The Challenge

by Ridley Pearson

  People could be after him. People with badges. People with radios. A lot of people. He kept firmly in mind that an informer had penetrated his organization’s ranks. There was no way to know how much of what they had planned had been compromised—including this train ride.

  If possible, he’d get the briefcase from the boy ahead of the Toledo stop. Disembarking the train there, he’d find another way to reach Washington.

  Temptation pulled at him to make a simple introduction to the boy and his mother: “I believe you have my briefcase.” The boy would bring up having seen the woman with the case. “Ah, you mean my wife!” he could say. “Yes. She had to leave suddenly. Her mother. An illness. I have a key to the briefcase. Isn’t that proof enough?”

  If they called his bluff, if they made him open the briefcase, then he would have to take care of them before Toledo. The expression “Cancel their tickets” crossed his mind and caused him to smile.

  He and his group had been told that Homeland Security had installed hidden wireless security cameras on all Amtrak trains as well as most commuter lines. Wireless, so the cameras could be monitored and studied from a land-based office.

  He didn’t know if it was true or not, but he kept his head down as much as possible. It seemed doubtful that the cops or feds could identify him from just his face: he’d never been arrested, so no mug shots existed. His driver’s license and passport were forgeries; there were no documents that he knew of tying his real name, Grym, to any photograph of him. Part of the reason for him undertaking this assignment was because he was “clean.” The other part had to do with trust. But no matter what, he had no desire to test his face with the authorities; he couldn’t afford to get caught.

  He reached the door to the toilet at the end of the car and stepped inside. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the boy and the briefcase for too long, so he did everything quickly.

  He locked the door. Kneeled. Reached into the garbage bin—a metal flap marked TRASH. He found the small key exactly where she’d left it: stuck beneath a piece of duct tape on the back of the stainless steel flap.

  He now had absolute proof the briefcase belonged to him, if it came to that. The key warmed in his hand. He slipped it into his pocket.

  He left the foul-smelling restroom and returned to his seat.

  The boy and the woman hadn’t moved. Just as he’d hoped.

  Everything in its own time. He sat down.

  At that same moment, the boy stood and waved at an approaching conductor.

  The conductor caught up to the boy, who then spoke in an animated way to the man. The conductor looked up at the overhead rack. The boy bent down and produced the briefcase.

  More talk. The boy passed the briefcase to the conductor, who looked it over, thanked the boy, and moved on.

  This was Grym’s chance. He would stop the conductor, explain that the briefcase was his, and produce the key to confirm it.

  But if the man made him open the bag, what then?

  Kill a conductor?

  The conductor walked by him holding the briefcase.

  Grym told himself to do this now—get the briefcase, get off the train. But it was hours yet until Toledo. Did he want the conductor to have all that time to think about any conflict with the boy’s story? Did he want him making a radio call up the track to authorities at the next station?

  He’d wait.

  There was plenty of time.

  5.

  The train had been under way for the better part of two hours, Steel having long since turned the briefcase over to the conductor. Even so, he found that the case was all he could think about. It had wormed its way into his thoughts. In his mind’s eye, he saw the woman arrive onto the train and place the briefcase in the overhead rack. He watched her sit down. He witnessed her leaving the train without it. He recalled his pursuit of her out onto the platform. Her refusal of the briefcase. Curiosity mixed with confusion, and, as always, his mind sought answers.

  The conductor had been pleasant enough. He’d thanked Steel for his powers of observation, his honesty. But the mystery that now shrouded the briefcase tugged at a bored teenager who found himself stuck on a long train ride with little to do.

  “There’s plenty to do,” his mother said. “You can practice your speech again. It counts as twenty-five percent of your overall score.”

  “Mom.”

  “I’m just suggesting.”

  “How ’bout I go see Cairo?” he asked.

  “Maybe in a while. We need the conductor.”

