Jeffrey pulled out his pocket watch and flipped the cover open. He read the time and scratched his chin. He put the watch away, and then he turned to Sylvester.
“I was wondering,” he called out, “what did you do before this?”
Sylvester could barely hear the young man over the rumble of the train. He called back, “What’d you say, boy?”
“I said—what did you do before this? For work, I mean?” When Sylvester didn’t respond, Jeffrey pointed to his tasseled blue hat and added, “Were you in the cavalry?”
Sylvester winced. “Yep.”
Jeffrey nodded, as if Sylvester had said something profound. Then he bent down and unstrung his gunny sack. The gesture was slow and natural. He carefully pulled it open, then rooted around inside.
“Well,” Jeffrey went on, “it’s a little faded, ain’t it? Looks like it’s seen some years. What’ve you been doing in the meanwhile?”
Normally, Sylvester wouldn’t have said anything, or else he’d advise the young busybody to hold his tongue. But few men had the gall to ask Sylvester a question. The commute to Phoenix was long and dull, and turning a cold shoulder now meant hours of silence.
“Private work,” he answered.
“Like this?”
“You could say that.”
“Ever killed anybody?”
Sylvester furrowed his brow. The question was so earnest, casual, as if Jeffrey were inquiring about the weather. Of all curiosities, Jeffrey had asked about Sylvester’s most personal achievement. The giant found himself deep in thought. He even smirked.
“Lots of times,” Sylvester answered.
Jeffrey nodded again. He finally found what he was looking for, and he yanked a dark object out of the sack. He stood straight, letting the black item jiggle in his hands. He pressed it against his stomach.
“Was it hard?”
Somehow, Sylvester enjoyed this moment of introspection. He wondered when he had last traded small-talk with another man. The interview flattered him, triggering years of memories. He couldn’t help but answer honestly.
“The first time,” he said, “I killed me a Comanche brave. I was out of bullets, so I had to use a knife. And even when I pinned him down and pushed that blade into his heart, I knew I was sending him somewhere I’d never been. Strange to think of it. His spirit’s in that other place, and all because of my own handiwork.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Second one was easier. After a while, it gets real easy. You get a taste for it. You even get to liking it.”
Jeffrey squinted. His eyelids were so low that he looked almost asleep. But then he grinned. A knowing grin. All of a sudden, Sylvester thought he looked older. Sadder. More man than boy.
“That’s funny,” said Jeffrey. “I feel the same way.”
Quick as lightning, he flung the dark object over his head. It flopped easily into place, and for a moment Sylvester was enthralled by the thing he saw—a painted skull.
Perhaps he even recognized the headgear as a gas mask.
Perhaps his old reflexes could have kicked in, forcing him to grab his gun and fire. Fear could have saved him, just then.
But he didn’t move. He just stood there, transfixed.
Jeffrey flung his cloth grenade at the floor.
The last thing Sylvester saw was the flash of its explosion. Red smoke burst everywhere. The death’s head vanished into that scarlet cloud. Sylvester could see nothing, not even the crates stacked around him. His mouth and nostrils flared. His exposed hands felt a vicious burning. Sylvester’s body rebelled against him; he doubled over, retching into the floor. With every breath, he felt fire in his lungs. He covered his mouth with his forearm, and then he opened his eyes. But he saw nothing, not even true darkness.
“I wonder,” came Jeffrey’s muffled voice, “how easy it was to kill my father. When you hanged him from that tree.”
Sylvester tried to scream every oath he knew, but his vocal chords made no sound. Instead he tasted a wellspring of metallic juice. Blood spurted from his open mouth. Sylvester heard it splash against the floorboards.
“I wonder,” came the voice, above him now, “how easy it was to violate my sister. To beat my brothers nearly senseless. To tell us, ‘My name’s Sylvester J. Kyd, and don’t you ever forget who done this.’”
Sylvester felt the gun vanish from his holster. Disarmed in an instant. He was powerless to prevent it. As if the weapon had vaporized into the powdery air.
