Derailed

by Jackson Neta

  I took off my shades and we sat down in the opposing seats underneath my unused bunk—how was I going to explain that to Sylvia?

  “You caught me by surprise,” she said quietly, sipping her hot coffee. “I thought you were in a different car.”

  I shrugged. “Asked if I could move. The train whistle was just too loud in that first sleeper.”

  I needed to explore my other theories, especially how she engaged her limo drivers. Was there any chance the cartel had known enough about her trip to mark her for their carrier? I decided to begin on ground that was a little closer to home. “My son said he gave you a ride to the train. Did you ask for him?”

  She tentatively shook her head. “I think he saw my name on that day’s list of pickups and asked for the assignment. Nice of him. Said he’d pick us up when we got back too.”

  Hadn’t expected that. If limo drivers were involved, then the cartel would likely need a dirty driver in Chicago to retrieve the drugs. But . . . my son?

  Grace was still talking. “I really appreciate Estelle, Mr. Bentley. Your wife . . .” Grace hesitated. “She has really helped me face some things spiritually.”

  I chuckled and gazed out the train window, arrested by the dazzling brilliance of the sun shining on the towering red cliffs as we crossed the Arizona–New Mexico border. “Yeah. That sounds like Estelle. She’s a rock, that woman.” As solid and beautiful as the sculpted cliff I was gazing at. But my thoughts spun to the news that Rodney had arranged to pick Grace up in Chicago.

  “Mr. Bentley,” Grace said suddenly, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “How’d you know Estelle was the one—you know, the person you were supposed to marry? The two of you seem to have a very special relationship.”

  I didn’t have to think long on Grace’s question. I smiled and looked back at her, the vision of Estelle’s strong character fresh in my mind. “Because when I’m with Estelle, she makes me feel like a complete person. Like I can be who God wants me to be. She believes in me, even when I don’t believe in myself.”

  I almost missed the tears glistening in Grace’s eyes as she finished her coffee and stood up. “I should probably get my shower. Thanks, Mr. Bentley.”

  I rose and let her out, more certain than ever that Grace was innocent. No conspirator in a high-rolling drug deal could talk so personally about love and life with a police officer if she were guilty.

  But as I slid the door nearly closed, I felt like my legs had been knocked out from under me. Had I been so off in reading Rodney? The idea of my own son arranging to pick up Grace in Chicago made me quake.

  I postponed Sylvia’s curiosity about my unslept-in bed by folding it up out of sight by myself, and when she appeared at my door, I asked if she would bring my breakfast on a tray. So much for the joys of socializing with other passengers. I had a suitcase to watch.

  Even though it was daylight, extra cups of coffee barely kept me awake for the next couple hours, and I was never more pleased to roll into a train station than when we arrived in Albuquerque. Did I dare leave my watch for the full thirty minutes we’d be there while the train was refueled and serviced?

  It was a gamble, but I figured if the mule was going to detrain here, he would’ve retrieved his fortune earlier, when people wouldn’t be coming and going through the vestibule at unpredictable moments.

  “Ah, come on, Corky. I’ll give you a good walk.”

  As I waited in the vestibule while other people detrained for a break at Albuquerque, I could hear Sylvia directing passengers to concession stands nearby that sold Native American art and crafts.

  “Hello there, Mr. Bentley. Comin’ out for a little fresh air? Watch your step now. There’s a stepstool first. Then you’ll be on solid ground.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I stepped down as she positioned herself to help me if I needed it, and took a deep breath of the cool air, turning my face upward. In spite of a few scattered clouds, the warm sunshine felt good. “Can you tell me where to walk my dog?”

  “Certainly, and I’ll bet she’s really ready for one too.” She smiled approvingly at Corky. “Just cross the tracks and go straight ahead to a concrete wall, turn right and follow it until it ends. The yard’ll be down some steps on your left.”

