Death Train to Boston

by Dianne Day

  ‘‘Watch for him, see if he passes by. I want to know if he gets off the train at this stop. I don’t think he saw us leave, and he could not possibly have known ahead of time, but Ramsey’s good. As much as I’d like to think we’ve thrown him off our trail, we probably haven’t.’’

  ‘‘Very well.’’

  ‘‘Oh, and while you’re watching, you might as well keep your eyes peeled for this big man with the gray hair.’’

  Meiling nodded and said emphatically, ‘‘If I see the big one, I will follow him.’’

  ‘‘No, don’t do that!’’

  ‘‘Yes. We will want to know where he goes, what is his name, all of these things.’’

  ‘‘Meiling, in that dress you’re about as unobtrusive as, as—’’

  ‘‘Never mind. I will be careful. I do not like to dress like this anyway; if this man sees me, I will change my appearance at the first opportunity. If you come back here and I am not here, do not worry, Michael, for that will be where I have gone. Stay here and wait for me.’’

  He rolled his eyes but gave up and settled her in the restaurant, in a window seat with a fine view of the railroad promenade. He kissed her cheek, both because he was fond of her and because he was playing the role of jealous lover—a man who would not allow anyone else within whispering distance of his woman, one for whom a woman such as Meiling was private property. Then off he went in search of a livery stable.

  Out on the street Michael picked up a newspaper and glanced at the date in passing: November 17, 1908. Tuesday.

  I was not a banker’s daughter for nothing.

  I proved it the next day, Wednesday morning. When the County National Bank of Hiram opened at nine o’clock, I was there. By nine-thirty a telegram was on its way to the Crocker Bank in San Francisco, my bank. The story I’d told the bank manager—a careful mixture of truth and fiction that I’d written out the night before and memorized—had been sufficiently credible that I left with a cash advance of one hundred dollars in my possession.

  I returned to my room at the hotel to write out more telegrams. Shortly I would carry them up the street to the telegraph office and have them sent, now that I had the means to pay. (The bank, of course, had sent their own telegram—just as I’d expected them to.)

  The kitten had taken up residence, it seemed, as he or she was there waiting when I returned. I had no objection, although I knew nothing whatever about animals because we did not have pets in the house when I was growing up. I had left the window open a bit for ventilation, and that was enough of an invitation for this little cat.

  The cat was playful. He pounced repeatedly on the moving end of my pencil as I wrote out my telegrams, until I became exasperated, scooped him up, and placed him in my lap, where he turned around a few times as if making a nest, then lay down and began to purr. Thus with a warm, furry, vibrating ball in my lap I wrote:

  TO MICHAEL KOSSOFF

  J&K AGENCY

  DIVISADERO STREET

  SAN FRANCISCO CALIFORNIA

  DEAR MICHAEL

  SURVIVED TRAIN WRECK STOP HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO WRITE UNTIL NOW STOP AM IN HIRAM UTAH STAYING AT HIRAM HOTEL STOP HAVE TWO BROKEN LEGS NOW HEALING STOP CAN YOU COME FOR ME STOP

  LOVE FREMONT JONES

  I should have liked to be able to say more, such as how to get to Hiram, Utah, but I could not because I did not know exactly where it was. I’d have to trust that Michael would find out. That is, if this telegram reached him at all.

  I wrote the second one:

  TO ALOYSIUS AND/OR EDNA STEPHENSON

  J&K AGENCY

  DIVISADERO STREET

  SAN FRANCISCO CALIFORNIA

  DEAR WISH AND EDNA

  HAVE SENT MESSAGE TO MICHAEL STOP IF HE IS NOT THERE PLEASE ADVISE HIS WHEREABOUTS STOP HAVE SURVIVED TRAIN WRECK STOP NEED HELP TO GET HOME STOP WRITE OR WIRE TO ME AT HIRAM HOTEL IN HIRAM UTAH STOP

  LOVE FREMONT JONES

  I read it over. Absently I stroked the purring cat, drawing considerable comfort from the soft fur, the simple, undemanding presence of another living creature. I supposed that was the attraction of having a pet; I’d really never thought about it before.