“Well, I didn’t forget,” Jeffrey thundered. “And I’ll hand it to you—it does get easier, when the killing’s right. Times like this, I come to enjoy myself.”
Yet it was not a bullet that Sylvester felt. It was an arm, thrown around his neck. Sylvester’s beard softened the grapple, but his slim attacker was shockingly strong. Sylvester wheezed and sputtered.
Then he felt steel. A knife blade. Sinking into his forehead. It angled upward. It sliced the flesh with ease. Sylvester’s hat fell away, followed by a flap of skin. Sylvester felt the cold nakedness of his opened head. He felt the bundle of hair, sheared away. The airborne spice sank in, mixing with exposed tissue. Sylvester wanted to shriek. He wanted to beg for death. But he couldn’t make a sound.
Jeffrey released him. The cavalryman crumpled in a ball. He twisted and flailed. He was blind, mute, debilitated. There was nothing left to do but wait for death. It did not come soon enough.
The boxcar was unusual. There were no sliding doors in the middle, like most. Instead, there were two doors on either end, like a passenger car. The yardmen always grumbled about it, because they struggled to carry shipments through the narrow openings. But they had to admit, such cars were hard to break into.
Jeffrey pulled the latch. The door swung inward, and Jeffrey felt a warm breeze whip around him. The coal car emerged, directly in front of him. Beyond that, the locomotive chugged along, pulling the train forward.
The red cloud burst from the car, diffusing in the open air. Jeffrey watched the powder rush past his body, eager to escape. He would have to move fast, now; the strange sight of red smoke might alert the engineer. He grabbed the wall of the coal car and heaved himself upward. He briefly noted the tracks racing beneath him at deadly speeds. He knew the risks; if he lost his grip, he’d tumble under the train and be ripped apart by a dozen flanged wheels.
Jeffrey vaulted himself into the coal car. The dark chunks ground beneath his boots. He moved on all fours, cat-like, his gloves blackening. The coal shifted awkwardly as he shimmied across the carbon mound. Hot wind washed over his sweat-soaked back. The noise of the train was deafening, even through his mask.
Jeffrey reached the middle of the pile and fell on his stomach. His limbs splayed across the coal, flattening his body. He waited there, head turned sideways, praying he hadn’t been spotted.
He counted to ten. Then he raised his head, peering over the steel wall. He could see the locomotive, its smokestack ejaculating black clouds into the sky. Through the rear opening, he saw the cab—its metal frame, its pipes and dials and valves. Two men stood there, facing away. The conductor and his assistant. Both men wore plain uniforms. The pale blue cotton was streaked with black. The two men gazed through the front window, toward the oncoming track. Unknowing. Oblivious.
Jeffrey drew both pistols. He propped himself on his elbows and raised the barrels. He closed one eye, then the other, lining up the sites. Each gun pointed at a separate head. The ground shook; the airstream whistled. But Jeffrey held his weapons steady.
He pulled both triggers. The barrels puffed with smoke. Sparks flew. The two men jolted. Their necks split open, like dark roses. They each fell sideways, vanishing beneath the steel frame.
Should’ve hired better men, Jeffrey thought, rising to his feet. He reached the other end of the coal car and hopped easily into the locomotive. Now he was here. He was standing in the cab. Two corpses lay at his feet. The many dials and knobs lay before him, eager for his touch. Bits of coal were scattered on the floor. The round ov
en door was open, and devilish heat emanated from its flames.
Jeffrey pulled a switch. Brakes squealed beneath him. He jostled inside the cab, nearly stumbling against the oven. Everything slowed. One second, the scenery was fast-moving; a second later, it crawled. Even the huffing of the smokestack lowered in tone.
Now the train eased down the track, no faster than a hearse. Jeffrey glanced over his shoulder, ensuring the coast was clear. This train had two boxcars; in the second car, there were three Paddington men. Alive and threatening. They might not care that the train had slowed. They might not have heard the gunshots. They were drunks and reprobates, after all. But Jeffrey couldn’t be too sure. Sometimes these kinds of men got brave. And that was the last thing Jeffrey needed.
