Murder on the Disoriented Express (5 page)

“Hate them later,” says Alan. “Find the phone now.”

She continues to search, but she makes a soft, pained sound when the corpse’s arm dislodges, hitting Ciere in the leg. She lunges backward, as if the corpse has been electrified. Alan is ready to offer to try on the other glove, but she holds up her hand and—sure enough—there’s the phone.

“Let’s get out of here,” she chokes out. She makes a retching noise and Alan hurries to get the door. They don’t quite run from the room; it’s more like a very, very fast-paced walk. Ciere tucks the cell phone into her pocket before veering into the nearest restroom.

When she emerges, her skin still has that chalky pallor. A passerby takes one look at her and hurries on his way. Ciere leans against a wall, letting it take her weight.

“You think he had a family?” asks Ciere quietly.

“If Guntram were here,” says Alan, just as quietly, “he’d say that the lives we save by stamping out the Alberanis will be worth far more than one man’s life. A man, who I might add, was giving guns to known violent criminals.”

Hard choices
, Alan’s aunt used to say.

It’s true. The Gyr Syndicate is as dangerous as any crime family, but they’re far less sloppy. Alan has memorized the statistics of the Syndicate’s past takeovers, and violent crimes have  all but stopped in their territory. Alan supposes it makes sense. Any truly good criminal knows better than to leave bodies in their wake.

Ciere’s knuckles go white on the door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

“This is a bad plan,” Alan says again.

Ciere doesn’t look at him. She continues to rub at the briefcase with a handful of paper towels, carefully wiping away any fingerprints. “It was your plan.”

A headache has begun to throb at the base of Alan’s neck. He makes a conscious effort to relax. Working his body into a frenzy will do him no good at all. “No,” he says, “my plan was to text Rover and tell her where the briefcase is. Then she retrieves it and we call security.”

“She won’t,” says Ciere confidently. “No criminal would take a briefcase full of cash that’s been abandoned.” She pursed her mouth. “Or at least no smart criminal. Anything that’s too good to be true often is. She won’t take the money unless it’s handed off in person. We can’t plant it in her room because Pruitt, being the suspicious little bastard that he is, never told us what room she’s in. And unless you’ve suddenly developed Devon-esque hacking abilities, we’re not getting that information ourselves.”

Alan feels a bit affronted. “I know computers.” A beat. “Theoretically, I mean. I’ve read a lot of books.”

“Pretty sure the reality differs a bit from the books,” she replies, but there’s no bite to her voice. “We can’t find out where she is. We can’t plant the knife. So we make her take it—because there’s something shiny that distracts her. Like the Greeks did with the Trojan cow.”

“It was a Trojan
horse
.”

“Yeah, but I always called it a cow just to annoy Kit,” she says, almost fondly. “He thought I dozed during that lecture.”

Alan eyes the briefcase’s interior. For all of his worry, he has to admire the hurried sewing job Ciere did on the lining. If he didn’t know where to look, he could almost miss the slight bulge where she hid the knife.

“It’s dangerous,” says Alan. “Guntram’s notes told us to stay away from Rover.”

Ciere throws the paper towels at the wall with such force that if they’d been heavier, they might have left a dent. “Yeah, Guntram said a lot of things about this job.” She glowers at the briefcase, and carefully tries to pull it shut. It won’t close all the way, but it’s better than nothing. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she makes an effort to meet his gaze.

Alan tries not to look away. He’s always avoided people’s gazes, never met anyone’s eyes, hoped they wouldn’t get a good look at his face.

You have your father’s eyes
, his aunt used to say.

Alan manages not to break the stare and Ciere’s face softens. “Listen,” she says, more gently. “This isn’t your kind of gig. I get it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You can stay here and I’ll handle it.” She throws her shoulders back, smiling in that way of hers. “I’ll take on Shaw’s appearance. It’s what I do.”

It is shameful how tempting her words are. Alan turns the thought over in his mind, examining it from all angles. He should let her do this. It’s what his family would have wanted—it is imperative that he survives.

That the Praevenir formula survives.

But to use Ciere’s own words, there’s surviving, then there’s living. And he’s not sure how he’ll live with himself if she gets hurt.

