by Tim Dorsey
Ivan and Serge rolled over a couple more times until they came to the edge of the car. Ivan was on top, his hands around Serge’s throat, Serge’s head hanging back over the side of the roof and turning blue. Ivan reached his right hand back and slugged Serge in the face. Then he unsnapped his shoulder holster, pulled out a pistol and pressed it to Serge’s forehead. Serge grabbed it by the barrel and pushed it up; a shot flew into the sky. It became a battle of arm strength, the barrel of the gun slowly moving back down toward Serge’s face.
The train rumbled across the trestles, the vibrating briefcase sliding left and right across the roof. A hand reached down and grabbed it by the handle. The passengers pointed up through the glass at two new feet walking toward the pair of struggling combatants.
Ivan was winning the war of muscles, and the barrel of the gun reached Serge’s face again. Ivan pressed it between his eyes. “You lose.” He began squeezing the trigger.
Wham.
The briefcase slammed into the side of Ivan’s head. He flew off Serge and rolled in disorientation and pain. The gun fell over the side of the train and clanged off bridge beams on the way down.
Suddenly, the air was full of green paper, countless hundred-dollar bills swirling into the sky. Serge and Ivan looked up at the money, then at Sam standing over them, holding the handle of the flapping, empty briefcase. The pair crawled to the side of the car and got down on their stomachs to look over the edge of the train’s roof, watching in shock as the money gently fluttered down to the river and began floating toward the ocean.
They crawled back from the edge of the car and stood up. Serge pointed at the open case still in Sam’s hand. “What’d you do that for?”
“He was going to kill you!”
Serge and Ivan looked at each other and shook their heads. “Women.” They walked to the back of the roof and climbed down the ladder. Wild cheers erupted again as they entered the rear of the dining car. People shook their hands and slapped their backs. The drummer for——walked up. “I couldn’t come through.” He handed Serge forty-three dollars.
The train approached the Okeechobee station. Teresa looked out the window. “We’re not slowing down.”
“What?” said Maria.
“We’re supposed to stop at this depot. We won’t be able to at this speed.”
She was right. The train blew right past the depot and the confused people on the platform.
“Was that supposed to happen?” asked Maria. “Maybe because the mystery program’s sold out?”
“Can’t be,” said Teresa. “They also handle parcels.”
“Do you think something’s wrong with the engineer?”
“We are going faster,” said Teresa.
The women made their way forward. When they got to the back of the engine, they found the train’s staff already on the case. They were trying to radio the engineer, but no answer.
“Why don’t you force your way in?” asked Teresa.
“We can’t,” said one of the staff. “You can only get into the engine from the outside. Prevents interference.”
“What about a backup guy?” said Rebecca. “In case of a heart attack or something?”
“That would be me,” said the staffer.
“But then why aren’t you up there? What are you doing back—”
“Look, I’m already in enough trouble.”
A man and his young son crouched in the woods just before sunset, out where Palm Beach County meets the Everglades. Their eyes focused on the train tracks a few yards away, a tight bend just past the clearing where Pratt & Whitney tests its jet engines. A shiny new Lincoln penny sat on one of the rails.
“Why are we doing this, Daddy?”
“To get a flat penny.”
“What for?”
“Because it’s fun!”
A train whistle blew in the distance. “Here she comes! Get down!”
The pair crouched and waited, the train growing closer. It was in sight before they knew it, nothing but a blur as it entered the bend and hit the penny. There was a harsh grinding of metal. The father and son watched in astonishment as The Silver Stingray jumped the tracks and twenty cars jackknifed down the embankment toward the swamp.
“Daddy? Did we do that?”
“How’d you like some ice cream?”
38
A half hour after sundown, flashlights split the darkness, wisps of smoke. The crew worked its way through the train lying on its side halfway down the embankment to the swamp. They came to the dining car, but the door was jammed and blocked by twisted metal. The crew banged on it. “Is everyone all right in there?”
“We’re fine,” a passenger yelled back. “Just some scrapes.”
