Authors: Steve Hockensmith

On the Wrong Track (23 page)

BOOK: On the Wrong Track

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Thirty

MOMENTUM

Or, Old Red and I Discover There’s No Turning Back

“Chan ain’t on the
train?”

My brother’s spine snapped so straight so fast it’s a wonder the whiplash didn’t pop his head right off his neck.

Wiltrout had the exact opposite reaction, slouching and shaking his head.

“Nonsense,” the conductor said.

“I tell ya, he’s gone!” Lockhart insisted, his whiskey breath so strong a blind man might’ve thought we were passing a distillery. “I’ve been from one end of this train to another, and there ain’t a sign of the little bugger.”

“You missed him, that’s all.” Wiltrout sounded like he couldn’t quite decide whether to be irritated or bored. “It happens all the time. People go into hysterics, and then it turns out junior or grandpa or whoever was just taking extra long in the john.” He threw a sharp-edged glare at Kip. “I would’ve thought
you’d
know that by now.”

“I looked in the damn crappers,” Lockhart said.

Wiltrout shrugged blithely. “So the Chinaman came down the aisle while you were in one. You passed each other.
It happens all the time
.”

“Not to Burl Lockhart, it don’t.”

The wiry Pinkerton stepped up close to Wiltrout, a strip of beef jerky going toe-to-toe with a Christmas ham.

“You stop this train—
now
—or I’m gonna pull the bell cord and stop it for you.”

“Pull it, then!” Wiltrout roared with sudden fury—or fear masquerading as fury. “Then you can
walk
back up to town! Because not only is this train not going back to Summit, it
can’t
go back. We’re down to one engine again, and we’re already a mile down the mountainside. We don’t have the boiler power to get up that grade again. So just get ahold of yourself. I’ll find your little friend for you.”

The more the conductor spoke, the more Lockhart seemed to shrivel, as if his outrage had been the only thing pumping him up to man size. Another minute of it, and I would’ve expected the old lawman to wither into something impossibly tiny and wrinkled and shapeless—a prune, perhaps.

“He ain’t my friend,” Lockhart said hoarsely. He backed off, eyes down, and nodded at the door with a sideways snap of his head. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Wiltrout took the lead, followed by Lockhart and Kip. Old Red joined the parade, so I did, too. We all filed down the aisle wordlessly, passing the widow Foreman and her twin tornadoes and, a little farther on, Miss Caveo, who peeked up from her book just long enough to give us a quizzical look.

The moment we’d stepped past the young lady, Old Red stopped and whirled to face me, his finger to his lips. For the next few seconds, we just stood there, silent, as Wiltrout, Lockhart, and Kip trooped into the passageway to the next car. Before the door had quite closed behind them, Kip turned and slipped back through.

“You ain’t gonna help look for Chan?” he asked us.

“Not Wiltrout’s way.” Gustav got down on his knees and peeked beneath the nearest seat—which just happened to be Chan’s. “Hel-lo.”

“Now I know Doc Chan ain’t exactly tall,” I said, “but there is no way you just found him stuffed under his seat.”

“It ain’t Chan I’m lookin’ at.”

My brother stood up wearing that empty-eyed expression he gets on his face when his brain goes galloping off and leaves his body behind.

“Well, what
did
you see?” Kip asked.

“Nothing,” Old Red replied dreamily.

“For ‘nothing’ it sure made an impression,” I said.

Gustav nodded slowly. “Sometimes nothing tells you something when something would’ve told you nothing at all.”

Several of the passengers were staring at us now—including Miss Caveo, who’d swiveled around and put her book down.

“My brother, the philosopher,” I said to her.

She smiled. “He sounds like a nihilist.”

“If that means he’s talkin’ like a lunatic, I’d have to agree.”

The lady’s expression turned serious. “Did I hear you say you’re looking for—?”

Old Red stepped between us. “Sorry, miss—no time for chitchat.” He pointed at the front end of the car. “The widow,” he said to me. “She’s our best bet.”

I offered an apologetic shrug as my brother herded me away, but Miss Caveo didn’t seem inclined to accept just then. She wasn’t simply staring daggers at Gustav’s back—she was staring swords, bullets, and cannonballs.

“Must you be so damned rude?” I said to Old Red.

“Must
you
be so damned dense?” He waited a moment—till we were well past the lady—before saying more. “That nothing under Chan’s seat … it ain’t hard to Holmes out what it means.” He glanced back at Kip, who was tagging along behind us. “I bet you got it figured.”

“Well,” the news butch began, sounding uncertain, “I guess you should’ve seen his valise or carpetbag—whatever he’s usin’ to tote around his clothes and toiletries and all. Samuel would’ve stowed it down there when he folded up the Chinaman’s bed for the day.”

“So if Chan’s bag is gone … ?” my brother coaxed.

“Yeah, alright,” I said. “It took me a little time, but I got there. You’re thinkin’ Chan slipped off the Express last night.”

“Could be. And I figure I know how to find out for sure if he did. But first … pardon me, ma’am.”

Old Red brought us to a stop facing Mrs. Foreman and her matching set of curl-topped terrors. The widow was slumped against a window, her veil over her face. It was impossible to say if she was awake or asleep—or alive or dead.

Harlan and Marlin, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more lively. They were up on the seat across from their mother, bouncing so high off the cushions it was only a matter of time before one or the other flattened his head against the ceiling.

There was a rustling like the wind through a pile of dried-out leaves—the crepe and crinoline of Mrs. Foreman’s mourning dress crinkling as she pushed herself upright. She turned toward us, and I could make out the barest outline of an embarrassed smile lurking behind the dark gauze of her veil.

