Murder on the Disoriented Express (3 page)

“You think that’s it?” Ciere asks as they dodge past a woman on a cell phone. “He doesn’t like us because we’re young?”

Alan opens his mouth without thinking. “Or it could be because he’s afraid of you.”

Ciere comes to a full stop. She turns around and the intensity of her stare is nearly unbearable.  “What?”

He shouldn’t have said anything. “It’s nothing.”

She waits, an impatient silence stretching between them.

Alan breaks down first. “Pruitt’s only met one other illusionist,” he says, keeping his voice low. “And that person happens to be very, very dangerous. What if he thinks you’ll turn out the same?”

Ciere’s eyes widen. “I—I’m nothing like that.”

Alan tries to sound reasonable. “I know that. But Pruitt…” Alan shrugs. “He’s with the Syndicate. He’s spent years doing who knows what to who knows who. Assuming the worst about everyone is probably how he’s still alive.”

Ciere’s troubled expression fades into something more thoughtful. “You know,” she says, “for a shut-in, you’re surprisingly good at reading people.”

Alan feels his mouth twitch. “…Thanks?”

She grins at him and continues on.

Shaw’s room is near the end of the train. The crowd thins out, until Ciere and Alan are alone as they enter the car. Perhaps this one is meant for staff or important guests; that would explain the lack of people.

“I’ll leave this to you,” Alan says, with a little nod at Shaw’s door.

Alan has stolen before—taken food and clothes and other necessities. He even thought he was pretty good at it until he met Ciere.

Alan has stolen things.

Ciere is a thief.

There’s a difference.

There are lock picks twisted into Ciere’s curly hair, a miniature screwdriver hidden within a tube of mascara, and she can turn a person’s senses against themselves.

“At least I’m good for something,” she mutters, yanking a pair of thin, flesh-colored gloves onto her hands. He’s seen her use them before—they’re made of a special latex that shrinks to fit the hand. Leaving prints, she once explained, was the easiest way to get caught. She pulls the picks out of her bun, and her short hair cascades around her ears. She bends forward, fingers easing the picks into the keyhole.

She has the door open in ten seconds. “Ta-da,” she says.

Alan chuckles. “I’d slow-clap, but that might draw attention.”

She snorts, grabs a fistful of his shirt, and drags him into the room.

It’s larger than theirs—with a small sitting space in addition to the folding bunks. There’s even a private bathroom. Shaw, with his connections, must have wrangled the best room.

“How long have we got?” asks Alan, gaze roaming over the room.

“Pruitt said he’d try to draw Shaw’s attention for at least ten minutes,” Ciere replies, bending over to dig through a series of drawers set into a wall. “I can just imagine him pretending to be yet another pissed-off rich person that wants to complain to management.” She pulls out a pair of leather shoes. “Bitching at people is what he’s best at.”

Alan goes to the closet. There aren’t too many places to hide anything in these rooms.

Sure enough, the briefcase is tucked behind a garment bag. Alan drags it out. It’s locked, of course, and he glances to Ciere. He expects her to go for her picks again, but she glances over the lock and lets out a derisive sound Then she rises to her feet and slams her heel against the hinges. The metal twists apart and snaps free. “Amateurs,” says Ciere loftily, and opens the briefcase.

Inside are rows and rows of hundred-dollar bills.

“Let’s bring it back to our room,” says Alan, reaching out to shut the briefcase. Of course, now it’s broken, so he has to hold the two sides together. But when he stands, holding the briefcase awkwardly under one arm, he notices Ciere moving toward the closet.

“What are you doing?” he says.

Ciere ducks into the closet and begins rummaging around. “Seeing what else is in here.”

“We’re supposed to get out.”

“Says who?”

“Pruitt. Four times, if I remember correctly.”

Ciere makes a disgusted sound.

“So you’re going to root around in Shaw’s things?” asks Alan. He’s already itching to get out of the room. It’s what his aunt would have done. Lingering seems…unwise.

He says as much.

“You can leave if you want,” says Ciere, tossing a pair of shoes over her shoulder. “But think about it—Shaw’s already hiding tens of thousands of dollars in his room. What else could be in here?” Her voice takes on an almost giddy quality. “Hey, if we find something really good, you think Guntram would knock a month or two off our sentence?”

