Chapter Six

The ground rushes at him as Belaski hits the bank of snow—rolling, twisting into the stinging swirl of white.

A sickening pain pulses through the back of his head. He comes to a stop, pushes up from the ground.

He sits on his haunches, hands at his knees. The train pulling away into darkness.

Doubling over, he starts to retch.

His mouth is full of spit, he pulls the ski-mask from his head, puts a hand into the hair at the back of his head. Blood is beneath his fingers, oily, warm.

He steadies himself, still clutching the SIG. Presses his fingers into white powder beneath him, feels the burn from the cold.

Rising, he takes in the bleak, flat land, the driving snow.

Looking back down the rail line, he strains to see into the dark.

No point of light shows from any house—no farm, no settlement. A black outline of trees is just visible. Between the flat fields he can make out a road, raised banks at either side, covered in snow.

He spots it, now—sees it out there.

The single set of moving lights.

The train conductor, Ross, is at the head of the stairwell. “What in the name of God is going on?”

The noise of seized brakes fills the entry lobby.

“Somebody just took a shot at me,” Whicher says.

The conductor clambers down the stairs as the locked wheels start to grip against the ice-bound rails.

“They took a shot, then jumped.”

Ross gapes at the open doorway. “You want to stop? You want to get off?”

The marshal stares out into the snow—finding anybody will be next to impossible. “Can you call ahead?”

“Engineer's already calling dispatch,” Ross says. “We have to stop, now, recharge air, get pressure back in the brake-line.”

“Tell dispatch to send out the nearest police unit.”

The conductor swallows, stares out of the open door, at the blur of snow.

“You know where the next grade crossing is at?”

“We could find it...”

“Y’all keep the doors locked,” the marshal says. “Get law enforcement out, have them search the train at the next station.”

“You want a car out here? In this?”

“Get ‘em to send out a unit. We’re getting off.”

Red light streaks the snow at the side of the grade crossing. The train is slowing to a walking pace.

Set back from the crossbuck is a white Ford Explorer, its light bar popping.

Whicher waits in the entry lobby of the sleeper car, Corrigan’s tote and Lauren’s case in his hand.

Lauren’s at the foot of the stairwell, wrapped in his heavy woolen ranch coat.

Thirty minutes have passed. Thirty minutes to stop, reset the brakes and move up to the nearest crossing point with a road.

The train grinds to a dead stop.

Conductor Ross sticks his head out of the open door, cranes his neck, checking up and down the line.

Whicher scans the white-over prairie—nothing out there but the law enforcement Ford Explorer.

The driver steps out of the vehicle. He stands, huddled in the wind and snow.

The conductor waves the marshal out.

Whicher drops from the train, feels the cold wind nail the back of his suit.

In the doorway, Lauren turns, climbs down.

The conductor watches as they step back, clear of the line. “Otero County Sheriff’s office say they’ll have people at La Junta.”

The marshal touches a hand to the brim of the Resistol.

Ross speaks into a two-way radio. The train’s exhaust note rises.

Whicher turns side-on as compressed air hisses—the train begins to move away.

He walks toward the waiting vehicle.

The driver steps around to the rear door, motions for Lauren to get inside.

Whicher lifts the luggage in after her, slides it onto the rear seat, pushes the door shut.

“Officer Kyle Guillory,” the driver says.

“Whicher, US Marshals Service.”

“I'm supposed to meet with you here,” Guillory says, “help out. That's about all I know.”

The marshal studies the man—he’s in his thirties, heavy-set, a fleshy face reddened by wind. He's wearing a police cap, a padded tan jacket—a city badge, Millersburg, sewn above the right pocket.

“I can't tell you much,” Whicher says, angling his head toward the rear of the Ford. “Be obliged if you don't ask.”

The officer glances into the back of his vehicle.

The marshal eyes the snow chains strapped around the big Ford’s tires. “Whatever help you can give us, we can use.” He takes a last look at the train—moving off into the dark.

“You don't have any coat?” Guillory says, above the wind.

Whicher steps to the front passenger side. “We get in?”

“Hell, yeah.”

The marshal climbs inside, feels heat blowing from the air vents. He thrusts out his hands.

Guillory swings in behind the wheel. “You’re going to freeze your ass off out here,” he says. “It's fixin' to be a real good one.” He gazes out through the windshield. “Looks like we’re headed south of minus-four Fahrenheit. Plus significant precip.” He turns to Lauren in the back seat. “Evening, ma'am.”

She nods, saying nothing.

“You make it out here okay?” Whicher says.

“Pretty much, with the chains.”

“What's going on with the roads—there anyplace we can get to?”

“You’re not from Colorado, are you?”

Whicher shakes his head. He takes his hands away from the heater vents, rubs at the sleeves of his suit.

“It’ll get severe, this way,” Guillory says. “I came five miles, is all.”

“From?”

“From Millersburg.”

“So, can you get us back to there?”

The officer nods. He moves the shifter into drive, turns the Ford around, away from the railroad line.

Beyond the road, there’s just a smudge of black sky, a blur of horizontals.

“What kind of a police department y’all have?” Whicher says.

“We’re not that big of a town—around a couple thousand,” Guillory says. “The department runs to two men. Me. Plus my boss.”

The marshal peers out at the glare of the SUV’s lights.

“We have a station house, an office.”

“Anybody else know about you picking us up?”

“No, sir.”

“Who took the call?”

“You mean, from the rail folk?”

Whicher nods.

“I did. I took it right at my house.”

“You tell anybody? Before you came on out?”

“No, sir.” The officer steals a look at the big man in the hat.

“Alright.” The marshal says. “If you can get us to your station house, I need to make a call.” He turns back to Lauren, tries to catch her eye.

She sits with her head turned to the window, staring out. A cold reflection in the curved black glass.