by Janet Dawson
Jill smiled at him. “Did you sleep well, Mr. Saunders?”
What she really wanted to know was whether he’d seen or heard anything during the night. A ghost perhaps?
“Indeed I did. I always sleep like a log, especially on trains. You could shoot a cannon down the corridor and I wouldn’t hear it.”
“So do we,” Mrs. Greenleaf said. “There’s nothing like sleeping on a train. It must be the motion, and that sound of the wheels on the rails. It lulls me to sleep every time. Where are you from, Mr. Saunders?”
“Evanston, Illinois. And you?”
“New York City.”
“I’ve been there,” Mr. Saunders said. As the waiter delivered his breakfast, he picked up his form and regaled the Greenleafs with his stories of visiting New York City while he was in the Navy during World War II.
Jill cut the corner off her French toast and dredged it through a puddle of melted butter and syrup. So much for that. The man was a sound sleeper. He didn’t hear a thing in that supposedly haunted roomette.
The train arrived in Denver soon after, with passengers departing the train and others boarding. The CZ exchanged its Chicago, Burlington & Quincy locomotives for those of the Denver & Rio Grande Western, and the CB&Q crew gave way to D&RGW personnel. Then the train pulled slowly out of the Mile High City’s Union Station, heading west. It climbed the S-curve at Big Ten and entered the canyons and forested slopes of the Rocky Mountains. As the CZ approached the Moffat Tunnel, Jill was up in the Vista-Dome of the Silver Planet, explaining that the long tunnel bored under the Continental Divide. The lower elevations were clear, but the highest peaks, towering above the tree line, showed their year-round cover of snow. After going through the tunnel, the train emerged on the western side of the divide, at the Winter Park ski resort, with bare slopes waiting for next winter’s snowfall and skiers. The little town of Fraser and Fraser Canyon were next, then Granby, where the train joined the Colorado River, traveling through remote and beautiful canyons carved over millennia. Jill sat in the Vista-Domes of various cars, pointing out the landmarks, talking about Colorado history, and answering questions from the passengers who reveled in the scenery.
When the train reached Dotsero Canyon, Jill went downstairs to the Silver Club, where she asked Mr. Griggs for coffee. She was greeted by a chorus of “Guten Tag, Fraulein McLeod.”
She returned the greeting. “Guten Tag.”
A boisterous quartet of Germans, college students on holiday in the United States, had boarded the train in Denver, traveling in the chair cars. They had been hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park, and now they were traveling to Grand Junction, planning to explore the Colorado National Monument. “We like taking the train,” one student told her. “This part of your country is very different from where we live, near Bremen.” In talking with the four young men, Jill had welcomed the opportunity to practice her German. During her two years as a Zephyrette, dealing with passengers from all over the world, she had picked up a smattering of different languages.
Jill took her coffee to a small table. At the next table were an older couple, about the age of Jill’s parents, drinking coffee. As the students conversed in their native language, the man glanced at them, then looked away. Finally, when the students left the lounge, the man said, “Germans. Nine years ago I was coming ashore at Omaha Beach, Germans shooting at us like we were ducks at a shooting gallery.”
“They’re just kids,” his wife said. “Nine years ago, they were probably in grade school.”
The man kept his voice low. “Nine years ago, they were probably in the Hitler Youth.”
The woman put a hand on his arm. “The war’s over. It’s water under the bridge.”
“I know,” he said. He took a sip of coffee. “Except when I ache from that shrapnel in my hip.”
Nine years, Jill thought. A long time, and not so long. In 1944, she had still been in high school in Denver. She remembered the newspaper headlines heralding the D-Day landing where the man at the next table had come ashore, in Normandy.
