February Fever (15 page)

Thirty-Three

It was the female
voice that had twice been arguing with a man in the stairwell. They were the same voices, the same twang, the same topic. Visions of Aimee in harm's way exploded in my brain. I slid open the door and charged in, my heart in my mouth, my eyes scouring the room, searching for any trace of the girl. What I discovered instead was a couple on the bed, both as naked as the day they were born, an array of marital aids laid out on the bed beside them.

“Oh. No.” I wasn't sure if it was an apology or a command. I was too busy trying to keep my eyes from burning up in my sockets and my stomach from dropping to the floor.

Interestingly (and by
interesting
, I mean
horrifying
), neither of them covered themselves up nor seemed particularly alarmed at my inopportune arrival. They were both in their mid to late fifties. I'm sure I'd passed them on the train before, but they were unremarkable, the man around five-eight (I think—he was lying down, his back to me), with a middle-aged paunch and more hair on his back than his head. The woman had one of those faces that rested in the scowling position and gray-blond hair feathered in a seventies style.

“Hi, honey,” the woman said. “Are you our third?”

The hoot exploding behind me broke the horror-paralysis.

“More of these unexpected treasures, and finding dead bodies might look like a treat,” Mrs. Berns howled from my shoulder. “Excuse my friend,” she said to the couple, who were now looking confused. “She sleepwalks.”

Mrs. Berns yanked me back and put her hand on the door. Before sliding it shut behind her, she had a quick conversation with the couple about the merits of a particularly hefty-looking purple unit near the edge of the bed.

“I need to wash my eyes.”

She pushed me toward Car 13, her Loungers following like baby ducks. “Since when do you randomly open other people's bedroom doors? And why didn't you invite me? That's a game I could get on board with.”

“I heard them talking about bullets. What with the murders, and the missing people …” I trailed off. A memory of one of Kennie Rogers's least successful home businesses, the refurbished marital aid company she'd christened Come Again, came into my head. The Bullet was the name of the smallest device in her inventory. Dang. It.

“I see you connecting the dots, partner. I also see you needing some sleep. You sure you want to check on Jed before you crash?”

I wasn't, but I figured I wouldn't be able to close my eyes without getting the latest update, at least for Aimee's sake. “Give me your walkie-talkie.”

“No.”

I held out my hand. “I need to give it to Jed. That way, he can update me on what they find out in the questioning and I can get some rest.”

“No.”

“I promise I'll give it back to you as soon as we find Aimee.” I didn't think that promise was mine to make. “Also, you can help me with the investigation first thing tomorrow. Deal?”

Mrs. Berns grumbled but lifted her sweater and unclipped the walkie-talkie from her waistband. “You know what they call people who gives presents and then take them away, don't you?”

“What?”

“Dinks. Now quiet with the talking. Us Loungers are supposed to be silent. You don't want us lose this whole scavenger hunt, do you?”

I did not.

It took me fifteen minutes to return to Car 2, my quickest end-to-end trip yet. Most everyone was asleep, giving the train a ghostly feel, especially with the whistling scream of the wind slicing at the outer walls. Hearing it chilled me despite the close, hot air. It now felt unnatural to be on the train without the rock and sway of forward motion.

When I reached the conductor's office, I glanced through the window before entering. Jed, Terry, and Doghn had their backs to me and were sitting across from Sylvester, the porter who had been rude to me way back when we were in Detroit Lakes a million years ago. Jed sat in the middle and copied every gesture either PI made. If Doghn put his hand to his face, Jed did the same. If Terry nodded, Jed shook his head twice as vigorously. If either of them wrote something down, Jed scribbled, probably nonsense words and hearts. Man, I loved that guy. He was doing his best.

I knocked on the window. The porter glanced up, and the three men facing him turned around. I signaled to Jed. He excused himself and met me in the hall, sliding the door closed behind him.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Fine.” He seemed relieved to see me, but then his face slid a little. “You look tired, Mira. Or sick. A little gray, actually. You okay?”

“It's been a long day, you know?” I nodded toward the door, where Terry and Doghn had stopped to watch us. I wondered if either was a lip reader. I moved Jed so he was facing me, his back to them, blocking their view. “Did you find out anything?”

