Scarborough supposed there were worse ways to kill time.
Chapter 36
He’d been dead wrong.
Jake had thought that he was juiced up enough to last all night. There’d been enough adrenaline to spare when he’d called Scarborough from Rhode Island. But by the time he’d made it most of the way across the length of Connecticut, exhaustion clamped down on him like a robotic hand.
He was tired. Damned tired. He knew he couldn’t afford to stop anywhere for a rest. He’d loaded up on coffee at the pit stop he’d made an hour and a half earlier, when he’d attended to a couple other necessary tasks, but pouring the styrofoamed stuff down his gullet was doing absolutely nothing.
There had to be an alternative, and maybe he could find it in New Haven.
With the help of a map he’d picked up at a gas station, he found the train station in nighttime New Haven. He parked the rental car in a lot alongside the old building and stepped quickly inside to check the schedule. He found it posted on a TV monitor.
A train headed Washington, D.C. way was due in fifteen minutes.
Fantastic! Just the trick!
He went back to the car, pulled out the bag in which he had stuffed the folder, and then fairly skipped back over to the train station. Hell, he could deal with the car some other century. He had to get to D.C., man—that was the priority!
There wasn’t any line at the ticket seller; he just walked up and bought himself a one-way to D.C. Then he popped over to the snack bar and bought himself a fresh sub. Italian cold-cuts, fresh, and twelve inches long. He didn’t care much for AMTRAK snack-car food, and he was pretty damned hungry. A guy couldn’t live on coffee, goddammit!
The train was a few minutes late, which made Jake sort of nervous. He leaned against one of the girder supports on Track 9, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. Nobody else waiting for the train looked particularly suspicious at first; but then, as the seconds ticked off and the minutes dragged on, the guy in the trench coat reading the New York Times began looking decidedly sinister. And that guy with a clerical collar—was he really a minister, or was that a disguise?
Finally, the train pulled up, screeching old brakes as it did so, and Jake felt decidedly better. He’d be pretty safe in a carful of people, right?
The train was the Palmetto. The Boston-Orlando run. Jake got on in the smoking section. He’d been puffing away all the way through Massachusetts and Rhode Island, and he’d bought a carton of Camels in east Connecticut when he’d made that vital pit stop so that he could make like a chimney for the rest of the way down to Washington, and then some. His lungs would just have to suffer so that his body could survive these next severe jags on course. Jag number one, of course: get this folder of letters to Scarborough and his lawyer, as pronto as possible.
Jake found an empty bank of two seats in the middle of the car. He sat in the outside one for a simple reason. He preferred not to sit next to anybody, and if you sat in the outside seat, people were less likely to want to go to the bother of A: asking you if that seat was taken, and B: sliding past you to get at it. Chain-smoking was always a deterrent; some ketchup on his shirt, and bags under his eyes helped. Jake had done his share of train-traveling and he knew most of the tricks.
Damn, he was hungry though!
As soon as the train lurched to a start and the baggy, bored-looking conductor came by, punched his ticket, and jammed a little hall pass in the baggage holder above his head, Jake pulled out the sub sandwich. He unwrapped the oily paper delicately, savoring the scent of the oregano, the onion, the salami, the prosciutto ham, the provolone cheese.
But there was a missing ingredient. He usually liked a beer with subs. Two with twelve-inchers.
Crap. No beer, though. Safe as this seemed, he’d promised Scarborough that he’d stay dry. And Jake knew very well that a beer or two usually led to a beer or eight.
Still, he needed something to wash it down with.
Everyone had settled in, and it was a while to the New York City stop, so Jake closed up the paper of his sub and stood up, looking for the snack bar car.
According to an arrow at the end of the aisle, the snack car was toward the end of the train. These days the railroads tended to tack on the smoking cars toward the end of the train, anyway. The Palmetto was a long train, so chances were there was another snack car, further on up toward the engine. But Jake really didn’t feel like slogging through all those endless cars, not when he was beat like this. Besides, he wanted to keep a low profile.
That’s right. He was still fearful of being followed. He had some dynamite stuff in that bag, he sure did. Come to think of it, he was feeling so paranoid about it, he decided to drag the bag along with him.
There was a bit of a line at the snack car, but that was okay. Jake just kind of zoned out as he waited. Take your rest where you can get it, man. You never know...
When he got up to the bar, the words “I’ll have a beer, please!” almost popped out of his mouth.
Instead, he managed to convert them to: “A Pepsi, and a bag of corn chips.”
“No Pepsi. Just Coke. And we’ve only got potato chips today, sir.”
“Fine. Coke and potato chips.”
“Would you like a cup of ice for the Pepsi?”
“No, but I’d like it for the chips!”
The guy didn’t smile. Long day.
Camden collected the cardboard box with his order, paid two bucks, and dropped the change in the little plastic cup marked Tips! He grabbed a few packets of mustard and salt and pepper, and then made his way back to the seat.
Then he started working on the sub.
Getting a little bored, he pulled out the thick folder with the goodies and read them, managing to drip oil and mustard on a few of them in the process. That’s okay, thought Camden. They’ve already got blood on them.
