Chapter Sixteen

The coach car seat is pushed as far back as Whicher can get it. All the carriage lights are dimmed, people trying to sleep as best they can.

The sound catches his attention first, high pitched. Metal on metal.

He pushes himself upright. Feels the train start to slow.

Lauren's asleep in the seat beside him. Beyond the window, outside in the black, snow still falls.

He checks his watch—just before midnight.

Five hours out of Denver.

The marshal raises his seat to the upright position, feels the retardation of the train.

A voice comes on the Tannoy; “McCook...”

Lauren stirs, her face registering the sound.

Whicher stares out of the window, at lights now showing, track-side lights, buildings looming from the dark.

“Next station is McCook, Nebraska.”

Lauren keeps her eyes closed.

Whicher thinks of getting up, of going forward—to the head of the car, to where there's hot coffee.

He checks around him, nobody's stirring. He's awake, now—he needs to stay awake.

The lights beyond the window slow. He looks at Lauren, sleeping, mouth part open, blond hair in disarray. He lets his gaze rest a moment on her face, feels the stir in his pulse.

Reaching for his hat, he stands. He starts along the central aisle-way, among the dozing passengers.

At the connecting corridor he finds the table set with flasks of coffee.

He takes a cup, pours himself a measure, adds cream.

The train slows to a complete stop.

Whicher takes his cup to the window, looks out at a station building—lit up. It's twenties-era, in dark brown brick. Behind it, a street runs parallel.

Store fronts crowd an intersection—grain elevators line the track to the east, picked out in the train yard lights.

No passengers are waiting to board.

He can’t see anybody getting off.

A connecting door opens—an attendant enters the corridor.

Whicher nods.

“Problem up the line,” the attendant says. “Conductor’s saying twenty minutes. They've got a frozen switch up ahead.”

Whicher takes a sip of coffee. “We’re waiting here?”

“A storm like this, it can take a while.”

“What is it, ice?”

“Could be packed snow,” the man says. “It'll stop the rail from moving if it’s deep.”

Whicher looks out of the window.

“They get a crew out with a bunch of blow torches, they’ll free it,” the attendant says. “It can take time, if it’s the middle of nowhere. If you want to get off, it's okay. If you want a smoke. Or you want to get some air. We're not going to be moving.”

Whicher fits a plastic lid to the coffee cup. He steps through the connecting door, heads back into the coach car.

At the end of the aisle he can see both seats are empty, his coat spread out where she was sitting.

He moves down the car, looks around, he can’t see her. At the end, he passes through the next connecting door.

She's nowhere in sight.

Cold air is streaming in, the train door is open—a group of college-age kids standing on the white covered platform.

He stares out of the train, alarm rising.

“What are you doing?”

A female voice.

He spins around.

She's coming out of the next coach car.

“I had to use the bathroom.” She studies him a moment. “I woke up, the train had stopped.”

“I went to get coffee,” he says. “There's a problem up ahead on the line.”

Lauren stares out of the door at passengers starting to walk around on the platform, pulling on coats. “Is it okay to get off?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Do you think they have a phone in there,” she says, “a call box?”

The marshal shrugs.

She gazes into the night air, at the falling snow. Lowers her voice. “Look, I’m not allowed to see people. But I can speak with them. I promised to try to call somebody.”

“It's late.”

“It won't matter.” She rests her eye on his.

“Who?”

“I'm not supposed to discuss that,” Lauren says. “Not even with people like you.”

Whicher breaks off looking at her, to stare out into the frozen Nebraska landscape.

“If I called from here...” Lauren says. She makes a gesture at the empty country stretching off into the black.

Twenty-four hours, Whicher tells himself. Twenty-four hours since they broke the trail.

“Nobody’s going to know,” she says. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

The marshal steps into the open doorway of the car. “Five minutes,” he says. He climbs down from the train.

The station waiting room is four glazed-brick walls, scuffed seats, no staff, no ticketing. The windows are track-side, looking out onto the line.

In a wall-recess at one corner is a payphone. Whicher checks there's only one way in and out.

The place is empty, just the two of them inside.

Lauren crosses the room, her footsteps echo from the vaulted ceiling.

“Do you think...” She inclines her head at the phone. “Do you think you could give me a moment?”

“I'll be right outside.”

He steps out, stands in the lee of the station wall, out of the wind. Scans the intersection that forms a 'T' with the main street north, away from the track.

A stop light hangs from an overhead cable. But nothing's moving on the road.

On the white-over platform, groups are standing around, smoking, walking up and down.

The marshal watches snow swirling in the train yard lights. A parked freight load stretches to the distance, beyond the grain elevators, into the dark.

He squares his hat, steps around to where he can see through the window into the waiting room—Lauren’s inside, speaking into the phone.

He moves away from the building, feels the wind against his exposed skin.

Glancing over his shoulder, he sees her putting down the phone.

She’s not making a second call.

She crosses the room, steps outside, looks around, sees him. Pointing a finger at the train, she starts to walk back across the platform.

By the side of a coach car, Whicher sees an attendant, cigarette trailing from his hand.

Lauren reaches the open door of the train, she climbs on.

Whicher motions to the crew man. “Any word on that hold up?”

The man peers at him. “We should be moving shortly, sir. Conductor says there's another train ahead on the line.”

“Another train?”

“Freight load,” the man says. “They need to get the switch working, get the other train through before we head on up.”

The marshal nods. “Guess I'll take a walk,” he says. “Then turn in.”

He moves along the length of the train all the way to the back.

At the end, he stops. Takes off the Resistol, shakes snow from it. Sucks down the cold air.

A truck is out on the street, it slows at the intersection. The marshal watches it a moment, turns around, heads back.

At the door to their car, he knocks his boots against each other, climbs on.

He enters the carriage.

The lights are dim.

Their seats are empty.

“Mister Houghton? Sir, this is Gail. I have a marshal here, that needs to speak with you.” The female attendant listens on a carriage intercom phone. She studies Whicher’s badge, a frown across her brow. “Yes, sir. A marshal.”

Ten minutes.

For ten minutes he's been up and down the train.

Lauren’s case is stowed exactly where it was in the baggage rack. There's no sign of her anyplace, he's checked the bathrooms, been in every car.

She’s nowhere on the platform, not in the station.

The attendant nods, puts down the receiver. “Sir, you can go forward, the conductor's up with the engineer...”

Whicher hustles along the car, snatches open the door to the next carriage. He strides on toward the head-end of the train.

A suited man in an Amtrak cap steps into the far end of the corridor.

“Are you the conductor?”

“I'm about to give the word to pull out of here,” the man says. “Dispatch at Commerce City want us moving east—we need to get up the line, we need to leave...”