“I’m sorry. Are the boys bothering you?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Gustav assured her with as much cordiality as he could muster—which wasn’t much. He placed a hand on the back of the boys’ seat (doing his best not to let on that he was leaning against it for support) and kept his gaze on the widow in a way that might have seemed piercing if you didn’t know he was trying to block out the craggy peaks and ravines whipping past the window behind her. “Actually, I need to talk with you in my official capacity.”

The twins stopped their hopping.

“How could
I
help you?” Mrs. Foreman asked, an extra quaver in her already timorous voice.

It’s funny the power a badge has over some folks. Pin a star to even as unimpressive a physical specimen as my brother, and they’ll break out in a sweat if he so much as tips his hat.

Of course, a badge has the opposite effect on certain other people—six-year-old boys, for instance.

“Did you ever find that snake?” either Harlan or Marlin asked.

“Or are you here to ask us about the robbery?” his brother threw in.

“We didn’t see much—Mother wouldn’t let us get out of our berth.”

“We could hear what happened to
you,
though.”

“The Give-’em-Hell Boys really gave you a whupping!”

“Harlan, Marlin—don’t be impolite,” Mrs. Foreman chided them weakly. “And remember what I said about that name.”

“Yes, Mother,” the boys sang in unison.

One of them turned to the other and cupped a hand against his brother’s ear.

“The Give-’em-
Heck
Boys,” he “whispered” loudly.

Kip chuckled, which was all the encouragement the twins needed. They doubled up laughing, then went back to jumping on the seat shouting, “Heck! Heck! Heck!”

“Boys,” Mrs. Foreman said in that hopeless tone mothers use when they know they’re going to be ignored.

“It’s not actually the robbery I need to ask about,” Old Red said to her. “It’s Dr. Chan—the Chinese gent.”

Harlan and Marlin settled down again, eager to listen in.

“What about him?” The widow sounded puzzled and discomfited, as if she couldn’t understand why such a disagreeable subject as a Chinaman would be brought up in the presence of a lady like herself.

“I happened to notice our conductor havin’ words with Dr. Chan last night,” my brother said. “Forceful words. Seein’ as your berths are so near Mr. Wiltrout’s, I was hopin’ you heard what it was that agitated him so.”

“Why don’t you just ask Mr. Wiltrout or Dr. Chan?” Mrs. Foreman asked—thus giving Gustav part of the answer he was looking for. If she hadn’t heard anything, she would’ve simply said so.

“We’re havin’ trouble findin’ Dr. Chan at the moment,” Old Red tried to explain. “And Mr. Wiltrout … well …”

There was no mannerly way to say he already
had
asked Wiltrout—and was now testing the truthfulness of the man’s reply. So I jumped in with a lie. In polite circles, I’ve found, it’s often the best way to go.

“We did ask him, ma’am. But he says he was so sleepylike, he don’t remember the conversation at all.” I shook my head gravely. “The poor man’s been under such a strain, you understand.”

“Well.” The widow considered her audience—two bruised, contused, rather scruffy-looking men and a gangly, overeager kid in a news agent’s uniform. Badges or no, we couldn’t have inspired much confidence, and Mrs. Foreman seemed reluctant to admit to eavesdropping just for our benefit.

Fortunately, her sons had no such scruples to overcome.

“We heard it!” one of them proclaimed, hopping higher than ever.

“We heard it
all
!” added the other, bounding into the air beside his brother.

“Boys—,” Mrs. Foreman began. But their little mouths were already racing too fast to be reined in.

“The China-man said he wanted to check on his luggage!”

“And the conductor said no!”

“So the China-man said, ‘I’ll give you
twenty dollars
if you let me into the baggage car!’”

“And the conductor said—”

The twins looked at each other, identical expressions of crazed glee on their cherubic faces as they matched each other bounce for bounce.

“‘You filthy little monkey!’” they shrieked.

“And then later—,” Harlan or Marlin went on.

“A lot later!”

“—after the snake tried to bite you—”

“Whoa! The snake!”

“—we heard the China-man come back!”

“And this time all he said was—”

“‘Puh-leaze!’” they called out together.

They came crashing down on their butts side by side, snickering.

“That’s all you heard the second time?” Gustav asked. He’d been following the boys’ story so intently I almost expected him to start jumping up and down with them. “‘Please’?”

“That’s all he
said
.”

“But we heard someone moving around.”

“Like he was getting out of bed.”

“We peeked when we didn’t hear anymore.”

“But the China-man was already gone.”

Old Red drifted off into one of his stupors again, staring over the twins’ heads as the rest of us stared at
him
. Since no more questions—in fact, no words of any kind—seemed to be coming from my brother, I thanked his little spies for him.

“Nice job, you two,” I said, bending down to further tousle either Harlan or Marlin’s already mussed-up hair. “You’ve got yourselves some mighty fine ears under all them curls.”

Usually, Gustav sort of eases himself down from the clouds after he goes floating off. But for once he came crashing back to earth with a
thud
.

“Hel-lo! Yes! Good Lord!”

He turned on the widow with such quickness she cringed.

“Ma’am!” he said, stuffing a hand into one of his pockets. Then he seemed to trip over his own excitement, and he muttered, “Oh my,” looking embarrassed. He drew his hand out again and rubbed it absently over his chin.

“Yes?” Mrs. Foreman prompted him, though she didn’t seem eager to hear what he might say.

“Ma’am,” Old Red began again. “Please. I hope you’ll forgive my askin’, but … your husband. He was a young man when he passed?”

BOOK: On the Wrong Track

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