  Asphalt fill at various intervals along the empty tracks indicated where pedestrians and vehicles were supposed to cross, but in a display of my “blindness,” I intentionally headed to the side of one those crossings where I’d have to step down onto the railroad ties, over the rails and ballast, and up on the other side.

  “No, no, Mr. Bentley. Not there. You’re liable to fall.” Sylvia came running up and grabbed my elbow. “Here, let me walk you.”

  I thought I’d performed a good demonstration for her and all the other passengers milling around on the platforms. But as Sylvia led me to the animal relief yard, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Wouldn’t a real guide dog have directed his master away from the open tracks and over the intended crossing?

  Hopefully, no one put two and two together. It seemed to have worked for the moment.

  I had just unsnapped Corky’s D-handle to let her run freely in the yard when a voice behind me said, “Harry Bentley?”

  I turned to see a stocky white man of about fifty leaning casually in the arched doorway of the adjoining building. I drifted his way. He was as bald as I was but sported only a stubbly gray mustache. When he pulled back the edge of his Arizona Cardinals’ warm-up jacket, I saw a gold Amtrak Police shield pinned to his chest and his sidearm holstered on his belt.

  “Detective Conway?”

  He nodded and lifted a tan Home Depot plastic bag toward me.

  “Home Depot, huh?” I chuckled. “That’s pretty clever.” I looked around to make sure no one could overhear us. “No one would guess you were delivering high-tech spy equipment to me in a Home Depot bag.”

  He shrugged. “They wouldn’t have to, ’cause that’s where this came from.”

  “What? What’s in there?”

  “You asked for a motion detector. And ‘Spies-R-Us’ . . .” He snarled the name and made a sinister face with one closed eye like a pirate. “. . . wasn’t open yet.’ So . . . had to make do with Home Depot.”

  “But couldn’t you . . . what about the FBI? Surely they could’ve—”

  “This’ll work, Bentley. Believe me, I’ve tested it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a wireless, remote motion detector, intended for home use, but . . . The receiver plugs into a 110-volt outlet in your compartment. But the detector itself uses double-A batteries—already put ’em in. I also cut off the back mounting bracket so you can stick the thing flat against the wall with the 3M Command Strips I included, sticky on both sides. They should hold it. When the detector broadcasts a radio signal, your receiver will beep. You can adjust its volume loud or soft . . . or turn it off. Simple as that.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else you want? An eight-hundred-dollar price tag? This’ll do the job, and it only cost forty bucks.”

  I looked around to be sure again that no one was observing us, then took the bag. “Thanks. Hope you’re right.”

  Committed as I was to this mission, I felt like throwing up my hands. I’d been expecting to play Agent 007 with real high-tech spy tools. What a comedown. Probably just ego, though. I knew simple was always better. If Conway’s gadget worked, wasn’t it even cooler to catch the mule with a home device anyone could buy?

  As Corky and I climbed the steps back up to the track platform, I slyly checked my watch. We had more than fifteen minutes before the train pulled out, so I wandered down to the concession stands where many of the other passengers were looking at the Native American souvenirs and crafts. At the first table, I noticed some nice placemats with Anasazi designs—the little Kokopelli guy with his flute, leaping antelope, various geometric designs, a scorpion, and a lizard.

  “What do you have that my wife might like?” I asked the guy b
ehind the table. He looked Native American—leathery skin, straight black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  He named several items, including the placemats.

  “Where are the mats you mentioned? Can I feel ’em?” They were, of course, right in front of me. He described each of them as I picked them up to inspect them more closely with my hands. “Nice sturdy woven mats,” I commented, about to purchase a set for Estelle. But when I turned one over, a little tag on the corner read, “Made in China.”

  I nearly snorted. But without indicating that I’d seen anything, I said, “Thanks. Think I’ll keep looking.”

  Never did get anything for Estelle, but once we were underway again, I tested the motion detector several times in my room. Conway was right. It worked like a watchdog, causing my receiver to beep every time anything passed its field of view. One thing worried me, though. Anyone walking down the hallway or going up the stairs would also trigger it. Using an extra sticky strip, I taped on a cardboard shield to restrict the field of view. I only wanted it to watch the small area where the suitcases were stowed.

