We would, of course, never know. The chaplain, Hayes, told me that some forms of mental illness lie hidden like bombs—they can remain forever dormant or be detonated by a single wrong step.
The sun was lowering when I parked at the gate leading to the Edison Cement factory. Clyde and I got out and slid through the gap between the fence and the gate. We picked our way to the wall where we’d stood after the bomb went off that first morning. I glanced around, half expecting to see the Sir or to catch a glimpse of the Six. But the only sound was the wind through the ruins, and only the grasses moved, stirring in the breeze.
After the flooding in the tunnels, the earth had collapsed under many of the structures. An edifice that had lasted for decades and been fought over by titans had been brought to ruin by nature. The warehouses were falling, the surviving kilns crumbling, two of the three silos showed immense fissures. Every structure would have to be brought down, the bricks and cement and other debris carted away. Then, maybe, someone would fill in the tunnels and turn the area into an art museum.
Or—without Hiram and Veronica Stern and Samantha—maybe the land would remain empty.
Gravel crunched behind us as a car pulled up and parked. I turned to see Cohen emerge and place a hand above his eyes, scanning for me. I waved, and he started across the field toward us.
Clyde took off like a shot. I watched the two of them greet each other. When Cohen regained his feet and started walking again, Clyde raced back to me.
“Hey,” Cohen said when he reached the tumbled wall where I stood.
“Hey.”
“Nice place for a date.”
“It’s gothic,” I said.
“Fitting.” He looked around, then his eyes came back to me. “I don’t have a lot of time. Bandoni and I just caught a new case. No trains in this one. No children.”
I said, “Good.”
I turned so that I was facing Potters Road. I could just make out the overpass near where Samantha Davenport had died. In my mind, I followed the tracks north. Out of Colorado and through Wyoming. On up into Montana and the Powder River Basin with its millions of tons of coal, which had helped make DPC a success. Which had helped make Hiram Davenport a success. Then I kept moving north, through Montana and into Canada, where DPC had extended its reach.
While Cohen watched me, I spun southward, mentally following the train tracks down through New Mexico and across the border, into the often dangerous state of Chihuahua and on through the rest of the country, down to the federal district of Mexico City.
My fingers went to the photograph of Malik in my pocket.
Two days earlier, David Fuller with the Hope Project had sent me a photo. A boy who looked like Malik had been seen with a Caucasian man in Mexico City. It was our first lead.
I rested a hand on Cohen’s arm.
“I have to go away for a while first,” I said. “There’s something I have to take care of.”
He faced me. “Is this about that phone call? The one that made you sit on the floor for twenty minutes?”
I nodded. “It’s about a child, Cohen. About something that happened in Iraq.” It’s about moral injury, I thought but did not say.
“And it’s one of those things you said you can’t talk about.”
“Not yet.”
I expected him to argue. To be angry. But instead he slipped his fingers through mine. Maybe it was because in the week after we’d found Lucy, I had started to talk. To tell him about what had happened in Iraq. Not the stuff that could get him killed. But the other things. The IED that had killed Gonzo. The bodies I’d processed. The little boy we’d found, although not how we’d found him or that he’d gone missing. Maybe this was my first step in that marathon. Maybe talking would allow self-forgiveness. Already, I thought, bringing those things into the light had loosened some of their hold.
“How long?” Cohen asked now.
“I don’t know. Maybe a long time. Maybe no time at all.”
He nodded, turned away again. He leaned his elbows on the wall, and I leaned next to him. We were silent for a while, watching the sun sink, watching the red shafts of light turn the eerie ruins into something both frightening and fragile.
I thought about my love for a dead man, then leaned against the living man standing next to me. There was a lot to be said for the living.
“Will you still be here when I get back?” I asked.
He gave me a smile. It was sad. But then he nodded.
“It’s like I hear you tell Clyde, sometimes.”
At the sound of his name, Clyde looked up at Cohen, and Cohen ruffled his ears.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We’re still good.” He squeezed my hand. “We’re still good.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing my first novel took a village. This one took a city.
I want to thank the members of my critique group and my beta readers: Donnell Bell, Ronald Cree, Kirk Farber, Robert Spiller, and Riley Walker. For going above and beyond, my deepest thanks to Michael Bateman, Michael Shepherd, and Chris Mandeville. A special thanks to Deborah Coonts for being willing to help every step of the way—at times, that must have been excruciating. Also to Kyle and Amanda Nickless, Cathy Noakes, Lori Dominguez, Patricia Coleman, Maria Faulconer, and always—first and last—to my husband, Steve.
This book would not have been possible without the knowledge and insight of retired Denver K9 officer Dan Boyle, Senior Special Agent Scott Anthony, Foreman General Edward Pettinger, and Career Intelligence Officer Steve Pease. Also, Harding Rome, retired senior trial counsel at Union Pacific Railroad; Meredith Frank, medical examiner, Denver Office of the Medical Examiner; Candy Muscari-Erdos, CEO of Mountain High Service Dogs, and her trusted companion, a German shepherd named Count Nathaneal Athos (Nate to his friends); Pete Klismet, retired FBI Profiler and Special Agent; Deborah Sherman, public affairs and community outreach specialist, FBI Denver Division; and FBI Special Agent Phil Niedringhaus. To Britta Lietke for her help with Clyde’s German commands. Ever and always, a special thank you to retired Denver detective Ron Gabel for his patience, knowledge, and wealth of stories. The help I received from the people listed here was invaluable; any mistakes in this book are entirely my own.
Some of the incidents in Dead Stop were ripped from the headlines. I refer to a series of articles in the New York Times written by Walt Bogdanich. If you’re interested in knowing just how dangerous railroad crossings can be, then you’ll find these articles fascinating. Just remember, there are two sides to every story.
If you’re curious about the great titans of railroad—past and present—and how railroads are created and sometimes destroyed, you will enjoy The Well-Dressed Hobo by Rush Loving Jr.
For more information about moral injury, I highly recommend What Have We Done: The Moral Injury of Our Longest Wars by David Wood, which looks at the impossible moral dilemmas created by war.
Finally, if you’d like to know more about the USMC’s Mortuary Affairs unit, please read Jessica Goodell’s heartrending book, Shade It Black: Death and After in Iraq.
Special thanks to my agent, Bob Diforio of the D4EO Literary Agency, and to the incredible Liz Pearsons, Charlotte Herscher, and the team at Thomas & Mercer. I am so very fortunate to work with all of you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A modern freight railroad is an immense and complex entity. To avoid bogging the story down in detail, I present a simplified management structure in Dead Stop.
I also took certain liberties in how I portrayed some of the counties, cities, railroad tracks, military bases, and institutions described in this book. The world presented here, along with its characters and events, is entirely fictitious. Denver Pacific Continental (DPC), T&W, and SFCO are wholly fictional railways. Any resemblance to actual incidents and corporations, or to actual persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Jonathan Betz
Barbara Ni
ckless lives in Colorado, where she loves to snowshoe, hike, and drink single-malt Scotch—usually not at the same time. Her first novel, Blood on the Tracks, won the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence and the Colorado Book Award and was a Suspense Magazine Best of 2016 selection. Barbara is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers. Her essays and short stories have appeared in Writer’s Digest and Criminal Element, among other markets. Connect with her at www.barbaranickless.com.
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