by Archer Mayor
Outstanding, Willy thought to himself—almost worth joking about the light at the end of the tunnel. But not quite.
Al Clay arrived shortly thereafter. A tall barrel of a man, his stomach stretching the front of his dark blue uniform coat, he looked as comfortable in his clothes as others do in their pajamas.
Hooper made the introductions as Clay rested his forearms on the back of the engineer’s chair, looking like a sea captain of old, staring beyond the rail of the poop deck.
Willy let them discuss their trade at first and watched as Clay grabbed a phone from the console and spoke to some far-flung dispatcher, probably sitting in Philadelphia. Finally, Keely informed his colleague of the reason behind Willy’s visit.
“These big parts or small ones—that your smuggler was carrying?” Clay asked Willy after the briefing.
“I don’t know that he was a smuggler,” Willy corrected him, “but what I found burned to a crisp in Windsor was about the size of a book.”
“So, backpack-sized.”
“If that’s all he was carrying, yeah. This entire line of inquiry is based on little more than a hunch.”
“You find a ticket stub or something?”
“Don’t I wish. I actually found what I did between the rails, along with three broken teeth.”
Hooper laughed, hearing that, but Clay merely became thoughtful, suggesting, “And that made you think he maybe came off the train—most likely out the rearmost door. It’s a bigger drop than people think.”
It was Willy’s turn to now carefully study Al. “Why so specific? Did you notice something?”
Al nodded. “Yup. When did this happen? Just a few days ago?”
“Yeah.” Willy gave him the precise date, one day before young Abigail Murray made her treasure hunt discovery.
Al reached into his pocket and removed his smartphone, commenting to Keely, “Remember when I held the train at Windsor that day? ’Cause I had a miscount?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“That’s the same day another passenger complained later in the trip about the rear door banging. At the time, I didn’t connect the two. Once in a blue moon, maintenance leaves it open by mistake. Plus, that was after we picked up a sniffer dog detail.”
He turned toward Willy to explain, “Every two months or so, we pick up a patrol of our own people—Amtrak police—who run a dog through the train to smell for bombs or whatever. I thought the unlocked door might’ve been them, by mistake.”
“Can I see it?” Willy asked.
“The door? Sure,” Clay said simply, turning on his heel and gesturing with his hand to follow.
The two of them proceeded single file through the narrow door Hooper had mentioned, along an extremely tight, short corridor through a second door, into an eardrum-shattering chamber as wide as the locomotive and filled with its screaming, clattering, massive, 4,250-horsepower diesel-electric engine. At the end of this area, they reached a center-mounted door that led them to the first car.
Willy was blinking slightly as he emerged into the train’s public section, but Clay, seemingly impervious to the noise they’d left and the gentle swaying beneath them, marched forward like an old tar.
In this fashion, marching by clumps of passengers as settled into their seats as crouching animals harboring from a storm—and surrounded by their belongings, laptops, and small bags of food—Al Clay took Willy to the end of the train.
Only there did he stand aside and indicate the door he’d mentioned with a sweep of one meaty hand. “All you need to do is swing the lever over. It activates like a cam—one hundred eighty degrees—and out you go. No signal, no warning light, nothing.”
Willy checked that they were alone. The only passengers were a couple at the far end of the car. “And when did you notice it was open?”
“It sticks a little, so it stays closed even if it’s unlocked. Like I said, I never saw it was unsecured till that passenger complained. That was long after Windsor.”
“Keely said you keep everyone’s name on your phone,” Willy said leadingly.
Clay pulled it out, as readily as a cop producing his handcuffs—a long-practiced gesture. “Yeah, but we get the name they give us, you know? I don’t have it anymore on this, but I remember it was Samuel Jones, ’cause I kept yelling it as I looked for him, after nobody got off at Windsor. We don’t assign seats on this train, but the name’ll list each passenger’s destination. It happens sometimes, though—when there’s a snag in the system.”
