THE TRAIN SHOOK the man as it escaped the spidery railways of Manhattan—this southwest-bound train, whose route would cut a diagonal through the southern states. The train was filthy and fast, much like the man himself. The piece of paper in his hands did not matter; the destination was all that mattered.
Wilcox reread the letter:
They have left Boston and are on their way to Cincinnati. Winter has his connections there, as you probably know. Perhaps they intend to wait there for some time, or perhaps they will immediately move on.
You told me years ago that you had taken the girl to a place from where she would never return. You did not tell me the place then, and I do not want to know it now. But I am sure that that is where they are going.
It was true—he had taken the girl to a place from where she would never return. A place so far south that any hope of return was impossible. That’s what you did in those days. That’s how you handled it.
They were going due west to St. Louis. They were breaking up the route. But he’d stop them before they could get to where they needed to go. He had boarded the Knoxville-Mobile line—that would put him there before them. The steamboat would take them at least three days, maybe four.
In New Orleans, he would be waiting.