by A J Rivers
"Everything is accounted for when it comes into the baggage room," he insists.
"I'm getting the feeling that isn't entirely accurate," I mutter.
Stuffing the papers back in my bag, I walk over to the bike boxes and examine them. Each has a tag indicating the owner. I'm about to take the passenger list out again to compare when my eyes fall on one to my side. I pick up the tag and look down at it.
Emma Griffin.
"I can assure you I didn't bring a bike with me," I tell Thomas. "I haven't even ridden a bike since I was a little girl. It's not something I'm eager to try again any time soon."
I kneel down in front of the box and find a padlock securing it closed.
"It would be fine if you did. You know what they say. You never forget how to ride a bike," Thomas comments, as if he’s trying desperately to hang onto normal conversation while a murderer is possibly loose on his train.
"I tend to avoid trusting advice from a group of people who won't even give their name," I reply "This lock requires a combination..." I murmur.
I rest my forehead in my hand and stare at the lock for a beat before starting to spin the dial.
"What? What did you figure out?" Thomas asks.
"The card Sam found says Happy Sweet Sixteen. Maybe that's it. The date of my sixteenth birthday. Seven, twenty-three… the year I turned sixteen. That was… oh-seven."
I set the last digit in place and give the lock a yank. It doesn't budge. Adjusting the dial slightly to make sure they are perfectly aligned, I try again. It still won't move. I let out an exasperated sigh and drop down to sit on my heels. Nothing else comes to mind. And I'm increasingly aware of every second passing me by. I take out my phone and call Sam.
“This bike box has a tag with my name on it,” I tell him. “But it has a lock on it that requires a combination. I tried my sixteenth birthday, but it didn't work.”
"But that's the only thing that makes sense."
"I know. Why else would the clue be in a sweet sixteen card? That has to mean something. I highly doubt someone who would go to this much detail, forgot paper, and just used the first greeting card they found sitting around," I point out.
"Wait," Thomas says. "That's the year you turned sixteen, so you were born in ninety-one?"
"Yes," I say. "Why?"
"July twenty-third?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Yes. My sixteenth birthday was July, twenty-third, two thousand and seven. Seven, twenty-three, zero-seven."
He seems to think about this for a moment, his confused expression twisting as he considers the lock.
"Why would you choose one digit off for your luggage?''
"What do you mean why…"
My heart sinks, and I reach up for the lock. I shift the number in the middle down one digit.
"I—I didn't mean to be nosy," Thomas stammers, sounding worried and embarrassed. "I just happened to see you put your combination in when I brought your luggage earlier. I didn't realize it was your birthday at the time, but just now it occurred to me it was a different number."
I pull on the lock, and it falls open. My breath catches in my throat.
"The twenty-second," I whisper.
Chapter Thirty
Anson
Five months ago...
The pencil made a smooth stroke across the paper, the edge of the ruler guiding it. Sharp and precise. He wouldn't settle for anything less. Not in anything, but especially not in this. It had to be precise. It had to be perfect. If it wasn't—if there was only one small thing the tiniest bit off—it could ruin everything. That thought almost made him laugh. Somehow the thought of ruining the destruction of a building and the mass murder of the people inside struck him as funny. It would only really be ruined if it was stopped, and he would be sure it wasn't.
A mistake with his drawings wouldn't stop the explosion. But it would change the impact. He was very specific in how he wanted this event to unfold. He knew the exact extent and power behind the device he created. It wasn't just thrown together or devised for maximum destruction. There was no point in that. Arbitrarily leveling an entire area was far more along the lines of what Lotan would plan. He had a love for the theatrical, for the massive scale that would send the biggest ripples across whatever calm pond he wanted to destroy.
There used to be a delicacy in what Lotan did. He had a fine touch, discipline. He could create terror with something so subtle it was barely noticeable, but to those who noticed, it was horrifying. Carefully timed accidents. Systematic vandalism. Threats that flowed in the undercurrent, sowing distrust that bred panic that bred death. It was magnificent.
Then, like so many other things, that careful, masterful touch slipped through his fingers. He no longer had the time to concentrate on those things. Lotan turned his attention instead to building his empire. Selling weapons. Arming soldiers. Providing defense and comfort to cartels. When he did have time for the mission, he was too distracted. He designed the big spectacles, the evening national news special fodder.
Their days of glory disappeared. He no longer cared about the grains of sand or the trough of the wave. Leviathan became only about the crest of foam.
It was all because of her, Anson knew it. Others might not have recognized what was happening. Some weren't privy to her existence at all. But as time went by, he learned more about her and how deeply she was buried under Lotan's skin. Anson believed it would get better. For a time, he told himself it was going to change. It had to change. Lotan’s need to watch over her would eventually fade.
But it only grew. It was no longer just about watching. Soon enough, she was all he talked about, and Anson's devotion slipped. The more Lotan gave of himself to the useless endeavor, to the shadows and corpses, the more Anson questioned his worthiness as a leader. He did everything for Lotan. He followed him without question, served him without hesitation. He did everything asked of him and more. So many times when Lotan and the others watched the news or read the papers with pride in their eyes and the gleeful sound of mayhem pounding in their hearts, it was Anson's drawings, his plans, his observations that brought them there.
