The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  After a minute or so, the man across from her nodded over his shoulder and said, “Must be quite a sight.” He, too, was in his mid-thirties, an eager grin on his face. “The uniform, I mean. Must be quite a sight all in a row.”

  “Yes,” she said distractedly, her peripheral vision intent on the rest of the car.

  “Not the most original, but respectable.”

  Sarah smiled again.

  “You must be wondering what this is all about?”

  This time, she merely raised her eyebrows before looking down the aisle as if for a friend.

  “We’re the Savoy Singers.” He pressed on, undeterred by her less than subtle brush-off. “Gilbert and Sullivan. You know, Pirates of Penzance, Pinafore. We do concerts, clubs, that sort of thing. Big one tonight.”

  “Pinafore.” She nodded out of kindness, her thoughts still elsewhere, although she did remember a performance years ago, a tinny soprano voice that had required several trips to an open bar. “Something about sisters and cousins?” she added offhandedly, instantly sorry for having shown even the slightest bit of interest.

  The man’s face lit up. “Sisters, cousins, and aunts,” he corrected, at once breaking into song. “‘And we are his sisters, and his cousins and his aunts,/’” the two others in the foursome immediately joined in: “‘His sisters and his cousins / Whom he reckons up by dozens / And his aunts.’” Without so much as a pause, the man with the crossword jumped to his feet and in a deeply felt baritone poured forth with “‘For he is an English man.’” A moment later, three-quarters of the cabin were on their feet, swaying to the train’s steady rhythm and chiming in with the chorus in full glee. “‘For he himself has said it / and it’s greatly to his credit / that he is an Englishman, that he i-s a-n E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-Englishman.’” Sitting quietly, Sarah tried her best at a smile, wondering how wise a choice the seat had been, vantage point or not. A moment later, the cabin burst into great waves of laughter as everyone retook their seats, another chorus—this one an ode to poetry, as far as she could tell—picking up where Pinafore had left off. Remembering there were some ten to twelve operettas in the canon, Sarah knew she was in for a long ride.

  It was only then, as she was settling back into her chair, that she noticed one of Pritchard’s associates at the far end of the car, his eyes scanning the passengers as if looking for a seat. The dark suit, the thin black tie. He, too, seemed somewhat perplexed by the regularity of the uniform, less so by the singing, clearly interested only in the few women who, like Sarah, had inadvertently stumbled into the chorus car. One of those unfortunate few had evidently had enough and was politely disentangling herself from another foursome halfway down the cabin, her smile one of relief as she moved past Pritchard’s man on her way to the far door. For a moment, the agent looked as though he might follow, but then decided against it, quick to return to his surveillance. Too short, guessed Sarah. Still, he took the time to make sure. He was being careful. Of course, there was the chance that he wouldn’t recognize her. She remembered him as the one by the car, the one who had stayed too far back to get an accurate picture of her face. And what with her clothes, hair, even the color of her skin thoroughly altered since their last encounter, it seemed unlikely that he would be able to pick her out. Then again, it was those very changes that were now making her so conspicuous among the rest of the tuneful little troupe. He would scrutinize her. That much was clear. Which meant she needed to create a distraction.

  With that in mind, Sarah turned toward the baritone and began to mouth the few words she could make out—always half a beat behind—swaying her head back and forth. Immediately, he nodded in encouragement. As she had anticipated, the movement was enough to draw the agent’s attention. Good, she thought, enjoy the show. Sarah felt his gaze on her face, waited until he had begun to move toward them and then, very slowly, began to spread her legs. The short skirt inched up her thighs. Soon, her knees were far enough apart to offer a generous view of the upper leg and beyond for any interested parties. And Pritchard’s man was interested. From the corner of her eye, she saw him stop, his glance drift downward, his eyes eagerly begin to trace along the curve of her inner thigh, ever upward, enrapt by her flesh and panties for several long moments. Sarah waited, allowing him to indulge his appetite.

