Twenty

Ed Slonaker continued his stroll down the corridor past Elijah Pike’s room and passed on through to the next car. He was walking with his hands in his pockets and was whistling softly to himself; the heavy weight of the .357 Magnum that was hanging in a shoulder holster under his left arm was comforting to him.

He smiled as he thought about how he’d interrupted the steward Leroy’s nocturnal tryst to get the compartment number of the drunken lout he’d observed in the club car. He’d found the man’s name was Jonathan Kincaid and he was staying in a compartment several cars ahead.

Ed intended to have a talk with the man and to do whatever was necessary to keep him from bothering any more tourists.

As he passed between cars 2104 and 2105, he noticed a thick, musty smell in the platform space. His nostrils dilated and he bent and put a finger in a small pool of water on the platform deck. When he raised it into the light, he saw his finger was tinged red. “Uh-oh,” he muttered, standing up to take a closer look at the outer door. Sure enough, the lock was scratched and broken and the door opened easily to his push.

“Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, pulling the Magnum from its holster and moving quickly toward Kincaid’s compartment, hoping he wasn’t too late and that the man hadn’t done something terrible.

When he got there, he stood to the side of the door, holding the big pistol down by his thigh, and knocked on the door. There were no sounds of stirring inside, so he twisted the doorknob as hard as he could and leaned his big shoulder into the door.

With a loud pop, the lock gave way and the door swung open.

Ed entered quickly, stepping to the side with his back against the wall as he’d been trained, the gun held out in front of him. The room was empty.

Ed shut the door and flicked the light on, his nostrils quivering at the heavy, musty, animal scent of the place. “Jesus,” he muttered, “it smells like a den in here.”

A quick search of the room revealed no sign of the man known as Kincaid, but nothing about the room was ordinary. Foul, dirty laundry was strewn about the room, lying where it’d been thrown. There were stained dishes and glasses piled everywhere, smelling of rotted food. Ed was leaning into the small bathroom when he spied a tuft of coarse, dark brown hair caught in the doorway. He pulled it out and rolled it between his fingers, frowning at it. Putting it close to his nose, he noticed the same strong musty smell that pervaded the compartment. He shook his head, his eyes flicking around the mess. This is one sick son of a bitch, he thought, the hairs on the back of his neck stirring at the madness he sensed in this place. Finally, he brushed the hair from his fingers and he eased out of the compartment, pulling the door shut behind him.

As he continued toward the club car, he wondered if he would find Kincaid there . . . and if he did, then whose blood was it he’d found on the platform?

When he saw some tourists moving toward him down the corridor, he holstered the pistol and settled it under his left arm. This is turning out to be some vacation, he thought, his lips curling into a fierce grin.