She finished her coffee and took the cup back to Mr. Griggs. Then she went upstairs to the Vista-Dome above the Silver Club. She sat down in the only available seat, near the back, next to a young man named Mr. Martin, who had boarded the train in Denver. He was about the same age as the German students and he was traveling in roomette seven on the Silver Gorge. Earlier that day, he’d told Jill that he’d just graduated from the University of Colorado in Boulder, where he’d studied geology. “The man I’ve been seeing is studying geology, too,” Jill told him. Mr. Martin looked a bit disappointed at this mention of a boyfriend. Which was why Jill had brought it up.
Now, as the train wound through Glenwood Canyon, he drew an audience of other passengers as he pointed out the geologic features and the various kinds of rock that made up the canyon’s steep walls.
Jill said, “Auf Wiedersehen” to the German students when they got off the train in Grand Junction. The afternoon sun and the vibrant red sandstone put on a spectacular show as the train wound through Ruby Canyon. Jill had dinner in the dining car, lingering over coffee and talking with passengers as the train left Helper, Utah and climbed Soldier Summit.
It was after nine when the train stopped in Provo, Utah. Jill was in the vestibule of the Silver Gorge, watching as Mr. Saunders stepped off the train to the platform. His family was waiting for him, greeting him with hugs. The California Zephyr left the station a moment later.
Jill walked up the passageway and glanced into roomette four, which had just been vacated by Mr. Saunders. The roomette would be empty tonight. Why not? This would be an opportunity to see—and hear—whatever might be lurking there.
She usually stayed up until the train reached Salt Lake City. Then she would go to bed, sitting up in her pajamas as she worked on her trip report, perhaps reading her Juanita Sheridan novel before turning out the light. Tonight she went to her compartment in the Silver Club, the buffet-lounge car. She made notes of the day’s activities for the report. The rhythm of the wheels changed and the engineer blew the warning signals as it approached a crossing. Jill glanced out the window and saw the lights of Salt Lake City. Soon the California Zephyr slowed and pulled to a stop in the Salt Lake City station.
She went through the dining car to the Silver Thrush, the first sleeper car, where the porter was assisting an elderly woman who was departing the train. Jill stepped down to the platform and looked around. Toward the rear of the train, four people were boarding the Silver Poplar, the sixteen-section sleeper. She turned and walked forward, past the diner and buffet-lounge cars. The three chair cars—the Silver Dollar, Silver Ranch and Silver Schooner—ranged behind the baggage car. Salt Lake City was another equipment and crew change stop, where the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad handed off the Silver Lady to their counterparts from the Western Pacific Railroad. The five D&RGW diesels that had pulled the train over the Rockies had already been uncoupled and moved to a siding. Now three WP locomotives backed up to the train and were locked in place.
The doors on the side of the baggage car were open, and several large boxes were being loaded from a wheeled cart. The baggage man signed for the cargo and the station baggage crew moved the cart back toward the station. Nearby, the new Western Pacific conductor, Bill Dutton, conferred with Gerald Carville, the Denver & Rio Grande Western conductor who had boarded in Grand Junction. Jill said hello to both men, waved at the new WP brakeman, then climbed back on the train at the nearest vestibule, the third chair car. The two conductors parted, with Mr. Carville walking toward the station as Mr. Dutton checked his watch. He straightened his cap and called, “Now boarding, the California Zephyr…” as he began walking alongside the train. A few minutes later, he came back this way. His call had changed to “All aboard.”
Up in the front locomotive, the engineer blew the whistle, signaling that the train was about to leave. Then the California Zephyr pulled out of the station.
Jill stood at the ve
stibule window and watched as the lights of Salt Lake City receded. The world outside the window grew dark. She knew the train would travel along the Great Salt Lake’s southern shore, crossing a small arm of the lake at Lakepoint. Somewhere to the north was the old beach resort called Saltair.