“I think Preston’s dead,” yelled someone else. “But I think he was dead before. We’re not sure.”
“Everyone stay calm.” An emergency generator came on, then backup lights. The car was a mess, but it could have been much worse.
“Yep, we’re sure now,” the passenger yelled again. “Preston’s really dead.”
“Did you poke him?” yelled the crew member.
“Twice.”
“Stay put,” he shouted. “We’ll get you out, but it’s going to take a while. We have to cut through some big pieces of metal out here, and we only have a hacksaw.”
“What about the authorities? Won’t they send someone when we don’t show up?”
“Sure,” yelled the crew member. “But the remoteness of our location and the trickiness of the terrain complicate it a little. Also, we don’t really have an excellent on-time record, so they might not notice for a few more hours. But immediately after that, they’ll be right here.”
A naked, sobbing book critic from Miami wrapped herself in a towel and ran from the sleeping compartment to the dining car, followed by Johnny Vegas. “What’s the matter, baby? It’s just a little derailment.”
The train lurched a few feet as soil gave way on the embankment; passengers fell over. It was still again. People uprighted chairs in the diner and sat down on the left wall, bracing for a long wait.
“Nobody leave this car!”
They looked up. Serge strolled through the wreckage in his burgundy smoking jacket. He stopped next to Preston’s body.
“Someone murdered this man!” He turned around slowly. “And that someone is still in this room!”
The crew member banged on the door again. “I heard shouting. What’s going on in there?”
“Someone’s trying to solve a mystery,” yelled a passenger.
“Jesus! We just derailed! Don’t you people know when to quit!”
Serge paced and scanned faces. “Preston had accumulated quite an impressive list of enemies…”
“You!” he yelled, spinning and pointing at Dee Dee Lowenstein, holding a fruit hat in her lap. “Dozens of people heard you threaten Preston’s life.”
“I didn’t mean it. It was just a stupid banana.”
“You had motive and opportunity. People saw you near Preston when we went in the tunnel…. But you weren’t the only one.” Serge resumed pacing, looking people in the eye. He spun again.
“You’re the one they call Spider! He humiliated you time and time again!…And you, Frankie Chan. He almost got you killed in Bridgeport!”
“But we didn’t murder him!”
Serge nodded thoughtfully. He took a few more steps and stopped in front of the BBB.
“What are you looking at us for?” said Sam.
“You know why. You all know why,” said Serge.
“What are you talking about?”
“The brochure for the mystery train that first got you interested in the trip—the name of one of the celebrity guests caught your attention.”
Teresa nodded. “Ralph Krunkleton. We love his books.”
“That’s what you’d like us to believe,” said Serge, then raised his voice dramatically: “But in fact the person you came to see was not Ralph Krunkleton at all, but Preston Lancas
ter!”
The women recoiled in their seats.
“Why would we want to see him?” said Maria.
“Because he got all of you pregnant at the University of Florida twenty-five years ago before fleeing to Nevada. Isn’t that true!”
The women were speechless.
“That’s how all of you got together in the first place!” said Serge. “It’s the common factor that explains why a club would consist of such completely different—though unquestionably lovely—personalities.”
“That’s crazy!” scoffed Teresa.
“Is it?” said Serge.
“Where’d you get such a ridiculous idea?” said Rebecca.
“Sam talks in her sleep.”
Four heads turned. “Sam!”
“I didn’t know I talked in my sleep.”
“We never intended to kill him!” said Rebecca. “We were just planning to confront him after all these years and embarrass him publicly. Sam wanted to kick him in the nuts, but that was it! I swear!”
“Maybe that was the plan, but when he picked you for hypnosis volunteers, everything went haywire,” said Serge. “You never expected that, did you? But you had to go through with it or he’d get suspicious. And guess what, Rebecca? He did it to you again! You were fit to be tied when you found out about Brad Pitt!”
“But not mad enough to commit murder!”