He looked down the ravine and smiled. There, about a half-mile down the line, was the massive rock. Cut in half, flanked by railroad tracks, but just as resplendent as ever. In a few minutes, the train would reach the Doorway. The Haynes family reunion was about to begin.
All at once, Elizabeth heard a rumble. Quiet at first, nearly imperceptible.
Is that it? she thought doubtfully. Or am I hearing things?
The rumble grew louder. Elizabeth looked down the railway, toward the curving cliffs. It was so hard to tell, in the endless expanses. Sound bounced and echoed in such unexpected ways, here in the desert.
Then she heard it—a squeal. Locomotive brakes. Unmistakable.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “They’re here.”
No one saw the little crystal. It lay on the very nose on the train, stuck to the steel frame with a blot of tar. The shard was so small, and there were no human eyes to notice it. Even Jeffrey, who had stuck it there the previous morning, couldn’t see the transparent rock from where he stood inside the engine. He hadn’t even had time to double-check; as far as he knew, the stone was gone. Anyone could have wandered through that depot, at any hour of the day, and stripped the quartz from its perch.
But as the train approached the Doorway, and the vast disc of stone loomed above the locomotive, and Jeffrey squeezed the brake just enough to keep the engine moving, the crystal changed in color. An unnatural white glint. A refraction of light. If there had been anyone to watch, the stone would have seemed to awaken in that moment.
And then, it vanished.
A stone shot out of the wall. A tiny crystal. It dropped out of the rock face, as if tossed from an invisible hand. The crystal struck the ground, landing a few feet from Holly’s boot.
“That’s it!” she cried. “There’s the signal! Go! Go!”
The three siblings launched forward. Holly felt her pendant swing across her clavicle. As she moved, the sensation overtook her—
—a tingling through her body. A lightness in her mind. Like dipping into a natural spring. Floating in steamy waters. Weightless and serene. She never touched the wall. The rock face melted away. The air shifted, then the light. No time, no space. Holly relaxed into the nothingness. She felt no fear. No love. No thoughts. Nothing mattered—here or there, this side or that side, alive or not alive. Only emptiness in between, the pleasure of being nowhere at all.
She stepped onto floorboards.
Through the eyelets of her gas mask, she saw a long and narrow room. Crates and barrels. Four walls and a ceiling.
She was standing inside a box car.
Men appeared before her. Three in all. They stood against the walls. They peered through narrow slits. Trying to see something outside the car. The room was dim. Bars of sunlight slashed across the men’s faces.
They all turned. They saw Holly. A masked figure, suddenly standing before them. A black outfit. A skull. Their faces swelled with terror. One shook his head in disbelief. Another scrambled for his gun.
Holly pulled her trigger. Her palm slammed down against the hammer. She cocked and fired, cocked and fired. Bullets tore through the first man, then the second and third. One held out a hand, trying to protect himself. He watched his own ring finger blast off at the knuckle. All three Paddington men collapsed on the floor.
Holly felt the throb of the train. She turned and saw the twins behind her. They stood there, dumbfounded. They had aimed their weapons too late. The killing was done. The second boxcar was theirs.
Chapter 19
Elizabeth peered over the top of the boulder. She lifted her binoculars to her eyes and let out a tense exhale. A half-mile away, the train trundled down the line, growing larger in her field of vision. Smoke drizzled out of its chimney.
“I never thought I’d say this,” muttered Robins, “but I sure hope somebody just shanghaied that train.”
For an instant, Elizabeth felt queasy with doubt. What if this was all wrong? What if her theory was as preposterous as Sparrow thought? Elizabeth was accustomed to operating outside the law. How many times had she fled a bloody situation the moment it became a crime scene? But Robins had no such recourse. A lawman was the law. And if her hunch was wrong, she would drag him into a whirlpool of trouble. She had to be right.
The train advanced slowly, as if it were pulling into a crowded station. As it grew, Elizabeth saw no sign of violence. She heard no screams. She saw no bodies flung from open doors. She glowered into her binoculars. There were no faces, no movements, no trace of human life.