  And then, without warning, she abruptly pulled her knees together. Her eyes were already locked on his, her expression one of shock and reproach—the wounded female having caught her violator in the act. His response was all too predictable. His face flushed, his eyes darted about before he offered a feeble smile and turned. A moment later, he was retreating in awkward haste, his hands digging into the seats for support. Sarah watched him sway from side to side, certain that, even now, he was trying to force her face from his mind. What else could he do? He had felt only the humiliation, had seen only the accusation in her eyes, not the woman behind them. And for that reason alone, she knew he would not return. He could not allow himself to believe she had been the woman he sought. His ego would never permit it.

  Before Pritchard’s agent had slipped from sight, the door to her left suddenly flew open, the sound of wheels and wind bellowing through to drown out the choristers. Looking up, Sarah nearly flinched. There, standing less than three feet from her was the stocky escort from Tieg’s cellar, the man who had led her to the ramp some ten hours ago. Tieg? She stared in utter disbelief, her momentary triumph over Pritchard all but forgotten. The man had stopped and was looking straight ahead, undistracted by the resurgence of music. Sarah inched closer to her singing partner, an attempt to obscure the man’s view should he turn, but his gaze remained on the aisle, his eyes fixed on something farther down the car. Unlike his predecessor, he showed no need to scan the seats. Somewhere beyond her view, he had targeted his prey.

  Very quietly, Sarah sat back, puzzled less by his appearance than by the message his expression conveyed—he was not looking for her. That much was clear. In fact, it seemed as though he might not even be aware that she was on the train. Then what was he doing here? A rather disturbing thought sprang to mind. Pritchard’s boy. But why? Before she could speculate, Tieg’s man was already halfway to the far door. Sarah slowly got up. Without so much as a nod of good-bye, she began to follow.

  Keeping well back, she trailed Tieg’s man through the next three cars, at each successive door staying far enough behind so as to see him stop, size up his quarry, and then move on, never close enough, though, to catch sight of the prey herself. Only when she dared to narrow the distance between them did she finally discover whom he was tailing—Eager Eyes. Granted, Pritchard’s man was the only logical choice, but the question remained: Whose logic? Why would he be showing even the slightest interest in the boy from Washington? Why be aware of him at all? Insecure channels aside, the target made no sense. She knew they would have been after her. Should have been after her.

  The questions quickly slipped from her mind as the strange game of cat, mouse, and cat began to pick up, the ensuing minutes transforming Sarah from hunted into hunter. Gliding down the aisles, she could feel her heartbeat quicken, her senses grow more acute—textures, sights, smells—everything on the train pass with an amplified clarity. And with that intensity came a sense of relief. For the first time in weeks, perhaps years, she felt in control, the voices within momentarily at peace. The chase—so simple, so much a part of herself. For three cars, she kept both men within eyeshot until, nearing the fourth, she was forced to stop on the small ledge between cars. Pritchard’s man had found his two comrades, the three in hushed conference midway through the cabin. Tieg’s man had likewise been forced to stop, taking the first available seat before pulling a small radio from his jacket pocket, his eyes never once straying from the trio. Meanwhile, Sarah had stepped into the shadows of the open-air vestibule, her reflection eclipsed within the glare of the sun-glazed window.

  The three from Washington remained surprisingly unaware of the dual surveillance, each clearly wrapped up in his o
wn inability to locate their common target. As Sarah had expected, her voyeur showed no signs of recounting his recent misadventure, shaking his head and shrugging along with the others, his failure, so it seemed, as complete as their own. It was only when all three seemed to stop simultaneously that Sarah realized they had not been explaining their exploits to one another. Instead, they were listening intently, their joint focus on the seat directly to their left. It was then that she noticed the shock of gray hair rising above the headrest, the familiar coat draping out into the aisle. Pritchard. He, too, was evidently less than pleased, his fingers darting above the seat to punctuate each of his frustrations. One point was clear. He had taken an interest in her—a very personal interest—and one that was forcing him to play an active role in an arena he understood only in the abstract. So why was he taking the chance?

