Derailed (23 page)

Frankly, that was my worry too.

When we got to the observation car, I found the first empty seat just to take a break from our ruse. If the tracks were smoother, it wouldn't be nearly so challenging.

I'd been sitting there several minutes, attempting to stare straight ahead through my mirrored wraparound shades as though I was unable to see the sights other people watched zip past like fans at a Ping-Pong match, when I realized Corky was on point. She was sitting—not lying at my feet—pointing her nose at the smartly dressed woman in the lounge chair to my right.

From behind my shades, I surveyed her carefully. An attractive white woman with short brown hair and perfect makeup, definitely under forty, legs crossed, relaxed—perhaps a businesswoman from Naperville heading home after a short day at the office in Chicago's Loop, but if that was the case, why hadn't she taken the much cheaper Metra commuter train? There was an attaché case on the floor not far from her feet. Unless someone else had left it there, it was most likely hers. It was large enough to carry some significant drugs, but Corky wasn't indicating it. She was steadfast indicating the woman. Her tailored black pantsuit didn't appear to have any pockets in which she could conceal drugs. In her lap, along with a small purse, was a paperback copy of . . . the cover flipped up when she turned the page—
The Shack
.

The Shack
? One of the hottest-selling Christian novels of the last few years? Well, appearances can be deceiving, and Corky was saying she was dirty.

Corky held steady, indicating a hit on the
woman while I tried to figure out what to do. First of all, she wasn't my target! I had bigger fish to fry on the return train. But to attempt some kind of an interdiction now would blow my cover, and Gilson wanted me to maintain it as much as possible. Second, even if the woman did have some drugs on her, the quantity was probably minimal—a few joints, maybe some crack or designer drugs . . . or perhaps they were just her own prescription drugs.

The woman kept glancing at Corky as if she were afraid Corky was going to throw up on her. I almost laughed, because when Corky was indicating, she sat with her head low and extended as she stared, dead-eyed at the point she believed smelled of drugs.

The woman shot me a do-something expression, then realized I was blind. “Hey, mister, what's with your dog? Looks like she's . . .”

“Sorry,” I said and stood up. “Corky, free.” I felt around for her handle, then led her farther down the car to a seat where I could keep an eye on the woman. What if Corky had been mistaken?

This whole program was based on the confidence that a certified drug detection dog wouldn't give me false positives. We'd nailed that student in Union Station, and I'd worked with her for a week at the training center and saw her deliver flawlessly. And yet, it was a possibility that nagged me.

When we stopped at Naperville, I got the answer to one of my questions. The woman didn't get off, which explained why she hadn't ridden the Metra commuter train. She was going at least as far as Princeton, the next Amtrak stop, halfway across the state.

A little over an hour later as we slowed for the Princeton stop, the woman got up, picked up her attaché case, and came past us through the doors into the coach cars. Corky didn't even flinch as she passed.
Hmm
. When the train stopped, I watched furtively out the window. The woman detrained and walked smartly toward the parking lot. As the train began to move again, I got up and returned to the seat the woman had vacated. Without me giving Corky any instruction, she spontaneously sat and indicated the seat where the woman had been. Ah-ha! It wasn't the woman but the seat that Corky had indicated. Someone who'd been sitting there before her probably spilled a few flakes of marijuana into the chair.

It was a good reminder for me. Corky might be accurate, but there were other factors that could screw up a hit. Having been off the job for two years, I was rusty and needed to watch myself. The woman wouldn't have been a threat, but a mistake like I'd almost made could get a guy shot in a business like this.

“Estelle?” Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled like a jet fighter breaking the sound barrier as I ducked under the portico that projected along the trackside of the big old Lincoln Station.

“Uh? That you, Harry? Where are you? Somethin' wrong?”

“No, no. Everything's okay. Just got in, and it's storming here. But I thought I'd give you a call.”

I heard her groan and huff. “It's midnight, Harry.”

“Were you asleep? Just wanted to check in.”

“No, but I was in bed!” She paused. “Ah, it's okay, Harry. I was still reading. Glad you called. How's it goin'?”

“Okay, I guess. Hardly anybody here. A few other people got off with me, but they're long gone. Just started raining, so I'm gonna go wait in the station after I walk Corky a little.”

“When did you say you pick up the return train?”

“It's due in about three twenty, but they say it's runnin' about forty minutes late.”

“Well, I'll pray that everything goes okay, but Harry, don't call me when you get on unless there's some problem.”

“I won't. Good night, Estelle . . . hey, you go see Mom?”

“Not yet. I went over and prayed with that young woman—Grace Meredith, you know, about her upcomin' tour. Gonna see Mom tomorrow after work. She might not understand why you aren't with me. Don't want to worry her, but I don't think she understands the difference between you being a Chicago cop and you working for Amtrak.”

“Yeah, well, she was always worried about me when I was on the streets.”

“And it's different now, right?”

“Yeah, it's different. Good night, babe. Love ya.”

“Love ya more.”

I pocketed my cell and cautiously looked around. Family or friends had picked up all the people who detrained with me, and the station area was completely deserted.

