Death Train to Boston

by Dianne Day

Hiram wasn’t on it.

  He was explaining all this to Meiling at dinner an hour later, his former elation now tainted with peevishness and fraying around the edges with worry.

  Meiling had lost her rather exciting angry edge, and had returned to being inscrutable. The grandmother influence, Michael supposed. She didn’t look at him, but down at a piece of fish on her dinner plate. She was slowly separating it into thin flakes. Occasionally she ate one.

  ‘‘That is odd, yes,’’ she agreed.

  ‘‘Irritating as hell.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps another map?’’ Meiling did not have the same reluctance about the mashed potatoes and greens that she had about the fish—her vegetables disappeared rather rapidly once she began on them.

  ‘‘I don’t know. This one’s the standard; it’s the one everybody uses.’’ Her eating habits were getting to him. He’d seen her do senseless things like this before, and there was never any pattern. Michael couldn’t stand things he couldn’t figure out, even if those things were only another person’s peculiarities and of no real consequence to him.

  So he said, not bothering to hide his exasperation, ‘‘Meiling, if you don’t like fish, why did you order it?’’

  Now she looked up. ‘‘I do like it. But I prefer it in very thin slices and in small quantity. This came in a great slab, which I am making thin and small.’’

  Oh yes. Well, put that way, it made perfect sense. ‘‘I see,’’ Michael said. Somewhat sheepishly, he resumed eating his sirloin steak. The food was good, but not as good as the elegant meals they’d had on the train.

  ‘‘Someone will know where this town is,’’ Meiling remarked calmly. ‘‘All we have to do is ask, and keep asking until we find someone who knows.’’

  Michael chewed thoughtfully. That approach seemed a lot like asking for directions; he hated to ask for directions. So he simply said ‘‘Hm,’’ which was his all-purpose noncommittal reply. As Fremont knew all too well, and maybe Meiling too, it meant ‘‘maybe yes and maybe no.’’

  They finished the meal in silence.

  Instead of dessert, Michael asked for coffee for two. He was told by a frowning waiter that there would be a delay—they would have to brew it.

  ‘‘Then by all means, brew it!’’ Michael said, frowning in return.

  ‘‘This is good,’’ Meiling said rather unexpectedly.

  ‘‘What?’’ Michael looked out the window where, if it had not grown rapidly so dark, they could have seen a view of the Wasatch mountains rising up from Provo. If she didn’t mean the view, what then?

  ‘‘A time to talk while we wait for the coffee. You’ve had a good meal, you are calmer now, no?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I suppose I am.’’ Michael leaned back in his chair, adjusted his blasted sling, and tried to get comfortable.

  ‘‘There is something I would like to know.’’

  ‘‘If I can enlighten you, I will gladly do it. You have only to ask.’’ Michael playfully inclined his head, a little imitation of her characteristic bow.

  ‘‘You seem to believe the two men who are following us, that is, the large one from whom I took the gun and the other one, are doing so for reasons that are unrelated to our search for Fremont Jones. Am I right?’’

  Uh-oh. Uncomfortable subject. One he’d been trying not to think about.

  ‘‘Partially,’’ Michael said.

  Now Meiling did her little bow. ‘‘You will please explain more fully.’’

  ‘‘Oh all right. But I warn you, there’s no point to it, because we’re going after Fremont no matter what they do. I don’t care about those two; if I have to, if there’s no other way, I’d just as soon put a bullet right between their eyes, either one or both of them.’’

  ‘‘There is no need to be so vehement; I do not seek to distract you from finding Fremont. It is what I want most, also. However, I think you will find, Michael Archer Kossoff, that one or both of these men is going to create problems for us very soon.’’

  ‘‘Your grandmother told you that, I suppose.’’

  ‘‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’’

  He sighed. ‘‘Hilliard Ramsey and I, as I’ve already told you, go a long way back.’’

  ‘‘What you have not said is why you believe he is following you now.’’

  Michael stared hard at Meiling. She met his eyes with an unfaltering gaze of her own. Then slowly, deliberately, carefully, he considered the other diners; he was assessing degrees of risk.