He touched his temple. “Or I mess up somehow. Not often, but I ain’t gettin’ any younger. I finally wrote it off to that. I sure didn’t check this like I should’ve.” He looked at the door accusingly, concluding, “That’s what makes me think you’re probably right: Your guy came off this train, but he did it by jumping off the rear. The good news is that he fucked up and busted his teeth in the process. Revenge is sweet.”
Willy looked baffled. “But why? You said he was ticketed for Windsor. Why jump off and risk breaking your neck when you’re a few hundred feet from the landing?”
Clay shrugged. “You wanna avoid whoever’s waiting for you?”
Willy considered that a moment. “I like it. I’m assuming you wrote a report?”
“Yup. Filed it by end of trip. Never heard anything back.”
“But it’ll tell me where he got on, won’t it?”
“I can tell you that. It’s still in my head. Springfield, Mass.”
* * *
Nick Gargiulo was doing his own analysis of mass transportation, sitting in a parked car within the University of Vermont’s Davis Center oval, facing busy Route 2. He was watching the Middlebury bus unloading its occupants—the one that catered to passengers originating from Albany.
This was the same bus that Jayla Robinson had taken to Burlington a few days earlier. He knew that from flashing her photo around two depots and several drivers, along with a little cash and a counterfeit law enforcement badge Wylie had secured him to help in loosening people’s tongues. Nick knew better than to overexpose them, but the badge and the credentials supporting it bore up under most scrutiny—unless someone contacted the actual issuing agency. Wylie did have his ways of making things happen; Nick would grant him that much.
He worked his door handle and stepped out into the cool, somewhat misty weather. That had been easy enough. Now came the tougher part: either finding her or what she’d stolen in a spread-out, extended metroplex of over 200,000 people.
But how hard could that be, in actual fact? One of the reasons he’d been so successful with this assignment was that, as soon as he’d crossed into Vermont, asking people about sightings of an attractive young black woman had suddenly become a breeze.
He did love this job, and thought his boss was okay at least. And as for the perks? Hey—case in point: He’d been told that if he got ahold of what Jayla Robinson had grabbed, then the girl could be considered disposable.
It was entirely his choice.
CHAPTER NINE
Jayla stepped out of the hair salon and looked up and down Church Street, aptly named for the historic redbrick Unitarian church anchoring its northern end. Church was a pedestrian boulevard in downtown Burlington, closed to traffic, four blocks long, and often teeming with people in search of its cafés, shops, and restaurants, most notably on weekend evenings. It wasn’t too busy now, however, at midday, which made seeing Rachel approaching all the easier.
“Ohmygod,” the latter said, drawing near. “You look totally different. What a great look.”
Jayla was pleased, as she’d been hoping for as big a change as she could reasonably expect. Jared had often commented on her long hair; she was hoping its near complete removal, in favor of something as short as a boy’s, might at least be a step toward anonymity. She remained one of the few black faces in a near snow-white town, but not uniquely so. Her hopes remained strong that the preponderance of college-aged people, Burlington’s well-known extrovert nature, and the unli
kelihood that she would’ve chosen this place to hide in the first place were all in her favor.
“I got a job, too,” she told her new friend as they wandered toward a small café nearby.
“You’re kidding. Boy, you don’t fool around, do you? What did you get?”
Jayla tilted her head, as if slightly embarrassed. “It’s not much. That’s why it was so easy. There’s a clothes store a couple of blocks down. They needed a stock girl. It pays next to nothing, and I’ll probably never know what the weather’s doing outside, but it’s a start.”
“Of course it is,” Rachel said supportively, hesitating before asking, “Are you also going to look at UVM for some courses, like you said?”
“I will, for sure. I think I want to settle down a little first.”
They sat at a small round table outside, enjoying the afternoon sun filtering through the bordering trees, and ordered two coffees. Rachel’s timetable as a grad student and teaching assistant allowed for a scattering of openings in an otherwise eccentric schedule.