Serge walked away from the women, back to the center of the car. “So we have a whole roomful of people who had a bone to pick with Preston—all with ample opportunity. The question is, which one of you acted on that opportunity?”
A chorus of denials filled the overturned train car.
The train lurched another foot. Everyone shut up and grabbed something for balance. They waited a moment until they were sure it had stopped.
“All your protests will be moot in a few moments,” said Serge. “I have irrefutable proof as to the identity of the killer.”
Heads looked back and forth; suspicion everywhere. Serge walked to one of the passengers with a camcorder, the same one who had taped the hypnosis show with the BBB.
“May I?” asked Serge.
The man handed over the videocamera.
“You were filming when we went into the tunnel, is that not true?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t filming Preston—I was shooting out the window at the two guys on horseback. Besides, it was completely dark in the tunnel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Serge. “All we need is sound.”
Serge rewound the tape, turned up the volume and hit play. Everyone crowded around and watched the tiny screen.
“Here they come,” said Serge, the Russian and the Jamaican approaching the train on the monitor. “And here’s where they jump to the train…and now the critical part…”
Serge turned the volume way up. “Listen carefully.”
Nobody made a sound; the screen went black.
“…Hic…hic…hic…(Thud).”
Serge turned off the camcorder. “And there you have it!”
Everyone looked puzzled. “There we have what?” said Spider.
“The identity of the killer,” said Serge. “My guess is someone planted a hypnotic suggestion to get rid of his hiccups. He was probably given instructions for his soul to leave his body and take the hiccups with him. He had a heart attack, just like in 1894, when that hypnotist accidentally killed his assistant onstage the same way.”
“That’s right,” said Frankie Chan. “Preston talked about that case all the time back in Reno. He swore it was true.”
Serge addressed the whole car: “Find the person who hypnotized Preston to get rid of his hiccups, and you’ve got your killer.”
“But that was you,” said Frankie. “I heard you. I was sitting right there.”
“I guess that settles it,” said Serge. “It was me.”
“Bullshit,” said Andy. “You can’t hypnotize someone to death!”
“I also sort of broke his neck, just to be careful,” said Serge. “But I’m sure it was the hypnosis. I’m getting pretty good at it.”
The BBB stared at him in disbelief. “But why?” asked Sam.
“Because of what he did to all of you. He was an embarrassment to my gender.”
The train lurched a final time, sliding the last twenty feet into the shallow swamp, tumbling everyone and rupturing a hole in the side of the car. Serge went headfirst into the wall. The BBB ran to help him up.
“Serge, are you okay?” asked Sam.
“Who?”
“Serge. That’s your name.”
“I don’t know any Serge.”
They began to hear helicopters.
“Look at that knot on his forehead,” said Teresa. “He really conked himself.”
“Serge,” said Sam. “Do you know who I am?”
Serge stood up and shook his head.
“We better get that looked at,” said Maria.
“You must have the wrong person,” said Serge.
The helicopters got louder and louder. Then thuds on the top of the car as a National Guard rescue team rappelled down.
Voices outside. “Hold on! We’ll have you out in a second.”
Rebecca touched Serge’s arm. “You need to sit down.”
“Really, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” said Serge, warily backing away from the women. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I have to be going.” And with that, Serge jumped through the ruptured side of the dining car.
“Serge!”
But Serge kept going, deeper and deeper into the swamp.
EPILOGUE
A Greyhound bus cruised down the Florida Keys on a perfect cloudless day. The ride was comfortable on the Overseas Highway. The bus had plenty of air-conditioning, the tinted windows kept out the heat and bright light, and the insulated diesel provided a soothing, rhythmic amniotic hum.
The wino thought the passenger sitting next to him was nice enough, but he sure was different, even by wino standards.
Click, click, click, click.
The passenger lowered his camera from the window. “Excellent day for photography. The polarized filter is giving me killer stuff.”
The wino offered a bottle. “Night Train?”
