Things Beyond Midnight (26 page)

Ventry confronted John Longbow with his research.

“An just who is this killer?” the sheriff asked.

“Whoever owns the steamer. Some freak rail buff. Rich enough to run his own private train, and crazy enough to kill the passengers who get on board.”

“Look, Mr. Ventry, how come nobody’s
seen
this fancy steam train of yours?”

“Because the rail disappearances have happened at night, at remote stations off the main lines. He never runs the train by daylight. Probably keeps it up in the mountains. Maybe in one of the old mine shafts. Uses off-line spur tracks. Comes rolling into a small depot like Bitterroot
between
the regular passenger trains and picks up whoever’s on the platform.”

The sheriff had grunted at this, his eyes tight on Paul Ventry’s face.

“And there’s a definite
cycle
to these disappearances.” Ventry continued. “According to what I’ve put together, the train makes its night runs at specific intervals. About a month apart, spring through fall. Then it’s hidden away in the Little Belt each winter when the old spur tracks are snowed over. I’ve done a lot of calculation on this, and I’m certain that the train makes its final run during the first week of November—which means you’ve still got time to stop it.”

The sheriff had studied Paul Ventry for a long, silent moment. Then he had sighed deeply. “That’s an interesting theory, Mr. Ventry,
real
interesting. But... its also about as wild and unproven as any I’ve heard—and I’ve heard me a few. Now, it’s absolute natural that you’re upset at your sister’s death, but you’ve let things get way out of whack. I figger you’d best go on back to your ranch and try an’ forget about poor little Amy. Put her out of your mind. She’s gone. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”

“We’ll see,” Ventry had said, a cutting edge to his voice. “We’ll see what I can do.”

Ventry’s plan was simple. Stop the train, board it, and kill the twisted son of a bitch who owned it. Put a .45 slug in his head. Blow his fucking brains out—and blow his train up with him!

I’ll put an end to this if no one else will, Ventry promised himself. And I’ve got the tools to do it.

He slipped the carefully wrapped gun rig from his knapsack, unfolded its oiled covering, and withdrew his grandfather’s long-barreled frontier Colt from its worn leather holster. The gun was a family treasure. Its bone handle was cracked and yellowed by the years, but the old Colt was still in perfect firing order. His granddaddy had worn this rig, had defended his mine on the Comstock against claim jumpers with this gun. It was fitting and proper that it be used on the man who’d killed Amy.

Night was settling over Bitterroot. The fiery orange disc of sun had dropped below the Little Belt Mountains, and the sky was gray slate along the horizon.

Time to strap on the gun. Time to get ready for the train.

It’s coming tonight!
Lord God, I can feel it out there in the gathering dark, thrumming the rails. I can feel it in my blood and bones.

Well, then, come ahead, god damn you, whoever you are.

I’m ready for you.

Ten p.m. Eleven. Midnight.

It came at midnight.

Rushing toward Bitterroot, clattering in fierce-wheeled thunder, its black bulk sliding over the track in the ash-dark Montana night like an immense, segmented snake—with a single yellow eye probing the terrain ahead.

Ventry heard it long before he saw it. The rails sang and vibrated around him as he stood tall and resolute in mid-track, a three-cell silver flashlight in his right hand, his heavy sheepskin coat buttoned over the gun at his belt.

Have to flag it down. With the depot closed it won’t make a stop. No passengers. It’s looking for live game, and it doesn’t figure on finding any here at Bitterroot.

Surprise!
I’m
here.
I’m
alive. Like Amy. Like all the others. Man alone at night. Needs a ride. Climb aboard, pardner. Make yourself to home. Drink? Somethin’ to eat? What’s your pleasure?

My pleasure is your death—and the death of your freak train, mister!

That’s
my pleasure.

It was in sight now, coming fast, slicing a bright round hole in the night—and its sweeping locomotive beam splashed Paul Ventry’s body with a pale luminescence.

The rancher swung his flash up, then down, in a high arc. Again. And again.

Stop, you bastard!
Stop!

The train began slowing.

Sparks showered from the massive driving wheels as the train reduced speed. Slowing... slower... steel shrieking against steel. An easing of primal force.

It was almost upon him.

Like a great shining insect, the locomotive towered high and black over Ventry, its tall stack shutting out the stars. The rusted tip of the train’s thrusting metal cowcatcher gently nudged the toe of his right boot as the incredible night mammoth slid to a final grinding stop.

Now the train was utterly motionless, breathing its white steam into the cold dark, waiting for him as he had waited for it.

Ventry felt a surge of exultation fire his body He’d been right! It was here—and he was prepared to destroy it, to avenge his sister. It was his destiny. He felt no fear, only a cool and certain confidence in his ability to kill.

A movement at the corner of his eye. Someone was waving to him from the far end of the train, from the last coach, the trains only source of light. All of the other passenger cars were dark and blind-windowed; only the last car glowed hazy yellow.

Ventry eased around the breathing locomotive, his boots crunching loudly in the cindered gravel as he moved over the roadbed.

