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Twenty-Seven

“If we’re going to do this, you need to learn how to fight like a man.”

So said Seamus after he and Anna had formed a plan to bring the people who killed their brothers to justice. His assumption was that if things got out of hand, Anna wouldn’t know how to defend herself.

She let him believe that.

Their first lesson in self-defense took place in the backyard on a sunny June morning. Within two minutes, Anna had brought Seamus to the ground three times.

“Maybe you need to learn how to fight like a woman,” she said as he writhed in pain on the grass.

Her secret, Anna later told him, was that Aunt Retta insisted she learn how to fight.

One of the many ways her aunt had tried to toughen her up.

For years, she was coached by a former boxer who, on a set of used wrestling mats placed on the ballroom floor in Aunt Retta’s mansion, taught her how to punch, to kick, to knock a gun from a man’s hands into her own.

And when Anna once accidentally kicked her instructor between the legs, she learned the number one rule of self-defense.

If all else fails, go for the groin.

Now, in the perfectly appointed first-class dining room of the Philadelphia Phoenix, Anna does just that. Lifting her right leg, she kicks backward. And as her foot slams into Herb Pulaski’s crotch, Anna allows herself a single twinge of satisfaction. Those heels came in handy after all.

Behind her, Herb howls in pain and his arms go slack. Suddenly free, Anna springs away before whirling around to face him. She tries to reach for the knife at her thigh but realizes there’s not enough time. Herb is lunging toward her, pained but angry.

Frantic, Anna grabs the closest object within reach. A plate, which she uses as a makeshift shield when Herb thrusts the knife toward her. The blade clinks off the china before Herb charges at her again.

Watching his ape-like approach, Anna thinks fast. She can’t kill Herb.

Not even in self-defense. She can only attempt to disarm him, which she does by flinging the plate at his head.

It sails past him and hits the wall, shattering.

Still, it makes him duck out of the way, which gives Anna enough time to reach under her dress, wrap her fingers around the hilt of her knife, and yank it from its sheath.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she says, wielding the knife at waist height. “Let’s just talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I need to get off this train.”

There’s a desperate edge to Herb’s voice. He’s scared, Anna realizes. As he should be.

“You know that’s not possible,” she says.

Herb takes a half lunge forward, which Anna counters with a full step backward, slicing the air with her knife.

“I’m begging you,” he says. “I don’t want to be next. That’s the plan, you know.”

Anna takes a backward step, caught off guard. “Plan?”

Herb tries to lunge at her again, but it’s more of a stumble, the knife trembling in his hand. A thick sheen of sweat has broken out across his brow. He swipes at it with his free hand, the motion unsteady.

“Can’t you see what’s happening? The killer is making his way up the train, taking us out room by room. First Judd and then Edith. That means I’m next.” Herb sounds more than scared now. He sounds crazed. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“And I’m not stopping this train,” Anna says.

She shuffles backward as Herb surges forward, ungainly but powerful. He catches up to her in the middle of the car and thrusts his knife toward her in a series of quick jabs.

“Please,” he says, his wheedling voice a far cry from his combative stance. “If you’re worried about me running away, I won’t. I swear. Just stop the train and the police can come and take me straight to the slammer. Just don’t let me die on this train.”

Just like with Edith, a strange sensation comes over Anna. An urge to do harm. She eyes Herb’s throat, wondering how much effort it would take to drive the knife right through it.

“The way you let my brother die on a train?” she says. “The way you let dozens of others do the same?”

Herb gulps, guilty as charged.

“You could have prevented it from happening,” Anna says as they continue to circle each other in the middle of the dining car. “You could have saved his life. All of their lives. But you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Herb says, his voice as weightless as a balloon, like even he knows it’s too late for apologies.

“So you admit you could have stopped it?”

“Yes. And I’ll tell the cops the same thing. Just help me off this train.”

Anna comes closer, less afraid than she was earlier, although fear still very much exists. Now, though, she’s scared not of Herb but of what she might do to him. That violent urge remains, coursing through her. Her grip tightens around the knife as she pictures driving it into his stomach.

“Why’d you let it happen? You knew men would die.”

“I didn’t know that for sure,” Herb says. “And I didn’t know who.”

