22

Arailroad lineman found her,” Ronda told Mila after Mila had eaten, scarfing down a plate of bacon and three scrambled eggs, orange juice, two more mugs of coffee, the works. “A friend of mine, Roger Domino. When Ash didn’t show up last October, I called in some favors on the Northwestern line. You do this long enough, you get to know the train crews. You start to make connections.”

Mila nodded. Ash had told her something similar, how most of the train guys didn’t really care about riders being on the trains, so long as you stuck to your own business and didn’t cause trouble.

“Where did they find her?” she asked.

“Some place called Moyie Springs, Idaho, near the Montana line.” Ronda frowned. “The weird thing was, it’s not even a division point. But the night before she was supposed to arrive, there was a big train derailment on the High Line, a bunch of chemical tankers. All traffic east and west halted for nearly eight hours. The way I figure, her hotshot must have stopped to wait out the derailment in that little town.”

“And the bulls kicked her off?”

“Maybe. Or maybe she just got real cold. She was on a flatcar, remember, and there was the first snow that night. Maybe she just wanted some shelter.”

Mila felt a chill. “Ash said the rider always travels in a storm. She said he rides where no normal person could survive.”

Ronda stood, taking her coffee mug to the sink. Stared out through the window as she rinsed it. Outside, it was still raining, raining hard, and Mila knew the rain turned into snow the higher in the mountains you went.

“I’ve heard the bogeyman stuff,” Ronda said after a minute. “I don’t put any stock in it. Whoever’s riding that High Line is flesh and blood, just like you and me. He just happens to be a damned evil soul.”

—

Later, when Ronda left the house for groceries, Mila made herself a hot chocolate and logged on to Ronda’s Wi-Fi with her phone. She found a map of the High Line on the Internet. The mountain region, from the Cascades through the Rockies. Found Moyie Springs. Found a bunch of the other towns Ronda had mentioned, places where the police had found bodies.

It was a huge stretch of track, five hundred–plus miles. A lot of ground to cover. She would have to prepare wisely. Mila logged on to the rider message board. Started a thread.

I’m looking for the ghost rider on the High Line, she wrote. I know it’s a bad idea, so save your advice. Just point me in the right direction, if you can.

She posted the thread. Fingers crossed. If this didn’t work, she would have to pump Ronda for whatever information she had. Or she would have to hope to get lucky.

Mila took a screenshot of the map. Saved it on her phone. Drank her hot chocolate and stared out into the rain.