The Overseer (49 page)

With one final check in the mirror, she pulled the door open, only to be met by two discrete sounds in the distance. The first was the train’s horn, a blaring burst to inform everyone in Ballard county that the 9:40 had arrived two minutes ahead of schedule. The second was the rumble of an oversized engine, its familiar groan causing Sarah to step back. It was eerily familiar, the hiccup in the engine unmistakable. She had heard it too many times while barreling along overgrown trails not to recognize the sound of the four-by-four.

They had found Jeff.
Had Pritchard been clever enough to place a homing device on the truck?
It was a foolish question; Sarah knew those were exactly the sorts of details he never missed. And now, because of that, Menace was somewhere behind her, stalking the streets of Palametto.

The train screeched to a stop, momentarily returning her focus to the platform. Almost in unison, the car let out a final growl. Sarah froze, expecting to hear steps, the soft pitter-pat of prowling feet. But nothing. Only silence. A moment later, a few leaves swirled overhead as the train doors slid open, the intrusion snapping her head up, the empty cabin
beckoning
not ten feet in front of her. And still only silence.
Think! Consider the options!
For nearly half a minute, she waited, until, springing from her alcove, she darted across the platform and into the cabin just as the doors slid shut behind her. Seconds later, the platform began to slip by as she moved to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her would-be pursuers. All she saw was an empty cement strip glide by. She stepped away as a swath of wooded countryside swept up in front of her, leaves and branches
tunneling
the train along through an arc of greens and browns.
Where are they?

And then it dawned on her. They were on the train.

 

Bob Stein ran his hand along the bed frame, the dust cascading to the pillow in a cloud of gray mist. Across the room, O’Connell—until only minutes ago buried in the bed’s yellowed sheets—swung his head from tap to tap, cold then hot, in a strange ritual of midafternoon rousing. The shirt he wore was sleeveless, ribbed at the chest, and in equal need of a good wash. As to his pants, they were too short, too wide at the ankle, too tight at the stomach. Stein had seen him like this only once before. After Amman. The sight was enough to force Bob to look around the room, take in the dilapidated space, its chipped plaster, crumbling Sheetrock scattered all about. As O’Connell stepped away to dry himself, the sink came into view, its pipes straining against the wall, its entire metal heft threatening to plummet to the floor with the least bit of prodding. All in all, it was a squalid little hole that conjured images of the worst of the ThirdWorld. Hard to believe it could be rented for a week at a time less than three blocks south of Union Square in New York.

It hadn’t been hard to track him. In fact, O’Connell had left a rather obvious trail—a fact that had comforted Bob. As with Sarah, he seemed to have been asking to be found. Naturally, Bob had complied.

A mucal cough brought his attention back to O’Connell, who had draped the towel around his neck and who was now busy with the cap on the bottle.

“It’s a fine stock, Bobby,” he said, the voice still hampered by sleep. “Only the best for you.” The Irish lilt had grown somehow more exaggerated.

“I’ll pass,” answered Stein. “Maybe later.” O’Connell shrugged his mammoth shoulders and took a long swig of the chestnut liquid. “How many of those do you go through in a day?”

“A day?” O’Connell laughed, cut off by another eruption of phlegm in his throat. He spat in no particular direction and settled onto a short metal stool by the door. “An
hour
, Bobby. An
hour
. When I’m good, it’s two. When I’m not …” He winked and smiled. “What do you want? As you can see, I’m very busy. Not much time for the likes of you. A meeting at Rock Center for tea and crumpets.” He laughed and took another drink.

“You left the trail. I just followed it,” answered Stein. “You’re usually quicker than this, Gael. It’s beginning to look a little sloppy.”

“I’m sure it is, Mr. Stein. I’m sure it is.” He thought about another swig, then stopped the bottle halfway to his lips. “But what’s a few days between friends?” The smile disappeared. The bottle continued up, the liquid rushing down along the glass. O’Connell wiped his mouth against his bare shoulder. “Sometimes, though, you need a little … privacy. A little time to think the great thoughts.” Again, he drank.

“I didn’t know you had any.”

O’Connell winked, the smile returning. “At least you’re honest.”

Watching him drink, Stein continued. “I’ve never understood why you do this. They pay you enough—”

“Worth every penny,” he broke in, raising the bottle in a mock toast.

“Yes, every penny,” agreed Stein, “but why this? Why not Maryland, the farm? Why not do your thinking there? See the pooch—”

“Shut the fuck up, Bobby.” The words carried no malice. “I do my thinking where I choose.” He took another drink, his eyes blinking in a slow, unconnected rhythm. “The dog’s dead. Did you know that? Yah, some fuckin’ kid. Driving a truck or something. I told them to keep her inside at night—simplest fuckin’ thing to do—but you can’t trust any of them, stupid bastards. They let a fuckin’ dog run wild in the dark. Served the old bitch right anyway.” He finished off the bottle and tossed it against the far wall. It refused to break, landing with a thud on the wooden floor.

