An American Bullet

by John Stonehouse

  Whicher blows the air from his cheeks.

  The sheriff looks at the sky. “What do you intend doing?”

  “I have a witness to protect,” the marshal says.

  “By the Grace of God, we have no serious injuries here,” Sheriff Dubois says. “The train's still in working order. If the rails are good, they’re going to move.”

  “They going back to Raton?”

  “Nope. They're going on. They're going up the line—to La Junta.”

  Back in the lumber yard office Whicher snatches up the ringing phone.

  “You find Dale Corrigan, marshal?”

  “No sir. There’s still no sign.”

  “You have the woman with you?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “The situation has been escalated,” Evans says. “I’m going to need you to put down the phone right now and take a call from the officer in charge of her case. The man’s name is McBride. Inspector McBride. He’s a senior marshal with the WITSEC program. I’ve spoken with him, given him your number there. He’s going to call you, he’ll take it from here. Whatever he asks you to do, I want you to go ahead and do it, understand? You’re assigned this now, emergency status.”

  The marshal sits at the desk.

  “You take your orders from McBride till further notice. Put down the phone,” Evans says. “Pick it up it, when it rings.”

  Whicher replaces the receiver on its cradle. He gazes around the empty room.

  Outside, the rumble of the train’s engine dips and rises. Snow is starting to stick to the cold glass panes at the window.

  He stands, opens the office door—checks, sees Lauren DeLuca with the sheriff’s deputy in the warehouse.

  The telephone sounds again.

  The marshal lifts the receiver, places it against his ear.

  “My name is Inspector McBride.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You have a young woman with you.”

  “Right outside my door. With an armed guard.”

  “Marshal Evans assures me your security clearance is good for this,” McBride says. “I double-checked with the Division Marshal. The young woman you’re with is one of the highest-class assets we've ever had on the secure program.”

  Whicher thinks about it, says nothing.

  “She’s being moved in secret,” McBride says. “Her escort is unavailable on his cell.”

  “Sir, there's hardly a signal in the pass here...”

  “He had enough to call me,” McBride says, “at least once. He called, told me the train had collided with something. And now there’s no sign of him. That correct?”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “In which case, I’m assigning you as close protection,” McBride says. “It’s your job to keep her alive.”

  Whicher stares at the door.

  “You hear me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I'm not going to tell you any more than I have to,” McBride says. “But the Illinois Attorney General's office need her—they need her testimony. Chicago FBI think a bullet's waiting for her. I don't doubt it. After this, I don't doubt it at all.”

  Whicher steps from the window, stands with his back to the wall.

  “Get her to Chicago,” McBride says.

  “How y’all want me to do that?”

  “You ever work witness security?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Rule one—the less people that know a thing the better. Apart from myself and Marshal Evans, you're the only person knows where the witness is right now.”

  “Sir, the sheriff here knows, Sheriff Dubois.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The sheriff handling the incident with the train.”

  “Alright,” McBride says. “I’ll deal with that. You served in the army, before the Marshals Service, that right?”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Then you'll understand a need-to-know basis. On the phone, we won't use names. You get the witness to Chicago any way you can. Whatever it takes, we’ll handle the expense. Tell nobody. Nobody knows where you're going, what you're doing or who you're with. You have family?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’ll call them for you, let ‘em know you won’t be home.”

  “I live alone.”

  “Alright,” McBride says. “Alright, good. You don’t make any calls. Whatever happens, you talk to me only. I’m going to give you a number. When you get to Chicago, call it.”

  “How about updates?” Whicher says. “I let anybody know where I’m at?”

  “No-one,” McBride says. “Not even me.”

  Whicher holds the warehouse door open on its rusted steel runners. A cross-wind whips snow along the pass, he watches it drifting as the night temperature falls.

  At the edge of the frontage road, a thick white layer is on the roof of the Silverado.

  He slides the door closed, turns back into the warehouse, takes the Marshals Service Glock 19 from the holster at his waist.

  He checks the gun over; releases the magazine, it’s full. One spare magazine at his belt, spare ammunition in the Silverado. He taps the Ruger in the shoulder-holster, his back-up weapon of choice. “We need to move before the roads get any worse.”

  Lauren DeLuca stands in the shadows. “Where?” she says.

  Whicher looks at the bearded deputy—then back at her, expression pointed. “Never mind where.”

  He buttons the wool ranch coat to his throat, slips the Glock into an outsize pocket. Studies her a moment in the darkened warehouse—trying to see the marked woman beneath the cover-girl face.

  She takes a pace forward.

  Close enough for him to feel her physical presence.

  “Wait here,” he says. He wraps a hand around the butt of the Glock.

  “You're not going anyplace in this,” Sheriff Dubois says.

  “How about up on the interstate?”

  “The roads are getting worse by the minute.”

  Whicher checks the hills to both sides of the pass—covered, white-over now, pine and fir and juniper heavy with snow, wind blowing streams of powder from their tops.

  “The weather service is predicting full-out storm conditions.” The sheriff gives a lop-sided grin. “You want to bunk in my jailhouse?”

