by A J Rivers
The slow movement of her camera allowed Anson to take in all the types of people. This wasn't the first time Mary had done a live stream of one of her adventures, but this one was different. Instead of broadcasting it out to all of her followers, the live portion was just for him. Because he had been the one to recommend her trip to Baltimore. Because he had guided her into thinking the journey was her own idea. He told her he wanted to go along for the ride with her, that she could post the video later, but he wanted to be the first one to experience it with her.
She was happy to comply, and it brought him right into the epicenter of all he had been thinking about for weeks. She turned toward the door, and he got to see her perspective of Greg walking in. The way she paused told Anson she noticed him, too. He walked through the doors with absolute purpose. His eyes didn't move from in front of him as he walked toward the back of the station. She couldn’t see it, but he knew his other hand tightly gripped the handle of a dark green duffel bag hanging down by his side.
Anson didn't know what was inside the bag. That part of this mission wasn't shared with him. He only knew Greg would be here, and for how long. It was why he chose this place and this day. It was why he went in search of Mary.
The camera stopped recording Greg as Mary went to the counter. He watched the edges of the screen, timed the steps he'd measured out in his drawings. Greg would have put the bag in the locker by now. It was time for him to walk back out of the station and get in the car still waiting for him. The security cameras in the station would capture Greg making his way through the crowd but lose him when he got to the lockers. Mary's stream would give the human touch people craved, the brutality and tragedy news watchers said disgusted them, but was the whole reason they watched.
And everyone would know her name.
Just as he expected her to, Mary started for the information desk on the far side of the bus station. One of her habits was to get a luggage tag every time she traveled. He highly doubted any of them were discernible from the others with the exception of what she wrote on them, but it held meaning for her. What he didn't expect was for her to step into line behind Greg.
He wasn't supposed to be at the information desk. His prescribed path was into the station, to the lockers, and back out. Yet, there he was, standing in line waiting for the man behind the desk to be free. Mary lifted her camera high to record herself talking about her luggage tag, and Anson caught Greg sliding something across the desk.
"Give this to Emma Griffin," he said.
Anson's mouth curled into a smile and laughed. He’d underestimated Greg. He never would have thought he would defy Lotan. But it only worked in his favor. Greg didn't know it, but he had just handed Emma right into his grip.
Mary got her tag and walked over to a seat where she would wait. Buzzing with anticipation, his excitement even greater now, Anson waited. Time slipped by. Second after second. The hum of the passengers in the bus station seemed to get louder and louder as it got closer. His hand tightened around the rough stone corner of the convenience store where he had positioned himself. He wanted to be far enough away not to catch any of the debris, but close enough to feel the rumble.
His hands trembled. He took a breath and let out a roar as the explosion tore the air around him.
Chapter Forty-Three
Greg
Four months ago…
They were waiting for him. Not just the ones in the car who brought him to the station and were going to drive him away when it was over. There were more. He saw Fisher in the parking lot, talking to a woman who seemed excited about whatever trip she was about to take. He didn't pay any attention to the car as it drove into the parking lot, but that didn't mean he didn't notice it.
Greg walked directly inside, his hand gripping the duffel bag tightly at his side. It felt strangely heavy, for having so little in it. Not that he was allowed to see what was inside. That wasn't part of his clearance. He had to trust that what Lotan needed was what was right. He had his guesses of what it could be. A bus station made an ideal drop-off point, even with the occasional police officer roaming through like there was here. The lack of metal detectors that had become ubiquitous in other places made it easier to move things in and out. Passengers were scanned before they got on the buses, but there was nothing screening anyone just walking through. It was very easy for someone to leave something in a locker and for another person to come pick it up. Just that smoothly. No one questioned a person walking through a bus station with a bag.
He paid close attention to what was happening around him. He watched the doors. He looked at each face. Fisher never followed him inside. No one around him looked familiar. The risk was still there, but it was worth taking. He slid the folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the man at the information desk.
"Give this to Emma Griffin," he said.
It might not get to her. There was no guarantee she would pass through here. But he hoped she would. If Finn did what he needed to do, she would. He just needed to get her there.
It seemed like a longshot. But there was nothing more he could do.
Following the exact path given to him when he was given the job, Greg walked across the lobby and toward the glass doors. He caught another glimpse of the woman who was with Fisher in the parking lot, sitting in one of the plastic chairs as she waited. She was invested in her phone, lost in something on the screen.
Just as he expected, the black car was already sitting in front of the station when he stepped outside. Then heat sank through his clothes and into his back as bits of debris blasting through the air cut into his skin. He didn’t know what happened. He laid there for a minute, feeling nothing but shock and surprise when hands grabbed him and dragged him into the waiting car.
He slid across the seat, and the man in the driver's seat glared through the rearview mirror at him.
"What took you so long?" he asked.