His breath has turned ragged. His whole body shakes. When he tries to charge one last time, Anna reaches for the nearest table and grabs another plate.

She swings.

Not at Herb’s head, but the hand holding the knife.

The plate makes a chiming sound as it connects with his knuckles. Herb yelps and lets go of the knife, which hits the floor. He stumbles for it, but Anna’s upon him.

Leaping onto his back.

Knocking him to the floor.

Landing with him in a writhing thud.

Anger seethes through Anna’s body, sparked by the physical exertion. She straddles Herb’s back as he attempts to rise and forces him back down against the floor.

“Tell me why you did it,” she says, hissing into his ear. “Was it just for the money?”

“Yes.” The word is half whisper, half croak, muted by the fact that his face is now pushed against the dining car’s worn carpet.

But it doesn’t keep Herb from saying more.

The words continue to flow in a panicked rasp.

“I wasn’t rich like you. I couldn’t buy my way out of trouble.

But I knew the trouble would go away if I let that engine get built.

So that’s what I did. If you wanted a confession, there it is.

I’ll tell the same thing to the police and a judge and whoever else you want. ”

“What about the others? They also did it for the money?”

“Not everyone,” Herb says. “For Judd, it was payback. He was mad that your father never gave him enough credit. For me, it was the money. I think it was the same with Sal.”

Even though Anna had long suspected greed was the motivation behind it all, having confirmation unleashes a fresh wave of anger. Her left hand goes to Herb’s necktie, sliding it behind his head and tugging upward until his neck is exposed. Her right hand holds the knife against Herb’s throat.

It feels good in her grip.

Too good.

Like an extension of herself.

Anna knows she’s reached a precipice. A point of no return that she can either back away from or leap off into the abyss.

With Edith, she managed to pull herself from the brink, mostly because of their shared history.

She has no such ties to Herb, a man she barely knew and who twelve years ago decided her brother and thirty-six others should die on a greed-based whim.

If she slit his throat, the exact thing he had threatened to do to her, it would be completely justified.

“Please,” Herb says from beneath her. “Please don’t kill me.”

Seamus’s voice rises from the doorway. “Anna, stop!”

Anna looks up to see him standing at the back of the dining car, no doubt drawn by the noise of the fight. Behind him are all the others. Dante and Reggie, Sal and Lapsford. All wear similar expressions of shock.

The knife goes slack in Anna’s hand as the violence that had only seconds earlier coursed through her suddenly departs.

It leaves her feeling empty, hollow, and slightly confused.

Was that her who’d just held a blade to a man’s throat?

Would she have gone through with it if Seamus hadn’t stopped her?

The very thought shakes Anna to her core.

“He attacked me first,” she says. “He threatened to slit my throat.”

Only Seamus appears unsurprised. Of all of them, certainly he saw something like this coming—and trained her accordingly. “Is that why your neck is bleeding?”

Anna touches her throat, feeling a small patch of moisture. A shudder passes through her as she realizes how close Herb had been to following through with his threat—and how close she’d come to doing the same.

“Yeah,” Anna says as she slides off Herb’s back.

“Have you had that this whole time?” Seamus says, eyeing the knife.

Anna slides it back into its sheath. “Also yes.”

“But Agent Davis searched you,” Sal says as she glances Reggie’s way.

“Guess I missed it,” he says.

Anna grabs Herb’s arm. “Get up.”

Herb remains facedown on the floor, uncertain. “Where are we going?”

“Back to your room. Where you’ll remain for the rest of this trip.”

“I’m sure as hell not going back there,” Herb says as he pushes himself into a kneeling position. “I told you, it’s not safe.”

“I’ll protect you,” Anna says. “It’s not in my best interest to let you die.”

She waits as Herb, also spent by their scuffle, climbs to his feet. Seamus grabs him by the arm and leads him away. “I’ll stand guard outside his door,” he says. “To make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Reggie, Sal, and Lapsford follow behind them. Although they’ve all moved into the lounge and out of view, Anna can still hear their voices. “Are you afraid of him hurting her or her hurting him?” Sal asks.

Even Anna can see that it’s a valid question. Especially now that everyone aboard the Philadelphia Phoenix knows she has a knife.

“Both,” Seamus says.