  Finally he spoke. ‘‘This you must tell no one, ever. Not even Fremont. If she is to be told, then I will do it, and I will decide what may be said to her. Do you understand?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Her eyes told him that she told the truth.

  ‘‘In Russia, the Tsar is in trouble. I have served the Tsar for many years, as my father served his Tsar before me, and my grandfather, and so on since there have been Kossoffs in America.’’

  ‘‘My family too has always known this, Michael,’’ Meiling said, ‘‘and I have known it.’’

  ‘‘What you do not know is that now, even the members of the Russian court are divided. The country of my ancestors is in very serious trouble, Meiling. I have been asked to take one side. To do a terrible thing, so that a good thing may result. I have not yet decided if I will do this thing or not, but those who have asked me are offering a powerful incentive: If I do it and succeed, I will be free. The Tsar will be so grateful that he will grant me whatever I ask, and I will ask for my freedom, never to have to act as a Russian spy again.’’

  Meiling nodded, to show that she understood.

  ‘‘I am all but certain Ramsey works for the other side. I expect they are paying him to watch me in case I make a move.’’

  ‘‘This is serious. But in fact it can have nothing to do with Fremont Jones,’’ Meiling observed.

  ‘‘That is correct.’’

  ‘‘And the other man? The big one, whom I most dishonorably allowed to escape?’’

  She would never get over it, Michael realized, unless she was the one who, in the end, brought him down. He could understand how she felt because he’d been there himself. Meiling’s heart was like a man’s, like his own.

  ‘‘The other man, I think, is not nearly as intelligent as Hilliard Ramsey, but he’s dangerous because he’s desperate. What causes his desperation, I do not know, but I think it’s something to do with the Southern Pacific Railroad. I think he is the one who was behind the harassment that Fremont and I—that is to say, the J&K Agency—were hired to investigate. Somehow, our presence seems to have coincided with a more serious level of disruption, culminating in that explosion. Whether that was intentional, or coincidental, I also do not know. But the more he pursues me, the more I think the man may have a grudge against me, aside from any he may have against the railroad.’’

  ‘‘And against Fremont?’’ Meiling inquired, a line of concern appearing in the center of her forehead.

  ‘‘Possibly. Not likely, though, because all of her enemies have ended up in jail.’’

  ‘‘Not all,’’ said Meiling.

  Michael raised his black eyebrows in silent query.

  ‘‘The one called Braxton Furnival got away. He disappeared from his house in the Del Monte Forest, leaving others—men he had hired—to pay for his crimes. She has told me about him, but she has never given me a physical description of the man. The one I have seen and described to you, could he be this Braxton Furnival?’’

  Michael felt his heart skip a beat, and all the color drain out of his face, as the realization spread through him and sank in.

  ‘‘My God, Meiling, that’s it! That’s who it is!’’

  She inclined her head, not in one of her little bows but in grave acknowledgment. ‘‘I thought so. This man has had months to nurse his hatred of our Fremont Jones. I feel hate pouring out of him like a dark force. And I feel him on our heels, Michael—close behind.’’

  Michael had sent me a telegram from P
rovo saying that he and Meiling would come as soon as possible. Everyone said it should take only two days to ride to Hiram from Provo, and vice versa. Yet two days came and went without any sign of Michael and Meiling.

  I tried not to be very disappointed, but I must not have succeeded very well, for on the evening of the second day old Tom asked me what was wrong, why was I dragging my tail feathers. A charming metaphor.

  ‘‘I was expecting someone from Provo,’’ I said, ‘‘but perhaps they have gotten lost. Is the way very difficult? Surely they cannot have run into such obstacles as hostile Indians, robbers on the road, things like that? One assumes all that disappeared with the end of the previous century.’’

  Old Tom chuckled. ‘‘These folks, these friends of your’n, they ever been to Hiram before?’’

  I shook my head silently.

  ‘‘ ’Cause,’’ said Tom, eyes twinkling, clearly enjoying himself, ‘‘Hiram ain’t on the map.’’

  ‘‘But the town exists! It has—what does the sign outside the town limits say?—three hundred people.’’