  Then I composed my final telegram:

  TO LEONARD PEMBROKE JONES

  BEACON STREET

  BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS

  DEAR FATHER

  AM WELL THOUGH HAVE TWO BROKEN LEGS NOW HEALING STOP HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO COMMUNICATE UNTIL NOW STOP DO NOT WORRY STOP WILL RETURN TO SF SOONEST STOP COMING TO BOSTON WHEN LEGS ALLOW STOP

  YOUR LOVING DAUGHTER CAROLINE FREMONT JONES

  There. I felt a tremendous sense of relief to have written those telegrams, and would feel even better, I was sure, when they were sent.

  Although I was quite tired, for I had not had so much exercise in many weeks, I put the cat down, donned the military cloak, put money and the folded papers into its inner pocket, and made my awkward way down the wooden sidewalk to the telegraph office.

  The telegrapher wore his name on a badge attached to his shirt: WAYNE.

  ‘‘Hello, Wayne,’’ I said with a smile. I was glad to be able to call him by name, since he was about to play such a significant part in my life: This smiling, innocent-faced young man was going to put me back in touch with the people nearest and dearest to me.

  ‘‘Hello, ma’am, Miss Jones,’’ he said, nodding his head in an extra greeting.

  ‘‘You know my name?’’

  ‘‘Oh yes, ma’am, you’re the one survived that turr’ble train blowup. Reckon you’re the one they said was ‘unaccounted for.’ Meaning they couldn’t find your body. Counted over and over, they did, always came out one missing. That was you.’’

  All of a sudden I felt chilled to the bone. I had known, of course, that some people had probably died. Certainly I’d come close enough to it myself. But it was not something I ever allowed myself to think about.

  Wayne was continuing to talk: ‘‘Ever’body here in Hiram’s glad to have you here with us, an’ real proud too. Glad you got your memory back and all. So what can I do for you this morning? You got some telegrams to send?’’

  I handed over my telegrams. Made small talk. Paid what I owed the man, and thanked him when he assured me he would bring the replies to me personally at the hotel just as soon as they came through.

  Then I went back and lay down on my bed with one arm thrown across my eyes.

  The little cat came and licked my cheeks where the tears leaked out. Finally I had let the horrible thought come and stay in my mind: What if Michael was among the dead?

  17

  TAKES ONE pretty hard day, two easy ones, to Provo by horse from here,’’ the stabler said. ‘‘You got a wagon ’r a buggy with two people and a heavy load, most likely you should be thinking two. So what you got in mind, mister?’’

  ‘‘I have in mind,’’ Michael said, trying to forestall a major attack of ill temper, ‘‘renting your largest and most comfortable rig. I shall require it for at least a month, maybe two.’’

  The stabler gave a long low whistle, shaking his head. ‘‘Don’t know as I can do that. I mean, there’s others as might like to use it from time to time. That’s a long while to do without the best I’ve got. Know what I mean?’’

  Michael knew. He was in no mood to bargain. ‘‘I’m short on time, I need to get going, so I’ll tell you what. You name your price and I’ll pay it. Not only that, I’ll return your rig in the same shape as when I got it from you, or better, or else I’ll pay to buy you a new one. Now what do you say?’’

  ‘‘Can’t say fairer ’n that, I reckon.’’

  Thank God. Michael had begun to think this was going to be one of those situations in which one obstacle is overcome, only to have another take its place, and on and on and on in that fashion unto infinity.

  ‘‘Getting morbid,’’ he muttered, following the man deep into the stables where the better rigs were kept.

  ‘‘Say what?’’ the stabler asked over
his shoulder.

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  The stables smelled of hay and horses and freshly polished leather. Michael found this old-fashioned, masculine combination of odors bracing. Encouraging, somehow. Though, truth to tell, he would have preferred an automobile.

  No such luck. The roads out here weren’t good enough. Maybe someday . . .

  ‘‘This here’s a surrey,’’ the stabler said, ‘‘best I’ve got.’’

  Michael shook his head. The carriage was handsome and well sprung, but it was too fragile for what he’d likely be putting it through.

  ‘‘I’ll need something heavier,’’ he insisted. ‘‘I said I wanted your largest and most comfortable rig, not the fanciest.’’

