by A J Rivers
"Starting with the name," Sam comments.
I click on the name to bring up the user's profile. The avatar is a closeup of a very blue eye, and there is no actual name listed.
"It's unusual. But some people try to get poetic with their profiles. They don't really want it to be about them; it's about their perspective. Sometimes their art. Look, there are dozens of pictures of the ocean. Sunrise, sunset, close to the waves, far away from the waves. These look like she's in the water, like on a boat."
"See at Sea," Sam says, nodding. "Alright. She has a thing for oceans."
"There aren't any clear images of people in any of the pictures. But there are a few that have shadows. These look like a tall guy with broad shoulders. He and me?" I suggest.
"Sure, that makes sense."
"It does, but it doesn't. This profile isn't like most of the other ones leaving comments and following Mary's vlog. It's not about the person. It doesn't fit the pattern of the other consistent followers, but for almost a year, it's been a consistent follower of Mary's videos. Almost three months of just likes. Then the 'first' message. I read through all the comments left from this profile to Mary. They start simple and casual. Then gradually, they become more and more familiar, and Mary spends more time talking back. There are even two instances on the other profile where Mary liked her pictures," I tell him.
"So, what is it you remembered?" he asks.
I select a specific video and open it, scrolling down through the comments.
"This," I say. "This video is from about two weeks before the bombing. Mary is comparing all the different fall flavored coffees that just hit the stores."
"Autumn creep is real. Pretty soon, they are going to have pumpkin spice conversation hearts on Valentine's Day," Sam mutters.
"From your lips to God's ears," I grin. I point out an exchange. "Here they get into a conversation talking about their favorite ways to have flavored coffee. It's fairly mind-numbing, which is why I didn't fully catch it the first time. Right here, SeeatSea says 'those caramel cookies I told you about'."
"You think that’s a code for something?” Sam asks.
"I mean, it could be. Or they could just be, you know, cookies. But let’s find out.”
I go through every video with comments from SeeatSea and scan for any mention of cookies. When I get to the end, I nod. "Exactly what I thought. She never mentions cookies. Not on any of the videos. Which means they must have been communicating outside of the comments."
I reach for my phone and start dialing.
"Calling LaRoche again?"
"No. Eric. I want to see if he can find out what Mary and SeeatSea were talking about just a few days before she died."
Chapter Seventeen
I know Sam well enough by now I can almost tell what he's feeling and thinking without even having to look at him. Just by the way his eyes feel on my back or how his energy surrounds me when he comes into the room, I can come up with a fairly accurate estimation of what's going through his mind. Two days after our deep dive into Mary Preston’s comments, when he arrives to bring me to dinner and finds me with my suitcase spread out across my bed, I sense it's not a great reaction. His eyes burrow into the top of my head as I lean over to tuck a rolled pair of socks in the corner of the case. I can feel his hesitation.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I look up at him and cross to my dresser for more clothes.
"Packing. My train to Feathered Nest is tomorrow."
"You're going?"
He comes into the room and peers down into my suitcase like he can evaluate my state of mind by what I've chosen to put inside. So far, it's socks, underwear, and pajamas, so there's not a lot to go on yet.
"Of course I am. I thought you knew that."
"And I thought you were going to Florida to look more into what Bellamy found," he tells me.
"Not until after I'm able to talk to Christine. I'd really prefer not to go into that situation completely flailing blind. The more she can tell me about her father and the time around my mother's death, the better I'll be able to navigate. For now, this is what I need to do. For one reason or another, Marren needs me. LaRoche finally called back and said he went by her house. She's fine. He didn't tell me anything else, but that might be because she can't trust anyone."
"Except for you?" he raises an eyebrow.
I toss a handful of jeans into the bag and turn a glare toward him.
"Is there some hidden meaning to that comment you want to expand on?" I ask.
"Why would she choose you? You haven't been back there since the investigation ended. What could you help her with?"
"I don't know. But I'm not just going to ignore her because I don't know what she needs. There's a reason I got that letter and the train ticket."
He watches me take another handful of clothes out of the next drawer and add them to the suitcase.
"A letter that showed up on your porch from someone you barely know, and a train ticket when you could just as easily drive to Feathered Nest. Doesn't that seem at all suspicious to you?" he asks, walking up to the side of the bed.
"Of course it does, Sam. But that's why I have to go. Don't you understand that? The darkness in Feathered Nest didn't go away when Jake was arrested. That town is steeped in it, and it just keeps coming to the surface. There are answers in Feathered Nest that I need. I'm not going to ignore this chance to find them."
I go to my nightstand and take out my holster and a box of bullets. Taking my hard-sided case out from under my bed, I dismantle the gun and tuck it inside.
"What are you doing?" Sam frowns.