“He won’t be able to let us go if we’re dead,” Alan points out.

Ciere finally goes still and crawls backward, twisting so that she can meet his eyes. It’s a struggle, holding on to her gaze, but he manages. “There’s surviving,” she says, “and then there’s living.”

There’s a seriousness to her face that Alan rarely sees. It makes him think of the little hints she’s dropped; she’s mentioned parties and a bank robbery that she pulled simply for the hell of it—her words, not his. She is an illusionist. There will never be a moment that someone won’t want to control her. And he wonders if this is how she fights against that control, by taking risks and forging her own reckless path.

Alan isn’t sure what he might have said, because he never gets the chance. The sound of someone sliding a key into the door makes his blood run cold.

Ciere lunges to her feet.

She motions him to the far wall, to the narrow space between couch and closet. It’s just enough space to fit two teenagers. Alan hesitates, then realizes her plan. He follows her to the wall and presses himself against it.

Once they’re in place, Ciere makes a vague gesture with one hand and she vanishes. Alan looks down at himself and sees…nothing. It’s an odd feeling, to sense the floor beneath his feet but not actually see his shoes.

Ciere’s hand finds his wrist and squeezes. The briefcase remains clamped shut beneath his other arm, and the broken metal of the lock bites into his bare skin. The discomfort goes all but unnoticed.

Shaw steps into the room. He reaches for the light, realizes it’s already on, and frowns. A bolt of adrenaline goes through Alan.
The lights
. They should have remembered to turn off the lights.

But if Shaw is suspicious, it isn’t for long. He walks farther into the room, tossing his key upon the table.

And none other than Pruitt follows behind.

Ciere’s grip tightens.

“I don’t understand what was so sensitive we needed to talk alone,” Shaw is saying. “You said it has something to do with…illegal activity.”

Pruitt carefully slides the door shut behind them. “Yes, I’m sorry to tell you, but I think I saw something.” He hesitates, a touch too deliberately, and says, “I think there may be a member of a crime family here.”

As if he can’t help himself, Shaw’s eyes flick to the closet where he stashed the briefcase. His attention is wholly on the closet, which is probably the point. Alan realizes that by mentioning the crime family, Shaw will be focused on the money and his own guilt, not on the man in his room. It’s probably the only thing that will make Shaw turn his back on Pruitt.

“And who would that be?” says Shaw.

“Me,” says Pruitt simply, and lunges. His fingers are wrapped around Shaw’s throat before the man can even cry out. Then Pruitt pulls a knife from inside his jacket.

Alan read about this once, in an army manual his aunt always kept around. This technique is typically used to disable sentries in enemy territory because it’s quiet and effective. As if on cue, his brain feeds the information back to him.
Ensure target has his back to you. Crush larynx and stab subclavian artery.

Alan closes his eyes. He’s always considered himself a pragmatic person. People die; sometimes people kill them. But that doesn’t mean he wants to see it.

When Alan blinks the world back into view, it’s over. Shaw is still and silent on the floor and Pruitt stands over him, wiping his fingerprints from the knife’s handle. Using the same napkin that Shaw used to hide the key that he passed to Rover.

Pruitt gives Shaw one last look. It’s not a triumphant look, but it’s not one of remorse, either. It’s the look of a man doing his job and taking no pride in it.

He walks out of the room and lets the door slide shut behind him.

Alan counts to ten in his head before he moves. Ciere lets the illusion fall and they flicker back into existence. Her skin has gone chalky.

“It’s not a heist,” she whispers. “It’s a hit.”

They don’t go back to their room.

Rather, Alan makes for the dining car. There’s some tea service going on, and nearly all of the tables are full. A low murmur blends together, providing the perfect cover for any covert conversation. Alan orders whatever sandwiches are available, along with the tea.

They’re seated at a table in the corner of the car, near a window. Ciere’s knuckles are white on the briefcase’s handle, and she slides it beneath their table. The cheerful scenery slides by—green field, trees, distant buildings, all gone before Alan has time to really take them in.

“They should have told us the real plan,” says Alan, when he’s sure no one will overhear. “Pruitt can plant the knife in Rover’s room, make it look like the Alberani family killed Shaw. And then there’s no need to let
any
of the money slip through our hands. The Syndicate breaks the business relationship and walks away with a small fortune.” Alan shakes his head. “It’s a good plan, if just a little morally reprehensible.”