  ‘‘Three hunnert ’n’ two. Miz Phillips had twins back in the summertime. Anyways, it’s on some maps, like for the post office and the telegraph office and so on, all them folks that have to do business here, but the maps as get printed up and sold in stores, Hiram ain’t on ’em.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’ I was feeling slightly sick to my stomach.

  ‘‘On account of this is a Mormon state, and we’re right smack dab in the middle of the most conservative Mormon country you can possibly imagine. Lots of little communities around here think they’re holier than holy, they done out-Mormoned the Temple in Salt Lake—’’

  ‘‘That’s all right,’’ I interrupted hastily, ‘‘you don’t have to say any more. I know exactly the type of people you’re talking about.’’ And I didn’t want to be reminded either.

  ‘‘Uh-huh.’’ He eyed me as if he were wondering where I’d spent those months when presumably I’d had amnesia; but he hadn’t asked before and he didn’t now, for which I was grateful. ‘‘Anyways, when Utah got statehood, they just conveniently didn’t put Hiram, and probably some other little towns with anti-Mormon ideas, on the official maps. We don’t care none. Exceptin’ when it inconveniences a body such as yerself, of course.’’

  ‘‘Oh dear.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry. Your friends’ll find you. Folks always do. It just takes a while.’’

  ‘‘But how?’’

  ‘‘They’ll get out on the road and start askin’ questions, goin’ from town to town. Eventually somebody’ll point ’em right here. You got plenty to do in the meantime, you ask me.’’

  ‘‘Such as?’’ I inquired.

  ‘‘Such as lettin’ my Feather heal those legs of your’n. Such as gettin’ some more flesh on those bones and roses in those cheeks.’’

  I smiled. Tom and Feather were kind, and he was right. Feather had a real gift for healing, and as far as I could tell she was helping me. Not causing any harm. I was content here; Michael and Meiling were on their way; eventually they would find Hiram, and me; and I had a new book to read from the circulation rental library.

  I had nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

  20

  MICHAEL REFLECTED that his recent physical exertions, of one sort and another, had certainly aggravated his injury. The pain now ran all the way down into his arm, but he welcomed it as an aid to staying awake. Truth to tell, what with the pain and temperatures colder than he was accustomed to after so many years of living in San Francisco, he was damn uncomfortable. As cold as it had been all day, when the sun went down the temperature had plummeted with it. Now he could see his own exhalations like smoke in the dark night air.

  Smoke: He might as well light a pipe, it would help to keep him awake. With his good hand, grimacing unconsciously when even these simple movements pained him, Michael rooted through his pockets. Maybe he should switch to cigarettes—they were unpopular with gentlemen, but a hell of a lot more convenient.

  The day had been overcast, with a thin layer of high pale gray clouds; now the night was both moonless and starless, black as pitch outside the small area of illumination cast by two kerosene lanterns that hung by wire handles from either side of the driver’s bench at the front of the wagon. It was this near-total darkness that had finally forced him to stop for the night, but only because the road was so poor it didn’t deserve the dignity of being called a road. It was more of a track, impossible to follow when beyond the lamplight all was so dark that he could barely make out the ears on the horses’ heads.

  He hadn’t wanted to stop; Meiling had nagged him until finally he had to admit she was right—if they lost the track, they’d be delayed yet further. The last information they’d had from a traveler going in the opposite direction was encouraging—the man had spent the night before in a town he thought was called Hiram. They had only to continue the way they were going, they were bound to come to it, the man said.

  So Michael had hoped he could reach Hiram before nightfall, but that hope had been in vain, even though he’d pushed the horses to their limit—and pushed Meiling’s patience beyond its limit. She had been quiet for some time now, lying bundled up in the back of the wagon while Michael sat on the ground with a blanket beneath him and his back against the wagon wheel. He hoped she was asleep. All the damn day long she’d pestered him with her premonitions; God knew, he could use a few hours of silence.

  The horses, which he’d reluctantly released from the wagon’s traces and tethered behind it, snorted softly; the leather of their halters and reins creaked as the animals shuffled, probably seeking closer contact with one another for the sake of warmth. Michael pulled at his pipe, drew some comfort from smoking. Precious little, but any comfort was welcome. The pipe between his teeth, he took his revolver out of his pocket and put it in his lap at the ready, a concession to Meiling and her fears. Then he curled his one good hand once more around the bowl of the pipe, appreciating that small warmth against his palm.

