the spaciousness of the first-class rooms, the corridor that leads to them is especially narrow.

Standing in that cramped strip of hallway, Judd finds himself face-to-face with a wall sconce that has a loose bulb.

It buzzes like a housefly while casting an unnerving flicker over that end of the corridor.

The cramped hall, the strobing bulb, even the car he’s been placed in—unlucky number 13—makes Judd reconsider the wisdom of boarding.

Fifty-three years old, he’d always been considered intelligent.

A genius, some said, especially with machines.

Yet he didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know this wasn’t going to be a leisurely journey.

The handwritten note scrawled on the back of the invitation said as much.

I know what you did.

If you don’t come, others will know, too.

That message, alarming enough to get him to the station, also kept Judd from immediately boarding the Phoenix.

While the note was clearly a threat, he remained uncertain about its seriousness.

It could be nothing but a cruel trick by someone who thinks they know what happened.

Or it could be a reminder to keep quiet from someone who does know the truth.

Either way, Judd understood that he couldn’t simply ignore it, which is why he eventually hopped onto the train at the last minute.

He preferred to face the threat amid the hustle and bustle of the Phoenix.

After all, no harm could come to him when there were others around.

“Ticket?” a gray-haired conductor asked as Judd moved deeper into the first of the train’s two coach cars.

“I-I don’t have one.” Judd showed the invitation, making sure the conductor could only see the front of it. “Just this.”

The conductor nodded. “Of course. But you’re all the way on the other end of the train. In first class.”

A porter was summoned. One whose smile faltered slightly as he took Judd’s overnight bag and began to lead him to the back of the train.

Because of his familiarity with the Phoenix—and because of his preboarding tally—Judd knew exactly what lay both ahead of and behind them.

First, naturally, was the locomotive, which had once been his pride and joy.

When he saw it for the first time in more than a decade, it felt like being reunited with a long-lost love.

He couldn’t help but admire his handiwork.

The train, despite running for many years over many more miles, was still a beaut.

Behind the locomotive was the baggage car, followed by two coach cars. Back in the day, the Phoenix had the best coach seats in the country. Wide and comfortable, they reclined farther than most, allowing for easier sleeping on overnight trips.

Because of this, the coach cars were usually the most crowded on the train. That night, though, Judd saw few passengers occupying them. Those who did either gave him a cold stare as he passed or avoided eye contact altogether.

The next car was a sleeper, designed for those who wanted more than the bare minimum.

It consisted of bench seating during the day that got converted into rows of curtained bunks at night.

There were even fewer people in that car, which caused a nervous flip-flop in Judd’s stomach.

He’d been counting on safety in numbers.

His stomach did another somersault in the lounge, which sat completely empty.

While it was nothing fancy, there were normally at least a couple people from the coach and sleeper cars inside stretching their legs or flipping through one of the newspapers and magazines fanned out across the end tables.

“Please keep up, sir,” the porter said when he noticed Judd pausing to take in the vacant room. “We need to get to your room before the train departs.”

Judd quickened his pace, following the porter into the club car, the first of four on the Phoenix devoted to food service.

Like the lounge, the club car was also empty, save for a bored-looking cashier manning the counter where coach passengers should have been lined up to buy sandwiches, soda, and beer.

With no one to serve, the cashier eyed Judd warily and asked the porter, “You’re taking him through the galley? ”

“It’s faster this way,” the porter said before pushing into the galley car, where all food aboard the Phoenix was prepared on-site.

But instead of cooking, those inside the galley stood before empty counters and unlit stovetops, as if waiting to be told to begin.

None of them looked at Judd and the porter as they carefully picked their way through.

The galley, Judd knew, was the line of demarcation between the haves and the have-nots.

After it, the rest of the train was the domain of first-class passengers, starting with the dining car, where passengers who could afford it normally feasted on prime rib, lobster thermidor, beef Wellington, and the Philadelphia Phoenix’s world-famous red velvet cake.

When Judd entered with the porter, he saw workers in formal attire setting the tables with white linen, china from Villeroy & Boch, and Chambly silverware.

The extravagance continued in the adjoining first-class lounge. Only top-shelf alcohol sat behind the oak bar, poured into Baccarat crystal glassware. The white-jacketed bartender gave the porter a single nod as he hurried Judd past plush seats and cocktail tables to the rear of the train.

After the lounge came three cars of first-class accommodation, each containing three spacious rooms. A hotel on wheels!

, ads proclaimed when the Phoenix first went into service.

A boast to be sure, but one that contained some truth, for the rooms on the Phoenix were among the biggest on rails.

Judd’s own room boasted a full bed, a swiveled easy chair in addition to a love seat, a closet, and a private bathroom.

The porter pointed it all out before hurrying away so quickly that Judd didn’t even have time to give him a tip.

The fifty-cent piece remained gripped in his hand as he surveyed the room.

Who, Judd wondered, had summoned him here?

When his gaze landed on a vellum card sitting atop the bed’s pillow, he hoped it would provide at least a partial answer.

Instead, it was only another invitation.

Your presence is requested at a cocktail reception

in the first-class lounge at 8 p.m.

Please be on time.

Judd reached into his jacket for the pocket watch he always carried with him. Snapping it open, he checked the time. Seven o’clock. Right on schedule, the train lurched into motion. And so the mysterious journey began.

Too nervous to wait in his room for longer than fifteen minutes, Judd moved to the narrow hallway, where he now stands.

As the loose bulb still buzzes in the wall sconce and the snow-dappled sky passes outside the window next to it, Judd thinks about the strangeness of that journey from the front of the train.

It seemed both fraught and frantic, almost as if everyone he encountered was eager to leave.

As for the first-class cars, he’s seen or heard no one since the porter’s abrupt departure—a realization that roils Judd’s already dyspeptic stomach.

While certainly not the most crowded part of the train, he expected to see someone else around, even if it was only a conductor making sure no one from coach snuck into the train’s more elegant back half.

He turns to his left, facing the entrance to the observation car at the very back of the train.

A sleek cylinder of glass and steel, it boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the passing scenery.

Overhead is a glass window that provides an equally grand view of the sky.

One journalist aboard the Phoenix’s maiden journey had likened the observation car to “being in a fantastical spaceship where the outdoors feel like they’re indoors and nothing but thin panes of glass separate you from earth and sky. ”