She set the little television on the other seat, then turned the small suitcase upside down and let the papers fall in a heap on the floor, nearly slipping in the debris when an announcement over the loudspeaker made her jump.
“Attention, all passengers. The dining car will be closed en route to Las Vegas, but will reopen after the train departs from the Las Vegas station. All new passengers please have your tickets ready for the conductors. Thank you.”
Dining car? Dining meant food, and Sil picked up the empty suitcase and peered out of the compartment. All of the doors to the occupied compartments were shut and the corridor was dim and quiet, the silence disturbed only by an occasional muffled voice from behind the thin walls. Both ends of the car had aluminum-sheathed openings, but the one toward the front of the train had a sign showing an arrow with a floating knife and fork above it. The other, presumably, led to more sleeping cars.
The dining car was the next one over, and Sil was relieved to find it deserted. It was a lot brighter in here, bigger windows shedding a generous amount of sunlight on the crisp white tablecloths topped with glass salt-and-pepper shakers and white porcelain boxes holding tricolored packets of sweetener. She breathed deeply of the earlier aromas that still hung in the air, a not unpleasant mix of scorched coffee, eggs and overused griddle grease. But when Sil checked, the area behind the counter and cash register was empty. Frustrated, she saw a drawer beneath the cash register and tried to pull it out. When she found it locked, she yanked on it, hard; the front cracked, then splintered open to reveal five compartments, each containing small, neat stacks of the green paper she’d seen people trading for food in the train station—money. She emptied the cash drawer, stuffing its contents into the one front pocket of the hobo’s pants that didn’t have a hole.
On her way out from behind the counter, Sil spotted another door, one that led to something other than another train car. She tried the doorknob and it turned. What she found inside brought the first big smile to her face since before yesterday’s terrible experience at the complex. Food—and lots of it. The storeroom for the dining services was stuffed from floor to ceiling with oversized cans and boxes bearing generic black-and-white labels.
Overwhelmed, instead of tearing into one of the boxes, Sil pulled on the handle of the big refrigerator that was the first object inside the room. What she found was far more suitable than the dry goods on the wall shelves: plastic jugs of cold milk, boxes of raw hamburger patties and uncooked french fries, cartons of fruit juice and plastic cups of flavored pudding. She loaded up her bag with as much as would fit, trying her best to keep quiet and almost blowing everything by dropping a gallon of milk when a conductor unexpectedly passed through the dining car. Her only warning was a whistling sound the man was making with his mouth, a continuous birdlike trilling that Sil found appealing and annoying at the same time.
When the conductor was gone and the suitcase was full, she eased out of the storeroom and headed back to her compartment. The bag was full and cumbersome, though she didn’t find it all that heavy. The train, however, seemed to be passing over a particularly rough stretch of track, and she wasn’t accustomed to carrying something so badly out of balance. Struggling to get the bag through the doors of the connecting car as the train lurched, Sil froze when a man’s hand reached past her and grabbed the handle of the suitcase.
“Let me help you with that.” The whistling conductor, not whistling now, smiled affably at her. His friendly brown eyes crinkled around the edges as he gestured at the narrow corridor with his free hand. “You lead, little lady. I’ll carry the heavy stuff.”
Terrified, Sil forced herself to smile, then stepped in front of him and made her way to the sleeping compartment she had claimed earlier. She didn’t care if he was just being helpful; she didn’t like him following behind her where she couldn’t watch him and wasn’t at all comfortable with him carrying the suitcase full of food. How would she explain if the overloaded latches gave out and it opened? On top of that, he was whistling again, and it made her want to turn around, yank the bag out of his hand, and put an end to that irritating shrilling. A more rational part of her brain told her it was fear making her react this way; she stifled the impulse to strike and was rewarded when he swung the heavy bag inside the door to her compartment with a grunt, tipped his hat and went away, pulling the door closed as he left.
Ravenous, Sil started to open the suitcase’s latches, then clenched her fists when someone else knocked on the door. “Ticket, please.” A woman’s voice, muted by the door and the quiet, smoother rumble of the Amtrak train.