Yet, he was never acknowledged anymore. Not in so many years. All of Lotan's energy and attention had gone to her. And for what? She was smart. She showed skill. But was that enough? Was she truly as exceptional as Lotan seemed to think she was?
Even if she was, would the world collapse without her? Would everything just cease to be? Would there be nothing more to strive for because she wasn't in the world anymore?
Would that be the ultimate spectacle? The purest form of chaos?
Perhaps. And perhaps not.
But finally, it was for him to decide.
Chapter Thirty-One
I take the lock off and pull the two halves of the plastic shell apart. I've only gotten it open a few inches when I know something is horribly wrong. Blood trickles out and pools on the floor. The farther I push the box open, the more comes out, until there's a shift and something solid tumbles out. It lands on the floor in front of me with a thud.
I stare down at a hand, severed at the wrist. Long bright red nails blend with the spreading blood on the floor, and a narrow gold band on one finger makes my stomach turn.
Thomas clamps his hand over his mouth and turns away. His shoulders shake, and his body heaves forward, but he manages to hold onto himself.
“Emma? Emma?” I hear Sam's voice. For a few seconds, I can't figure out where it's coming from. Then I realize I've dropped my phone. “Emma? What is that?”
I use the side of my hand to carefully push the phone across the floor away from the bike box. I know he can only see the ceiling of the baggage car right now, but I need to be as careful about this as I can.
“It's a body,” I tell him. “A woman, as far as I can tell. She's been dismembered.”
Thomas gags again. He waves in my direction and rushes out of the car. I want to lunge after him, to tell him he can't leave, but I don't. Whatever type of gam
e this person's disturbed mind thinks we're playing, this is a crime scene. Not a joke. Not a prop. This is a human being butchered and stuffed in a box to be found like a demented Easter egg. As much as I worry about the conductor revealing this increasingly twisted chain of secrets and putting everyone at risk, I also have to think about the eventual end. When it's done and our attention turns to giving this woman her voice back. I can't let him contaminate the crime scene or distract me from the incredibly delicate process of examining it further.
"Take pictures of it and send them to me," Sam instructs. "Then delete them from your phone. I'm keeping an ongoing record of evidence to give to the police when this is over."
"Will it ever be over?" I ask.
"Of course it will."
There's strength in his voice, complete faith in me, but I know horror is rolling through his veins.
"I'm going to open the box a little further. I want to disturb the body as little as possible, but I need to make sure this is all we're dealing with," I tell him.
I don't put voice to the possibility that the bomb we've been hunting is nestled inside the box with the body. Positioning myself behind the case, I reach over it and ease the halves of the case open further, then walk around to look inside. From this angle, I can see legs in a pair of leggings, bent and folded up in an unnatural position. Behind them is the torso. My mind starts to spin as I stare at it, forcing myself to accept what I see. A blue sweater. And against the chest, where the head is stuffed with the face mercifully concealed, a lock of stained hair that was once blonde.
"It's the woman that man saw near my seat," I say. "Now I know why I wasn't able to find her when I came looking for her."
"Who is this guy?" he asks. "You said he was squirrely."
"I don't know anything about him. He wasn't sitting there when I got on the train, but he insisted he was there when I went to the snack car. When I went to ask him about seeing the woman, he asked what branch of law enforcement I was in."
"Why would he ask that?" Sam asks.
"He told me he’s a private investigator, and apparently, I have a tell."
"Did you tell him?"
"No. I asked him about the woman he saw. The woman who is in pieces at my feet."
"Emma, take pictures," Sam says.
I pick up my phone and snap a few images, deleting them as soon as I send them to Sam. Something catches my eye, and I lean down to get a better look. What I thought was one of her fingernails sticking up from behind her thigh isn't red. It's pink. The corner of a bright pink envelope.
"Sam, there's another envelope in with her. I'm going to get it," I tell him.
"Be careful."
I try to avoid touching her as much as I can as I reach in and take hold of the corner of the envelope. The side of my palm brushes against her leg. I suppress a shudder. She’s still warm. So many people think of death as being instantly cold. As if the heart stops beating and the brain dies, and everything instantly goes away. Perhaps there's wisps of the concept of the soul in there. It's easier to think of a human being as warm and vibrant when it encapsulates the soul. And as soon as that soul is gone, they like to believe it takes all warmth with it. All that's left is a cold hard shell.
It is never as clean and easy as that. I have no problem believing in a soul. But I know death is not as simple as it just sliding out like a gust of breath and leaving nothingness behind. There may be times when it can be like that. When the end of a life is quiet and gentle, and a body and soul release each other softly. But that has far from been my experience.
I have seen death rip the soul from the body, tearing it out and leaving the body gasping, clawing to find anything left.