I relaxed my blind-man act a little and walked along the huge building toward a lighted Amtrak sign at the far end. Lincoln Station was a classic three-story building of brick and limestone. All the doors of the main building were closed and locked, but through a window I could see the ornate great hall, dimly lit by night-lights and exit signs. Streamers hung from the chandeliers as if in anticipation of some gala banquet. It didn't look like the building was used any longer as a train station. A little farther along, I came to a bronze plaque attached to the outside wall explaining that the building had been constructed in 1926 as one of the largest stations the Burlington Railroad ever built. It was now part of Lincoln's Haymarket District.

At the far north end of the building, I went through the door under the Amtrak sign into a one-story add-on structure. A maintenance man was mopping the floor of the utilitarian waiting room. He glanced at me with a nod, and I nearly responded. Then from behind the thick glass of the ticket window along the side, a middle-aged female clerk with fuzzy gray hair called, “Hey, you can't bring that dog in here. No pets allowed.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. This is a service animal—”

“Don't care what breed he is. No dogs in the station.”

I drew closer, somewhat tentatively, as if not quite sure of her location. “Corky's a she, and a service animal's not the breed. She's a trained seeing-eye dog. Surely you're familiar with the Americans with Disabilities Act? She's permitted, by law, to accompany me into any public place.”

“Well, I don't know anything about no
act
. I'm just goin' by the sign on the door. Says No Pets Allowed. And we don't allow no loitering either. You got a ticket?”

I was tempted to swing my jacket open to display my weapon, shake her up a little. Lincoln's a nice city, but this woman talked like she just got in from the cornfields. Figured she must be new on the job. Probably why she'd drawn the graveyard shift. I pulled my ticket from my inside pocket and waved it at her as Corky and I passed her and sat down in the seats.

“Ain't no train through here for another three hours,” she called out.

I nodded. “And I'll be waitin' for it.”

“Well . . .” She said it as if she was running out of objections. “Where'd you come from, anyway?”

“Just got off the California Zephyr.”

“From Chicago?”

“That's the one.”

“And you're headed right back there?” She obviously didn't have enough to do, stuck there in the middle of the night.

“You got it.” I stood up and muttered in a voice just loud enough to be heard, “Come on, Corky. Bet even an ol' blind man can find a bench outside that's out of the rain—and out of the hassle.”

I did find a bench deep under the portico, up against the old building, but gusts from the northwest swirled mist in on us so that I longed for my winter coat. Sensing my chill, Corky sat right on my feet, leaning her body up against my legs. I hugged my small overnight bag to my chest to keep off some of the damp. Gilson hadn't commented on how raggedy my plaid flat hat was, but now I was
paying for it. Should have bought a new wool one, maybe one with fold-down earflaps.

In spite of the cold, I drifted off to sleep and awoke only when the bell and screech of the Zephyr engine rumbled past us and brought the train to a stop. It was scheduled for a short stop—only five or six minutes—so I got up and started moving down the platform toward the forward cars, Corky at my side.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, please.” I held out my ticket in not quite the right direction for the train attendant.

He glanced at it. “Six thirty-one . . . uh, your car is the last car on the train. Sleepers are back there on this run. Don't know why. Do you have anyone with you to help you board?”

“No. I'm traveling alone . . . except for Corky here.” I turned awkwardly and started to move toward the back of the train.”

“Wait. I'll walk you down.”

Gilson—or probably Phyllis—had again booked me in the accessibility compartment on the lower level of the sleeper, just as before. “Your berth's all made up for you, Mr. Bentley,” said Angelina, my new attendant. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, thank you. Don't think so. Oh, one question. Where's the lounge car?”

“Fifth car forward. There are two more sleepers, then the dining car, and after that the lounge car. But the bar closed about eleven last evening.”

I wanted to establish an excuse to wander around the train in the middle of the night. “Oh, that's okay. I might sit in one of those lounge seats if I can't sleep.”

“All right, then. Just be careful, especially going between cars. Have a good night. You know where the call buttons are. Just push one if you need me.”

“Thank you.”

Once she closed the door, I lay down on my berth. As Gilson had noted, I'd have nearly twelve hours to find my mark before we got to Chicago—presuming that was his destination. No
need to go manic searching now. I decided to catch a little shut-eye first.

The annoying trill of my iPhone alarm woke me at five.
Ack
! Oughta change that alarm tone, maybe to a blues riff. Then I realized the train wasn't moving. The station sign outside my window said Omaha, Nebraska. According to the printed schedule, we'd be here fifteen minutes. Most stops were no more than a few minutes, just enough time for passengers to detrain or board. No time for smokers to satisfy their craving or service dogs to relieve themselves.

“Come on, Corky. You need a walk. Could be your last chance.”

We came out of the compartment and stood in the vestibule. Trying not to appear too independent, I called, “Miss Angelina,” out into the space above her head. She was only a few feet from the door.

“Yes, Mr. Bentley.”

“How long are we going to be stopped? Can I walk my dog?”