  He didn’t press it. If he challenged her too much, she’d deny him just for the sake of asserting her authority. He knew to wait it out and try again in a few minutes. Repetition won the game.

  Farmland slipped past in a blur. Seeing the cows in the fields reminded Steel of his father and a car game they played called Hey, Cow!, where you rolled down a window and shouted “HEY, COW!” at the top of your lungs. You tried to pick out the first cow that would lift its head and look toward the car. It cracked up his father every time they played.

  “When do you think we’ll see Dad?” he asked his mother.

  She did that thing where her face bunched all up: half anger, half frustration. He understood that he should not ask that question again.

  Her cell phone rang. His mother was a long talker, and Steel once again saw a golden opportunity.

  “Boys’ room,” he mouthed, as she listened to the caller.

  She nodded and turned to face the window for privacy. Steel made for the aisle. As he reached the restroom door, he glanced back: his mother hadn’t moved an inch. Her head remained turned toward the window. He saw his chance and took it, tripping the button that opened the door and making his way into the next car.

  And the next.

  By the third car, he’d caught up to a conductor whose name tag read CHARLIE. He was the same conductor who’d taken possession of the briefcase.

  “Excuse me? Do you think it might be possible for me to see my dog?”

  Charlie stole a look at his wristwatch. “Not supposed to, but…don’t see why not,” he said. Charlie had something of a potbelly, and warts under his eyes. He led Steel back, talking over his shoulder about baseball the whole time. A fan of the Chicago Cubs, he couldn’t shut up about them.

  As they drew nearer to the rear of the train he explained to Steel how he wasn’t supposed to let anyone inside the baggage car. Steel wondered if he was supposed to tip him or something. His mother had given Steel twenty dollars, but it was two fives and a ten, and he thought five dollars was too much to tip a person.

  Charlie’s next subject was dogs. He’d had a dog when he was a kid, a neighborhood mutt that had made its home on a vacant lot up the street. Charlie’s voice was deep as a lake. Steel caught bits and pieces of his randomly told story. Whenever Charlie looked back at him, peering over those rows of small, black warts, Steel nodded thoughtfully.

  Unlocking the baggage car door, Charlie said, “Typically we only allow service dogs on our trains. You must be special.”

  “My dad died,” Steel lied.

  This had the desired effect.

  “Couple weeks ago,” Steel said, adding to his story.

  “I’m so sorry, kid,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Steel said, feeling bad to see Charlie look so sad.

  Steel saw Cairo’s crate and hurried down the car to it.

  “Listen, kid,” Charlie said in a softer voice than just a minute ago, “I got me some business to attend to.” A pack of cigarettes showed through the chest pocket of his thin shirt. Steel thought that was probably the business being mentioned. “This door locks from the outside when it shuts, but you can let yourself out anytime. Stay as long as you like.”

  “Thanks. Actually, I can’t stay very long,” Steel said. “My mother thinks I’m bothering you. But I’d like to come back if I could.”

  “Anytime, kid. No problem. I’ll let your mom know it’s no problem. You just come and
find me anytime.”

  “Actually, it might be better if my mother was left out of it. She’ll think you’re just being nice because of…you know. And that’ll just make her sad all over again.” He felt like a real twit for toying with Charlie this way, but adults were such suckers, he couldn’t help himself.

  “I’ll tell you what—it’ll be our little secret. ’Kay?”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Just leave when you want.”

  “Got it,” Steel said, thanking the man again.

  Charlie left. Steel heard the door click shut with authority. Locked.

  Having been left alone for hours in a strange environment, Cairo reveled in Steel’s attention. She seemed frightened by the rumbling and shaking of the car, so Steel coaxed her out of the crate and gave her a big hug. She shook and sneezed, and Steel laughed. She wagged her tail so hard she folded herself in half. Then she drilled her cold, wet nose in under Steel’s chin and pushed him off balance. He fell back and caught himself with both hands.

