Death Train to Boston

by Dianne Day

  ‘‘If you took them down and put them on the floor, do you think they would stand up by themselves?’’ Meiling asked, tipping her head to one side.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘The curtains. They are so heavily starched I thought they might stand alone. It was a nonsensical question.’’ Meiling leaned back against the cushion and crossed her legs at the knee. She was wearing a split skirt, and for an instant as she moved, Michael saw a pale flash of skin. ‘‘But then I can see that you are not ready to talk about whatever it is we must begin with. And so’’—she shrugged—‘‘one bit of nonsense is as good as another to pass the time.’’

  ‘‘How did you become so wise?’’ Michael placed one ankle atop the other knee, unbuttoned his suit coat, and breathed out through his nose, a long breath, in an attempt to relax.

  ‘‘My grandmother. The things in the trunk.’’

  The question had been rhetorical, yet she’d answered him. ‘‘Tell me more about that. No, first tell me’’—he gestured with one hand—‘‘how you arrived at the sort of costume you are wearing. It seems to be, well, a sort of compromise.’’

  ‘‘Very astute, for a male of the species,’’ said Meiling with a little bow of acknowledgment.

  ‘‘I’m nothing if not observant, including of women’s clothes.’’ His traveling companion wore a long duster coat. Her divided skirt was of silk in a weave that had the heaviness of cotton twill, yet a luxuriousness that cotton could not match; a glow that came perhaps from the depth of color the fabric could absorb—in this case the shade of autumn leaves. Michael knew the silk must feel like heaven to the skin. The duster was loosely fitted and the whole outfit appeared to have been put together more for comfort and ease of movement than for fashion, yet it was so striking that Michael would not have been surprised to see Meiling start a whole new fashion. That is, if she had not been Chinese.

  ‘‘My clothing is related to my grandmother’s teachings,’’ Meiling said, dipping her head in respect as she mentioned her grandmother. ‘‘It is of my own design. The skirt is divided, as some women now wear for riding horses astride, which is most sensible. Yet it looks much like the usual kind of skirt when one is not moving about, and so it is, as you said, a compromise. The coat’’—she extended her arms in demonstration—‘‘is cut loosely enough that I have freedom of movement throughout my upper body, and at the waist. This is very important, so as not to restrict the movement of chi.’’

  ‘‘And what is chi?’’

  ‘‘You are not a good pupil, Michael.’’ Meiling wagged her finger, smiling.

  ‘‘No, wait, I remember. Chi is the life force that moves through all living things.’’

  ‘‘That is correct. Our friend Fremont Jones is wise to refuse to wear a corset. Likewise—but in a converse manner—when the not-so-honorable ancestors of my people wished to subjugate and to enslave their wives, they bound up their feet. Any kind of tight, restrictive, binding clothing is not healthy. What may be equally important to our purposes on this journey, I could not defend myself if the necessity should arise, dressed the way American women dress. Yet I should call far too much attention to myself if I were to walk through the train in the silk trousers and tunic I prefer to wear. Does this answer your question?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Thank you.’’ Michael looked out of the window. It was nighttime, their first night out, a clear night by whose bright moonlight he could see the tall black shapes of trees flash by. The train tracks wound their way up onto the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada, following a path slashed into primeval forest lands. He said a silent prayer and turned back to Meiling.

  ‘‘What,’’ he asked, ‘‘does your chi tell you about our main task?’’

  ‘‘You mean finding Fremont?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘She is alive,’’ Meiling said, ‘‘that is all I can tell you. I feel her energy here, in this dimension of our existence. She has not migrated to another plane.’’

  Michael frowned. ‘‘You talk like a Spiritualist.’’ He’d had enough of Spiritualism a few months back, though Fremont had deplored his negative attitude.

  ‘‘Taoism is a spiritual practice. It is a kind of religion. I was taught as a child to follow the way of the Tao. All that I’m learning from my grandmother’s notebooks simply enlarges upon those spiritual principles.’’

  ‘‘And the magic?’’

  Meiling smiled enigmatically. ‘‘Perhaps the magic is a joke.’’