“Naw. I still don't like that Terry guy, though. Gives me the heebie jeebies. I think he's a cop.”

I pictured the monster bag of weed Jed likely had stashed somewhere on this train. “He probably used to be. Most PIs have a law enforcement background. He's got bigger fish to fry now, though. Anyone see anything strange? Confess to anything?”

He pointed his thumb back at the office. “The porter says weird stuff is disappearing from the train. Salt and pepper shakers, forks, packets of butter, bread rolls. He said they keep that stuff under close watch to make sure it stays stocked, but that they keep coming up short.”

“Do Terry and Doghn think it's anything?”

“Terry said it's probably people worried the train isn't going to move before we run out of food. Doghn has been quiet. He just keeps stroking his 'stache and asking about who got on and off back in New York.”

“And you didn't hear anything interesting from the other people who were interviewed?”

“This guy is only the second. Reed, the guy who got us dinner reservations the first night? He was the first.”

I perked up. “How did he seem? Suspicious? Evasive?”

“Like an open book.” Jed stroked an imaginary mustache. “This investigative stuff is hard. I don't like to think of people lying.”

“I'm sorry.” I was. He hadn't signed on for this, no matter how exhausted I was. “Look, I can take over. You go back and catch some sleep.”

“Dude, sorry, but you're the one who needs the sleep. You look like someone packed your face bags in the dark, and in a hurry.” He looked at his feet as if it hurt him to share this news with me. “Sorry, Mira, but it's true. You go on back. They said they're going to only interview one, maybe two more people tonight. I can handle it.”

I considered arguing, but I knew he was right. I hugged him and backtracked toward Sleeper Car 11. The wind continued to shriek outside. I had a vision of what we must look like from the sky, a black steel snake trapped at the base of the Rockies amid endless white, slowly getting buried by snow, slowly disappearing from the world.

My throat began to close, and all the exhaled carbon dioxide expanded in my nose, making it difficult to swallow. My heartbeat started to pick up, though I willed it to slow, commanding my growing anxiety to recede. There was nowhere for me to run. I had to make peace with being trapped on this train with a killer, and with sweet little Aimee being out there unprotected.

Thirty-Four

I cobbled together five
or six fitful hours of sleep, momentarily waking, disoriented, when Mrs. Berns snuck into the room. While she climbed into bed, I checked that the walkie-talkie was on before falling back asleep, only to be startled awake by a clanging outside that quickly subsided. I lay in bed, missing Johnny, thinking of my mom, wondering why I kept falling down this dead body rabbit hole.

When 5:12 AM rolled around, I couldn't lie still any longer. I opened the shade. It was dark as a grave outside. My heart tripped a beat. Were we really buried by snow? It could happen, and then how would we be found? The search and rescue team would have to follow the tracks from our last known location. Our air might not last that long. I tried to loosen my t-shirt from my throat as I stuck my face against the cool glass. Giving my eyes a moment to adjust, I could make out the snow line almost level with the bottom of the train. I sucked in a deep breath. We weren't buried; the sun just wasn't up yet.

A flash of flame sparked to my right, near Car 11's exit door and out a ways, just in my line of sight. I craned my neck. I could just make out Ms. Wrenshall, more in the shelter of the train than out of it. She was smoking, and she was talking to someone. That person was also smoking. I couldn't make out any features, but I could see the orange glow of his or her cigarette ember moving out of sync with Ms. Wrenshall's. What would the smokers do when their cigarettes ran out?

“Happy Valentine's Day!”

The exuberance of the voice startled me, and I banged my face against the glass trying to escape it. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Berns was in the bunk above me, her face hanging upside down over the edge, curlers elevating the side of her head that hadn't been hacked at. In the green glow of the nightlight, her butchered eyebrow appeared particularly regretful.

“And Happy Valentine's to you, too.” I meant it. She was a bright spot in this situation, even though she was the reason I was on this train, next door to where a murder had happened, trapped in the Rockies, worried sick about a little girl I didn't even know.

