by A J Rivers
"What do you think about the name?" I ask.
“It's odd,” she says. “Not that it immediately tells me anything. What people choose as their names on social media is pretty often an adventure into the absurd. For every person who uses their real government name, there are twenty others who try to be clever or mysterious. This one follows a pattern. Each of the main words rhymes. That could be the intention of using ‘he’ rather than ‘him’, though it is an odd choice if it's supposed to reference boyfriend or husband. But, again, it fits with the rhyming scheme. It's strange though. The name says 'at sea'. See at sea. That sounds like boating. And there are a few pictures that could be taken from a boat, but the vast majority of them were taken from shore. The person isn't at sea. They’re at the sea. There's a difference. So, why would the user take some serious liberties with grammar to fit in with a pattern they like, but then leave out a word that actually does fit?”
“Can you put together a sketch of a person based on that name?” I ask.
She makes a sound that tells me she's not completely convinced.
“That's kind of touchy territory. Just because usernames are so easily changed, and they can mean different things depending on the platform and why it's used. I mean, for all we know, it could just be someone coming up with a silly rhyme. But if I was just handed this name and had to come up with the first stock image person that came to mind, it would probably be a woman in her late teens or early twenties who was really into sailing or, more likely, yachting. That is what I like to affectionately refer to as a basic bitch bullshit username. It makes very little sense but sounds impressive if you just say it and move on. But here's the thing… that's not what I get from the profile. They don't match.”
"They don't?”
“The profile feels like a man made it. Again, not an exact science. But there are a few things I pick up online when I look at profiles, and this one has more of a masculine perspective to it. It feels older than the name implies as well. This isn't the perspective of a young woman who loves the ocean. There's no joy in these pictures. She isn't trying to capture the light of a romantic sunset or even a really magnificent wave. If we're going with my original perspective of the type of person who would have a name like that, there are no images of boats, none of the usual things you would expect. No ubiquitous painted toenail picture or even a book and a bottle of wine in the sand. No pictures of herself, either. Now, that could mean she’s just a private person, but on top of everything else, it sticks out. There are these patterns and trends that show up across profiles from certain demographics that fit in with interests and hobbies. This one doesn't really make sense with any of them. Yes, there is that shadow of a man, but it… it doesn't tell a story. Does that make sense?”
“It actually does,” I say. “How about the captions or the comments?”
"There aren't a lot, actually. Not much interaction at all. A few words here and there, but for the most, comments are turned off. Nobody is able to interact," she says. “It doesn’t feel like a personal profile at all—almost more of a random curation of photos, but this is not a photographer’s work either. And still, that doesn’t explain the interactions with Mary Preston.”
"That's interesting." I think about this for a few seconds, but no conclusions immediately gel. "Thank you for doing that for me, B."
"Absolutely. Any time. Have you heard anything else from Christina?" she asks.
"Not yet. I'm hoping she comes back from Florida soon. I want to go talk to her and see if she has anything else for me," I tell her.
"You never heard anything from the funeral home?" she asks.
"Nope," I sigh. "They were as receptive to me asking questions as they were to you. Even when I told them I'm her daughter, they wouldn't talk."
"I’ll keep trying. Whatever I can do."
"I know you will. Thank you. When I have ten seconds to breathe, I'm going to come to town, and we're going to spend a weekend in our pajamas, eating pizza, and watching a marathon of all the terrible TV we've been missing," I tell her.
"That sounds amazing," she chuckles.
“Miss you.”
“Miss you too. Be safe.”
As soon as the call ends, the levity of talking to my best friend drains out of me, and reality sinks in again. I walk out of my row and down the aisle to sit in the seat across from the man drawing. He looks up at me, and I notice the flecks of paler color in his eyes. Like broken glass scattered over water.
He speaks before I'm able to.
"What branch of law enforcement are you?"
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Excuse me?" I ask.
"What branch of law enforcement are you?" he repeats.
"Are you approached by law enforcement so frequently that's become your go-to opener for any conversation?” I raise an eyebrow.
He lets out a short laugh, but there's little humor behind it.
“Not exactly. I'm a private investigator. Watching people and figuring them out is kind of my thing. Everybody has a tell," he explains.
"And I have a law enforcement tell?" I ask.
He nods slowly. I glare at those shards of glass, my mind trying to piece them back together to see if they'll give me a glimpse into him. Being near him is disquieting. He's guarded, and his immediate launch into questioning me is a way to deflect any effort I might put into finding out more about him. He offered the tidbit of being a private investigator as both an explanation of his prying, and a token, to make me feel like he's giving just as much as he's asking. Of course, that's almost never the case.
“You do,” he nods. “I just can't pin down what it means.”
“Well, whether I'm law enforcement or not doesn't really matter. I'm not traveling for any official business of any kind. I'm actually on my way to visit a friend. But I did have a question for you,” I say.