"There were people watching," Greg lied.
The driver shoved his foot on the gas, causing the car to lurch forward. A bus was blocking the way out of the parking lot, so he whipped around the side of the building. Greg turned his head toward the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the shattered glass and twisted metal of the doors that were destroyed by a ball of flame.
Chapter Forty-Four
Now
Dean's face goes pale, but before he says anything, the door opens again, and Thomas rushes through. I shove past Dean to him.
"Thomas, I need to get into one of the sleeper cars," I tell him.
"The sleeper cars?" he asks.
"The last clue was a video of me. In it was a clip of an interview I did about my case in Feathered Nest. In it, I say that place forced me to face the darkest parts of my life. That's where it is. I need to get into sleeper car thirteen," I tell him. "The passenger must be in there, but I can't get inside. Can you find the attendant for me?"
Thomas shakes his head.
"There is no passenger in the sleeper cars," he tells me.
“Of course there is. I saw him get on board this morning. Then Sam called while we were still waiting to leave the station and told me the information that he got from the station. The man staying in the sleeper car got off the train to smoke a cigarette, but he didn't bring his ticket or his ID with him, so he was having trouble getting back on. But it got resolved, and we left.”
Thomas shakes his head again. “No. That's the thing. There was a man in the sleeper car on this train. He got off and didn't have his ticket or his ID to get back on. Our supervisor called Miranda, the attendant of the sleeper car, to tell her there was a passenger having an issue who needed her assistance. He asked her to go into the cabin and get his ID and ticket for him. And she did get his ID but forgot his ticket. The passenger got impatient waiting for her to come back and walked away. Eventually, they decided to go ahead and leave." He draws in a breath as if trying not to cry. "And now I can't find Miranda."
"It's taken this long for
you to notice the attendant who was supposed to be taking care of a non-existent passenger hasn't been seen?" I ask.
Thomas shakes his head. "Emma…"
"I have twenty minutes, Thomas."
"I knew where she was supposed to be. With Mr. Jones."
The confession strikes me silent.
"Excuse me, what?" I finally ask.
"They've been having an affair for six months. He schedules his trips to Georgia for when Miranda is working as an attendant for the sleeper cars. But he gets a regular seat, so he doesn't cause suspicion. Right after the tickets are checked, he goes to be with her. Usually, he comes back a few times during the ride, but when we got confirmation the passenger in the sleeper car wasn't going to be on board, I assumed they were going to spend the entire ride together."
"You knew this? We've been searching the train for bodies, and you never thought it was important to tell me the passenger you swore up and down wasn't missing, actually was? Along with your coworker?" I ask incredulously.
"I didn't think they were missing. I just told you, I thought they were together. I saw her at the beginning of the day, and I heard from her after the incident with the passenger. I thought everything was fine," he says.
"You heard from her?" I ask. "What do you mean you heard from her?"
"She radioed in to tell us she got the message about the passenger and handled it."
"Handled it?" I ask. "Thomas, I need you to call the other train and find out if that passenger got on board. And find out what car he was supposed to be in on this train."
"Number twenty-seven," he tells me.
I nod and look at Dean. "You need to go back to your seat and not say anything to anyone."
"Why can't I come with you?" he asks.
"You are not a part of this."
"I'm a private investigator. I can help," he argues.
"I don't need your help. I'm not involving another civilian in this. Right now, I'm still not sure I fully believe your story, and I need to discuss your involvement with Mary Preston. You need to go back to your seat and stay there until you've been interviewed."
Dean glares at me but turns and leaves the train car. Thomas follows after him to make the phone call, and I run back toward the sleeper cars.
I stop first at cabin thirteen. No luck. It’s locked solid, won’t even budge. Realizing I don’t have time for this, I race through to the next car where I find cabin twenty-seven. The door is shut, but when I touch the handle, it moves. Stepping back, I take my gun from my holster, cock it, and hold it ready. Positioning myself so I'm not directly in front of the door, I slide it open.
It's only one of the tiny compartments designed for one person or an extraordinarily cozy couple to travel in, so there's little room for anyone to hide. I still step inside and look in every corner. That's when I notice there are belongings there. A pair of shoes sits in one corner. A bag is stuffed on a shelf. On the small sill in front of the window is a scattering of change and what looks like a plastic-coated chain with a small lock attached, complete with a couple of keys. This must be what the man left behind when he stepped off the train. I glance around again and immediately notice I don't see a wallet.
Footsteps coming down the car bring me back to the door, my gun poised. Thomas stops several feet away from me, his eyes wide.
“Cabin ten,” he tells me. “The passenger who was supposed to be on this train is on the other one. He booked a new ticket and is in cabin ten.”
I take out my phone and call Sam as I walk past Thomas back to cabin thirteen.
“You need to go to cabin ten,” I tell him. “You need to get inside. The passenger who got off this train and delayed it is supposedly in there.”