“I can see what you're thinking,” she said, still upside down. “That maybe this train ride wasn't the best use of your time.” Her head disappeared, soon replaced by her feet as she slid off her bunk.

“And that's one way of looking at it,” she continued, “but here's another: at least you're luring the murder away from Battle Lake. Too much has already happened to those nice people since you moved to town.”

“This is supposed to be a pep talk?”

“I've always found the truth a better companion than bullshit.”

She'd slept in one of those long t-shirts designed to make you look like you had a skinny bikini body. I could only raise an eyebrow.

She glanced down. “This shirt is not bullshit. It's good fun. There's a difference. BS is if I tell you that everything is going to be okay, or that I'm sure it has nothing to do with you that you find dead bodies, or that Iowa is just as good as Minnesota. If I start lying to you like that, then who're you going to believe? No, it's better I'm always honest with you.”

She had a point. “So you can't put a bright spin on this?”

“Sure I can. It's Valentine's Day. We're not dead. What more do you want?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Coffee.”

Unsure what the breakfast protocol was on a stalled train, I tugged on clean clothes and ran a brush over my teeth and a different one through my hair. Mrs. Berns elected to stay behind to shower. When I stepped into the hall, it was as quiet as a funeral. I tiptoed toward the exit door to see if Ms. Wrenshall was still there. I could smell the lingering cigarette smoke over the chill of marauding winter air, but the entry was empty. I slid open the door anyhow, wondering at the conductor's wisdom in unlocking them while we were stopped.

The winter bite kissed my face. It was less cold than I'd expected, and smelled a little like melons. Minnesota winter wind can be knivish, but this western Montana Rockies air was milder, despite having carried a boatload of snow out here. Judging by the footprints right outside the door, we'd gotten ten-plus inches of snow overnight, and it was still falling. A half dozen or so cigarette butts littered the ground that I could see. Previous ones could have been snowed on. I guessed there were little smoking outposts like this at every exit along the train. In fact, four cars up, another spark of flame caught my eye, bright as a laser in the dawn shadows. I couldn't make out if it was a man or woman in the dim dawn light.

I reentered the car and hoofed it toward the dining car. Some people were stirring, but for the most part, the passengers were under a blanket of sleep. Jed was in his chair, fully reclined, Eliza curled in his arms. I made a mental note to ask him about her. She seemed like a nice enough sort. I untangled his blanket from around his legs and pulled it to cover both of them up to the neck. They barely stirred.

The viewing car had a little more action, maybe a dozen people in the chairs, conversing in hushed tones. It was mostly pairs, though there was one group of four that were giving off a distinct “how do we break out of here” vibe, glancing at me suspiciously as I made my way through. We may have food and fuel to hold us until the storm passed, but I doubted we had the patience.

No coffee was available in the viewing car's cafe, so I continued toward the dining car. The forward cars were a bit livelier than the aft, with people awake and reading and kids running up and down the aisles. I had to swerve to stay out of the path of a seven-or-so-year-old girl being chased by a boy at least two years older than her. They both had red hair and freckles, probably brother and sister. I felt sorry for their parents. How hard would it be to entertain kids on a train? Maybe we could organize a snowman contest later.

The redheads' reckless game crossed cars, and they zoomed past me in Car 5, nearly tripping me. I lost my footing and landed on my knees near the door to the dining car. I was still looking back at the kids when the door slid open, so I only caught a glimpse of what was happening in the dining car: Reed, in a heated argument with Sylvester.

Because I was in the bladder separating the cars, there was still the dining car door closed between me and them. I rose to my feet and pushed it open without thinking. The air smelled of fresh-brewed coffee and testosterone. Both men immediately stepped apart.

“Everything okay here?” It was a ridiculous question. Both men were flushed, and Reed's hands were fisting. He looked ready to swing.

“Fine,” Sylvester said, his eyes wide with fear or adrenaline. He brushed past me, knocking my shoulder on the way.

Reed watched him go, his eyes boring holes in the guy's back.

“What was that about?”

Reed flicked his glance at me, visibly composing himself. “Sorry. We had a disagreement about how to best distribute the food.” He held my gaze too deliberately, signaling to me that he was lying. So be it.

“Have any coffee brewing?”