“No,” says Alan. His voice is firmer than he expected. “You should illusion me to look like Shaw and I’ll hand the money over.”

Ciere gapes at him. “What? No.”

It’s not that she can’t do it; Alan has seen her disguise other people’s appearances before. It was something she was forced to master before Guntram allowed her to fully work within the Syndicate. But even her illusions have limitations.

“You can’t illusion your voice.” Alan smiles, just a little. “If she’s suspicious about us leaving the briefcase in a deserted hallway, she’ll be suspicious of a thirty-something man that sounds like a seventeen-year-old girl.”

“I won’t talk,” says Ciere stubbornly.

Alan’s smile grows. “Is that even possible?”

“Oh shut it.” But there’s no heat to her words. “Fine. You’ve got a point. But…but are you sure?”

No. Not at all.

“Yes.”

They stand in the children’s car. It’s dinnertime and all the kids are probably eating with their families. The discarded toys seem to stare at Alan and he glances away. The only sounds are the curtains rustling as the train takes another turn.

“You did text her, right?” asks Alan.

Ciere nods. “Told her to meet us here in five minutes. Which means we should probably get into position.”

She shakes herself, like a runner getting ready for a hard sprint. Alan takes several steps backward, to the middle of the carriage.

Ciere’s face clouds with concentration and she raises a hand toward him.

The teenage boy known as Alan blurs out of existence. He grows taller, broader, and his dark hair goes red, his coppery skin turns pale. In a fraction of a second, none other than a dead man stands in the train car. Shaw glances at himself in a window, chancing a look at his own reflection.

“That is weird,” says Alan.

“Try to sound older,” says Ciere, with a wince. “I just hope she and Shaw haven’t talked much. Maybe try to sound hoarse—say you’ve got allergies or something.” Still looking pained, she steps up to a wall and presses herself to it. She closes her eyes and her outline fades. Her body seems to take on the color and texture of the wall, and she vanishes.

Now all that’s left to do is wait.

Alan paces back and forth a few steps, trying to look important and confident. The way Shaw looked when Alan first saw him in the dining car. The briefcase rests on the floor, propped up against a dollhouse. Fear pulses through him with every heartbeat. So many things could go wrong with this plan. Rover could not show up. Rover could show up armed. Rover might know Shaw’s voice well enough to discern that Alan is an imposter. Or—

The door glides open. Alan’s throat feels tight as Rover steps inside.

Alan stands a little straighter.

Rover takes one step and then another. “I hope you have some explanation,” she says stiffly. “There was someone from another family on the train. Your security’s been compromised.”

Alan opens his mouth. For a moment, he’s sure nothing will come out. “We didn’t know,” he says. He keeps his voice low, hoping against hope she won’t suspect. “Please assure your people that we are not doing business with anyone else.” He holds out a hand, palm out, gesturing at the briefcase.

Rover’s gaze alights on it. “What’s this?”

“We promised a secure transport,” says Alan. He tries to imbue his words with as much arrogance as possible, to cover the fact that he has no idea what the real Shaw promised. “And as we were unable to hold up our end of the bargain, at least this once, we are offering a full refund.” He hesitates, then adds, “As a gesture of goodwill.”

Rover makes no attempt to hide her suspicion. She steps forward, kneeling before the briefcase. She stares at the broken lock for a moment.

Alan thinks quickly, trying to come up with some explanation. But—
I lost the key; someone broke it; I fell on it
—all sound ridiculous. All he can do is hope the lure of the money is enough to smooth over any awkward questions.

Rover yanks the case open, fingers trailing over the broken lock. But then she sees the money—all laid out in even little stacks. A quick series of emotions cross her face—suspicion, greed, followed by a desire to bring this conversation to an end.

Rover carefully picks up the briefcase and nods once at Alan, as if he’s done her some kind of favor. “I’ll remember this,” she says, and walks to the doors. She gives him one last look before the doors glide open and she strides through them.

“I’m sure you will,” Alan says to the empty car. Well, visibly empty. Ciere snorts somewhere to his right.

Alan begins to shake; he’s not sure how long he can remain upright. Leaning against a wall, he lets out a soft laugh. He did it. He did something that endangered himself, endangered the formula, and it turned out all right.