She walked through the Silver Club, where the coffee shop and lounge were empty. The waiters and cooks had long since gone to bed in the dormitory at the rear of the car, where bunks were stacked five high. She passed her own compartment and entered the deserted dining car. White tablecloths gave the car a ghostly air. Outside the windows, the darkness was pierced by an occasional light, showing the flat, otherworldly landscape of the Great Salt Desert. She moved quietly through the Silver Thrush, the six-five sleeper. Si Lovell, the porter, was asleep in his cramped little alcove. He didn’t wake up as she walked past. It was just after eleven, according to her watch. She entered the Silver Gorge, walking quietly down the passageway outside the bedrooms. Most of the passengers had turned in for the night, though Jill heard voices coming from one of the bedrooms. She turned the corner near the soiled linen locker and heard snores coming from several roomettes. She’d reached the doorway of roomette four when the porter stepped into the passageway from his tiny compartment near the vestibule. He’d removed his cap and loosened his tie, in preparation for getting some sleep.
“Miss McLeod, I thought you’d turned in for the night,” Lonnie Clark said. “Is something wrong?”
Jill felt as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Well, there was nothing for it but to tell him. She liked Mr. Clark and thought she could trust him to keep a secret. She headed for the vestibule, motioning for him to join her.
“Have you been a porter on this particular car before?” she asked. “And have you heard any stories?”
“The Silver Gorge? Yes, I have. We’ve got about twenty of these six-ten sleeper cars. With two trains a day, east and west, it stands to reason this car would rotate through the consist several times a month. As for stories, I’ve heard plenty of them.” He paused and gave her a speculative look. “Are you talking about ghost stories, Miss McLeod? Yes, I’ve heard them. Mostly from Darius Doolin, who has a fanciful turn of mind. As for ghosts and spirits and what-not, I’m the practical sort. We’ve got enough going on in this life without paying attention to such tales.”
“Ordinarily I would be inclined to agree with you, Mr. Clark.” She sighed. “Someone died in roomette four back in May. I found the body shortly after we arrived in Oakland.”
“I heard about that on the porter grapevine. But Miss McLeod, surely you don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Mr. Doolin is not the only person who claims to have seen a ghost. I saw and heard something in this car two weeks ago. I’m still not convinced it was a ghost, but it was certainly unusual. I saw a shimmering light in the passageway that moved into roomette four. When I went inside, I heard tapping sounds, like Morse Code.” When she saw the skeptical look on Mr. Clark’s face, she added, “I know it sounds far-fetched, but it seemed very real. I can’t explain it. Other passengers who’ve traveled in that roomette have heard things, too. Although Mr. Saunders told me this morning that he hadn’t heard a thing.”
“The way that man was sawing logs last night, I’m not surprised.” The porter’s expression turned thoughtful. “So when you saw this car was on the consist, and you knew Mr. Saunders got off the train, you figured you’d come back here after everyone had gone to bed and pay a little visit to roomette four.”
“That’s about the size of it. I thought I’d sit there for a while and see if anything happens.”
He shrugged. “Well, the roomette’s empty. Go ahead. I’ll be in my compartment, so if you need me, I’m nearby.”
They left the vestibule and returned to the darkened corridor. Mr. Clark went into the porter’s compartment and shut the door. Jill moved to the doorway of roomette four and stepped inside, sitting down on the bench seat. She leaned back, listening to the familiar clacking sound of wheels on rails. Nothing happened. In fact, she felt herself becoming drowsy. She looked at her watch as the train approached Wendover, Utah. She dozed off, and when she woke, her watch read nearly midnight. The train’s next stop in Elko, Nevada was over two hours away. She fell asleep again and then woke as the train moved into a curve.
This is silly, she thought. I might as well go to bed. Nothing had happened, and she was fighting to stay awake.
So much for her experiment in communicating with a ghost. Once again, she told herself she wasn’t sure there even was a ghost.
Then she heard four taps, one right after the other.
Her heart began to pound.
Perhaps the experiment was working after all.
“I’m here,” she whispered, feeling foolish even as she said the words.
More taps, the sequence different. Then silence. Another series of taps. She remembered the Morse Code chart. H, followed by an A, then an R.