Sil quickly pushed the papers strewn on the floor aside with her foot, then opened the door, remembering the announcement that had come over the speaker in the ceiling right before she’d left for the dining car. She needed a ticket to stay on the train but didn’t have one to give the young woman standing in the corridor. But she did have money; maybe that would be acceptable. The woman, who was wearing a name tag over her left breast pocket that said A. CARDOZA, gave Sil a bland smile and held out a hand; in response, Sil dug in the pocket of the hobo’s dirty pants and came out with a couple of wadded up bills. She dropped them onto the woman’s palm with a hopeful expression on her face.
A. Cardoza looked at the crumpled money on her palm, then back at Sil. “Are you traveling by yourself?” she asked gently. Sil nodded. “How old are you? Eleven? Twelve?” Sil nodded again. The conductor shuffled through the bills, kept two and returned the rest to Sil, who pocketed them. “Tell you what,” the woman suggested with a wink as she pulled out a pad of paper, separated a couple of sheets and used a metal device to punch odd-shaped holes in it. “We’ll say you’re eleven. That way you only have to pay half fare.”
She looked at Sil expectantly and Sil hesitated, then nodded a third time. She was beginning to feel like a puppet with a string attached to its neck, but she didn’t know what else to do, or what to say. A. Cardoza studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Don’t talk much, do you? You must be shy—but that’s okay. I was too, when I was your age.” Conductor Cardoza backstepped into the corridor and started to pull the door after her, then paused and looked Sil up and down. “Traveling alone like this can be dangerous,” she said. “You be sure to keep this door locked, okay?” A second later A. Cardoza shut the compartment door and was gone.
7
The sound the wooden door of the railroad car made as the Special Operations MP slid it open was like two oversized pieces of splintered wood being rubbed together. That kind of noise belonged in fake haunted houses on Halloween weekends, not on a freight car sitting in the train yard of a clean, sunlit city like Brigham. The door reached its limit with a harsh clang and sunbeams washed most of the inside of the car, giving glaring detail to a man’s body—some drifter riding the night train whose luck had run out. It was hard to tell amid the splattered blood, but everything above his sternum seemed to be twisted the wrong way; they could see the rusted—or was it bloodied?—safety pin the hobo had used to keep his pants together, and the matted, graying hair on his stomach, but at the same time they were staring at the back of his shoulder blades and head.
“Our little girl did this?” Standing next to Fitch, Robert stared at the cadaver splayed on the straw-covered floor of the freight car.
“She’s not a little girl,” Fitch said harshly. “She’s not even truly human. Besides, DNA typing of material under the hobo’s fingernails proves it was her. He must have grabbed her.”
“He probably attacked her.” The name tag on the lapel of the second aide said PHILLIP McRAMSEY, but that was all—more, in fact, than Fitch cared to know. Another new aide, replacements for the ones killed at the complex. Workers to do his bidding, and that was all he needed; Kyle had made him feel far too guilty about having to terminate the child, had once even suggested Fitch think of Sil as his daughter. A foolish suggestion, but one that stuck nonetheless and caused him no end of sleepless nights. He still wished he could forget it—
especially now that Kyle was dead.
“She could be anywhere,” Robert said pensively. He gave the doctor a distressed look. “Chicago, Las Vegas, Los Angeles . . . anywhere.”
“We should stop all the trains.” Phillip scanned the MPs guarding the area, as if looking for someone he could order to do just that. All of them had Army Special Operations insignia on the arms of their uniforms, and all ignored the white-coated lab assistants.
“And have the railroad and local police asking a million questions we can’t answer?” Fitch shook his head, shooting McRamsey a disgusted look. “We’ll put key personnel at every stop along these lines. I want a team to track her, hunt her down—”
“Jesus,” Robert breathed, staring back into the boxcar. “What the hell have we done?”
Fitch started to snap at the interruption, then closed his mouth and gazed off in the other direction, where the train yards ended in sidings that went nowhere and the open plains began. Nothing out there for Sil but pure potential.