  Michael said, ‘‘Or perhaps not.’’

  She bowed her head. ‘‘Precisely.’’

  7

  CAN YOU SEE into the future with your magic?’’ Michael asked Meiling half-seriously.

  ‘‘No,’’ she replied, ‘‘for that you would need someone who is skilled at interpretation of the I Ching. This I have not studied and do not intend to. It would be the work of a lifetime and my focus is elsewhere.’’

  ‘‘Hmm,’’ said Michael, gazing out the window again. He felt oddly reluctant to deal with the reality of any of this—Meiling grown up and turned wise, Fremont gone missing—it was all too much, and so he made his mind a blank and simply gazed. Beyond his own dark reflection in the small square of glass he could see very little, for trees crowded up against the track and blotted out the moon and sky. He felt as if the train were speeding through an uninhabited land, a void. . . .

  Meiling’s voice came to his ears as if from far away: ‘‘My skill is in working with energy—sensing, moving, following. I can perhaps alter or influence the course of events. I can find that which has been lost. I have done this, though so far in a small way only, many times.’’

  ‘‘Hum,’’ said Michael again, a brief sound from deep in the back of his throat. Then he roused himself as the meaning behind her words pierced the darkness of his reverie. ‘‘I won’t ask how you do it. I’m just glad to hear that you believe you can.’’

  ‘‘It is as well you do not ask,’’ Meiling said, nodding. ‘‘I am not sure I could explain to your satisfaction. Now, suppose you explain to me how you intend that we should proceed.’’

  Norma said there was a disturbance in the guest quarters,’’ Pratt announced as his glowering expression dissolved, being replaced—most amazingly—by a slowly spreading smile, ‘‘but she didn’t say what kind of disturbance. I see the two sisters are amusing the newest member of my house.’’

  My house, not our house: Another observation went into my mental bag, which was becoming positively stuffed chock-full of them.

  ‘‘You don’t mind a little frivolity, I hope,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Of course not,’’ he said, now positively beaming. ‘‘Good afternoon, my dears.’’

  Like well-trained children we all replied, ‘‘Good afternoon, Father.’’ Except I did not say the word ‘‘Father.’’

  As I looked at that big man standing a few feet from my bed, his legs spread wide apart in a stance that just a moment before had been belligerent, I suddenly pictured him in one of the garments Tabitha and Sarah were sewing. I fancied they might be picturing him the same—which doubtless they could do with far more accuracy than I—because when I turned and looked at them, I saw that they too were sucking their cheeks in to keep back the laughter.

  The effort proved too much for all three of us. They were facing Pratt, and covered their mouths with their hands, but with the back of my head turned to him I rolled my eyes as the irrepressible laughter came spewing out. Of course I was slightly hysterical, but it was the most fun I’d had in a very long time and so I did not care.

  ‘‘Perhaps one of you would be good enough to share the joke with me.’’ Pratt sat on the end of my bed, placing his big hands on his knees.

  ‘‘Oh! Uh—’’ Tabitha began. She was always ready to please, but in this case she did not get any further than this abrupt start before words failed her. Sarah didn’t even try—she appeared to have been struck dumb.

  It was up to me. ‘‘We
really can’t,’’ I said, in the midst of another torrent of giggles, ‘‘it’s a, a female sort of thing. You couldn’t possibly understand.’’

  ‘‘And as a female matter,’’ said Sarah, the first to recover her composure, ‘‘it is inferior and beneath your attention anyway. Sir.’’ She seemed to add the last word as a sort of placation.

  ‘‘Yes, well, that may be.’’ The smile now gone, Pratt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Those too-blue eyes roamed over us, each in turn. Such hard eyes, so brilliant and so cold, yet such a gorgeous shade of blue. No matter how long I should have to stay here, or what I might have to do in order to get away and resume my life again, in that very moment I knew I would never forget those eyes. As I was chilled by the realization, all remaining traces of my own amusement fled.