Yes, this was the real stuff, all right. His brief assessment back at Schroeder’s secret office had been correct. They were indeed copies of his correspondence concerning his involvement with White Book, including a fantastic series of letters from the late Dr. Julia Cunningham specifying exactly what should be detailed in his books. In a very real way, it had been Cunningham who had closely collaborated on those books. Schroeder had just thrown in the artful stuff, the conjecture, a good deal of the suspense, and the drama.
In short, he’d made it a good read.
By the time Jake had finished his cold Italian dinner, the train had pulled into Penn Station, New York City. It made Jake feel very bad that he wasn’t letting Mick off here. Mick was a good guy; he’d be missed. Goodness knew there was some legal shit to wade through later, but after it was all over, Jake fully intended to do an article especially about Mick. Yeah, as kind of a memorial, along with a testimony to his bravery. Mick should have just ducked under the desk and let things work themselves out. Instead, he stayed up and tried to deal with Schroeder.
Yeah, Mick was a good guy.
The train was at Penn a full fifteen minutes before it pulled out.
Camden looked at his watch. It was 8:35, and the train was due in Washington at 11:30.
It was also time to take a pee.
Jake stuffed the folder of letters back in his pack, zipped the bag up, and hauled it on out with him. If he’d had some handcuffs, he would have snapped on a set between him and this stuff. In fact, he’d do just about anything to keep it safe. This was more than just his personal vindication here. It was more than just money. It was the Scarborough ticket to ride; Marsha’s, too. More: It was proof that would crack open something that the public had the right to know.
This stuff was going to change the world in a very real way—which made it all the more important not to piss on it in the bathroom.
The AMTRAK bathroom smelled of disinfectant and liquid soap with the sour smell of many uses. The floor was dirty, and there were towels everywhere. Jake relieved his bladder, then washed his hands. Gotta keep this new image up, especially with
himself, he thought as he dried his hands.
Yeah, he’d hit Union Station about 11:30. Jump in a cab and head on over to the Hyatt, the Washington Hilton, or maybe even the Americana, where they’d caught old Mayor What’s-his-name with a crack pipe in his mouth. He had the money to afford a good room, cash money. What he needed now was a good secure hotel, and a good sleep. After a call to Scarborough, he could divest himself of this hot property and then snooze to his heart’s content.
Of course, it might be wiser to book at one of the more anonymous places, just in case.
Ah, he’d figure that out when he got there. Right now, maybe what he should really do was to recline his seat into a comfortable position and just relax. Maybe even venture into a few Z’s—the car seemed safe enough. It was over half full—plenty of people... Besides, it was damned unlikely that anyone would have been able to follow him down Route 95, much less into New Haven and then onto the train.
His mind was traveling into more pleasant climes, fantasizing about the trip to the tropics he was contemplating after his bestseller came out, as he unbolted the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall at the end of the car.
He didn’t recognize the woman at first and in fact, didn’t recognize her when she spoke.
The words hit him first, before the face or anything else, and they were: “Jake, I have a silenced gun in the pocket of my coat. Just stop right there, take a breath, and then do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
Jake was so surprised, he said nothing.
“I said, do you understand me?”
Yes, there was a figure there, and he sensed a woman. The lights were a little dimmer here than out in the aisle, but he could see that yes, she was wearing a coat, a raincoat or a trench coat, and it was ballooned out toward him in a manner that suggested the classic gun-in-the-coat-pocket trick.
“Yes,” Jake said, but inside he was saying shit, shit, shit!
“Good. Now then, that bag you have there. I trust that it contains what you stole from the Schroeder estate?”
“Yes,” said Jake.
God, don’t panic man, he told himself. Keep a grip.
The question was, should he scream for help? Should he make a run for it? Should he risk that the gun threat was just a bluff; that no one in their right mind would shoot someone on a moving train and expect to get away with it?
No. He had a gut feeling that it wasn’t just an idle threat, that he was dealing with a pro here; that if he made any kind of negative move in the dimness that he’d be dead so quickly and quietly that the woman would probably be able to just push him back into the men’s room, take the stuff, and that would be it for poor Jake. And ultimately, above everything else, the welfare of Jake Camden’s skin was of paramount importance in his mind.
“What do you want me to do?” he managed to gasp out.
“Good. Excellent choice, cooperation. I want you to walk slowly and carefully back to the next car.”
“Next car?”
“Shut up and do it! I could kill you right now if I cared! Don’t tempt me!”
Jake immediately saw the wisdom of this philosophy. Past the throbbing terror in his veins, he realized that yes, it was best to buy time. Right now he was up shit’s proverbial creek... later on maybe he’d be up further, paddle-less, but at least there was a squeak of a chance that something significant would happen to throw the balance of luck in his favor.
It was then, when he’d made the decision and could again think a bit better under the onslaught of adrenaline, that the realization hit him: This was the Englishwoman from back in Arizona. The one who’d tried, so incredibly knowledgeably and devastatingly—and indeed, almost successfully—to seduce him.
This was Emily Elliot!
He was already heading in the direction she’d ordered, his feet moving as though under their own volition, when he realized this.
“Emily!” he said.
“No other, darling.”