  We were twenty minutes out of Albuquerque before I ventured out of my compartment to install the detector in the upper corner of the bottom luggage compartment. An average-sized person would have to kneel down to see it up under the edge.

  But would it trigger on the motion I was concerned about?

  For a test, I put my shaving kit on top of Grace’s suitcase as though I’d left it there by accident, then returned to my room to wait with the door open. I turned the receiver down to its lowest volume so only I’d be able to hear when it triggered. I didn’t have to wait long until a woman came down the stairs to use the restrooms.

  “Excuse me . . .” I almost said ma’am. “I think I left my shaving kit out there in the luggage compartment. Do you see a small leather case about so big in there?”

  When she reached in and pulled it out, my receiver emitted a faint beeping that I could barely hear. Thank God, it was working.

  She held up my bag. “You mean this?”

  “I’m sorry.” I got up and went to the door. “I’ll need to check it.” I reached my hand out. When she handed it to me, I felt around it a bit and said, “Yep. That’s it. Thank you so much. You have no idea what a relief that is.” She had no idea at all. After thirty hours of trying to keep my eyes open—I could finally get some sleep.

  I slid my door shut, pulled the curtains, and flopped into my seat. Putting my feet up on the opposing seat’s cushion, I was asleep within five minutes.

  A jerk of the train woke me. We were starting to move again after some stop. I stood up and went over to use my toilet, but for some reason, I first pulled back the curtain to see where we were. The late afternoon sun shining out of the west made me squint. Nearly silhouetted on the top of a hill rising above the buildings of a classic western small town was the town’s name in billboard-sized letters: RATON. To its left, a huge American flag fluttered on a tall pole. What a beautiful sight.

  But as the train gained speed, sliding past a large gravel parking lot between our train and the town, I did a double take. Grace Meredith and her assistant were climbing aboard a shiny new Greyhound bus while the driver threw her luggage into the compartment beneath. The big teal-blue bag I’d been watching so carefully for so many hours landed with a jolt that I felt all the way to the bottom of my stomach.

  Chapter 38

  I dove for my compartment door and slid it open, running out into the hallway without my shades or any attempt to behave like a blind man. I had to get off the train. That large suitcase with $1.5 million of cocaine in it was escaping . . . as was my chance to catch the mule. I couldn’t let that happen.

  Sylvia was in the vestibule, stowing the yellow step stool when I came around the corner to the side door like a wild driver in a destruction derby. “Mr. Bentley! What in the world’s the matter? You ill? What are you doing? No, you can’t open that!” She yanked my hand from the door handle.

  She was a lot stronger than I expected, but I broke free and pulled at the handle again. The door wouldn’t budge. This time she threw her body between me and the door like a Chicago Bears linebacker.

  “Mr. Bentley, stop!” she yelled. “This is an outside door! If you open it and fall out while we’re going forty miles an hour, you’d kill yourself. Now get aholda yourself, man!”

  The door hadn’t budged. I’d forgotten about the big safety “dog latch” at the top corner. But Sylvia was right. We were going far too fast to jump from the train without serious injury. I’d be the one making the six o’clock news if I jumped the train.

  I stopped pulling at the door. In spite of myself, I knew I hadn’t fully blown my cover with Sylvia. In the melee, she’d been telling me this was an outside door, still assuming I couldn’t see.

  “Sorry, sorry.” I stared blankly over her head as we relaxed. “Must’ve gotten disoriented . . . panicked.” I reached out and touched the walls on either side and backed off. I needed to think, maybe call the state police to stop that Greyhound bus. “I’m really sorry, Miss Sylvia. I’ll just go back now. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay. And thank you. Thank you.”

  She was shaken but let me go without asking questions. She’d have a story to tell the other attendants after this.

