7

Amtrak Train, Empire Builder
Western Montana

Professor James Tramil couldn’t sleep. After leaving Portland, he had traveled east along the Columbia River before heading north toward Spokane, where the train had stopped briefly, crossed the dense forests of Idaho’s panhandle, and was now somewhere east of Libby, Montana. The constant movement and clicking should have let him sleep, he knew, but since he had not gotten a sleeper cabin, he was trying to make the most of a partially-reclined chair. Not exactly sleep worthy.

Yet, all around him most of the others were doing just that, with some snoring and a few still reading on lit eBooks or with the annoying personal overhead lights.

Tramil checked his watch, which was synchronized to the atomic clock in Boulder, Colorado. It was six forty-four a.m., less than an hour before their next stop in Whitefish, Montana at seven twenty-six. He had been in that region of Montana a few times on trips to Glacier National Park, but it had been a couple of years.

The sun was trying to break through heavy clouds toward the front of the train, while snow started to fall like fluffs of cotton.

He knew that his inability to sleep had everything to do with the murder of his good friend and colleague Professor Stephan Zursk. That and the constant throbbing in his right butt cheek from where the bullet had grazed him. He had been forced to change the four-inch dressing in the middle of the night. The dermabond was holding fine, but with the shifting in the train seat the bandage had curled. It might help if he changed it again, he thought. Bandages were cheap and available and he still had a stack of them left in his backpack.

Getting up as quietly as possible, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, stepped around the person in the aisle seat, a young woman who had said no more than a dozen words to him since she got on the train in Spokane, and moved down the aisle toward the back of the train, shifting his feet as the train moved somewhat.

Inside the small bathroom he pulled his pants down and looked at the curled bandage. It too had shifted from the train chair. He knew it would be a constant battle. But he was thankful to be alive. The bullet could have just as easily struck him in the side of the head or his chest or stomach. That was now the least of his worries. He knew someone was still after him. This train ride was only going to give him time to think out a more permanent plan.

He slapped a new bandage onto his butt and pulled up his pants. Then he splashed some water on his face and headed out the door.

As the door collapsed another man stood there ready to enter, startling Tramil. The guy had a buzz cut and birth control glasses.

“Sorry,” the professor whispered.

The man said nothing. Instead, he thrust his right fist into Tramil’s gut, taking his breath away and hunching him over. Then the man pushed into the bathroom with him and locked them inside.

“You can live,” the man said with an accent, as he pulled a folding knife from his pocket, “but only if you keep your mouth shut.” He shoved the knife under Tramil’s chin.

“Who are you?” Tramil forced out, still trying to catch his breath. “What do you want from me?”

The man grinned through cigarette-stained, yellow, crooked teeth and said, “You know what I want. You run from me. But now I catch you.”

How had this man found him? Could it be the man who had killed his friend, Stephan?

“You killed Stephan,” Tramil said, his body stiffening but retreating once he felt the knife dig into the soft tissue under his jaw.

“That’s right, professor. And I will kill you if you don’t give me exactly what I ask for.”

“Can you put the knife away? It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

The man considered this and took the knife away from his chin, but kept it alongside his leg. One quick thrust and Tramil would be dead.

“Thanks,” Tramil said. “Now, you should have gotten all my research when you stole our computers from our lab at Oregon State.” He was testing the man.

“There was nothing there, but you know that. You’re too smart to leave your work on university computers.”

Something was bothering Tramil. “Why did you kill my friend before we could give you the research?”

“He was playing with us for months,” the man said, his jaw tight with anger. “Stringing us along. Taking money and giving us useless garbage. In the end he didn’t have what we wanted. That became abundantly clear. So, we knew we had to get it from you.”

“But then why did you try to kill me?” That was a problem with the man’s logic.

He said nothing for a long minute. Finally, he said, “That was a mistake. I didn’t realize it was you when you came to the door.”