His eyes flick up and down my face like he's evaluating me. He obviously didn't get out of me what he wanted, and now we're at a stalemate. I don't have any reason not to tell him I'm an agent—but he doesn't have any reason to know. The fact that he asked is what stops me from answering him.
“Go ahead," he finally says.
“The woman you saw at my seat. What can you tell me about her? Other than she had blonde hair and you thought it was me?”
“That's really it. I didn't notice her go to your seat or anything. I wasn't paying that much attention, to be honest. I happened to look up and see her. That's it.”
That isn't the answer I was hoping for. I was depending on him being able to give me some other detail to point me in the right direction. I also realize that coming from a supposed private investigator, it’s probably a steaming pile of poop. But I keep myself level.
“Alright,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Don't I get to ask you a question in return?” he asks.
“You already did,” I reply.
“Another one. Where have you been?”
I don't like the way he asks it, or the way he's looking at me. It's more than curiosity. There's a note in his voice that sounds oddly like entitlement.
“Nowhere,” I tell him.
Thomas crosses in between us at that moment, slicing through the tension I hadn’t even realized was there. This isn't sparking tension like between Sam and me when we first saw each other again when I returned to Sherwood. Or heated tension like the lingering undercurrent of battle with LaRoche. This feels more like the two sides of a piece of Velcro being ripped apart. We’re each trying to pull something out of the other one and are unwilling to say exactly what.
I glance up at the conductor to see his eyes burning down at me. They swing to face in front of him as he continues on down the aisle, the sway of his body slightly faster than when he was just scanning over tickets and giving his cursory check-ins before. There's something folded in his back pocket. I want to immediately hop up and chase after him, but I force myself to hesitate.
Every set of eyes that would wat
ch me follow after him would be another set of eyes more likely to watch every one of my movements. Building curiosity is what leads to disaster. Panic doesn't always happen instantly. It starts as noticing one small thing and grows with each new detail, whether they mean anything or not. Often more when they don't. I need to keep the rest of the people on this train, not noticing I'm here. It's the only way I'm going to be able to move through and do what needs to be done.
As Thomas continues up the aisle, I walk away from the private investigator and go back to my seat. I spend a few seconds absently digging through my bag, then put it over my shoulder and start up the aisle. He's waiting for me just beyond the next car, in the vestibule between it and the next passenger car. The folded papers from his back pocket slip into my bag, and he leans close.
"I don't think I have to tell you I'm not supposed to give those to you. I'm not even really supposed to have all of them," he whispers.
"And I don't think I have to tell you the possibility of stopping a serial murderer supersedes train passenger confidentiality," I tell him.
He nods solemnly. "Have you figured it out yet?"
"Not unless the answer is spelled out on this," I tell him. "I'll let you know."
He passes back into the passenger car as I move towards the snack car and sit at one of the tables the way Sam did. My position ensures I can look over the entire car and see the door, so no one will be able to surprise me. If anyone else comes into the car, I can quickly conceal the list. I go to work reading over the names, hoping one stands out to me. I see my own, but none of the others sound familiar.
I read it again, looking for patterns. One name swims to the surface. Dean Steele. It makes me pause. I've seen that name before. I'm trying to remember exactly where, when something else on the papers grabs my attention.
The shock shoots through me and makes the tips of my fingers tingle. I'm up and heading back through the train before I can finish dialing Sam. Thomas has stopped patrolling and sits in one of the front seats of the passenger car, a deck of cards forgotten in his hand as he stares out the window beside him at the landscape rushing past.
"Excuse me," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"Emma?" Sam answers, but I keep my focus on Thomas.
He looks up at me, and I slightly widen my eyes.
"There's a problem with my seat. Do you think you could help me?" I ask. The conductor nods and sets his cards down so he can follow me. I purposely walk him directly to my row and gesture toward my seat. "You see, my computer was in my bag, and when I came back, it was on the table. I looked over things and noticed something I was missing."
Thomas and I meet eyes, and he nods.
"I apologize, ma'am. If you'll come with me, I can have you fill out a report, and we'll see what we can do," he says.
We walk in silence through the next two passenger cars and into the silence of the first empty one.
"What did you figure out, Emma?" Sam asks.
"Did you actually mean you missed something or was that just to distract people?" Thomas asks.
"We really did miss something. And thank you for going along with that so smoothly. That guy sitting a few rows behind me is a little squirrely, and I need to throw him off as much as possible," I tell him. "But I had to get to you. Thomas, I need you to get me into the baggage car."
"The baggage car?" he asks, sounding confused. "I already got your suitcase. Did you check something else?"
"Listen to what you just said," I point out. "What do most people do before going on a trip when they want to make sure they don't forget anything?"
"Make a packing list," Sam says as the realization dawns on him.
