Page 35

Twenty-Six

“Well, that was pointless,” Reggie says as they stand in the corridor outside Lapsford’s room.

Anna turns to face the door to Room B. “You should go back in there and arrest him.”

Even though Lapsford said next to nothing, a far cry from Herb Pulaski’s torrent of words, she remains convinced he’s the killer.

He was in the galley shortly after the train departed, meaning he could have found the rat poison and gathered enough to kill Judd Dodge.

When he found out Edith saw him, Lapsford decided to kill her, too.

Still unknown is how he knew Judd would implicate himself after seeing his blueprint in the lounge. Or how Lapsford managed to slip the poison into Judd’s drink. Or how he found out Edith had told Anna about seeing him in the galley.

“On what grounds?” Reggie says.

“Murder. Conspiracy. Sabotage. Treason. He’s guilty of it all.”

Reggie shakes his head, dashing her hopes. “To arrest him, I’d need some evidence of that. And, thanks to you, that’s in Chicago. Until this train stops at Union Station, Jack Lapsford is a free man.”

“Even if he kills again?” Anna says.

“Without proof, one of the few ways I can arrest someone for murder is if I catch them in the act.”

“And what’s another way?”

“Get them to confess.” Prepared for another round of questioning, Reggie drifts down the corridor, stopping in front of Room A. Before knocking on the door, he turns to Anna and says, “You coming?”

Anna doesn’t budge. She knows whose room it is, and just like with Edith earlier, she has no idea what to say to Sal Lawrence.

“No,” she tells Reggie. “You do this one on your own.”

As he knocks on Sal’s door, Anna moves into Car 11 and stops at the window. The view outside hasn’t changed. A full whiteout. Anna can barely glimpse the night sky through the skein of snow.

She continues to the center of the car and raps once on the door to Seamus’s room.

After a pause, she does it three more times, putting extra strength on the final knock.

The secret code so he knows it’s her. Thirty seconds pass between the last knock and Seamus opening the door—a stretch of time that Anna would have found worrisome if not for the slather of shaving cream on his cheeks and the straight razor in his hand.

“You’re shaving?” she says as she steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

“Have to pass the time somehow, don’t I?” Seamus ducks into the bathroom. “Has anyone confessed yet?”

“No such luck.”

Anna stands in the bathroom doorway and watches Seamus slowly scrape the razor down his cheek. A strangely intimate act between a man and woman who aren’t married, aren’t lovers, aren’t even related. But they are bonded, Anna knows, in a way that few people will ever experience or understand.

That’s why Seamus, catching her eyes in the mirror, says, “Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Seamus flings a bit of foam from the razor and starts on the other cheek. “Because Edith is dead. And, unlike Judd Dodge, you knew her well.”

Anna thought she did. A long time ago. The end result is that she both loved and hated Edith, the emotions feeding off each other until she couldn’t tell them apart.

It’s made the night far more difficult than she ever expected.

The hate, she was prepared for. It was the slivers of love that were a surprise.

Now Edith is dead, and Anna still can’t seem to separate the love from the hate. She doubts she ever will.

“I’m sorry she’s dead,” Anna says, leaving the rest unspoken.

Done shaving, Seamus rinses the razor and closes it with a sharp snap. “It’s almost two. Want me to take the next watch?”

Anna knows that would be the wise thing to do. Let Seamus check on the others. Put her feet up. Allow herself a rare moment of relaxation. But she’s too restless for that. She needs to keep moving.

“No, I’ll do it,” she says. “You can get the next round.”

She returns to the corridor, closing the door to Seamus’s room behind her. She’s in the process of turning away from it when she catches movement on the edge of her vision.

Someone is leaving the car.

Anna faces the door to the lounge, which is just starting to creak shut. All she can see of the person who passed through it is a bit of their shadow slipping along the floor.

“Tommy?” she says.

Anna follows the shadow, knowing it’s not her brother and wanting it to be her brother and feeling foolish for even entertaining the idea that it could be him. The lounge is still dark, which only adds to her sense of foolishness.

She shouldn’t be here.

Not alone.

Not with a killer on the train.

But, as far as Anna can tell, the lounge is empty.

She moves through the car, sensing no one through the darkness.

The lack of light sharpens her hearing, making the rattle-clack of the train sound even louder.

When she passes the piano, the motion of the Phoenix jostles the keys just enough for a single note to ring out in the otherwise silent car.

And when she nears the bar, Anna can hear the shivery tinkle of shuddering bottles.

Anna gives them a glance, wondering if that always happens and she’s just never noticed it until now or if the train is moving more frantically than usual. She’s about to turn and look out the window to gauge their speed when she spots something in the darkness behind the bar.

A shadow.

Slowly peeling itself away from the unyielding black.

No, not a shadow.

A man.

Anna tries to bolt back through the car but the man latches onto her shoulder and, with a single rough yank, pulls her against him.

When she attempts a scream, a hand clamps over her mouth, stifling the sound.

Still, she tries again, her lips barely moving against the meaty flesh of her attacker’s palm.

Instantly, Anna starts to flail, all her limbs in motion. Arms swat. Legs kick. The man locks an arm around her, pinning Anna’s own arms to her sides. She attempts another kick but misses as the man drags her into the dining car.

Unlike the lounge, it remains brightly lit, the tablecloths gleaming white, the silverware glinting. Anna twists her neck to get a good look at the man continuing to drag her down through the car. All she can manage is a glimpse of hairy knuckles as the man snatches something off one of the tables.

A steak knife, which immediately goes to her neck.

Anna gives a single, terrified swallow, during which she can feel the cold blade scrape against her throat.

A horrible sensation. One that would make her cry out if she could.

But the hand remains over her mouth while the serrated edge of the knife digs farther into her flesh.

She feels breath against her ear, hot and foul-smelling.

Words ride the air. A desperate whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

Anna knows the voice.

Herb Pulaski.

She tries to shout for help beneath his palm, even though that’s impossible. Not when she’s basically muzzled. Not when the knife stays against her neck, feeling like thorns jabbing her throat and sinking so deep that Anna assumes they’ve pierced the skin.

The thought sets off a fresh round of terror.

Her body stills, searching for the sensation of blood being spilled, the telltale trickle.

All Anna can feel is fear sweat spreading along her collarbone as Herb says, “I need to get out of here. There’s no way I’m staying on this train.

So you’re gonna find some way to stop it and let me off—or else I’m going to slit your throat. ”