Page 32

Twenty-Three

Reggie knows he’s only on the train because he stayed late at the office.

He stuck around after everyone else left because he had a date with Katie, a girl he’d only recently started dating.

They had tickets to see South Pacific at the Forrest Theatre.

His idea. Katie, as far as he could tell, had no opinion on Rodgers and Hammerstein, whereas Reggie loved them.

It turned out that drinks and a show weren’t in the cards that night. Not after Reggie heard his name being called as he had one foot out the door. It was his boss, Ed Vesper, the only person in the dim and otherwise empty office.

“Yes, sir?” Reggie said.

“Get to the 30th Street Station,” Vesper barked. “It’s your unlucky day.”

“What’s going on?”

Vesper explained that he’d just gotten off the phone with the chief of the Chicago bureau. They’d received an interesting package from the daughter of Arthur Matheson. He didn’t need to explain who Matheson was. Reggie knew all about the man who’d become the shame of Philadelphia.

“What did she send them?”

“Six boxes of so-called evidence that Matheson’s daughter says proves he didn’t do it.”

Reggie’s heart started playing hopscotch in his chest. “Art Matheson is innocent?”

“According to his daughter, he is,” Vesper said. “Claims there was a conspiracy against him. And because that’s not crazy enough, she included a note saying that she’ll be bringing the six people who really blew that train to smithereens to Chicago aboard the Philadelphia Phoenix.”

“Who are they?”

“The very same people who testified against her father.”

Stunned, Reggie grabbed a pen and wrote down the names.

Being a Philadelphia boy, he was familiar with all of them.

Kenneth Wentworth was still a railroad bigwig in the city.

The others he remembers from their testimony.

Matheson’s secretary, his housekeeper, two employees, and a military man.

Reggie was in high school when it all went down, and he’ll never forget skipping class so he could listen to the hearings on the radio.

“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“From what little of the evidence they’ve seen so far, the folks at the Chicago bureau think she could be.”

Reggie got a tingle of anticipation that shimmied all the way down to his tailbone. It was soon followed by a far different feeling—dread.

“Once word gets out about this, half of America is going to want to kill these guys.”

“I know,” Vesper said. “Which is why you need to be on that train.”

“When does it leave?”

“Seven.”

Reggie checked his watch. That was in ten minutes.

“Why don’t I just arrest them?” he said.

“Because the Chicago bureau won’t know for certain if any of them did anything wrong until they sort through all of this evidence. That’s going to take all night. Just get on that train and make sure none of those six people get off it before Chicago.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Vesper said. “Don’t get involved. Don’t interfere. Just stay out of the way and observe.”

Reggie bolted for the door, coming to a stop right on the threshold as doubt crept in. He shouldn’t be the one doing this. Another, more experienced agent should go in his place.

“Sir, are you sure I’m the right man for this job?” he said.

Vesper surveyed the empty desks and corner offices with their lights out and blinds drawn. “Right now, you’re the only man here.”

“But—”

“Just get on that damn train,” Vesper snapped.

As Reggie grabbed his things and hustled out the door, his boss shouted one last order at his back.

“Oh, and don’t let anyone know who you really are. If word gets out there’s a fed onboard, all hell is going to break loose.”

It’s broken loose anyway, despite Reggie following his orders. Now he has no choice but to come clean, especially to the woman who organized the chaos. And she appears none too happy to be told the truth.

“You’re with the FBI?” she says after closing the door between the cars so that it’s just her, Reggie, Seamus, and the dead body of Edith Gerhardt.

“I am.”

“And yet you said nothing. You did nothing. Even after someone was murdered.”

Reggie feels a twinge of irritation on the back of his neck.

An angry itch. “One, I didn’t know what the hell I was walking into.

All I knew is that there was a dead body on the floor and a bunch of people who might try to off me next if they knew I was a fed.

Two, my orders are only to make sure they arrive in Chicago.

I was told not to get involved or interfere. ”

“Well, you didn’t,” Anna says. “And now another person is dead.”

“Don’t try and pin this on me, lady,” Reggie says, getting even more annoyed.

The irritated flush has spread to his face.

He feels its heat on his cheeks. “None of this is my fault. I’m not the one who had the bright idea to invite a group of killers on a thirteen-hour train ride.

This plan of yours mucked things up big-time.

If these people are as nefarious as you say—”

“They are,” Anna says.

“Then you should have come directly to the FBI. We would have taken care of things for you.”

Anna Matheson crosses her arms, indignant. “The last time the authorities took care of things, my father was unjustly arrested and murdered in prison.”

“I get that,” Reggie says. “It still doesn’t mean you should have taken matters into your own hands. I mean, what if one of them somehow managed to get off this train and escape?”

“I made sure that wouldn’t happen.”

“No, instead they’re killing each other. Which a lot of folks would have no problem with. Most people would say them being murdered is the perfect form of justice.”

“Not me,” Anna says.

“Why do you get to decide that? What about the families of those soldiers killed alongside your brother? Shouldn’t they have a say in all this? I’m sure some of them would gladly murder the likes of Sally Lawrence or Jack Lapsford with their bare hands.”

“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.