  That was when he saw it: the briefcase. It was sitting on a shelf marked LOST AND FOUND. There was no mistaking it.

  Cairo continued to compete for Steel’s attention, but it was a lost cause. Steel gently pushed her away as she wagged and danced around him.

  “Not now, girl,” he said. She launched into a nose patrol of the car.

  The briefcase stared down at him. It had eyes and a voice that called out to him: Open me. Solve the mystery.

  He fought to resist, but quickly returned Cairo to the crate and secured the door.

  He checked from one end of the car to the other, just in case Charlie might be spying on him. His sense of guilt rose, but he ignored it.

  He pulled the briefcase down from the shelf and placed it on the floor in front of him. Studying it thoughtfully, he walked once fully around it. Then he kneeled and touched it. The leather smelled like the inside of a shoe store. It felt smooth to the touch.

  He spun it around. Cairo studied Steel from inside the crate as Steel in turn studied the briefcase.

  “I’m just curious,” he told her.

  Oh sure, she returned with a look that was all brown eyes.

  He grabbed hold of the case and tried the two latches. Locked.

  He had expected this, and yet it fanned the flame of his curiosity. He spun the briefcase around a little more intensely. Picked it up: it felt as light as he remembered. Shook it. Something moved inside, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple sheets of paper. He tried the latches again. Locked.

  Steel was a problem solver. His teachers reacted to him in nearly the same way, year after year: impressed at first, wary of him as the year wore on. Afraid he might be smarter than they were—which was ridiculous; he was smart enough to know he wasn’t smarter than anyone: he just had a photographic memory.

  He felt up to the challenge of the briefcase. He’d heard about picking locks—seen it done in movies, but knew nothing about it.

  He considered prying the latches open, but he’d only break them. And then what? It wasn’t as if Charlie wouldn’t figure out who’d broken them.

  He flipped it around and upside down and studied the hinges. Nothing available there besides breaking them as well.

  Think!

  He noticed the four small, metal feet. Half domes of stainless steel, they occupied the four corners, allowing the bag to stand level when placed down. He examined the four feet. He tested one, trying to turn it, but his fingers spun and it didn’t move. He lacked a good grip.

  He tried using a corner of his shirt, but it didn’t help. He looked around for anything else—a pair of pliers would do just fine. He walked the length of the car but didn’t see a toolbox or anything useful. Sitting down again with the briefcase, he spotted a small chunk of chewed rawhide inside Cairo’s cage—the remains of a chewy bone. He pinched it between his fingers and tried to gain friction on one of the feet. But it was no use. Not one to give up once he put his mind to something, Steel tried another of the four feet.

  This one broke free of the leather and turned. Excited by the victory, he quickly unscrewed it. The piece came off in his hand: a circle of stainless steel with a smooth-topped bolt through it.

  He put his eye to the bolt hole in the bottom of the case. No wider than the diameter of a straw, it was nonetheless a perfect peephole. But with so little light inside the briefcase, he saw nothing but shifting gray shadows. Still…there was something in there.

  He tried to loosen another foot: it too unscrewed.

  “We’re getting it, girl,” he said to Cairo, who followed his every movement, shifting in the crate and cocking her head.

  Now with two holes, he put his eye to the first and angled the case toward the light. A soft gray cone of light spread inside. He angled it in another direction. He saw a newspaper article, some papers, and what looked like a postcard. He tilted the briefcase, working the postcard to a spot where he could see it. Then he tipped the briefcase to let more light inside.

  The card wasn’t a card at all, but a photograph—a Polaroid, maybe…. He adjusted the briefcase a second time, and more light filtered in through the foot hole.

  From beyond the door came the sound of men speaking.

  Steel couldn’t pull his eye away—he was so close, so curious….

  The voices grew louder. They were at the baggage-car door.

  At that same instant the photograph shifted and came into better view. Steel gasped.