  Sarah tied off her thread, reached into her pocket for some tiny scissors and snipped. Then she folded the item she’d been sewing, but not until she had tucked her needle neatly into the cloth to mark the place where she’d left off and should begin again. Then she fixed a level gaze on her husband and inquired, ‘‘Do you wish to be alone with Carrie, Father?’’

  Tabitha also was putting her work away. I felt dismayed. I wanted them to stay. And especially not to leave me alone with him. Yet I knew what he would say, and what they would say, and what they would then do. It was all so inevitable. And indeed it did all come to pass, one remark following upon the other exactly as predicted, sure as night follows day.

  I sighed and surrendered to my fate, asking Pratt to wait outside for a few minutes while I took care of a ‘‘personal necessity.’’ To his credit he agreed without question.

  ‘‘I hope you will both come again soon,’’ I said quietly to Sarah and Tabitha as we finished handling the tricky task that a simple physiological process had become for me.

  ‘‘Of course we will,’’ Tabitha assured me. She washed her hands in a basin at the washstand. Whatever else Mormons might be, they were very clean and neat in their habits, which of itself was encouraging. Though of course I was grasping at straws. I wondered if the big house, Father’s house, had indoor plumbing. Out here in the wilds I rather doubted it.

  Sarah looked, I thought, as if she wanted to say something but the cat had got her tongue.

  ‘‘Sarah?’’ I asked, searching her eyes, wishing I could reach into her and physically draw out whatever it was.

  She blinked. For a moment I thought she would speak what was in her mind, but the moment passed, her expression changed, and she asked only, ‘‘Is there anything you’d like us to bring you?’’

  ‘‘Books,’’ I replied without hesitation, ‘‘magazines. Something, anything to read besides—in addition to, I mean—The Book of Mormon. Not that I don’t think The Book of Mormon is simply splendid, fascinating, and edifying, but that a little variety would be so much the better.’’

  Sarah smiled. ‘‘Leave it to me. I’ll see what I can do. I am allowed to go into town for fabric and thread. I do believe I feel a need for more ivory thread coming on, and who knows but what I may find some reading materials along the way.’’

  She kissed me on the cheek, as if I too were now her sister, and so did Tabitha. And even though Pratt brought his overwhelming presence into the room as soon as they left, I felt more comforted than I had at any time since the accident.

  No, not an accident. . . . Deliberate, malicious destruction.

  I wished I had not had that thought, because it made me miss Michael so much I could hardly bear it.

  Though it was the last thing I felt like doing, I smiled, for it would not do to show sadness or weakness to Melancthon Pratt. He smiled too—the second time in an afternoon, what a surprise. Up to now I had not been at all sure he knew how. But apparently he had his lighter side, his better moods, and was still in one. I was determined to take advantage of it, to wring from him every consideration possible. How I should accomplish this I had not the slightest idea.

  ‘‘Sarah and Tabitha have been telling me many fine things about you, Mr. Pratt,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m much impressed. Do I understand correctly that you are a leader of the religious community here? What is it called, the True Saints?’’

  He nodded his large head. ‘‘Correct on both accounts. But as I’ve told you before, I prefer that you also address me as Father. As my wives do, since you will soon be one of them.’’

  That is a problem! The words leapt in my mind but I did not allow them to pass my lips, because something deep inside me warned against it. I wanted, I longed to lie, to tell him I was already married, or promised to be married—which of course was not far from the truth, or that I had some dreadful disease that made touching me worse than death itself. . . .

  ‘‘I’m honored,’’ I said, ‘‘but I feel I cannot call you Father until, er—’’ I felt a blush arise and for once was glad of it. I expected he would like to see me blush. More evidence of how sex-obsessed they all were, how the slightest hint in that direction titillated any and all of them, Pratt himself most of all.

  ‘‘Er,’’ I resumed, ‘‘until we have our own children. Which brings to mind: I appreciate that you must have asked your wives to keep the children away until now, in order to speed my recovery. But I’m so much better, and sadly in need of occupation. I’d like very much to meet the little ones. How many do you have?’’