  In the end he had to settle for a covered farm wagon; what the conveyance lacked in elegance was made up for by the horse, an exceptional animal of large size that gave an impression of strength, along with a sympathetic eye. The horse’s name, the stabler told him, was Chess—not for the game but from ‘‘chestnut’’ for his reddish brown hair.

  Much like Fremont’s, Michael thought, though hers was a bit darker. Maybe having a horse with reddish brown hair was a good omen. He hoped so. He could use a good omen right about now.

  Anxious to be on his way, wondering if he’d find Meiling in the coffee shop—though he supposed the Mormons would call it something else, because wasn’t it true that Mormons didn’t drink caffeine?—Michael scarcely paid attention while the stabler went over the somewhat detailed procedure of getting the horse into harness, then the harness hooked up to the wagon. All he wanted was to be off.

  Meiling was not where he’d left her. He’d been afraid of that, and didn’t know whether to hope she was off on a wild-goose chase or hot on the trail of the elusive big man. He decided to worry about her later. Right now there were other things he could be doing.

  Michael took the wagon around to the baggage end of the passenger platform, where he’d left Meiling’s trunk and his two leather suitcases. He got them loaded into the back of the wagon with the help, well compensated by a generous tip, of one of the redcaps who were standing around waiting for the next train to come in.

  So far, so good. But when he returned to the cafeś, whatever it was called, there was still no Meiling.

  ‘‘Wait for me if I’m not here,’’ she’d said, but Michael was no better at waiting than Fremont would have been in similar circumstances.

  Fremont never liked to wait for anything or anyone. It was one of her worst faults, and would sometimes cause her to do things precipitously.

  ‘‘I have to stop thinking about her,’’ Michael muttered to himself; but even as he said it, he decided to do the very thing she would have done: drive around and look for Meiling.

  The worst that could happen would be that he didn’t find her, but even so he would have had a fine view of Salt Lake, which was a beautiful city of wide, clean streets with that huge, slightly mysterious Temple of the Mormons in the middle of it all.

  There was just one flaw in this logic, Michael thought as he struggled to keep the horse going where he wanted him to go (Michael was a bit out of practice on the reins): Anybody worth following wouldn’t likely stick to wide, clean main streets.

  So much for sight-seeing and finding Meiling at the same time.

  He went back to the train station after all, tied the horse and wagon to a hitching post in an area that also had slots for automobiles, and was on his way back to the cafeś when something caught his eye. Off to his left: the freightyard. A glint of sun off metal. Down a dark sort of alleyway, not a street but merely a passage left between tall stacks of various goods awaiting pickup. These Mormons were apparently a prosperous lot, with plenty of commerce going on.

  On a hunch, Michael entered the passage. He didn’t take the time to examine the boxes piled up on either side; the boxes weren’t what was important. Not what, but who—who was in here—that was important. And why was he here. And was she in here too; if Michael was getting to know this new Meiling at all (or had she always been this way?), the answer to the last was probably yes.

  The early morning air was so cold he could see his breath. The sunlight had a wintry quality, as if its beams were too thin to penetrate the freightyard’s somehow denser atmosphere. This was a good place for someone to hide—the deeper in Michael went, the more he realized that.

  It was also a good place to get lost, because after a while it all looked the same: dark, gloomy, crowded, confusing. Michael began to feel as if he’d been in this place before, yet he knew he had not. Only in maybe a hundred similar places . . . much too similar.

  The hollow sound of footsteps, not his own. He stopped and stood quietly, listening hard, inwardly cursing his relatively poor hearing. Where? Maybe a couple of rows over that way . . .

  The rustle of a skirt: Meiling. He was sure he’d heard it. Maybe his ears were getting better after all. Practice, practice, never give up. . . .

  Michael had been walking backward, not quickly, inches at a time, but not looking behind himself either. Too late he realized his mistake.

  Suddenly there he was—he’d backed into an open space that, when he spun around, proved to be rectangular, maybe twenty feet long, twelve feet wide. He was vulnerable, an easy target. His hand went to his gun, the revolver in his waistband.

  But he didn’t yet have it securely in hand, when a shot rang out over his head. Followed by a second shot, the bullet passing so close by Michael’s ear that he felt its faint, deathly chilling breeze.