  It showed a woman in front of a row of broken windows, her mouth covered with duct tape, her eyes wide in terror, her hair stringy and sweaty. Her face looked like a horrific mask of fright. Across the bottom, written in black marker, was:

  G23: 3–4

  The sound of keys tinkled. The men were coming inside.

  Steel pulled his eye away from the bottom of the briefcase, his mind reeling from the horrible image of the woman with her mouth taped.

  Then, with the door rattling as if about to open, he scooped up the two stainless steel feet and looked for a place to hide.

  6.

  Grym shifted from heel to heel, waiting for the gasbag of a conductor to shut up long enough to open the door. Grym had nodded off and lost track of the boy. The moment he’d awakened he’d gone looking for the potbellied conductor who’d taken the briefcase from the boy. He’d found him, smelling of cigarette smoke, making conversation with a woman who was apparently lost. How a person got lost on a train was beyond Grym, but he patiently waited out the exchange and then reported his briefcase as missing, giving an exact description and even producing the key to prove his ownership.

  From that point to this, the old man had done nothing but talk—mostly about the batting averages of the Chicago Cubs. Grym had no use for baseball. He was into NASCAR.

  At last the conductor unlocked the door and pushed it open. Grym looked into a car lit by a pair of skylights and a long row of overhead light fixtures. The walls were floor-to-ceiling luggage racks and custom shelves, with a single aisle down the middle. Some of the luggage and boxes and bags had been strapped down. Others remained loose. The car smelled oily, but not unpleasant.

  “Where’d you put it?” Grym asked rudely.

  “It’s down here.” The conductor moved slowly. “Anybody here?” he shouted.

  Charlie reached the shelf marked LOST AND FOUND. He rifled through a few of the items and said, “Dang!”

  “What?”

  “I could’a sworn…” He moved a few suitcases left and right, still searching. “This is where I should have put it, at any rate. Lost and found. Pretty obvious.”

  “You did or did not put it here?”

  “Thought I did, or I wouldn’t be looking, now would I?” Charlie clearly did not appreciate Grym’s tone of voice. “Must have been moved by one of my colleagues…one of the other conductors.”

  “The boy…the boy you said turned it over to you.” Grym tried to take the urgency from his voice. “Did you let him in here by a
ny chance?”

  “’Course not. Rules is rules. You think I’d leave a boy in here unattended?”

  “You can tell me, Charlie.”

  “You got the wrong idea, sir,” Charlie said. “Ain’t no passengers allowed in the baggage car, and that includes yourself. We’d better get you out of here, for just that reason.”

  “You mind if I look around on my way out? It is my briefcase we’re talking about.”

  “My guess is one of the other conductors might have moved it. I can check with them and get back to you. One thing’s for certain: that briefcase ain’t going nowhere, and neither are you. Neither am I, for that matter. We got plenty of time to find it, and get things back regular like.”

  Grym reached high up on a shelf. He moved more suitcases around and rose to his tiptoes. He bumped into the dog crate and stepped around it.

  Cairo whimpered at his feet. Grym possessed no great love of dogs. “Shut up!” he said, giving the crate a good stiff kick.

  “Time to go,” Charlie said angrily, mustering as much authority as possible. Under his breath he mumbled, “No need to take it out on the dog.”

  Grym said sternly, “I want that briefcase and I want it now.” He stormed out of the baggage car.

  7.

  Steel pushed Cairo aside and crawled forward toward the wire-mesh door. As he had been curled up in the back of the vinyl dog crate, the briefcase clutched tightly in his arms, his legs ached from cramping as he struggled out through the crate door and, with difficulty, came to standing.

  As best he could, he returned the two metal feet to the bottom of the briefcase, but the second did not, and would not, screw in all the way. His mind raced. Could he tell his mother about the photo? Had he broken the law by looking at the briefcase’s contents? What would the owner of the briefcase, the man with the conductor, do if he found out that Steel had been poking around his personal property? Would he tie him up and tape his mouth like the woman in the photo?