  Pratt turned to stone. Or as good as. Obviously I had said the wrong thing, but I could not understand how, or why. He himself had explained to me the Mormon belief in ‘‘spirit children,’’ which exist in some other place (where, exactly, that might be was not a part of the story), and that it is the duty of mortal men and women to bring as many of these spirit children into human existence as possible, by conceiving and giving birth to them. Of course if the man and the woman who have the babies are Mormons, members of God’s Elect, then so much the better for all those children, as they’ve been born into the right place—so to speak. Therefore I assumed Pratt must have a slew of children.

  ‘‘I do not yet have any children,’’ Pratt said in a sepulchral voice. ‘‘The first five wives are barren, even to the youngest. But you, Caroline, will be fruitful. It is promised by the angel that led me to you.’’

  The train rolled into the night, on tracks climbing ever higher into the Sierra Nevada. In the prevailing silence of Pullman cars long since made up for sleeping, Michael could hear occasionally the train’s long, moaning whistle; and if he listened intently, the chuffing of the locomotive working hard to move a great weight up and up, in defiance of the laws of gravity.

  He couldn’t sleep. He lay in the bunk created by folding down the bench seat in his private compartment, and thought about the plans he’d laid out for Meiling. In the dark Michael grimaced with knowing how much he’d wanted to hear Meiling say, Yes, of course that will work, that is the best plan, you have done well, we will find her. But Meiling was too smart for that, and too honest to make false promises. She had inclined her head in a slight gesture of assent, and that was all—the only approval he was going to get. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.

  Michael grunted, turned onto his uninjured side, got up on that elbow, pounded the pillow a few times, then put his head down again. Of course mauling the pillow about had not helped—the discomfort that kept him awake was internal. A thin line of light from the outer corridor showed beneath the door, enough to illuminate the shapes of his shoes on the floor and his bath-robe hanging on a hook, swaying with the train’s motion like a bodiless wraith. His mind felt as dark and constricted as the tiny room, consumed by the unanswerable question: Where are you?

  Michael began to go through his plans again, reciting them like a litany to keep fear away: He and Meiling would leave the train at Provo, Utah. There they would hire horses and a guide. They’d have to be satisfied with whatever they could get, even if that meant substituting mules for horses. Such elements of uncertainty were maddening, for Michael was a meticulous planner; he believed in spending
weeks, months if necessary, making sure all the pieces were in place before moving a muscle or even a finger. But there had not been time. Then too, writing or wiring ahead for horses or reservations of any sort might possibly alert the wrong people —they were out there, even if he didn’t know who they were.

  It was frustrating as hell, not knowing what or who was behind that explosion, and whether the goal had been simple destruction or destruction for a particular purpose, and if so, what that purpose might have been. Robbery-gone-wrong was still a possibility. The dynamite could have gone off a minute too soon—perhaps it had been intended to send the two baggage cars rather than two passenger cars to the bottom of the canyon. Another possibility: disruption of the train’s route for the weeks it would take to rebuild the bridge across the canyon. Now on its temporary route the train switched onto a secondary rail line at Provo, and from there went due south, to a junction at a place called Nephi. From there, the Southern Pacific Railway was providing wagons to transport passengers overland to the undamaged portion of track, from which they would continue on east. Michael hadn’t paid much attention to those details, since he knew he would not be going that far, not this time. Not unless he found Fremont, and probably not even then.

  This time he and Meiling would part company with the train at Provo. On their own they would ride into the mountains. He aimed to start at the scene of the wreckage, at the bottom of that gorge he had since learned was called Fretts Canyon; he intended to go at last where his lack of identification had prevented him from going before. So long after the explosion, he had little hope of finding anything. It was a place to start, that was all, a place from which to begin and work outward in an ever-widening circle.

  Ostensibly Michael and Meiling would be continuing the work for which the J&K Agency had been hired: to ascertain if any one person or group could be held responsible for an escalating series of accidents on both the Union and Southern Pacific Railroads in recent months. Pinkerton, the railroads’ usual detective agency, had been unsuccessful at putting a stop to the accidents, which in fact only continued to increase in number and severity. So J&K had been secretly called in, not to replace the Pinkertons but to supplement them.