“No, thanks…. Hey! There’s the Grassy Key Dairy Bar!” The passenger raised his camera again. Click, click, click, click, click. He lowered it. “The Overseas Railroad has been gone many a year, but the concrete arches remain. You can see them at Long Key and elsewhere, still going strong after a century of Florida hurricanes, outliving the critics and their worst predictions for Flagler’s Folly. The trains only ran for twenty-three years, from 1912 to 1935, until an unnamed hurricane dropped a curtain on the works. Then they slapped roads down and built new spans to accommodate more lanes. And now, if you book Amtrak to Key West, you have to get off the train in Miami and take a bus the rest of the way. But imagine what it was like for just a brief period in history. You drive a car over the bridges today, and you sit low on wide bridges with tall railings. But back then, you sat high up in the train, perched naked on the narrow rails with nothing on the sides, just a wide-open view of the sea all around. How precarious and exciting it must have been!…Ooooo, there’s the Brass Monkey Lounge!” Click, click, click.
The wino began to stand, but Serge grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down. “You know, the closest you can get today to that Overseas Railroad experience is what we’re doing right now: riding the Greyhound, way up high, the illusion of no guardrails.” Click, click, click. “Did you know that?”
The wino indicated he hadn’t considered it.
“It’s true,” said Serge. “The place we’re in now is called Marathon. And that’s the Seven-Mile Bridge coming up. The view is spectacular—better than any mind-altering drugs. I should know. They keep trying to get me to take them, but I just tell them, no way José!…”
The wino got up again before Serge could stop him and went up front and told the driver he
would like to get off now.
“Hey, where are you going? I didn’t tell you how it got the name Marathon yet!…It’s because of how long it was taking them to build the…oh, well…Alone again, naturally…” Click, click, click.
Hydraulic brakes wheezed as a Greyhound bus pulled into Key West an hour before sunset, the fading orange light glancing off the silver frame. Passengers carried battered luggage and cardboard boxes into the station. The driver thought the bus was empty until he noticed one last passenger sitting in back, not moving.
The driver walked toward the rear of the bus and looked the man over with concern. The passenger’s eyes were unfocused, staring.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Serge nodded.
“We’re here. We made it to Key West.”
“I know,” said Serge. “I can hear the children, but I can’t see them.”
“Will you get off my bus, already?”
Six months later.
A red Jaguar convertible pulled up the drive of the historic Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. A valet in white shorts ran around to the driver’s side and opened the door for Samantha Bridges.
A red BMW convertible pulled up behind the Jag; Teresa Wellcraft got out. Then a red Mercedes convertible, a red Audi and a red 1962 Corvette. Rebecca Shoals, Maria Conchita and Paige Turner.
The women hugged on the steps of the Mediterranean resort before crossing the lobby for the courtyard.
They set five books on the table and pulled out chairs. Meeting time.
The waiter arrived.
“Strawberry coladas,” said Sam. “Five.”
“Diplomatico rum,” said Maria.
The waiter nodded and left.
Sam patted the cover of her new hardcover. “Did everyone finish it?”
“Imagine that,” said Teresa. “Sam’s a Krunkleton fan.”
“Of course I am. He put us all in the book.”
“I think it’s his best yet,” said Maria.
So did the critics, and Ralph Krunkleton’s career had rocketed into mediocrity with the release of Blender Bender. Ralph turned Sam’s character into an undercover OSS agent, judo-chopping her way through a human jungle of deadly narco-criminals and ex-husbands. Paige became a plucky crusader against the bloody ivory trade in West Africa who is marked for death and overcomes the odds with an unwavering moral code and trusty machine gun. Maria and Teresa teamed up to run a prestigious New York fashion house until their top designer is snuffed by the mob, and they go on a merciless rampage of vengeance and cleavage. Rebecca became a nun with attitude, who finds no sin in hair that holds up under all conditions. Ralph even created cameos for Dee Dee Lowenstein and the other performers from the train, which Tanner Lebos was able to parlay into small but crucial roles in Police Academy Eight and Nine.