Derailed (40 page)

I postponed Sylvia's curiosity about my unslept-in bed by folding it up out of sight by myself, and when she appeared at my door, I asked if she would bring my breakfast on a tray. So much for the joys of socializing with other passengers. I had a suitcase to watch.

Even though it was daylight, extra cups of coffee barely kept me awake for the next couple hours, and I was never more pleased to roll into a train station than when we arrived in Albuquerque. Did I dare leave my watch for the full thirty minutes we'd be there while the train was refueled and serviced?

It was a gamble, but I figured if the mule was going to detrain here, he would've retrieved his fortune earlier, when people wouldn't be coming and going through the vestibule at unpredictable moments.

“Ah, come on, Corky. I'll give you a good walk.”

As I waited in the vestibule while other people detrained for a break at Albuquerque, I could hear Sylvia directing passengers to concession stands nearby that sold Native American art and crafts.

“Hello there, Mr. Bentley. Comin' out for a little fresh air? Watch your step now. There's a stepstool first. Then you'll be on solid ground.”

“Yes. Thank you.” I stepped down as she positioned herself to help me if I needed it, and took a deep breath of the cool air, turning my face upward. In spite of a few scattered clouds, the warm sunshine felt good. “Can you tell me where to walk my dog?”

“Certainly, and I'll bet she's really ready for one too.” She smiled approvingly at Corky. “Just cross the tracks and go straight ahead to a concrete wall, turn right and follow it until it ends. The yard'll be down some steps on your left.”

Asphalt fill at various intervals along the empty tracks indicated where pedestrians and vehicles were
supposed
to cross, but in a display of my “blindness,” I intentionally headed to the side of one those crossings where I'd have to step down onto the railroad ties, over the rails and ballast, and up on the other side.

“No, no, Mr. Bentley. Not there. You're liable to fall.” Sylvia came running up and grabbed my elbow. “Here, let me walk you.”

I thought I'd performed a good demonstration for her and all the other passengers milling around on the platforms. But as Sylvia led me to the animal relief yard, I wondered if I'd made a mistake. Wouldn't a real guide dog have directed his master
away
from the open tracks and over the intended crossing?

Hopefully, no one put two and two together. It seemed to have worked for the moment.

I had just unsnapped Corky's D-handle to let her run freely in the yard when a voice behind me said, “Harry Bentley?”

I turned to see a stocky white man of about fifty leaning casually in the arched doorway of the adjoining building. I drifted his way. He was as bald as I was but sported only a stubbly gray mustache. When he pulled back the edge of his Arizona Cardinals' warm-up jacket, I saw a gold Amtrak Police shield pinned to his chest and his sidearm holstered on his belt.

“Detective Conway?”

He nodded and lifted a tan Home Depot plastic bag toward me.

“Home Depot, huh?” I chuckled. “That's pretty clever.” I looked around to make sure no one could overhear us. “No one would guess you were delivering high-tech spy equipment to me in a Home Depot bag.”

He shrugged. “They wouldn't have to, 'cause that's where this came from.”

“What? What's in there?”

“You asked for a motion detector. And ‘Spies-R-Us' . . .” He snarled the name and made a sinister face with one closed eye like a pirate. “. . . wasn't open yet.' So . . . had to make do with Home Depot.”

“But couldn't you . . . what about the FBI? Surely they could've—”

“This'll work, Bentley. Believe me, I've tested it.”

“What is it?”

“It's a wireless, remote motion detector, intended for home use, but . . . The receiver plugs into a 110-volt outlet in your compartment. But the detector itself uses double-A batteries—already put 'em in. I also cut off the back mounting bracket so you can stick the thing flat against the wall with the 3M Command Strips I included, sticky on both sides. They should hold it. When the detector broadcasts a radio signal, your receiver will beep. You can adjust its volume loud or soft . . . or turn it off. Simple as that.”

“That's it?”

“What else you want? An eight-hundred-dollar price tag? This'll do the job, and it only cost forty bucks.”

I looked around to be sure again that no one was observing us, then took the bag. “Thanks. Hope you're right.”

Committed as I was to this mission, I felt like throwing up my hands. I'd been expecting to play Agent 007 with real high-tech spy tools. What a comedown. Probably just ego, though. I knew simple was always better. If Conway's gadget worked, wasn't it even cooler to catch the mule with a home device anyone could buy?

As Corky and I climbed the steps back up to the track platform, I slyly checked my watch. We had more than fifteen minutes before the train pulled out, so I wandered down to the concession stands where many of the other passengers were looking at the Native American souvenirs and crafts. At the first table, I noticed some nice placemats with Anasazi designs—the little Kokopelli guy with his flute, leaping antelope, various geometric designs, a scorpion, and a lizard.

“What do you have that my wife might like?” I asked the guy behind the table. He looked Native American—leathery skin, straight black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

He named several items, including the placemats.

“Where are the mats you mentioned? Can I feel 'em?” They were, of course, right in front of me. He described each of them as I picked them up to inspect them more closely with my hands. “Nice sturdy woven mats,” I commented, about to purchase a set for Estelle. But when I turned one over, a little tag on the corner read, “Made in China.”

I nearly snorted. But without indicating that I'd seen anything, I said, “Thanks. Think I'll keep looking.”