  Then a voice from somewhere behind him, a low rasp just above a whisper, in the accent of an English public school: ‘‘God’s teeth, Kossoff, get down! I’m trying to save your arse here!’’

  TO FREMONT JONES

  HIRAM HOTEL

  HIRAM UTAH

  DEAR FREMONT

  MICHAEL GONE LOOKING FOR YOU STOP WE WILL TRY CONTACT HIM STOP STAY WHERE YOU ARE TILL FURTHER NOTICE STOP SO GLAD YOU ARE ALL RIGHT STOP MOTHER SENDS LOVE STOP ME TOO STOP

  YOURS WISH

  I read this blessed telegram over at least ten times. Then, in a silly sentimental fit, I clasped it to my bosom.

  ‘‘Michael gone looking for you.’’ That was what it said. He was alive. He couldn’t have gone looking for me if he weren’t alive. And he was well, for that same reason.

  My Michael was alive and well!

  In an excess of elation I hugged the black kitten, thereby discovering that little cats do not take very well to hugging. This little cat, in fact, did not take very well to anything that was not its idea in the first place. I found this a fascinating trait.

  As I left my room to go shopping for some real shoes, I made a mental note to ask Sandra if her cat was supposed to be allowed inside, and what she fed it, and how often. And what was the sweet creature’s name.

  ‘‘I’ll be back,’’ I said absurdly from the doorway. Yet it was nice and felt good to have someone to tell.

  So Hilliard Ramsey was trying to save Michael’s ass? That was a switch.

  Ramsey had grabbed him and pulled him back between a couple of large packing crates that made good cover.

  ‘‘Who’re you shooting at?’’ Michael whispered. ‘‘Be careful, Meiling is out there.’’

  ‘‘I know, believe me. I mean, I know about the lovely Meiling. She and I have both been following this bloke who’s been on your tail for days now.’’

  ‘‘Hmm,’’ Michael said.

  ‘‘Who is he? What’s he after you for?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Why are you following him, and me?’’ Michael shot back, glaring.

  ‘‘I’m being paid by some people who are more your sort than mine,’’ said Ramsey. ‘‘I can’t tell you more than that.’’

  Another shot whizzed over their heads.

  ‘‘But I’m not sure they’re paying me enough for all this,’’ he added.

  Michael ducked. ‘‘My sort, meaning what?’’

  ‘‘Russians, old
boy. Disgustingly rich, of course.’’

  ‘‘Hmm,’’ Michael said again. It was as he’d surmised, but there was no more time to think about it now. The shooter might have heard their whispers. They must move.

  But move where? The shots were coming at them from the other side of that rectangle of empty space. It was like a no-man’s-land.

  Michael still hadn’t aimed his gun. He was afraid he’d hit Meiling, because as far as he could tell, Ramsey couldn’t be shooting at anything but shadows.

  Another shot rang out, and this time he and Ramsey both returned fire, aiming blind in the direction from which the shot had come. Michael flinched as he realized what he’d done; his response had been automatic —some spot in his brain had calculated the information and fired the gun before his will had a chance to engage and stop it.

  This, Michael thought, is how a lot of tragedies occur.That’s the problem with firearms, they work too damn well.

  In such a confined space all this concussion was damned hard on the eardrums. No wonder his hearing was not what it used to be—too many nights and days like this one, too much noise assaulting delicate membranes; it was bound to wear them out after a while.

  From across the no-man’s-land there was a commotion, not shots but a scuffle that sent boxes and crates tumbling down, their crashes covering more human grunts punctuated by a sudden, sharp, unearthly cry.

  Meiling!

  ‘‘Don’t shoot, Ramsey, don’t shoot!’’ Michael yelled as he leapt from their hiding place and raced across the empty space, quickly reaching the other side, where he frantically kicked and elbowed all obstacles out of the way. He was using his bad shoulder, probably reinjuring the broken collarbone, but he felt no pain and wouldn’t have cared if he had.

  Meiling was out cold, half-hidden under the crate that had apparently felled her. Quickly Michael shifted it up and out of the way. She clutched a prize in her hand: a Colt revolver, old Army issue, a handsome gun. A hero’s gun. Stolen, Michael would have bet. This bastard who was following him was no hero. But he was clever enough, and tenacious . . . and gone.