And then she spotted it: a wisp of red. The color was faint, like the smoke from a doused candle. But she could see it, clear as day, escaping through the doorway of the first boxcar. She slapped Robins’ arm excitedly.
“This is it!” she exclaimed. “This is it!”
Robins heard he cue. He slid down the boulder and knelt before the detonator. He took the handle in both hands.
“Hold,” intoned Elizabeth.
The train curved with the track. Elizabeth saw its cattle catcher. She saw the boiler, the wheels, the cranks that pumped the vehicle forward. The machine barreled nearer, and she could see the seams in its construction, the rows of rivets, the water pump, the bell, and the tiny whistle.
“Hold…”
The train was so close, now. The engine seemed to pick up speed. In a few more seconds, it would be too late.
“Now!”
Elizabeth skidded down the back of the boulder. She folded into a ball. She jammed fingers into her ears.
Robins pushed down his handle.
A blast.
Huge. Ear-splitting.
The ground shook. A seismic vibration. A shockwave rattled Elizabeth’s bones.
But she only waited a second. Elizabeth scrambled back up the rock, just in time to see a geyser of dirt and debris. It hung in the air, all that black silt, all those chunks of wood. When it all descended, dark billows crowned the blast site.
Elizabeth heard the scream of brakes. The wheels locked. The locomotive skidded on the track; the two boxcars slammed against each other. Cubic tons of machinery were held back in that moment, the velocity broken. The train clambered to a halt, just a hundred or so feet before the smoldering crater.
“The second one!” Elizabeth cried.
Robins shifted to his right, where he found another small box with a stick. A second detonator. He groped the handle, closed his eyes, and pushed.
A second blast. Farther up the line. Another dark plume rose into the air. Shrapnel rained down, pelting the earth.
Elizabeth scanned the scene—the second detonation was as flawless as the first. But this one came from the other side of the train, some distance behind the second boxcar.
The work was done. The tracks were severed in two places. There was nowhere for the stalled locomotive to go. Backward or forward, the train, as well as all the crew aboard, were trapped.
Elizabeth waited. The last echoes dwindled in the distance. An eerie silence. The land was still. The hawk had flown, leaving a vacant sky. No one stirred inside the train. The high morning sun had erased all shadows. The scene looked like a painted photograph, frozen forever in place.
Something flew from the train. A tiny object.
Elizabeth knew what it was. She had waited for this moment. Before that tiny missile hit the earth, Elizabeth was already reaching for her gas mask. She pulled the apparatus over her face, just as the object burst. There was a flash. Just like Robins described it—the same red mist, diffusing in the air. Thick and free and deadly. Elizabeth stuffed her hands into her gloves, concealing every inch of her wrists.
Another object, another flash. A third, a sixth.
They vomited powder. The clouds spread menacingly. They merged and coalesced. They rose higher, extended wider. The cloud blanked out the train cars, then the locomotive. The whole ravine was lost in that cherry-colored smokescreen.
Elizabeth reared up, ready to charge. But Robins threw himself forward, tackling her. He dragged her back behind the boulder. Elizabeth wriggled, confused. But then she heard the gunfire.
Two machine guns rattled simultaneously, flailing bullets in every direction. They slashed the air, embedded in the soil, pinged off rocks, tore cacti to shreds. When one stopped, the other continued. The landscape was tattered, torn apart by vicious discharge. When a gun paused, it was only long enough to replace an ammunition belt. The shooting was aimless. This was the sound of indiscriminate hate. Desperation incarnate.
They’ll never be taken alive, Elizabeth thought with gritted teeth. This is their last stand. Or else it’s ours.
The gunfire petered out. A bleak new silence. Elizabeth stifled a cough beneath her mask. She rolled against the boulder, not daring to glance over its top. She could still see Robins, but just barely. The mist was everywhere, now, leaving a sawdust-like sheet over their pant-legs and sleeves.
She heard a door open. A click, then a slam. Muffled voices snapped at each other. Angry. Frantic. Elizabeth could sense them leaving the train, spreading out in the impenetrable fog. Somewhere out there, men were on the move, guns drawn, ready to pick off whatever was left alive.
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