  Pritchard stood, his tirade ended, his expression one of disappointment, perhaps even irritation, but never without the arrogance, never at a loss for the presumption. He would lead them on a sweep of the train—his posture said as much as he moved down the aisle. Until he suddenly stopped. For a frightening moment, Sarah thought he had seen her through the glass, but his eyes told her otherwise. It was Tieg’s man who held his attention, not her. Both men stared at each other, Pritchard frozen, his cheeks ashen in a flash of shocked recognition. A palpable fear began to wash across his face. Fear? She had never once seen even the slightest trace of emotion penetrate those stony eyes. Now, she saw terror, a wave of real panic rise up to stifle all motion. Gazing into his weathered face, she tried to understand, tried to answer her own confusion, but she could find nothing. For several seconds, she felt trapped by his gaze, floating in an absolute stillness, until, quite accidentally, she let her brow graze across the glass—its chill enough to release her from her stupor. And in that moment, in that instant of clarity, she sensed it—the truth, distant at first, but there in all its incongruity. He was a part of it, a part of the madness. Pritchard had given himself to the men of Eisenreich. And somehow, he had betrayed that trust.

  That was why Tieg’s men were here. As Pritchard had traced her, so they had traced him. She wondered how long they had been looking for him, not bothering to question her own good fortune at having avoided the trap.

  Pritchard stepped back, inadvertently bumping into one of his agents. The man awkwardly moved aside, unclear as to the sudden change of direction. But there was to be no change. George—Sarah’s erstwhile chauffeur—had arrived at the far door to discourage any further thoughts of escape. Evidently, they knew how to keep options to a minimum as well. Pritchard turned again, and for a few long seconds simply stood gazing down the aisle. Very slowly, he sank to the nearest armrest. His three minions, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware of what was happening around them. They continued to watch as Pritchard steadied himself against the seat, each exchanging a bewildered look before the pieces began to drop into place. But it was too late. Tieg’s men had already drawn near, their hands wedged deep within their coat pockets, the first with his mouth to the radio once again. He began to nod. Only then did Sarah realize what he was doing. He was calling for backup.

  She quickly glanced through the window behind her and saw several large bodies approaching down the aisle. Stepping from the shadows, she very calmly pulled back the door and entered the cabin, heading straight for them. She kept her head up. None seemed to recognize her, the first slowing as she sidled into a vacant space so as to let them pass. Each nodded his thanks, the last of the four even offering a smile before moving past her and leaving the aisle free. She stepped out and continued to walk away from them, her gait casual, until she heard the door click shut behind her. They were through. She could turn. As if having forgotten something, she let out an audible sigh and spun around. None of the other passengers seemed to take any notice. Half a minute later, she was back at her perch, the scene within completely different. The men from Eisenreich had surrounded Pritchard and his cohorts, cleverly enough so that only someone looking for it would have recognized the tactic as encirclement. Those on the outer ring kept one hand within the folds of their jackets. Likewise, the men inside had clearly been instructed to keep their hands visible, jackets open, eyes on the ground. As Sarah scanned the inner three, she noticed that one of them had not given in without a struggle. He held his left forearm close to his chest, his limp hand the evident sign of a shattered wrist. The message was clear—no signals, no coordinated attacks, no further attempts to break up the happy little get-together. At center stood Pritchard, eyes shut, defeated.

  “Alderton, two minutes,” the crackled voice penetrated even to the open-air ledge. “Two minutes to Alderton.”

  The train began to slow, a few passengers showing signs of life, several standing in order to retrieve packs and briefcases. Fingers fiddled with buttons; suitcases dropped to the floor. All the while, the group at center remained comfortably detached from the growing activity. Within a minute, the train had pulled into the station, a final screech of brakes to signal the arrival. Doors opened, and the cluster of agents was on the platform, a single unit heading for the stairs at the far end. Sarah pushed open the door and entered the car, maneuvering through the newly boarded passengers, never once taking her eyes from the train’s windows and the group beyond. Sliding into a vacant seat, she watched as the men from Eisenreich led their captives to several waiting sedans, the boys from Washington immediately separated from Pritchard. No doubt, the three would be forced to answer certain questions before meeting their individual fates—a bullet to the head, perhaps a garrote. But all of that would come later. For now, they remained useful.