Ciere winks into existence. She’s grinning broadly. “Not bad, newbie. Not bad at all. You want to alert security, or should I?”

Alan is already pulling out his phone.

They never make it to Florida. Rather, they get off at the next stop. It’s easy, amidst the swarming police cars and ringing sirens and the chatter of disturbed passengers.

“...Murdered! Can you believe it?”

“...Saying it was one of the passengers—”

“I always rode these trains because they’re supposed to be safe—”

Ciere hurries through the crowd, Alan at her heels. Once they’re free of the train station, Alan finds that they’re in a small town. It looks like it consists of a strip mall and some far-off factories.

“Well, that’s one business arrangement shattered,” Alan remarks. “You think the Alberanis will be able to salvage their gun-running?”

“Oh, yes,” says Ciere. “Probably just start using vans or something.” She shakes out her hair, head tilted up to the sunlight. “I should probably call Pruitt, shouldn’t I? See if he’s still alive.”

“Probably,” Alan agrees.

“Here.” Ciere turns her back to him. Her backpack, along with Pruitt’s, is slung over one shoulder. “Mind grabbing my phone for me?”

Alan unzips the bag and reaches in. He never finds the phone; rather, his fingertips brush paper and he opens the bag farther, peering at its contents.

Tucked inside her backpack are two stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He picks one up. It must be a thousand dollars, at least.

“This,” says Alan, not daring to pull the money from her bag. It’s too conspicuous, so he puts it back, grabs for her phone, and yanks the bag shut. “It’s the money.”

When Ciere faces him, she’s grinning widely. “Perceptive, aren’t you.” She tosses her hair. “The bottom layer of the briefcase
might
have been padded with that board game money I took from a toddler. Just so it looked full.”

“Are we giving it to Guntram?”

Ciere makes a derisive sound. “Are you kidding? We earned this money. If Guntram wants to rip off some mobsters, he can do it himself.”

He can’t help but return her smile. “So the police have a mobster in custody, the corrupt train conductor is dead, our lying ally is probably hitchhiking home, and the heroes walk away with two grand. It’s almost…poetic.”

“I’m not sure we’re exactly heroes,” points out Ciere. She begins walking away from the station, and Alan falls into step beside her.

“Of course we’re the heroes,” he says. “Or at least, we will be when we tell this story.”

She snorts. “Yes. We’ll call this one, ‘The Time Alan and Ciere Were Tricked into Helping a Mobster Cover up a Murder, Ciere Ended Up Going Through the Dead Guy’s Pockets, and Alan Pretended to be a Train Conductor.’”

“I think we need a shorter title.” Alan considers it and says, “‘Murder on the Disoriented Express.’”

Ciere chokes and sputters out a laugh.

Alan hasn’t had a lot of time for friends. It’s one downside to being on the run for most of his life. There have been fragile acquaintances, but those always dissolved when he moved to a new city, a new name, a new life.

But that changed when he met Ciere.

There was nothing elegant about their friendship’s beginnings. Ciere and Alan came together like a car crash—colliding into each other’s lives, inexorably twisted up and unable to pry themselves apart. It was an alliance of circumstance; two teenagers against those who wanted them dead.

Since then, their friendship has been a tenuous thing, fraught with adrenaline and never a moment’s rest. Ciere is impulsive and brash at the best of times and downright stubborn at the worst. But she is also the first person who has ever looked at Alan and not seen a weapon for the taking. She talks to him like he’s a person, not a formula.

The first time he saw her, she was lit up with sunlight, the first real light he’d seen in days. She’s radiant and alive and he wonders how she’s managed it. He knows what she’s survived; he can see it in the way her eyes linger on doors and windows, in the nervous twitching of her legs, in the way her lips form the word she’s taken for her name. She’s like him—a survivor.

Alan knows his own pragmatism. He’d let another person die to keep the formula safe. He’s also pretty sure he’d kill someone, too, if it came right down to it. Extraneous things like friendship and pity and shame are meant to be cut away, left behind.

He’s a survivor. No matter the cost.

But unlike Alan, Ciere hasn’t kept to the shadows. She hasn’t cut herself off or become hardened. When she saw a man die, she nearly fell apart.