It was a magic time of year in Vermont for her—just after the “unlocking” of winter’s grip and the first tentative forays of warm weather and bright sunshine, and just before the same heat became uncomfortable and unleashed the summer’s annual crop of blackflies and mosquitoes.
“Of course,” Rachel said after their server had left, “there’s more than UVM available. Champlain College is good, and St. Mike’s, in Colchester. And there are others.” She laughed. “A lot of people say it’s a hard town to leave ’cause of everything it offers. Course, I’m prejudiced, having lived here my whole life. Where in New York do you come from?”
Jayla had anticipated the question earlier. “Buffalo,” she answered quickly, hoping Rachel didn’t know the place. Certainly Jayla didn’t. She’d thought of it because of its distance from here, and—purely based on its reputation, mostly among comedians—she thought it an unlikely destination.
She got lucky.
“Gosh,” Rachel said. “I’ve never been there. Seems so far from everything.”
Jayla laughed. “Now you know why I’m here.”
“Must’ve been rough, though,” Rachel said, her voice still easygoing. “I mean, you got off the bus with just the clothes on your back.”
Shit, Jayla thought. Here it comes—the inevitable third degree. Mom’s boyfriend was a cop, after all.
She looked down at her hands, conjuring up an expression that was half embarrassed, and half coconspiratorial, before saying in a low voice, “I can trust you, right? I feel I can, seeing what you’ve done for me.”
Rachel matched her tone, leaning in slightly. “Of course.”
“I didn’t really tell you everything. Well, I guess I haven’t told you anything at all, to be honest.”
“I figured you’d pick the right time. I knew something had to be up.”
Jayla nodded, thinking fast to create a story her new friend could easily grasp, but poignant enough to forestall much more prying. “You’re good. Yeah, I had to get out of town. My mom got a new boyfriend, and…” She made sure her voice had a catch in it before finishing, “things started getting a little weird whenever we were alone.”
“Oh, that’s gross,” Rachel said sympathetically.
“I tried telling Mom,” Rachel continued, “but you can figure how that went. We’re not that close—not since my dad died.…” She let the words trail off, aiming for her listener to fill in the blanks.
She wasn’t disappointed.
Rachel reached out and grabbed her hand. “Did he do anything to you?”
Jayla thought again of the mysterious cop hovering over Rachel’s shoulder. “No, that’s why I ran. I could feel it coming. My mom works nights sometimes, whenever she pulls a double shift, and I knew that’s when he was going to make his move. So I just left.”
The waitress returned with their coffees. Rachel patted Jayla’s hand and pulled away to make room. “You were right. But that’s really hard, leaving everything behind.”
Jayla was glad to drift into generalities. “It’s more like a big relief. I’ve been champing at the bit for a while, wanting to travel. I wouldn’t have planned it this way, but—you know—what am I missing? Clothes I can replace, a few friends I wasn’t that close to anymore, a home life that was going downhill fast. And look what’s happened—I step off the bus, and the nicest person I’ve met in years almost runs me down. How cool is that?”
They laughed together, began drinking their coffee, and drifted onto other subjects—Jayla still wrestling with her deception. She wasn’t a liar by nature, and genuinely liked her companion—more and more with each day. Whatever else she may have been, Rachel Reiling appeared to be one of the most sincere and trusting people Jayla had ever met.
Perhaps, Jayla thought—once she’d figured out a plan beyond a haircut and a lousy job—she’d become more open and let Rachel in on her situation. Who knows? Maybe even Rachel’s invisible cop could be brought in for advice.
But not yet. For the time being, Jayla was going to lie low, watch her back, and wait. She had no proof that Jared Wylie was after her—just a fear that such would be his instinctive course of action. He was a brutal, manipulative, fundamentally cruel man, if sociopathically smooth and easy in manner and speech. It was the latter, she realized now, that had reeled her in.