"And when you get to the train station, you hand your bags over, and they check your list."
Thomas's eyes widen, and we set off through the empty car. I push him ahead of me as we approach the body, keeping my hand pressed to his back. We pass through the third empty car and to the door that leads into the first sleeper car. It's still and quiet. I tense slightly, waiting for someone to walk through one of the doors, or an attendant to appear at the end of the aisle. We keep going, moving faster now, breaking into a run once we reach the second sleeper car. It seems they won't end, that the train keeps multiplying and building on itself. But finally, we get to a solid door.
Thomas unlocks the door, and we step into a final vestibule. A sign across the door marks it as the baggage car, for employees only.
"I'll go in and make sure no one is there," Thomas says.
The unstable metal plates shake and toss beneath my feet as the train rattles on, making my wait feel endless. Finally, he opens the door again and gestures me inside.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I can't think of a time in my life when I have actively tried to imagine what a baggage car in a train looks like. In fact, if someone had asked me a week ago where luggage was kept during train rides, I probably would have told them a hatch on the side of the train pops up and they toss the bags inside like they do on buses. My experience with checking luggage on trains has always ended with turning in my ticket and claiming my bags inside the station, never with watching them actually remove the bags from the train.
It makes far more sense when I step inside the car and see it lined on either side with metal cages and racks holding various pieces of luggage in place.
“Do you see anything?” Sam asks.
“No,” I tell him. “I'm going to switch you to video.”
His face appears on the screen, and a hint of emotion hits the back of my throat.
“Look around,” he says. “Pay attention to everything.”
“Maybe we should start with where your luggage was,” Thomas suggests.
He walks over to one of the cages and gestures. I look at the other luggage, examining each of the shelves and every tag, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. It's mostly rolling bags and a few hard-sided cases.
“We can't open them all,” I muse. “There has to be some way to figure out what I'm supposed to be looking for.”
“Are you positive it's on your train?” Sam offers. “Remember, it could be in either one. That clue showed up in this one, so maybe it's supposed to lead me to the baggage car here.”
“It's possible,” I say, walking down the row and scouring every bag and every corner. “But I really doubt it. I know the clue was on that train, but the card specifically said check your list. It was addressed to me. Whoever this is might consider that one my original train and my responsibility, but they would know if I was going to check luggage, it would be in this baggage car. Not the one over there. Besides, there's no way you're going to get into that car without drastic measures. We need to exhaust everything we can before bringing anybody else into this.”
“You're right,” he nods. “So, I guess all we can do is keep looking.”
I stand in the middle of the car and look around at everything. Even with as few passengers as I saw on the train, the amount of luggage seems daunting. In addition to the bags and cases organized on the shelves, there are crates tucked in the corners and several metal boxes lined up on one end.
"What's all that?” I ask Thomas.
“There are three passengers who are moving several states away. They have their luggage, but also brought some of their other belongings with them.”
"So, we can probably rule out the crates that belong to them. What else? What don't you recognize?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I'm not the one who checks the baggage. This isn't my car. I have access to it, but I don't have any idea what belongs to who. That's why there are claim tickets.”
I look around at the various boxes and containers again and an idea comes to mind. I dig the passenger list out of my pocket and point out where it indicates which passengers checked luggage.
“We can go over the list and compare it to the containers that are here. Maybe one of them isn't accounted for,” I suggest.
We start going over the list, p
assenger by passenger, taking note of which ones checked luggage and which didn't. I quickly realize there isn't an indication of what they checked, but rather how many pieces. We are halfway down the list when I notice something different next to one of the names. I point to it.
“What's this?” I ask.
“That person checked a bike,” Thomas explains. “Some trains allow passengers to bring bikes on board and put them up in the area by the disability seating. But this particular train doesn't have that option. People who have bikes with them have to check them just like luggage.”
“I don't see any bikes in here,” I point out. “Are they kept somewhere else?”
He shakes his head. “No. They're right there.”
He points to the metal boxes. The odd shape initially made me think they might contain drums or equipment of some kind.
“Some people don’t want to break down their bikes just to store them,” Thomas answers my unspoken question. “But the real serious types keep them in these specialized cases.”
Now that I look at them, I realize the design mimics the shape of a bike with the front wheel removed for storage. Behind them is a larger cardboard box with a simple image of a bike drawn on the side.
I flip through the passenger list, scanning for each indication of someone traveling with a bike. I count the notations, then the boxes, then the notations again.
"There are too many boxes," I say.
"Too many?" Sam echoes me.
"Yes. Sam, I have to go, I need my hands."
"Emma, don't hang up. I need to know what's going on," he argues.
"I'll call you back."
The phone goes into my pocket, and my mind focuses completely on the discrepancy.
"Look," I tell Thomas. "There is one more box over there than checked bikes. Can someone get a bike on board without it being listed?"