  “Ma’am, I need to get away from here, disappear.”

  The sheriff lowers her voice. “You think somebody tried to put a hit on her?”

  “Her close security’s missing,” Whicher says. “No accounting for why...”

  Sheriff Dubois brings a gloved hand over her chin. “You think that's what we have here?”

  The locomotive's engines grow louder, turning over, revving, dropping, the night air shaking to the sound.

  “The roads are going to be cut till morning,” the sheriff says. “Till they can get all the highway crews out.”

  Whicher sees the conductor, Ross, approaching.

  “Sheriff,” the man calls out. “I want to board the passengers...”

  “You go right ahead.”

  “The train's leaving?” Whicher says.

  “We got nothing for 'em here. If the operator says it's okay to roll, I'm lettin' 'em roll. We’ve got everybody's names,” Sheriff Dubois says, “in case we need to follow up on something. We'll keep looking. That wrecked Buick ought to tell us something, it must have come from somewhere.”

  Whicher nods.

  “We're gaining nothing keeping the train here, there’s hotels for folk up at La Junta, or maybe they’ll keep on going.” She looks at Whicher. “You need any help from me?”

  “Ma'am?”

  “You want a ride out?”

  Whicher thinks of Chicago—a thousand miles distant.

  “I can get you away in one of the all-wheel-drive units,” the sheriff says. “As far as Trinidad, or maybe Raton.”

  Scattered groups are making their way down toward the train, attendants and crew, travelers trying to shelter from the cold.

&nbs
p; The marshal watches the nearest passengers already headed back onboard. “Y’all have any female officers here tonight?”

  Sheriff Dubois looks at him.

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe,” she says. “What's on your mind?”

  Inside the lumber yard warehouse, a blonde deputy shrugs off her winter coat.

  She lays it on a stack of fresh cut two-by-four joists—takes the heavy woolen coat Lauren DeLuca’s holding out in exchange.

  “Go ahead, Cheryl,” Sheriff Dubois tells her. “I'll see you get the uniform coat back.”

  The deputy pulls Lauren’s coat over her shoulders. She takes the clip from her hair, lets the blonde strands fall about her face.

  “Put up the hood,” the sheriff says.

  The deputy shrugs, raises the hood, lets her fingers rest a moment in the soft, fur lining.

  “I’ll go out first,” Whicher says.

  Holding the Glock by his side, he draws the door of the warehouse open.

  “You're just going to ride on back to the department, Cheryl,” Sheriff Dubois says. “Don't worry about it, hon.”

  The marshal steps out, sees the Las Animas county sheriff's truck, motor running.

  All around the train, passengers are streaming back to get on board.

  “Alright,” he calls over his shoulder. “Let’s move out, let’s go.”

  He strides to the side of the truck, the female deputy in step behind him. He scans the view along the road, left to right.

  “I get in?” the deputy says.

  The marshal opens up. “You can get in.”

  The young woman jumps inside. She angles her head toward the warehouse. “Who is that in there?”

  “Nobody.”

  “She sure has a nice coat,” the deputy says. “For a nobody.”

  Whicher shuts the door, bangs on the roof.

  The truck pulls out of the yard, moves along the frontage road—past the city-limit sign.

  Whicher steps back into the warehouse—watches till the truck’s gone from sight.

  He pulls the door closed.

  Lauren DeLuca’s wearing the deputy’s discarded overcoat.

  The sheriff pulls out a bobble hat from the pocket of her ski-jacket. She tosses it over. “You can wear this, too.”

  Lauren catches the hat, stares at Whicher.

  He nods to her. “Just get this done.”

  In the churned up snow around the train, Whicher stands at the back of a group of passengers and rail car attendants, one hand around the Glock in his pocket.

  He shields Lauren with his body, checks for the sheriff’s deputy following behind.

  The passengers start to climb onboard.

  “You have a cabin?” Whicher says.

  Lauren points toward the front-end, up the track.

  The marshal nods, looks along the side of the coach car—lights reflecting in its stainless-steel skin. He scans the few houses, the workshops, the old saloon.

  “Sir?”

  Whicher turns as a train attendant gestures at the empty doorway.

  The marshal climbs up, into a narrow space, dirty meltwater of ice slick in the center stairwell.

  Lauren climbs in behind him.

  The sheriff’s deputy boards last.

  Whicher moves along a corridor, through the press of passengers checking left-behind belongings, shrugging off coats, trying to locate seats.

  He checks for the deputy—still behind them.

  They pass through two coach cars, a lounge car, a diner.

  Three sleeper cars are at the head-end of the train, set back from the baggage car and the double locomotive. A narrow corridor is flanked with roomettes to either side. They reach a center stairwell, the corridor dog-legs into a blind turn.

  “Up there,” Lauren says.

  Whicher follows the corridor along the side of the train, a row of sleeper cabins is directly ahead.

  “The second door.”

  “There a key?” the marshal says.

  “They only lock from inside.”

  Whicher steps forward, slides open the glass-panelled door to the room.

  All the drapes are drawn, the lights dimmed.