“On it,” Sam says.
“I’m going to cabin thirteen. We only have about ten minutes to figure this out," I tell him.
Just for good measure, I try the door on cabin thirteen again, but it doesn't budge.
"It's locked from the inside," Thomas says. "There's a latch. It's the only thing that would hold it closed."
"Is this cabin bigger than the last one?" I ask.
"Yes, it's a full bedroom."
"Good. That gives me some room to work with."
"What do you mean?" he asks.
I step back and steady myself. "Back up."
I back up against the wall behind me for stability, then lift my leg and shove my whole weight onto the lock. The heavy sound echoes loudly through the car, but I don’t care anymore. There’s no time for subtlety.
"Can't you use your gun?" the conductor asks.
"Not unless you want to risk either shooting through whoever is in this room, or having the bullet bounce back into you," I tell him.
I give the door another kick. This time, it makes a popping sound. One more cracks it enough to slide slightly open, revealing the latch. It's hanging, and I smash the butt of my gun into it until it falls the rest of the way off.
"Or you could do that," Thomas nods.
I push the door the rest of the way open, and beside me, Thomas gasps. Sprawled on the bed is a dark-haired woman wearing the same uniform as Thomas. Her hand hangs from the side of the bed, a metal box attached around her wrist.
"Out of curiosity, Thomas, what’s Miranda’s last name?”
“Parsons,” he says. “Why?”
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath. My phone rings, and I answer as I press my fingers to Miranda's neck.
Sam's face swims into focus. "Emma, I think I found what we were looking for."
The camera turns to reveal a man sitting in a blue recliner beside a window, strapped to the back around his head, shoulders, and torso. His legs are bound in front of him. He's unconscious, but his arms have been wrapped around a box and secured.
"It's ticking."
Chapter Forty-Five
Greg
Two years ago…
Greg walked out of his office and headed down the hallway. It was a long day, and he was looking forward to dinner. A few doors down, he paused and rapped on the partially open door.
“Come on in,” Emma called from inside.
He leaned around to poke his head in and smiled at her.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Almost,” she said. “I'm just finishing up a few things.”
“You're still working?” he asked. “Do you realize what time it is?”
She tilted the phone beside her up so she could look at the screen.
“Three minutes after everybody else got off for the day?”
“Exactly. Come on. It's time for dinner.”
“Greg, I have a few things I have to finish up. It's not going to be the end of the world if you don't eat at exactly the right time. Just come in and sit down. I'll be done in a minute,” she said. “You can look over the menu and decide what you want.”
“I already know what I want,” he said.
“Of course you do,” she muttered through a sigh.
“What's that supposed to mean?” he frowned.
She shook her head as she checked over another sheet of paper and tucked it into a folder that she shoved across her desk.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Obviously, it means something. You know that I like to keep a schedule,” he pointed out.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I have ever since I've known you.”
“Then, what's the problem? I don't understand why you're upset.”
“I'm not upset,” said Emma. She cocked her head for a moment as if considering something. “No, actually, I am upset. Yes, I've known you liked your schedule for a long time. It's one of the things I found kind of endearing and quirky about you. It’s just… it’s like the six months I didn't eat anything but coconut granola for breakfast.”
"That wasn't a quirk. It was a habit," Greg protested.
"It was. One that I really enjoyed and that made me feel like my day had gotten off to a good start. And then one morning you invited me to
come with you to your usual breakfast spot. Do you remember? It was after morning PT. The workout was especially hard that morning, and we were both sweaty and starving at the end of it."
"’Course I remember," he said. "I'd been watching you and was so impressed by you. I couldn't help but ask you to come with me. I'd been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for a year."
"And you finally did. And I said yes. And my granola sat in its little plastic baggie in my desk drawer until I had it for a snack later that afternoon."
"Are we just reminiscing about the beginning of our relationship? Because if we are, I'd really like to do it over dinner. If not, I'm not understanding the point."
Emma let out a sigh and slid another file over to the first.
"The point is, I delayed my granola for you. People shift. They adjust. They change. Routine is one thing, but that's all you are. You could, for once, be willing to not follow your routine for me."
"I thought you enjoyed going to dinner with me on Friday nights," Greg said.
"I do," Emma said, her shoulders sagging. "But can't you see I'm backstroking through case files right now? This investigation is taking up every second of my time. It's taking up seconds I don't even have yet. I'm going into default with Father Time. And all you care about is making sure you get to the same restaurant at the same time to sit at the same table and eat the same meal served by the same waitress as every Friday. You couldn't come in here and notice how busy I am and consider ordering takeout and hanging out here with me? Isn't that the point of having dinner with me? Having dinner… with me? Both of those things would be accomplished by sitting on my couch with a container of fried rice just as well as sitting across a table eating salmon. It might even be more fun."