Either way, it isn't a single instant. There is no definite second when the person is fully there and then another when it is fully gone. Life doesn't blink out like a light. It filters away like filling cupped hands with water. It's there, and then it's not, but not immediately. It slides away, a little at a time. The heart and the brain first, then the muscles and the organs. Skin and bones are last. These cells can live on in the dead for many days before they finally succumb.
It isn't lost on me that even though her body is tattered and broken, the part of her closest to my touch, the skin just beneath her clothes, is still alive.
The envelope is exactly the same as the one Sam found. I carry it several feet away from the bike box and pick up the phone to show him. He watches in silence as I open it and draw out the card.
"It's the same birthday card," he notes.
I nod and open it. The card is the same, but the message written inside is different.
"'Will there be another? New game. Catch me and maybe there won't be. Have you figured out my secret? Keeping looking, and I'll tell you. Are you watching the time? Watch yourself, Emma. Can't be long now. Are you feeling mixed up? Imagine how the lion and the eagle feel. It’s not what it looks like. Hurry now. One stops, both do.'"
My mouth feels dry when I finish reading.
"There isn't another body," Sam comments. "At least that's something to be thankful for."
"This card has been in with her body for hours. He's not playing in real-time. Everything is already in motion. The only thing we can change is stopping that bomb from going off when this train gets to the station. And that starts with finding out why that man said he saw the woman in the blue sweater at my computer when he couldn’t have."
"He couldn't have?"
My head snaps up in response to the voice, and I see Thomas standing at the door. He's pale, and the collar of his shirt is damp from where he’s splashed water on his face. I shake my head.
"No. I don't know why he would tell me he saw her at my seat, but there is no way this woman could have been the one to get my computer out of my bag," I tell him carefully.
"Why not?" he asks.
"I touched her, Thomas. Her body is in full rigor mortis. She's been dead for more than three hours. More than likely, she came onto this train exactly like we found her."
Chapter Thirty-Two
"You need to keep that man exactly where he is," Sam tells me. "Until this train stops and we can get hands on him, he can't be left unattended."
"Sam, there's nothing I can do right now but check in on him. This train is forty-five minutes from getting to the station. That means I have less than an hour to figure out another of Dr. Suess-iopath's riddles before two trains worth of people die."
"What do you mean?" Thomas asks, and I realize we never told him the full extent of what we had to drag him into.
I take a step toward him, again trying to position myself as much as I can between him and the carnage. Again, trying to protect him.
"You remember I told you if we alerted outside law enforcement or train security, there would be dire consequences for everyone on both trains?"
He nods. "Yes."
"Sam and I believe whoever's doing this has hidden a bomb somewhere on one of the trains. If either of the trains stops for any reason before we find it, it will go off. The only problem is, the trains are almost an hour apart. An explosion on either train wouldn't fully destroy both trains. It would likely lead to a crash and possibly damage from debris."
"Why is that a problem?" Thomas asks.
"Because we don't know which train it is, and the note says if one stops, both do. Which means there could be more than one bomb, or he could have something else planned. Either way, we have to figure it out. There is so much more to this that I can't explain to you, and I can't take up more of the time I don't have to keep an eye on him. We're on a train. He can't go anywhere."
"Couldn't you arrest him? Or at least detain him?"
I shake my head. "First, there's nothing to arrest him for. Making strange comments isn't enough grounds to arrest someone for a double murder. Second, I don’t have a pair of cuffs or zip ties handy. Even if I did, if I detained him without evidence, we couldn’t hang onto him for too long. And even then, it might be too late.
"Emma, you're covered in blood," Sam points out. "You can't go out into the train like that."
I look down at myself. My hands are bloodied, and the cuffs of my sweatshirt are soaked.
"Come with me," Thomas says. I follow him out of the baggage car and into the bathroom in the sleeping car. "You clean up. I'll go to your suitcase and get you another shirt."
"Emma, I have to ask you something," Sam says once he leaves.
"What?" I ask, glancing over to where I've set my phone.
"How would someone know the combination to your luggage? When have you ever shared that with anyone?"
"What do you mean? No one knows the combination. Well, you and Thomas do now," I tell him.
"You must have told someone. How else would this guy know to use that as the combination to the lock?" Sam asks.
I turn off the water and let out a sigh as I dry my hands on a paper towel and toss it away.
"It's not that he knew the combination," I say. "He knows my birthday. He wrote the clue in a birthday card. That was the point, not my combination. My combination had my birth year, remember? Not the year I turned sixteen."
"But that doesn't make sense," Sam muses. "Your birthday is the twenty-third."
"It is," I nod, picking up my phone and looking at him through the screen. "But when I was really little, my father used to tell me the story of when I was born. I was born a few seconds after midnight, so they declared my birthday the twenty-third. But Dad always said since a good part of me was out on the twenty-second, that should be my birthday. When my mother told him that's not how it worked, he said then he was going to make sure at least my head got to celebrate its birthday the way it was supposed to. She thought it was ridiculous, but it was something special he and I did. On the twenty-second he would celebrate just my head, so instead of going out and doing something, we would read or watch a movie. He would give me a gift just for my head. Lip balm or hair supplies…"