“Sure. We were about to start setting up continental breakfast in the viewing car. You can help me bring it out.”

Here's something unflattering about me: I love to spontaneously help, but I hate to be asked to help in an assumptive way. It takes away any sort of karma points because you don't even have a chance to say yes. Helping when you're commanded to becomes an involuntary activity, work without pay, and it makes me grumpy. I couldn't think of an excuse to get out of breakfast duty, though, so I took the basket of bread he handed me.

“Is it true that food is disappearing?”

He glanced over from the coffee he'd been pouring into a large tureen. “Where'd you hear that?”

“The interviews last night.”

He returned his attention to what he was doing. “Yeah, it's true. Only it's not food so much as utensils—forks, knives, and salt and pepper shakers—though someone is getting into the cream puffs, too.”

“A selective thief.”

He nodded. “I'd call him peculiar.” He hoisted the big silver coffee pot. His arm muscles flexed through his sleeves. It occurred to me that this guy was awfully fit for a porter.

“You guys work out a lot on the train?”

“You're looking at it.” He set the tureen on a nearby table and tipped his head toward the door. “Open it for me?”

I led the way through the cars. Like the Pied Piper, Reed picked up followers as we went, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee drawing them in. I hoped they didn't mind stale pastries with it.

When we reached the viewing car, we had a line of twenty-some people queuing up for refreshment. I grabbed a rich cup for myself and then left them to it, intending to head to the conductor's office in the hopes that he was up and would have information to share. I was halfway out of Car 7 before I had a thought. I returned to Reed's side. He had his work face on, cheery and compliant as he handed out coffee.

“Do you know which car Terry Downs is sleeping in?” I asked. “He's one of the PIs.”

Reed didn't break his smile. “You just passed through it. Coach Car Five.”

The car immediately on the other side of the dining car. “I didn't see him in there.”

Reed shrugged.
I'm not the boss of him
, the gesture said.

“If he's seated in Car Five, where would his luggage be?”

Reed tipped his hat. “Car Five, ma'am. Down below.”

I'd need to figure out how he did that—said the most polite thing while conveying the impression that he thought I was as stupid as hair for asking. That was a skill I wouldn't mind adding to my arsenal. “Thank you.”

I pushed through the coffee-clamoring throng and into Car 6, checking every seat to make sure Terry hadn't found a better place to live on the train. He hadn't. He also wasn't in Car 5. I suppose he could be in the lower-level bathroom, or out smoking—he had smelled like cigarette smoke on our first meeting, hadn't he?—but it was so early in the morning.

I slipped downstairs, to the lower level. It contained bathrooms and luggage. I didn't know what I expected to find, but my heart had begun thumping pleasantly. I hate murder. I hate terror. But I
love
snooping.

Not only do you find cool stuff, you also feel like you're doing something. I realized that that's what the problem was: I was being too passive, letting other people investigate, sitting on the sidelines and worrying about Aimee. It was time to
do
something instead, and what better place to start than by investigating the investigators? Top down approach, that's what I always say. I chugged my coffee and tossed the cup in a trash can.

I estimated there were over a hundred pieces of luggage in the bottom of Car 5. I decided to go at it systematically, starting with the pieces closest to the landing and working back from there. Not a single identification tag went unread. People occasionally came down to use the showers or restrooms, but they paid me little notice. I was simply a passenger looking for her bag in the sea of suitcases.

I was on the second-to-last rack, breaking out a nice sweat from having to flip all the heavy suitcases around to get at the AmeriTrain nametags on each, when I found it: Terry Downs's bag.

The canvas duffel was more suited to the gym than a cross-country trip. It was packed tight and lock-free. Glancing furtively behind me, I tucked it under my arm and made for the bathroom, stopping at the last moment to slide a random red suitcase from the racks. If Terry caught me going through his stuff, I wanted a cover. Apparently, it was going to be “I like to go through other people's stuff.” While not great, that's infinitely better than, “I wanted to go through
your
stuff because I wanted to see if you are who you appear to be.”

I slid the door and lock closed behind me, snapped down the toilet seat, and unzipped the bag. And there it was on top, for all the world to see.