The howling winds of the night swept through the crevasses of the accordioned connection between the cars as they passed through. This would have been as good a place as any to shoot him. If she indeed had a silencer on this hypothetical gun, then what with the noise out here, there would be absolutely no fuss. He’d go down like a sack of potatoes and that would be that.
But that, of course, would not be too cool, since then she’d have to drag him somewhere if she didn’t want his body to be found anytime soon.
Which was why she was taking him to the next car.
The next car was the first of two baggage cars. Normally AMTRAK passenger runs did not have baggage cars as such on the Eastern Corridor. But trains to Florida, including the Auto-train run, had old-style carriages tacked on, to carry not only excessive baggage such as steamer trunks, bicycles, and motorcycles, but also paid steerage—heavy packages headed for the South at cheaper prices than UPS.
These baggage compartments were surrounded by wire mesh. The walking corridor veered away from the middle and ran to the east of the train, alongside the compartments.
Normally, these cars are locked, accessible only to conductors or AMTRAK workers. However, apparently “Emily Elliot”—and Camden doubted now that was her real name—had already planned out her strategy well, picking the lock on the door, because it came open immediately upon her first tug.
“Right,” she said, after rolling the door open. She made a gesture with her coat. “Be a good fellow and get yourself in there!”
Jake obeyed and the woman followed.
Keeping an eye on him, she reached back and rolled the heavy door shut. No mean trick, that, and it showed that she was quite well-muscled.
This was no ordinary woman, no question about that, thought Jake Camden.
“How did you find me?” he asked in a normal voice. She did not object, and why would she? Nobody was back here, nobody could hear them—they might as well have been in another state now.
“It was easy enough to establish what sort of car you and your deceased friend were driving.”
“You followed it? You mean you’ve been on the train since New Haven?”
“Of course not. There are such things as radio and telecommunications, ducky. And the people I work for have particularly sophisticated equipment, I must say—along with a superior group of personnel.”
“Including yourself.”
“You catch on. No, I must say you were quite clever, you and your friend, to get into that house and get directly to the most vulnerable spot... A spot, I confess, I did not even anticipate. Perhaps if he had cared to fill me in on its existence, poor Maximillian would be alive now. Oh, well, no great loss. I was not overly impressed with him, little as I knew him.”
“He kind of grew on you. Like mold.”
“Ah, your vulgar humor returns, Jake. Excellent. No, to answer your question—no, I did not follow you; I got onto this train in New York City, after being alerted to your presence here by the network. You see, although my employers are not quite sure exactly what you were able to steal, they are rather certain it’s extremely damning to their cause. And I rather gather from your attachment to that bag there, that this is what I’m seeking. Might I have a look, please?”
The baggage compartments were lit, but not brightly. Low-watt bulbs lined the wall in sconces, giving off just enough light to navigate by, but hardly enough to read by. Nonetheless, Jake knew that it would be sufficient illumination to divine the nature of the folder’s contents.
He didn’t know what else to do but hoist up the bag and give the file to her.
Until his total desperation gave him an idea.
He was in the middle of unzipping the pack when it came to him with such instantaneous power that he acted as soon as it came into his mind.
“Look if you want to, but you’ll have to do it yourself.”
Jake simply heaved the bag off to the left. It hit the side of the car and dropped onto the floor.
Because it was not a direct att
ack upon her, Emily Elliot did not fire the gun. Rather, she did exactly what Jake instinctively knew she would do: surprised by his action, her eyes followed the path of the sack.
She was distracted just long enough for him to reach out with his left hand, grab the hand with the gun, and push it aside. He stepped in and, again instinctively and from desperation born of the need for self-preservation, slammed a hard right directly into the side of her face.
Jake was not a small man and Emily Elliot was not a large woman, and so, even though the blow wasn’t skilled, it was powerful enough to blast her against the side of the compartment. She loosed her grip upon the gun, and Jake was able to knock it from her grasp.
The gun skittered away, under the gap between the wire mesh and the floor, into the shadows.
Jake pulled back to give her another blow, but the woman had already recovered. The next thing Jake knew he was being pummeled by a series of chops and blows and thumps so quick his teeth seemed to rattle and his eyes seemed half-knocked from their orbs. He tried to fend off this attack, but it seemed to be coming from every direction. Splashes of lightning and stars cascaded in his head. He tasted blood in his mouth. He felt as though he were stuck in the middle of a Chinese Kung Fu movie as a punching bag.
Defense no good and consciousness at a premium, he could do nothing but hurl himself at her with all his might. Again, the move surprised her sufficiently that she was off-guard. He pushed her hard against the wall. There was an expulsion of breath, and a groan, and wilting.
Jake reached down for the bag. He grabbed the handle.
She exploded upward like a lit stick of dynamite, crashing into him again, hurtling him back against the car side.
Something large and metallic jammed into his back, hard and painfully.
But then Jake felt it give, felt the roll of wheels, the roar of the wind streaking greedily inward.
The door... He’d opened the door.
And he began to fall out.
Jake grabbed the stable side of the door and pulled back with all his might, letting his feet slip out from beneath him to avoid the woman’s blows. But now she began to kick him...
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 106