Chapter One
Raton Pass, Colorado.
December 2002
The air in the rocky-sided pass is heavy, deadened—the sky above the tree line the color of lead.
Jimmy Scardino takes a final hit on his Camel cigarette, he tosses it into the snow, eyes the rail line running south into the pass—it's white-over.
He checks his watch, knocks snow from his hair. Turns back to the stolen Buick Roadmaster at the side of the gravel road.
Easing in behind the wheel, he drives the station wagon thirty yards to a grade crossing—feels the raised steel tracks beneath his tires.
He stops the car, cuts the motor.
Stepping out, he swings the door shut.
Half a mile back along the rail line is a collection of buildings—Fisherville, a track-side settlement. Businesses and houses are barely visible in the late December afternoon. It’s near dusk, nothing moving. Nobody's seen him. Nobody’s seen the car.
Colorado spruce and limber pine line the gravel road where it disappears into the mountain wood. He moves between low branches, stooping into the trees to a clearing in the fading winter light.
He pulls out a second set of keys, spots the double-cab Tacoma pickup. Closing down the last cold yards, he fights an urge to run.
He reaches the pickup, opens up, climbs in, fires the motor.
He checks the clock on the dash, nods to himself.
Almost time.
On the long climb through the Raton Pass, the Amtrak passenger train fights for traction.
Clarke Tanner in the engineer's seat, peers through the windshield—the forward light beams filled with swirling flecks of white.
He glances at the main panel on the operator console—the train is picking up speed, finally descending; running downhill after more than an hour.
The rail heads will be iced. He sees a letter 'W' picked out at the side of the track—the whistle post for Fisherville, ten miles north of the Raton tunnel.
A quarter-mile on, he can just make out track-side yards and buildings.
Two grade crossings at Fisherville—the main road, then a second, gravel road at the northern end.
He checks the speed, the train’s accelerating, nearing the limit for the track.
Conductor Ross in the seat beside him reaches for the heater control. He cranks up the dial, rubs at the arm of his sweater; “Getting worse out there.”
Tanner starts the sequence of air horn blasts—two long, a short, then another long. “You catch a weather update at Raton?”
The conductor nods, stares out of the side window at the snow. “Trainmaster's office say there’s a storm headed in. Possible Cat-4.”
Tanner sounds the air horn again—repeating the sequence of long and short blasts.
Tracts of white powder are settled on the hills lining both sides of the pass. Ahead, snitch-lights glow on the sides of the flashers at the main crossing.
“How is it up to Chicago?” Tanner says.
“Not looking real good.”
The engineer watches the signals at the highway. Beyond the main crossing, a shape draws his eye where the forest line comes down to meet the track.
He eases up out of his seat, stares along the cone of the forward light beam.
Windshield wipers mark the time in beats.
Tanner’s breath catches in his throat.
His hand floats toward the automatic brake-valve handle.
Something is out there. Something on the track.
Five, six hundred feet ahead, not more.
He sounds the horn in a long-drawn blast.
Conductor Ross snaps around in his seat.
“Son of a bitch...” Tanner pulls on the handle, putting the brakes into full emergency.
“Jesus,” the conductor says, “get off the line.” His voice is hoarse in his throat.
The engineer stares at the car across the track—the closing speed too great now, no way he can get the train stopped. They're in full emergency—nothing more he can do.
“Move back...” the conductor shouts.
Tanner stares at the station wagon in the lights.
He feels his heart in his chest.
Starts to brace.