"I can't have my gun on the train. It has to be dismantled and checked," I explain. "Unless there's official law enforcement activity going on, no one is allowed to have a gun on board. Permit or not. That applies to police and FBI agents, too. Since I'm not on official duty on this trip, it stays in my suitcase until I get to Feathered Nest."
"How about a knife?" he asks.
"Not even allowed in my checked luggage. The best I can do is a pair of scissors or nail clippers."
"I'm serious, Emma," he says. "You have to have something to protect you."
"So am I. Those are the rules. I'm not guarding anyone, and I'm not on official law enforcement business. This is the way it is. At least it will be in the luggage so I can get to it when I get there," I reply.
"Why don’t you drive? If you get there and Marren really needs you, then you’re there,” he suggests. “If there’s something else going on, then you didn’t get on the train.”
“I can’t do that, Sam,” I tell him.
“Why not? What if you’re being lured onto the train?”
“That’s exactly why I have to do it.”
“Why?” he insists. “Emma, I’m just worried about your safety.”
“I can take care of myself, Sam.”
“Emma, you’ve almost been killed several times in the last few months. I can’t just—”
“That’s not fair,” I cut him off. “You know that’s not fair!”
“It’s true,” he fires back. “And here you go again, just leaping into danger without knowing anything about it!”
“I’m a federal agent, Sam. It’s not exactly a safe job. And I signed up for this. Same as you when you put on that badge. You can’t just keep me back here forever. I’m going to Feathered Nest.”
“Emma, why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it will never stop, Sam!” I shout.
He’s taken aback. I hold up a finger to stop him from talking, then draw out a breath and let it out slowly.
"I still don't know who Ron Murdock was. He died at my feet, and I don't know his real name, why he was there, or how he died. That's not something I can just ignore. He knew my parents, and he came to me for a reason. The necklaces. My father’s birth certificate. The video clip. It’s never going to stop if I just pretend it’s not happening. I can’t run from it. It stops when I
stop it.”
I slam the gun case closed in frustration, trying not to let the emotion tightening my throat seep into my voice. I appreciate him worrying and wanting to protect me. At the same time, the pressure reminds me of exactly why I made the hard choice I did seven years ago. It wasn't easy to walk away from him, to leave him behind and force myself to move ahead into a life where he, and Sherwood, didn't exist. But it's what I had to do to pursue my career. It wasn't just for me. It was for my mother and father, and the questions they left behind. I couldn't have a life that anyone else depended on, or that required me to depend on anybody else. I had to live just for myself, so I could do what needed to be done.
In a lot of ways, it hasn't changed. I can't hold myself back or not follow my instincts because Sam doesn't want me to. This is what I would do, whether I had come back to Sherwood or not. I know he worries about me, but that can't stop me.
I'm tired of the questions. Of not knowing. There's too much of my past hidden in shadow. I need to shine a light on it. I have unfinished business in Feathered Nest. Maybe this will finally let me put the town and its secrets behind me.
Chapter Eighteen
"What can I do?" Sam asks with a resigned sigh.
I look up at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"
“I'm… not going to let you do this by yourself. I understand it's something you have to do. And I know I can’t stop you. I might not see what you see, but if you believe you need to follow this, then you need to. What can I do to help you?” he asks.
I pause, searching his face, making sure he's serious. When he doesn't hesitate, I step closer to him.
"The train goes to the station outside Feathered Nest twice every morning. The ticket I got in the mail is for the second run. But what if I was already gone by the time that train ran?”
“And someone is there in your place?” Sam asks.
“Exactly. If I switch my ticket to the earlier train and get you one for the original run, I can look over the train station and make sure everything looks as expected. Then an hour after I leave, you board your train, the original train I was supposed to be on. If this is nothing but Marren actually writing to me and wanting me to come to Feathered Nest, then it'll be a boring few hours, and I'll wait at the station on the other side until she comes to pick me up. But if it's something else, whoever is doing it hopefully won't follow through without me on the train. You keep your eye out for anyone looking suspicious and let me know. I'll be waiting at the other station and can call in security if needed." I draw in a breath. "Only…"
"Only, what?" he asks.
"What if I'm wrong? What if it doesn't matter if I'm on that train or not? I could be tossing you into the lions' den.”
“It's worth the risk,” he points out. “If someone is trying to get their hands on you, they're going to be precise about it. If you're being lured onto this train, it's for a specific reason. They'll want to see you. They'll want to make sure whatever they have in mind happens.”
"I don't want to put you in danger," I tell him. "Not for me."
He smiles. "Now, who’s the one worrying too much?”
Despite myself, I smile back sadly, keeping the tears away from my eyes as best as I can. I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh and a sob.
“So you’re in?”
Sam takes my hand.