What the hell have we done?
Fitch wished he could answer that.
8
“You came all the way up here to get a cup of my wonderful coffee?” A pretty woman in her early twenties moved across the tiny television screen toward an extremely handsome man. She was wearing a sweater that seemed loose but tight at the same time—something about the way the fabric stretched across her collarbones and followed the line of her rib cage without really revealing anything. Her skirt was a sensible length, but had that same, oddly sexual appeal to it.
Sitting cross-legged on one of the seats, Sil shoved most of a raw hamburger patty in her mouth without looking away from the screen.
The television woman’s companion plastered an innocent smile across his face. “Does that sound unlikely?” His smile made him resemble a perfectly chiseled statue.
“Not . . . entirely.” The woman tossed her head, swinging a mass of shining auburn hair over her shoulder. Her lips were very red and looked wet.
“What else would I want?” He spread his hands in what should have been a demonstration of meekness, but the movement made Sil’s eyes narrow. To her, he looked like a predator, someone who couldn’t be trusted.
“I really can’t imagine,” said the woman on the television. She turned her back to the man and began pouring coffee. A foolish movement in Sil’s opinion, and she hit the channel button and stuffed the remainder of the meat patty in her mouth. Her fingers had thickened and looked pudgy, too short for her small hands. Two ample rolls of fat had swelled from beneath her chin, and though the dead hobo had been a large man, the waistline of his ratty pants now fit her quite comfortably.
“When you’re tired and need a room for the night, check in!” A black-and-yellow Best Western sign floated behind a man with a round face and a cheerful voice. Sil found the idea of dealing with him a lot less frightening than the oily-looking man in the coffee commercial. She watched the rest of the ad, which showed a room that included two double beds and extra furniture and was about ten times the size of the one in which she stayed now. At the end of the commercial a series of numbers—$39.95—floated over a picturesque swimming pool surrounded by men, women, and children in very small clothes.
She swallowed the rest of the beef and washed it down with the last of a gallon of milk—her second. The skin of her face felt bloated and tight, ready to explode. Fat had stretched the delicate skin between her eyebrows and upper lids so much that her eyes could open only to slits. Still watching the television, she reached a hand along the seat, blindly searching until her heavy fingers brushed one of the containers of pudding. She snatched it up and ripped off the paper top, using her fingers like a spoon to dip into the chocolate goo. When the contents were gone, she licked as much of it clean as she could, then tossed the container on the floor with the rest of the trash. Floor space on the train was at a premium and there was nowhere to walk now; every inch of the industrial-gray carpeting was covered with stained, crumpled wax squares from the hamburgers, empty juice boxes, and crushed dessert containers. Nestled amid the litter were two of the gallon milk containers, both empty.
Sil looked around the sleeping compartment. She was almost out of food, but she would deal with that only if it became necessary. A different kind of noise from the little television caught her attention and she turned back to it and watched, captivated, as the images of a dozen beautiful women began flashing on the screen. Every one had an abundance of thick, curly hair, each done in a different style and color. “Curls, girls!” an excited voice began. “If your hair and your life need excitement, try this new—”
The food was gone, but she was sated for now. All that was left was to watch.
And learn.
9
“The things worn around the waist are penis guards.”
As always, the front row of the lecture hall was filled with young women. Now they tittered like teenagers at a slumber party, and Professor Stephen Arden smiled indulgently and aimed his laser pointer at the figure in the middle of the screen. An oversized image of himself posed calmly for the camera, undisturbed by the presence of the two nearly naked warriors on either side. Standing here and showing this semi-nude snapshot of himself with two members of a Brazilian tribe of Yanomamö to his three o’clock class didn’t embarrass him at all; it did, however, make him appreciate the wisdom of regular workouts at the health club. He bent over the microphone again. “The women fashion these penis guards for their men to wear to protect their . . .” He raised his eyebrows as one of the more attractive ladies in the front row sat back and boldly met his gaze. He grinned tolerantly and glanced around the auditorium with boyish charm. “Well, I think we all know what they want to protect.” He let the pointer doodle around the appropriate area on the screen, knowing full well that it was his own penis protector he was indicating. Another round of giggles, this time more widespread, some “Jesus, enough of this bullshit!” glances from the guys.