That was a lie. This guy had forced Stephan to call him to his house that night. Who else would he be expecting? It was more likely that this guy had jumped the gun, literally, and tried to kill him before getting the research and now his boss was having him make up for his screw up. That gave Tramil some leverage.

“What do you want?” Tramil asked.

“I’m guessing you hid the research off-site,” the man said, his accent still unclear.

Tramil could play this game. “That makes sense. How could I trust a university computer system? But I don’t understand why you want my research. It’s not done. We haven’t even discovered anything significant.”

The man laughed internally and shook his head. “Don’t try to play poker, professor. We know all about your research.”

“Based on what my colleague told you?”

Someone tried to push into the door, which made the man turn his head over his shoulder, allowing Tramil to check his watch. The train would stop at Whitefish in just twenty-five minutes.

“It’s occupied, asshole,” the man yelled. “Find another one.”

Fully recovered from the thrust to his gut, Tramil ran scenarios through his brain on how to escape from this man. Most of the outcomes were not favorable. Only one made any sense, and that had worked before.

“I don’t even have a computer with me,” Tramil explained.

“Amtrak has wi-fi running throughout,” the man said. “You can download it to my smart phone. That’s why they call them smart.”

Stall, Tramil. “How much internal memory do you have?”

The man’s expression was blank.

Tramil continued, “Because my research, with all its attachments, is over fifty gig.”

Now the guy looked like a third-grader trying to do calculus in his mind. He had a dilemma. It was obvious he couldn’t kill Tramil without the research, and he had no way of downloading it on the train. At least not without finding something to download it to.

Maybe Tramil could help him with this mental gymnastics. Move him toward a favorable solution. He checked his watch again. “Maybe they sell some data storage in Whitefish. The train stops there for about a half hour.”

Smiling, the man said, “Good idea. Nobody says we have to continue on this train.”

Perhaps he’d been too helpful. He hadn’t thought of that possible outcome.

“All right,” the man said. “We’ll go sit down and get off in Whitefish.” He turned and pushed through the door.

Standing there was the porter, a huge black man with a flat top, along with an old woman who seemed to have her legs crossed. When the porter saw two men coming out together, his brows rose. The old woman looked shocked.

Tramil took this distraction as a sign. He pushed past the man with the knife and hurried toward the front of the train. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the porter had grasped the man by the arm. But he quickly pulled his arm away and followed Tramil.

Hurrying through the aisle, Tramil glanced back occasionally. People were awake now. Some looked out the windows at the snow falling outside. Others were standing and stretching their legs from the long night sleeping in uncomfortable chairs.

Run, Tramil. It was his only defense against this man. He picked up speed, but then realized he would quickly run out of train if he went too fast. He went through to the next car and continued forward. He needed to get off this train. It had been a good idea to pay cash and take the train, but had now turned into a trap of his making. The only thing he had going for him was the fact that this man had probably been ordered to not kill him. Of course the same was probably true of his friend Stephan.

As he rushed forward he saw some bags between cars. A few people were planning to get off in Whitefish. Without hesitation, Tramil grasped a hard-sided metal suitcase and slid out of sight. When he heard the door open, he timed his strike just right, swinging it up and smashing it into the man’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. Then he dropped the bag on the guy’s feet and ran back the way he’d just come, heading toward the back of the train now.

Tramil heard the man mumble something in another language, but he didn’t stick around long enough to guess the translation. He saw possible salvation ahead. The porter had followed the two of them and was now heading right for Tramil.

“Help me,” Tramil said when he reached the porter. “That man is trying to kill me.” He slipped one of his college business cards from his pocket and shoved it into the porter’s hand. “I’m a college professor. That man shot and killed my friend a couple days ago and is now trying to kill me.”

“What?” the porter asked. “Who?”

Turning quickly, Tramil couldn’t see the man who had been chasing him. “The man from the bathroom. He has a knife and threatened to kill me.”

The big porter got on his radio and said, “We got a situation here.”