  She had wanted to stop much sooner. Stop, hell— she’d wanted to set up an ambush in broad daylight for ‘‘the big man,’’ as she called him. The one who might or might not be, but probably was, Braxton Furnival. Meiling was convinced he was close on their heels, and dangerous.

  Now it was Michael’s turn to snort. He’d known Braxton Furnival fairly well over a period of about a year, during a time when they’d both lived down around Monterey—and while Furnival had certainly proved himself dishonest during that time, Michael couldn’t believe the man would ever be truly dangerous. He was a consummate coward and a bumbler to boot, the type who hired others to do his dirty work and even then managed to go wrong in the planning of it.

  Michael frowned, pulling on his pipe. He’d just remembered that Fremont had known Furnival too during that same time period, and her opinion of him had been much harsher than Michael’s. If Fremont was right, then Braxton Furnival had committed murder. That murder had never been pinned on anyone; the police had long since abandoned the case; Furnival had disappeared. Furnival a murderer? Michael doubted it.

  Nursing the pipe along, unaware that his head was dropping lower and lower on his chest, Michael talked himself out of the few fears Meiling had managed to stir in him. He didn’t believe desperation had made Braxton Furnival as dangerous as Meiling insisted. Besides, the man was unarmed because she’d taken his gun. No gun, no hireling to help him . . .

  Michael removed the pipe from his mouth as he let out a long, heavy sigh. His chin rested on his breastbone, and stayed there. His eyelids flickered, and closed. . . .

  Something cold and hard bored into his temple as a harsh whisper cut through the stupor of exhausted sleep: ‘‘Don’t move, Kossoff!’’

  Michael’s eyes snapped open; simultaneously his fingers let go of the pipe they’d cradled in his lap and fumbled instead for the gun. It wasn’t there. He knew he’d put it there, but the gun was gone! His eyes ope
ned wider.

  Again the harsh whisper: ‘‘If that Chinese demon woman is still with you, call her out here. Say you need her, nothing else; if you try to warn her in any way I’ll shoot you dead!’’

  Slowly, deliberately, Michael turned his head until the gun—which perhaps was his own, he could not yet tell—was no longer at his temple but instead grazed his eyebrows like a cold, slow kiss and came to rest dead center between his eyes. As he had hoped, his captor reflexively took a few steps back. Now Michael could see his face.

  So, Meiling had been right all along. Right on more than one count. In the dim, wavering lamplight, Braxton Furnival was not just big but a threatening tower of a man. No longer the dapper dresser Michael remembered from Carmel and the Del Monte Forest: His tattered clothes and beard-stubbled face showed no vestige of the respectability the old Furnival had been accustomed to hide behind.

  ‘‘Get that woman out here!’’ he insisted, still in a whisper, so harsh that this time his voice cracked.

  But Meiling had already heard or sensed something amiss; through his back against the wheel Michael could feel the small vibrations of her movement inside the wagon. And suddenly Michael’s mind was hyper-alert, thoughts and instincts and words coming together like clockwork.

  ‘‘Meiling!’’ he roared in defiance of Furnival’s warning. ‘‘Run, get away, go NOW!’’

  As he yelled the wagon lurched, and in that same moment Michael lashed out with both feet. Furnival toppled. They fell on each other like snarling wolves.

  I named my kitten Hiram, which the people in the hotel found amusing, but I knew in years to come the cat’s name would remind me of this very special time in my life. I was as happy here as I could possibly be under the circumstances, and grateful for it. This memory would be a good one.

  Of course some things could be better, such as: I would have felt much relieved if I’d heard from Father, but I had not, which was of considerable concern to me. Waiting for Michael and Meiling to appear was also rather tedious—four days had passed since my receipt of their telegram. I was confident they would come soon, especially as everyone said it shouldn’t take much longer for even the least experienced travelers to find us. Nevertheless, it was a vastly annoying practice of the Mormons to leave whole towns off the map of Utah just because the inhabitants didn’t follow Mormonism. Whatever had happened here to the separation of church and state?