Never did get anything for Estelle, but once we were underway again, I tested the motion detector several times in my room. Conway was right. It worked like a watchdog, causing my receiver
to beep every time anything passed its field of view. One thing worried me, though. Anyone walking down the hallway or going up the stairs would also trigger it. Using an extra sticky strip, I taped on a cardboard shield to restrict the field of view. I only wanted it to watch the small area where the suitcases were stowed.

We were twenty minutes out of Albuquerque before I ventured out of my compartment to install the detector in the upper corner of the bottom luggage compartment. An average-sized person would have to kneel down to see it up under the edge.

But would it trigger on the motion I was concerned about?

For a test, I put my shaving kit on top of Grace's suitcase as though I'd left it there by accident, then returned to my room to wait with the door open. I turned the receiver down to its lowest volume so only I'd be able to hear when it triggered. I didn't have to wait long until a woman came down the stairs to use the restrooms.

“Excuse me . . .” I almost said
ma'am
. “I think I left my shaving kit out there in the luggage compartment. Do you see a small leather case about so big in there?”

When she reached in and pulled it out, my receiver emitted a faint beeping that I could barely hear. Thank God, it was working.

She held up my bag. “You mean this?”

“I'm sorry.” I got up and went to the door. “I'll need to check it.” I reached my hand out. When she handed it to me, I felt around it a bit and said, “Yep. That's it. Thank you so much. You have no idea what a relief that is.” She had no idea at all. After thirty hours of trying to keep my eyes open—I could finally get some sleep.

I slid my door shut, pulled the curtains, and flopped into my seat. Putting my feet up on the opposing seat's cushion, I was asleep within five minutes.

A jerk of the train woke me. We were starting to move again after some stop. I stood up and went over to use my toilet, but for some reason, I first pulled back the curtain to see where we were. The
late afternoon sun shining out of the west made me squint. Nearly silhouetted on the top of a hill rising above the buildings of a classic western small town was the town's name in billboard-sized letters: RATON. To its left, a huge American flag fluttered on a tall pole. What a beautiful sight.

But as the train gained speed, sliding past a large gravel parking lot between our train and the town, I did a double take. Grace Meredith and her assistant were climbing aboard a shiny new Greyhound bus while the driver threw her luggage into the compartment beneath. The big teal-blue bag I'd been watching so carefully for so many hours landed with a jolt that I felt all the way to the bottom of my stomach.

I dove for my compartment door and slid it
open, running out into the hallway without my shades or any attempt to behave like a blind man. I had to get off the train. That large suitcase with $1.5 million of cocaine in it was escaping . . . as was my chance to catch the mule. I couldn't let that happen.

Sylvia was in the vestibule, stowing the yellow step stool when I came around the corner to the side door like a wild driver in a destruction derby. “Mr. Bentley! What in the world's the matter? You ill? What are you doing? No, you can't open that!” She yanked my hand from the door handle.

She was a lot stronger than I expected, but I broke free and pulled at the handle again. The door wouldn't budge. This time she threw her body between me and the door like a Chicago Bears linebacker.

“Mr. Bentley, stop!” she yelled. “This is an outside door! If you open it and fall out while we're going forty miles an hour, you'd kill yourself. Now get aholda yourself, man!”

The door hadn't budged. I'd forgotten about the big safety “dog latch” at the top corner. But Sylvia was right. We were going far too fast to jump from the train without serious injury. I'd be the one making the six o'clock news if I jumped the train.

I stopped pulling at the door. In spite of myself, I knew I hadn't fully blown my cover with Sylvia. In the melee, she'd been telling me this was an
outside door
, still assuming I couldn't see.

“Sorry, sorry.” I stared blankly over her head as we relaxed. “Must've gotten disoriented . . . panicked.” I reached out and touched the walls on either side and backed off. I needed to think,
maybe call the state police to stop that Greyhound bus. “I'm really sorry, Miss Sylvia. I'll just go back now. Don't worry about me. I'm okay. And thank you. Thank you.”

She was shaken but let me go without asking questions. She'd have a story to tell the other attendants after this.

As I returned to my compartment, I noticed an envelope on the floor just inside the door. I picked it up and slid the door closed, then returned to my seat to figure out what to do. I opened the envelope absently and pulled out a handwritten note.

Dear Mr. Bentley
,

Sorry I didn't have a chance to tell you this personally, but I got a call from my agent in Denver inviting us to stop by Bongo's offices. Seemed like a good opportunity to catch up and work on future plans, but we had to get off the Chief in Raton, New Mexico, and take a bus up to Denver
.

We'll spend a day there and catch the California Zephyr home. Get in to Chicago just a day late. Hope all is—

A crashing erupted out in the hallway, and I could hear hushed, angry voices. Passengers were going to think this sleeper had turned into a madhouse. This time I remembered my shades before opening my door a few inches. Sylvia wasn't in sight, but a couple of passengers by the luggage compartment were arguing with each other. A young girl, maybe seventeen, with long black hair, was waving her hands and putting her finger to her lips in an attempt to quiet a tall, older guy with spiked blond hair. He was grimacing and swearing in a barely restrained voice, slugging the suitcases on the upper shelves, and kicking those down below.