He glanced up at the locomotives high, double-windowed cabin, but the engineer was lost behind opaque, soot-colored glass. Ventry kept moving steadily forward, toward the distant figure, passing along the linked row of silent, lightless passenger cars. The train bore no markings; it was a uniform, unbroken black.

Ventry squinted at the beckoning figure. Was it the killer himself, surprised and delighted at finding another passenger at this deserted night station?

He slipped the flash into his shoulder knapsack, and eased a hand inside his coat, gripping the warm bone handle of the .45 at his waist. You’ve had one surprise tonight, mister. Get ready for another.

Then, abruptly, he stopped, heart pounding. Ventry recognized the beckoning figure. Impossible! An illusion. Just
couldn’t
be. Yet there she was, smiling, waving to him.

“Amy!” Ventry rushed toward his sister in a stumbling run.

But she was no longer in sight when he reached the dimly illumined car. Anxiously, he peered into one of the smoke-yellowed windows. A figure moved hazily inside.

“Amy!” He shouted her name again, mounting the coach steps.

The moment Ventry’s boot touched the car’s upper platform the train jolted into life. Ventry was thrown to his knees as the coach lurched violently forward.

The locomotive’s big driving wheels sparked against steel, gaining a solid grip on the rails as the train surged powerfully from Bitterroot Station.

As Paul Ventry entered the coach, the door snap-locked behind him. Remote-control device. To make sure I won’t leave by the rear exit. No matter. He’d expected that. He could get out when he had to, when he was ready. He’d come prepared for whatever this madman had in mind.

But Ventry had
not
been prepared for the emotional shock of seeing Amy. Had he
really
seen her?
Was
it his sister?

No. Of course not. He’d been tricked by his subconscious mind. The fault was his. A lapse in concentration, in judgment.

But
someone
had waved to him—a young girl who looked, at first sight, amazingly like his dead sister.

Where was she now?

And just where was the human devil who ran this train?

Ventry was alone in the car. To either side of the aisle the rows of richly upholstered green velvet seats were empty. A pair of ornate, scrolled gas lamps, mounted above the arched doorway, cast flickering shadows over antique brass fittings and a handcarved wood ceiling. Green brocade draped the windows.

He didn’t know much about trains, but Ventry knew this one
had
to be pre-1900. And probably restored by the rich freak who owned it. Plush was the word.

Well, it was making its last run; Ventry would see to that.

He pulled the flash from his shoulder pack, snapping on the bright beam as he moved warily forward.

The flashlight proved unnecessary. As Ventry entered the second car (door unlocked; guess he doesn’t mind my going
forward
) the overhead gas lamps sputtered to life, spreading their pale yellow illumination over the length of the coach.

Again, the plush velvet seats were empty. Except for one. The last seat at the far end of the car. A woman was sitting there, stiff and motionless in the dim light, her back to Ventry As he moved toward her, she turned slowly to face him.

By Christ, it
was
Amy!

Paul Ventry rushed to her, sudden tears stinging his eyes. Fiercely, he embraced his sister; she was warm and solid in his arms. “Oh, Sis, I’m so glad you’re
alive!
”

But there was no sound from her lips. No words. No emotion. She was rigid in his embrace.

Ventry stepped away from her. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand Why you—”

His words were choked off. Amy had leaped from the seat, cat-quick, to fasten long pale fingers around his throat. Her thumbs dug like sharp spikes into the flesh of Ventry’s neck.

He reeled back, gasping for breath, clawing at the incredibly strong hands. He couldn’t break her grip.

Amy’s face was changing. The flesh was falling away in gummy wet ribbons, revealing raw white bone! In the deep sockets of Amy’s grinning skull her eyes were hot red points of fire.

Ventry’s right hand found the butt of the Colt, and he dragged the gun free of its holster. Swinging the barrel toward Amy, he fired directly into the melting horror of her face.

His bullets drilled round, charred holes in the grinning skull, but Amy’s fingers—now all raw bone and slick gristle—maintained their death grip at his throat.

Axe! Use the axe!

In a swimming red haze, Ventry snapped the short-handled woodsman’s axe free of his belt. And swung it sharply downward, neatly removing Amy’s head at shoulder level. The cleanly severed skull rolled into the aisle at his feet.

Yet, horribly, the bony fingers increased their deadly pressure.

Ventry’s sight blurred; the coach wavered. As the last of his oxygen was cut off, he was on the verge of blacking out.

Desperately, he swung the blade again, missing the Amy-thing entirely. The axe buried itself in thick green velvet.

The train thrashed; its whistle shrieked wildly in the rushing night, a cry of pain—and the seat rippled in agony. Oily black liquid squirted from the sliced velvet.

At Ventry’s throat, the bony fingers dropped away.

In numbed shock, he watched his sister’s rotting corpse flow down into the seat, melting and mixing with the central train body, bubbling wetly.

Oh, sweet Jesus! Everything’s moving! The whole foul train is alive!