“I hadn’t heard.” Stein took in a deep breath and slid a girlie magazine out from under the pillow. Flipping through the pages, he added, “Then again, she wasn’t going to live that much longer anyway.”

Gael smiled, his chin dropping to his chest, elbows on knees for support. “Fuck you, Bobby. She wasn’t as old as your fat ass.”

“I need you to dry out.” Stein tossed the magazine onto the far side of the bed and placed his hands on the soft mattress. “Sarah’s in trouble and it looks like you’re the only one she trusts.”

“And that surprises you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

For a few seconds, O’Connell’s eyes seemed to clear before slipping back into the easy drunk. He looked away, his hand fiddling with a loose piece of plaster. “Yah, well … how is our little Miss Trent?”

“They’ve gotten hold of her files,” replied Stein. “
Everything
. And Arthur’s been … unreachable.”

At the mention of Pritchard’s name, O’Connell’s face suddenly became tight, the eyes narrower as they sought out Stein. “The ever-popular Arthur C. Pritchard.”

“No
C,
” he corrected. “That’s Clarke. Ours has no middle initial.”

“Fuck you, Bobby.” O’Connell stood and walked across to the sink. He turned on the faucet and scooped up a mouthful of water. Swallowing, he added, “You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” He laughed to himself. “He promised, you know. She was gone, out. His solemn word.” He slammed his hand into the wall and screamed, “Yah, well,
fuck
you, Arthur Pritchard!” He turned to Stein. “Said she was done. Except, he didn’t have to go in after her, did he? He didn’t have to scrape those bastard boys off the street, see her standing in that hotel room, her hand so tight around that gun, you’d have … I don’t know.” He shut his eyes and dropped his head back. “She was a good kid, you know that?” The voice was almost a whisper. “And a great shot. Cool. That’s what she was.” He opened his eyes and looked at Stein. “Thought she could get back for the girl, you know that? As if she’d had a choice.” Again he laughed to himself, then drifted back to the stool, taking a deep breath as he sat. “She blamed herself, and he brought her back. Why’d he do that, Bob? Why?” Once more, he let his chin drop to his chest. Then, with no kindness in his eyes, he stared up at his colleague. “We should’ve known better. We should’ve left her alone. We should’ve seen it.”

Stein waited for him to sink deeper into the chair. “Not my call.”

“That’s good, Bobby. You believe that.” The bitterness now boiled up. “Pass the buck.
Good
for you, Bobby.
Good for you
.”

“You really think that’s what I wanted?” Again he paused. “Then you can go straight to hell. This isn’t about Arthur; this is about her.”

The onetime operative blinked several times. After a minute, he sat up, took in another deep breath, and then rubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. He stretched his neck and coughed. “Ya, well, I’m not as bad as I look. Not more than half a bottle a day. Tops.”

“You never could hold this stuff.”

A different smile returned. “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Stein.”

“I need you to walk out of here with me tonight.”

O’Connell tried to shake the booze from his head. “And into what?”

“That,” he replied, “depends on you.”

The Irishman looked up. “Where is she, Bobby? And where, by the way,
is
our Mr. Pritchard? Or wouldn’t you know that?”

Stein stared at O’Connell. “Is there something I should know?”

“Little problem of whom you can trust.” O’Connell stood and again moved to the sink, flipping the tap before gulping down several handfuls of water.

“Meaning?”

He doused his head before speaking. “So they know who she is. Where?”

“Tieg’s. San Francisco.”

“When?”

“Within the last twelve hours.”

O’Connell turned off the faucet and looked back at Stein, patting the towel against his neck and face. “And she’s still there?”

Stein shook his head. “I … I’m not sure.”

“That’s not good, Bobby. That’s not good at all.”

 

Sarah scanned the aisle in front of her, the fifteen or so rows mercifully full, a few empty pockets here and there, but enough bodies to offer some
semblance
of cover. Behind her, an equally dense collection of commuters and vacationers sat side by side, several lost in papers, others in conversations, most, she noticed, in identical ties and scarves. On closer inspection, she
discovered
that the pants and skirts were similarly coordinated, neatly creased gray flannels, everyone in loafers or pumps.
So much for blending in.
That notwithstanding, she ventured to her left, steadying herself against the edge of the seats as she moved farther into the cabin. With each new row came another set of ties, another flock of pants and skirts to add to the mystery. The aisle, though, remained clear of any other noncostumed arrivals. If Pritchard’s men were on the train, they had yet to make it to the clone car.

Swaying from side to side, Sarah caught sight of a single empty space in the last row of seats, a pair of loafers from an unseen passenger resting
comfortably
on the vacant spot. To their left, a man in his late thirties—also in full attire—slouched over a crossword puzzle, the cap of his pen weathering the worst of a gnawing concentration.
By the window, back up against the wall.
Half a minute later, Sarah politely slid past him, watched as the shoes on her seat found the floor, and sat, her bag at her side.

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.