They’re right, he thought regretfully. Enough goofing off. Time to actually force some knowledge into the echoing brain cavities dotting the audience at his lecture. “In reality, there’s quite a bit to fear in the Venezuelan jungle, and particularly in the waters of the Orinoco River. In this particular region, in addition to the other dangers I’ve already told you about, there’s a type of tiny catfish which lives in the river and which is also able to enter a man’s body by swimming up the urethra tract and into the bladder. The catfish then stays there as a parasite, feeding and growing, until the man—its host—dies in agony.”
“No way,” one of the students in the front row said. She cocked her head to one side, but Arden wasn’t convinced; there was too much intelligence in her dark eyes to pull off this calculated dumb-blond routine. “If they know this can happen, why do they still go in the river?”
“Because, Miss . . . ?”
“Teale.”
“Because, Miss Teale,” the professor continued, “the Orinoco River basin impacts significantly upon their lives. While they earn quite a bit of their livelihood from agriculture, they also depend upon the river for food, not to mention crop irrigation. This, you see, represents a fundamental difference in cultures, in the way—”
A noise to the left made Arden stop in midsentence and look around. He frowned when he saw Richard Jarelstein, one of his colleagues in the anthropology department, making his way toward the podium. When he reached the spot where Arden waited, Jarelstein nodded at the students. “Excuse us for a moment, please.” He turned his back to the class and the microphone and leaned over and whispered in Arden’s ear for a moment. Arden’s eyes widened and he nodded, handing over the pointer. His class forgotten, he gathered up his papers and briefcase and walked out without further explanation.
Behind him, much to the dismay of the female students in the front row, Jarelstein pressed a button and the slide projector went dark. Jarelstein’s voice, coarser than Arden’s, rasped through the speakers as he stepped up to t
he podium.
“That will be all for today’s lecture. Professor Arden has been called away unavoidably on business and this class has been canceled until further notice. If this class is part of your anthropology curriculum, please keep an eye on the schedule board. If it does not resume by Monday, consult your course adviser for alternate methods of credit in the interim between now and Professor’s Arden’s return. Good day.”
When the group had started the trip at Lees Ferry, the Colorado River had been clean and cold, the water strained by the Glen Canyon Dam to a sparkling navy blue beneath the high morning sun. Now, muddied miles ago from the juncture of the Little Colorado running in from the Painted Desert, the turbulent, tan-colored rapids at Bright Angel Falls made the river more gorgeous because of its wild glory and return to its natural color. Laura Baker wanted to see everything at once, and she twisted to the right to watch as the thirty-seven-foot silver raft shot past a multicolored outcropping of rock, layers of strata spotted with tenacious clumps of greenery on its steepest face. Her balance on the right tube was precarious and more than a little daring, but she wasn’t stupid—besides, their guide would order them all to sit in if necessary. Like the other women on the rafting trip, she was strapped firmly inside a more-than-ample life jacket, and there was nothing at all scrawny about her arms as she gripped the ropes and held herself in place when the raft bucked atop the rapids. The front of the raft dipped, went back up on a particularly large swell, then dropped a good three feet. Laura and the other women screamed with exhilaration, laughing and whooping as the raft plunged through the last of the rapids and slowed, thrown into the calmer waters by the rapids’ final push.
Soaked through her T-shirt and cutoffs, Laura grinned as brownish river water ran into her eyes and mouth. She whipped the wet strands of her hair out of her face with a laugh and glanced to the back of the raft, where the hefty, dark-haired guide expertly steered toward the river’s center and away from the jagged rocks at the sides of the canyon. Her hands were rope-burned and she was peppered with bruises from being knocked off the side and onto the floor of the raft by a larger set of rapids earlier in the day, and she was having the time of her life.
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