“You’re right, Emma. It’s dangerous, but we signed up for this risk. I can handle myself, and I know you can handle yourself. And besides, this isn't just about you. This could be a threat toward everybody on that train. But it's a threat we can stop, and that’s worth the risk."
The next morning Sam arrives so we can have breakfast together. I hand him his coffee as he tells me about calling the train station.
“Getting a ticket on the train wasn't a problem, but they weren't interested in adding any extra security. Since I wasn't able to explain to them any actual threat toward either of us, they aren't willing to do anything. I asked about emergency dispensation for carrying our weapons on board, even me as an officer, but they wouldn't give it to me. No investigation, no case, no gun,” he tells me.
"It's alright. I didn't expect to have it, so it doesn't change anything."
Not wanting to call attention to me getting on the train early or to Sam going at all, I drive myself to the train station in Castleville. He will follow soon. Just like I expect, the station is very quiet this early in the morning. I already bought my new ticket online, so I walk inside and scan my surroundings. I pay attention to every person I see waiting on the benches and standing near the doors. I didn't want to have too much time of lingering around in the station and possibly being noticed, so I timed my arrival to give me just enough time to look over the station and check my suitcase before boarding.
The woman behind the desk hands me a claim ticket for my bag, and I tuck it away in the backpack I'm bringing on board before walking around the station, scanning it for anything that strikes me as strange. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so I walk out onto the platform.
The train is already there. Long and silver. It glistens in the sunlight. Uniformed conductors walk up and down, doing their customary checks as the passengers who traveled from other places disembark. A stream of people head into the station or scurry to the other platform to wait for their connecting train. I stand to the side, watching them as they pass. I hesitate there even when the stream is over, letting the people heading to the platform go by before I make my move.
A few passengers walk past me. I scan each of them, taking note of their luggage and how they interact with everything around them. People are often suspicious without realizing it. The way they carry themselves, how they look at the people around them. They think they're being casual and acting normally, but they're calling attention to themselves. I watch a man set his luggage down at his feet and walk a few feet away to put out a cigarette. Another clutches his messenger bag close to his chest, gripping the strap as he talks rapidly into the phone pressed to his ear. A woman walks with a young child along the platform, fussing over him as if she's torn between wanting him to walk independently and being too impatient to handle his tiny, uncertain steps.
I watch every person who bustles near the entrances, until a conductor appears at one of the narrow doors, gripping the handle and leaning out like he's in a movie.
"Now boarding," he calls. "First class, please go to gate J. All others, come to this door."
I linger back, watching how the passengers disperse. The woman rushes directly to the conductor, her child held tightly in her hand, while the man already sucking on another cigarette puts it out and starts toward the first-class gate. I wait until everyone who has already filtered out of the station boards before getting on. The conductor directs me to the right, and I walk into a nearly empty car. A few of the passengers look at me as I make my way slowly down the aisle, but most are too absorbed in their phones or digging through their bags, taking inventory of everything they forgot when packing.
The man with the messenger bag sits in a window seat with his bag taking up the seat beside him. He's not talking into his phone anymore, but it's gripped tightly in his lap as he stares through the window at the woods beyond the station.
I take a row close to the back of the car, going through the process I learned the last time I traveled by train to Feathered Nest. That was a much longer journey than this one will be. In an effort to conceal my travel path and establish more of a backstory for my undercover persona, I bounced from train to train, weaving and backtracking before finally getting to my destination. It was annoying as hell, but it gave me plenty of time to get my train travel down to a science. Which includes popping up the leg rest from under my seat and pulling out the foot prop from the seat in front of me. The blue fleece blanket rolled up in my backpack is a throwback to one of those train rides, when the chill was so intense it had me shivering until I finally broke down and bought the blanket from the snack car.
Slinging the blanket over my lap now gives me a head start. Next comes lowering the tray and setting up my computer. It'll give me something to do during the next few hours of travel, but for now, it's a prop. Having the computer open in front of me gives me the appearance of doing something, so people don't notice my eyes constantly sweeping across the inside of the car. I take in every person around me. Every movement. I watch out the window at every engineer and bellhop who passes by.
Around me, the train car settles. For several minutes no one else gets on board. It seems the handful of other passengers scattered through the seats are going to be my only companions for the trip. I glance at the time in the bottom corner of my computer screen. We should be moving by now.
Five minutes later, we're still sitting in place. A conductor starts up the aisle, performing the ticket checks usually reserved for the first few minutes after the train starts moving. His gait shifts back and forth as he goes like his body doesn't realize the train is still, like it's so used to his routine it doesn't matter if there's any particular force causing the movement, it's going to happen. He holds a pad of vibrant green sticky notes in one palm and a black marker in the other hand. As he looks at the tickets the passengers show him, he slashes a mark across the sticky note and slaps it into place above the passenger's head.
The marks denote where that passenger is going, so when we reach different stops, he can keep track.