Ciere’s eyes are strangely vacant when she picks up her teacup. “It’s the same as any con,” she says quietly. “You make the mark look at your right hand—dangle it in front of them, wave it around—and all the while, you’re picking their pocket with your left hand.” She drops a sugar cube into her tea. “He distracted us with the prospect of stealing part of the money, so we would get away quickly and wouldn’t notice him taking out Shaw.”

“Guntram should have told us,” says Alan. “Letting us walk in here blind was a risk.”

“Not as much as a risk as telling two teenagers they’re going to be party to murder,” Ciere says, voice dropping even lower. “For all he knows, we might have warned Shaw.”

Alan wants to ask if she would have warned Shaw. If she would have sacrificed her alliance with the Syndicate to save a stranger’s life.

He doesn’t ask. If the question were to be turned around, he knows his answer all too well. If it meant keeping himself safe, yes, he would let another person die.

Ciere’s voice is brittle with anger. “I should have known. The moment Guntram explained why Pruitt was going with us. Native of Florida, my ass.” She makes a disgusted sound. “They sent Pruitt because Guntram won’t get his hands dirty, Conrad won’t leave Guntram, and Henry’s off doing her own thing.”

Ciere’s phone buzzes and she picks it up.

“Pruitt?” asks Alan.

She nods once. “Wants to know where the hell we are.”

Alan sips at his tea. “I’ll bet he really wants to know if the money’s secure.”

Ciere mutters something about exactly where Pruitt can shove that money. She takes a savage bite of sandwich, barely pausing to chew before adding, “He can come find the money, for all I care.”

Pruitt does indeed find them.

It takes about an hour but the man shows up just as Ciere is paying the bill. He looks thunderous, but at the sight of the briefcase, some of his anger burns off. “You have it, then.”

“I have it,” says Ciere coolly. “Where have you been?”

Pruitt hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a second and Alan wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t looking for the pause. “Cleaning up a few loose ends,” says Pruitt stiffly, which Alan takes to mean,
Planting a bloody knife in a mobster’s room.
“I’ll take the briefcase now, so I can put it…where it needs to go. You can go back to our rooms.”

Ciere’s grip on the briefcase tightens as if she needs that physical restraint. “How about I hold on to it? At least until we reach our room. It’s on the way. We did a number on the lock, so you kinda have to hold the thing together. You can take it, once we’re out of sight.”

Pruitt’s eyes flick toward the briefcase jammed under her arm. “I should take it.”

“Why?” says Ciere, too sharply. “Don’t trust us?”

All semblance of politeness drops from Pruitt’s face. And before she can respond, he reaches out and presses a hand to the briefcase’s side.

She jerks back as if burned. “What—what are you doing?”

But Alan knows exactly what he was doing. Pruitt made no move to take the briefcase; he just wanted to check if it was real.

“I’ve seen what people like us can do,” says Pruitt, so low that Alan barely hears him. “And no, I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone with that kind of power.”

Alan wishes the corridor were wider, so he could wedge himself between them. This conversation feels dangerous, as if it could shift into violence with a single uttered word.

“You’re immune, too,” says Ciere. Even in a whisper, her voice loses none of its hard edge.

“And that’s why I know better than to trust any of us,” says Pruitt. “I can’t forget what we’ve done.”

The words strike Alan harder than they should. Because he knows what Pruitt means. “You’re an eidos,” says Alan quietly.

Ciere twists to look at Alan, but he doesn’t return her gaze. His own eyes are on Pruitt’s hands—scarred by blade-thin marks and calloused in all the places where a person holds a gun. He must remember every moment of it, every wound and hurt, every insult or injury.

No wonder the man has anger management issues
, Alan thinks.

Pruitt seems to return to himself. His snarl evens out into a normal-looking frown.

“How’d you end up working with the Syndicate?” says Ciere, making no attempt to mask her disbelief.

“You think you’re the only immune criminal that Guntram rescued?” Pruitt replies.

Ciere scoffs. “He didn’t rescue me.”

“That’s not the way he tells it.” Pruitt grinds his knuckles against his temples, as if trying to dispel a migraine. His fury has faded, gone back to its usual simmering state.