  As I returned to my compartment, I noticed an envelope on the floor just inside the door. I picked it up and slid the door closed, then returned to my seat to figure out what to do. I opened the envelope absently and pulled out a handwritten note.

  Dear Mr. Bentley,

  Sorry I didn’t have a chance to tell you this personally, but I got a call from my agent in Denver inviting us to stop by Bongo’s offices. Seemed like a good opportunity to catch up and work on future plans, but we had to get off the Chief in Raton, New Mexico, and take a bus up to Denver.

  We’ll spend a day there and catch the California Zephyr home. Get in to Chicago just a day late. Hope all is—

  A crashing erupted out in the hallway, and I could hear hushed, angry voices. Passengers were going to think this sleeper had turned into a madhouse. This time I remembered my shades before opening my door a few inches. Sylvia wasn’t in sight, but a couple of passengers by the luggage compartment were arguing with each other. A young girl, maybe seventeen, with long black hair, was waving her hands and putting her finger to her lips in an attempt to quiet a tall, older guy with spiked blond hair. He was grimacing and swearing in a barely restrained voice, slugging the suitcases on the upper shelves, and kicking those down below.

  “I can’t believe it! It’s gone!” He turned and almost backhanded the girl, but she cowered and slid to the floor. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her back up to her feet as she began to whimper. “Shut up,” he snarled. “Someone’ll hear.”

  Just then the door of one of the compartments beyond slid open, and a woman peeked out with a horrified look on her face.

  “What’re you lookin’ at? Get back in there and mind your own business.”

  The row suspended as if in midair until the woman retreated. Then the man said in a hoarse whisper, “I thought you talked to her.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. She said she was going to Chicago. You gotta believe—”

  “But she didn’t go, did she, and now it’s gone!” he hissed. “They’re gonna kill me, but not before I kill you.” He raised his hand again.

  “No, Max! Please no. Somebody’s gonna hear us.” She put her finger to her lips again. “Come on, come on. We’ll figure something out. I got her number.”

  “What?” He lowered his threatening hand.

  “She gave me her phone number.”

  “In Chicago? You sure?”

  “Yeah. We can still find her there. Number’s up in my purse.”

  “You dumb slut.” He raised his hand for another blow.

  “No, no! Please!” The girl put her arms up to block the blow, and I slid my door all the way open and stepped out, ready to intervene. “Everythi
ng okay out here?”

  “Yeah, yeah. No problem.”

  They stood frozen, and then the girl’s eyes dropped to the floor as if she were embarrassed.

  “Come on.” The guy grabbed the girl’s arm and pushed her ahead of him up the stairs.

  When they were gone, I went out and looked in the luggage compartment, even though I knew the blue suitcase was gone.

  I’d found my mule.

  I returned to my compartment and checked the train schedule. There was almost an hour before our next stop in Trinidad, Colorado, and the mule couldn’t jump from a fast-moving train any easier than I could. Even if he decided to chase his drugs, I had a little time to figure out what to do. Should I follow the drugs or stick with the mule? Surely Trinidad would have a little airport. Maybe I could charter a private plane and catch up with Grace. She’d mentioned the name of her agency in her note, so I could probably find it in Denver, but then I’d have to tell her why I’d tracked her down.

  Still, the situation was near the tipping point where it might be necessary to do that for her safety. Yet the mule didn’t know where she was going—Colorado Springs, Denver, or someplace else—only that she was from Chicago. It wouldn’t benefit him to chase after that Greyhound even if he had a way to do it.

  I needed more information from Grace. I picked up her note again and noticed a P.S. at the end: “If you can, please keep an eye on a young couple in the first coach behind the lounge car. He’s tall, blond, late twenties, name is Max. Ramona’s just a teenager, has dark hair. Something doesn’t feel right. She seems scared. He seems too controlling.”

  That confirmed what I had just seen in the hallway—and reinforced my belief that Grace was innocent. Grace had included her cell phone number in her note and encouraged me to call her. But first, I needed to confirm where my mule and that girl were sitting.