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Twenty-Five

If there’s one lesson Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford learned from his time in the military, it’s to always have a battle plan.

And make no mistake, this is a 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.

“That’s different,” he said, talking when he should have said nothing. “That’s just good business.”

“It’s war profiteering. Lucky for you, I don’t look down on such a thing.

” Wentworth sucked on his cigar, blowing out smoke before adding, “But imagine, for a moment, that I did. It would be my duty as a patriotic American to alert your commanding officer about your little agreement with Barnett. Think about what would happen then, Jack. A court-martial. A dishonorable discharge. Definitely jail time. You can go through all that or you can help me out and make ten times as much as your deal with Barnett.”

Cowed by that prospect, Lapsford realized there was no way out of the situation. He had to go along with Wentworth’s scheme, as despicable as it was. It was either that or the destruction of his career, his reputation, his whole goddamn life.

“You’re a ruthless bastard,” he said.

Wentworth bowed his head, as if he’d just been paid the ultimate compliment. “Thank you.”

“Why are you so hell-bent on doing this?” Lapsford asked. “And don’t tell me again that it’s to rally the country around the war effort. That’s a crock, and we both know it. So what’s your real reason?”

“I hate Arthur Matheson,” Wentworth said. “And I want to destroy him.”

“There are other ways of doing that.”

“But this will guarantee it.”

“What did he do that makes you hate him so much?”

Wentworth swirled the scotch in his glass, staring at the amber liquid. “He took something from me. And now he’s going to pay for it. With your help, of course. And your reward will be more money than you’ll know what to do with.”

Kenneth Wentworth was right in that regard.

Lapsford ended up making a fortune. But now all the things Wentworth threatened him with that night are literally staring him in the face.

Lapsford stares back, sizing up Agent Reginald Davis and finding him lacking.

As a military man, he has little respect for the FBI.

Despite both being on the same side, Lapsford finds them too flashy, too full of themselves.

Especially that J. Edgar Hoover. Agent Davis is no different, sporting a smug look as he says, “Did you murder Judd Dodge and Edith Gerhardt?”

Lapsford doesn’t respond.

“If you did, you might as well admit it,” Anna Matheson says. “You’re going to prison regardless.”

Lapsford looks at her, wondering if she knows what her father took from Kenneth Wentworth. He suspects not. She’s probably just as oblivious as he is. Wentworth never gave him more details, even after Art Matheson was long dead.

“My attorney will beg to differ.”

“He’s not here right now,” Agent Davis says. “So how about I ask you some questions I know you can answer. How well did you know the deceased?”

“I didn’t know them at all, really. Just a few brief encounters.”

“What were your opinions of them?”

“You’re assuming I had opinions of them,” Lapsford says.

“You didn’t?” Agent Davis asks. “Why not?”

Lapsford yawns, feigning boredom. “It wasn’t worth my time.”

“Speaking of time,” the agent says, using a segue so awkward it makes Lapsford audibly groan. “Where were you between our gathering in the observation car and Edith being found dead there?”

“Right here,” Lapsford says.

“The whole time?”

“Of course.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Anna leans forward, a glint in her eye that Lapsford doesn’t like one bit. “After all, you lied earlier about being in the galley not long after the train left the station.”

“Who told you that?” Lapsford says, to his instant regret. It almost sounds like a confirmation, which it isn’t. Even though he was in the galley shortly after seven, he’d never admit it.

“Edith,” Anna says. “Is that why you killed her?”

“I won’t be saying another word until I have a lawyer present.”

Lapsford knows that this, too, makes him sound guilty.

A simple no would have sufficed. But, fearing he’s already said too much, he reverts to saying nothing at all.

Agent Davis and Anna Matheson continue to pepper him with questions, none of which he answers.

He’s gone mute, which is how he should have been all along.

After five more minutes and a few last, desperate attempts at getting him to talk, Agent Davis and Anna leave his room.

A temporary victory, Lapsford knows.

This battle is far from over.