  Pritchard, however, had lost all such value; he would merit no delays. Even now, as the train pulled out, Sarah knew he was already dead.

  Xander flicked on his lights and tried to concentrate on the center line, the dip and turn of the backwoods road growing less manageable under a spreading dusk. He had been on the road for nearly two hours, the map showing Tempsten another seventy miles on. Five hours ago, he had opted for a bus from the airport, happier to let someone else make the decisions. But the sleep he had wanted had never come, his mind too restless to permit such luxuries. There had been nothing to distract him, no girl with revolver, no unread manuscript. Alone only with his thoughts. Not pleasant. And yet, for a few moments, the prospect of seeing Sarah had managed to ease his mind. He had not asked why.

  Instead, he had left the bus at one of the small towns along the Hudson and had bought a car—a used Rabbit—with the money Feric had left him. Driving as diversion. The dealer had explained that the transmission might need work, the alignment might tug to the right, but Xander knew he wouldn’t be keeping it long enough to find out. It’s sole purpose was to get him to the Sleepy Hollow without drawing attention. No rental decals, and no out-of-state license plates. The dealer had been more than happy with cash.

  Xander had kept to country roads, at first for security’s sake, even though he knew Eisenreich would need several hours to trace the bus, the dealership, and whatever else they could find to ferret him out. Now, as he made his way from town to town, he realized his unconscious mind had been at work as well. Several miles back, he had begun to recognize something of the familiar in his surroundings. It was while passing through the tiny hamlet of Yardley that he had understood why. Somewhere nearby—ten, twenty miles to the west, he couldn’t quite recall—he remembered Mrs. Grier’s, an inn that had been his home for several long weekends during that first winter teaching at Columbia, when he had considered throwing it all in. His writing had been going poorly, his work called outlandish; there had even been talk of terminating his appointment. And, of course, there had been Fiona. Lundsdorf had recommended the three-story house, said it would revive his enthusiasm for the work. And he had been right. The fireplace, the odd assortment of guests at the evening meals, one Carlo Pescatore, slightly more quirky than the rest, but certainly always the most entertaining. An instant friendship. And h
is room on the third floor, a windowed alcove that had helped him to recall how much he cherished his work. Articles, books, notes scattered everywhere. How much a part of himself they would always be.

  And now, fate was being kind again. It was allowing him to remember.

  Other thoughts began to creep in as the sun slipped to the horizon, not the least of which was how far he had let himself stray from what he knew best. From what he loved. Somehow, he had learned to destroy with his hands, deceive with his eyes, grow numb to his own fear and anger, but he knew such weapons had only limited use. Their aim was to keep him alive, nothing more, and he had grown tired of mere survival. Too reliant on them, he had forgotten himself. True, the idealist was gone, but the thinker remained. And if Eisenreich could manipulate ideas so as to wreak havoc, why not he? Why not create a little chaos of his own? It was an idea that had been gaining momentum ever since the purchase of the car. The manuscript, the role of the different spheres, the parallels borne out in the words of Ireton and Rosenberg—these were his resources, his tools to expose and defeat the men of Eisenreich. He knew he had been foolish to look elsewhere for answers, blind not to see how to put them to use.

  It was why he was looking for a place to stop. He was tired, hungry, but, more than that, he needed to put his thoughts to paper. He needed to tie together everything he had seen, everything he had read, so as to create his own weapon. He had few facts, but all the theory, and at this point, he knew it would be enough. The details would come later—the Tempsten Project, the schedule, the linchpin, and whatever else Sarah had discovered. He had to believe that she would have the proof necessary to give the memo conviction. For now, he would create the shell; he would explain in dry academic prose how a sixteenth-century manuscript could translate into a twentieth-century conspiracy. And he would do it with the detachment necessary to lend his thesis credibility. Hypothesis, argument, conclusion—a series of ever-widening assertions, built on evidence, verified through interpretation, all designed to lead to one irrefutable conclusion. An exposé to bring Eisenreich to its knees. It was what he knew, what others would believe.