The letters H, A and R. It must mean Wade Hardcastle, she thought. She listened but heard only the wheels on the rails. No more letters. Nothing happened for the next few minutes. She felt so tired. It was time to go to bed. She put her hands on the seat, ready to push herself into a standing position. Then the roomette chilled, a penetrating cold that felt as though it was seeping into her bones. Something shimmered in front of her. The light.
It was too much, and too close. She scrambled to her feet and stepped out of the roomette.
“What the hell?” Lonnie Clark came out of the porter’s compartment, wearing a white shirt unbuttoned part way, the tail flapping over his dark uniform pants. He stared at her in consternation, then he opened the door that led to the vestibule. “Nobody there. I could have sworn I heard voices. It was like people out on the vestibule. Talking over each other, like having an argument.”
“I hear it, too.” The noise coming from the vestibule was like a buzz, punctuated by sibilant noises, and she could just make out a few words.
“The figures don’t add up.”
“Hear me out.”
“…want me to do…”
The very words she’d heard back in May, when Kevin Randall and Wade Hardcastle were arguing in the vestibule.
Now Lonnie Clark’s eyes widened. He was looking past her. Jill turned as the shimmering light moved out of roomette four, into the passageway. The porter backed away from the apparition.
“What the hell is going on?”
Chapter Twenty
Jill didn’t answer. She watched as the light glimmered, becoming brighter as it moved. Then the light faded and disappeared. The voices in the vestibule dwindled into a faint buzz. Then all was quiet, save for the steady clackety-clack of wheels on the tracks.
Lonnie Clark took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He kept his voice low, so as not to wake the passengers in the nearby roomettes. “That’s the craziest damn thing I ever saw. And believe me, I’ve seen a thing or two.”
They stood there for a moment but nothing else happened. Suddenly a series of loud, whistling snores rumbled from the occupant of roomette one.
Jill looked at her watch. “It’s almost twelve-thirty. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
The porter nodded. “I’d better do the same. I’ve got passengers getting off the train in Elko, and we’ll be there in an hour and a half.” With that, he stepped back into his compartment and shut the door.
Jill turned and walked forward through the train to her quarters in the buffet-lounge car, where she undressed, put on her pajamas, and washed her face. She pulled her bed down from the wall and climbed between the covers. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep sleep.
At this time of year, sunrise was early, about twenty minutes after five. Jill woke as the dawn’s light peeked in the window of her compartment, edging the curtains in pale gold light. The Silver Lady was in the western rim of the Great Basin, somewhere between the 4:17 a.m. stop in Winnemucca and the 5:53 a.m. s
top in Gerlach. She stretched her arms over her head and dozed off again, sleeping lightly until she woke. The train slowed as it neared the Gerlach station. Soon the CZ would cross into California, heading into the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Jill threw back the covers and sat up in bed, ready to start her day. After a quick wash, she put on her uniform, left her compartment and crossed the vestibule into the dining car, walking along the passageway next to the kitchen. It was just after six, and when she reached the dining car steward’s counter, she saw a few early risers sitting at the tables, perusing the breakfast menu. Winnemucca was a crew change stop, so Mr. Dutton, the WP conductor, had turned over the train to another conductor. Mr. Wylie was a tall man in his mid-forties. His name was Arthur, but his rust-colored hair had earned him the nickname Red. He and the brakeman, a man named Lee Bogardus, sat drinking coffee at a table for two.
“Good morning, Miss McLeod,” the conductor said. “Hope you’re keeping things quiet.”
“Uneventful so far,” Jill told him.
At least on the temporal plane. She saw no reason to mention the supernatural.
She sat down at a table for four and soon the waiter set down a silver pot. “Here’s your coffee, Miss McLeod.”
“Thank you. I really need it this morning.” Jill had already marked her meal check and now she handed it over.
The waiter smiled when he saw the check. “Your usual, I see. French toast and bacon.”
“Of course.” Jill doctored her coffee with cream, then raised the cup to her lips for the first restorative sip. She’d had a short night, in terms of sleep, but the caffeine revived her.