  He takes out the Glock, enters—checks the cabin space, the small bathroom.

  “Alright,” he says. “Come on in.”

  She shakes her head. Steps in behind him.

  Whicher registers the look on her face. “There’s no other way out of here tonight.”

  “This can’t be safe.”

  The marshal eyes a small tote in the overhead rack.

  “That’s his,” she says.

  “Corrigan’s?”

  “He had it with him.”

  Whicher steps out of the room, sees the deputy waiting at the end of the corridor. “Hang tight.”

  “Sheriff says to get off, before the train moves.”

  The marshal nods, slides the glass-paneled door closed.

  The locking mechanism is a flip-over metal bracket. “We'll get off at the next station,” he says, “or at the one after that.”

  Lauren only stares at him.

  “All the roads out are blocked. This here’s fixing to be a major snow storm.”

  “If somebody followed me,” she says, “if somebody tried to stop the train, you think they followed that sheriff's truck?”

  He looks at her. “We don’t know what all happened.”

  “You think they followed that woman wearing my coat?”

  He tips back his hat a fraction. “Let me ask you something?”

  She glares at him.

  “You think they'd expect you to get right back on here?”

  Whicher sits by the window, the rocking motion of the train steady, now. Holding back the dark blue drape, he looks out at the white-over land.

  Snow is tumbling from the sky, falling heavier than ever. Forty-five minutes, the train’s been moving, running dead slow—just enough speed to keep headway, keep momentum, clear the rails.

  Descending from the pass, from the high mountains, the track’s running north-east, now, out into flat land—the Colorado plains.

  Whicher closes the drape, sits back, eyes Corrigan's tote in the overhead rack. Nothing in it of any use, no documents, just a change of clothes, a wash bag, two boxes of .40 caliber Smith & Wesson ammunition.

  He glances at Lauren—sitting opposite in the jump seat.

  She’s out of line with the door, by the heater vent. Feline, coiled.

  The borrowed deputy’s coat is gone now—Whicher handing it back to the sheriff’s man before he stepped from the train.

  A black sweater clings to the curves of Lauren’s body.

  “You don't have another coat?” he says.

  She shakes her head.

  The marshal takes his heavy wool ranch coat off the pull-out table by the window.

  She eyes the exposed space where the coat was—Whicher’s semi-automatic Glock laid out on the checkerboard top.

  “You want this?” The marshal holds out the coat.

  Her eyes rest on his.

  Whicher extends his arm.

  Her face softens.

  She sits a fraction forward. Reaches over, takes it.

  Opening it out, she puts it on, pulls the loose folds around her.

  The clack of train wheels fills the cabin again. She's barely spoken since they pulled out from Fisherville.

  Get her to Chicago, Whicher tells himself. Nothing more. The less you know of her the better.

  Lauren sits back, turns her face to the side, breathes in lightly though her nose—a cat taking his scent.

  He pushes down a lingering sense of unease. Thinks of the storm. Snow was drifting in the pass by the time they’d been headed out. Covering everything, all tracks.

  Lauren studies him.

  “You want to sleep?” he says. “If you want to, go ahead.”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “I can pull down a bunk.” He glances at the overhead sleeping
platform.

  She shakes her head. “I don't think I could.”

  The marshal crosses his arms, feels the solid form of the Ruger in the shoulder-holster beneath the jacket of his suit. “In the army, that's what we'd do.”

  “That's what you did?” she says. “Before this?”

  “Never know when you'll get another chance.”

  She sits low in the seat, his big coat engulfing her.

  Whicher eyes the locking metal bracket on the door—it won't keep a man out.

  Above it, a privacy-curtain covers the inset glass panel, he pulls it tighter, makes sure it’s secure.

  “Don’t you think that deputy could have stayed on the train?” Lauren says.

  “When we get off, I don’t want anybody to know about it.”

  She thinks it over. Dips her head. “What do you think happened?” She looks at him.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Did you talk to Marshal Corrigan’s boss?”

  “I talked to him.”

  She shifts her weight in the jump seat, wraps her arms about her, holding on to her sides.

  The marshal watches her a moment. Listens to the sound of the wheels against the rails.

  “They told me they could protect me...” she says.

  “Tell me about Corrigan?”

  Her eyes search his face—the broken nose, broad mouth, wide-set eyes, hazel to green. “Aren't you afraid?”

  Whicher runs a hand down his tie. Puts one boot on top of the other.

  “He seemed experienced,” she says. “He seemed to know what he was doing. I only met him when they told me they had to move me. Can you think of any reason he would have left the train?”

  The marshal leans back into the seat.

  With no answer.

  Chapter Five

  Jerzy Belaski rises from his place in the second coach car. Pulling down his watch cap, he steps into the aisle, starts to make his way along toward the front of the train.

  He passes through a connecting corridor, steps into a lounge car.

  Passengers are spread out, talking—drinking coffees and sodas. He eyes the packed snow clinging to the curving glass roof of the carriage.

  Beyond the observation windows, nothing shows but the blackness of the night, striated white.