In her heart, she truly didn’t think she was overstating her vulnerability—or his desire to pay her back with interest. The sexual assaults she’d suffered, the virtual imprisonment toward the end—those were her validations, along with his possessiveness.
Which thought gave rise to another as she watched Rachel’s animated and friendly face: What was to become of this girl, if Jayla wasn’t being delusional and Jared was on her trail?
He’d stopped the string of threatening and damning texts that had been cluttering Jayla’s phone since Albany. But the sudden silence had not struck her as good news. It had instead made her feel stalked—as if the birds overhead had suddenly quieted, seeing the stealthy approach of a feared predator.
If that was true, what would happen to anyone close to her? Jayla wrestled with the possible consequences of what she’d done. What had at first appeared as an act of pure providence—Rachel’s miraculously sweeping her up and supplying friendship and shelter—was beginning to feel like a huge mistake.
But was it, truly? What, in the midst of her present turmoil, was reality? And should she sacrifice what good fortune had handed her out of unfounded paranoia? Jared had treated her as a cat did a mouse—tossing her around, essentially for sport. It was possible her escape had broken that cycle, and allowed him to be drawn off by a different, newer distraction.
It wasn’t as if she had left with anything of value to him, after all.
* * *
Nick Gargiulo was having a good day. While scouting out the area where the bus had dropped off Jayla Robinson, he’d spotted a closed-circuit camera on a pole, which he’d traced back to the UVM police services. It had taken some doing, and the use once more of his questionable law enforcement credentials, but he had finally smooth-talked his way past any requirements like a warrant, gotten access to the pole’s video footage, and ended up actually seeing Jayla getting off the bus, to be immediately bumped into by a young woman driving a car.
A car whose registration he’d been able to jot down as the driver pulled over to give Jayla a lift.
Things in life sometimes worked out. Now it was simply a matter of using the phone and some of his old police contacts to get a name and address.
* * *
Sam worked the lock and stepped inside their home, closing the door behind her and standing in the darkened living room. It was late, and she was tired and—most taxing of all—depressed. The workday had contained its obstacles. On top of monitoring the agency-wide caseload, she’d had to deal with several lamebrained commotions: a bogus complaint of VBI high-handedness from a municipal department, a conflict between two agents
in the same office over competing vacation requests—which the Special Agent in Charge should have handled but had kicked to her—and a very long conference call with two legislators who wanted to know why the hell the VBI even existed, much less why Vermonters had to pay for it, and who should’ve been bitching to the VBI’s director in the first place.
Worse than any of that, however, was what was going on between her and Willy. Indeed, one of the reasons she was so late coming home was that she’d dreaded leaving the security and sanctity of the office—even with her cherished, if sleeping, Emma being available for a soul-cleansing kiss at the receiving end. Bureaucratic hassles could be a pain, but at least they had shape and a shelf life she could recognize and address. Relationship problems, at which she’d sucked her entire life, remained amorphous, elusive, and generally irrational—even before they’d involved Willy Kunkle.
People too numerous to count had warned her away from Willy, as she’d felt Hillstrom had hinted with her otherwise helpful pep talk. Even Sam had been one of them. She’d worked side by side with him for years, when they manned the Brattleboro PD’s detective squad under Joe. She’d seen Willy at his worst. She’d been there when he lost the use of his arm on the job, when he worked at the town library while his Americans with Disabilities suit ran its course, and when his ex-wife was found murdered in New York City and he went AWOL to find her killer. She’d witnessed him pissing off, embarrassing, alienating, and lashing out against more people than she could possibly recall, mostly in the name of his sacred sense of honor, but sometimes just because he could be impulsive, insensitive, and careless.
When they moved in together, she’d heard references to everything from the proverbial train wreck to the Titanic to the end of the world as she knew it. But while no one had been utterly wrong, in general terms, all of them had missed the mark concerning the man she’d come to love.