A cloud of dust washed into the station from the street, blurring everything in a haze of red. Thatcher sneezed. He had thankfully recovered from his head cold, but something in the desert air was playing havoc on his sinuses. He spotted a sturdy young porter who was standing at the curb next to a large steamer trunk.
"I beg your pardon, but I'm here to meet a friend. Has the three o'clock from Amarillo arrived yet?"
"Yes, sir. Came in thirty minutes ago and she's just gone back out."
The man pointed and Thatcher saw a trail of black smoke to the southwest. He thanked the porter and entered the station. The crowd was modest, and everyone moved slowly in the heat. It took less than a minute to cover the entire place — Lydia was definitely not here. There were few remaining possibilities. She could be in the ladies room, or she might have walked down the street for a bite to eat. Thatcher took a seat on a long, empty bench. There was nothing to do but wait.
Lydia watched the desert drift past her window. It seemed endless, particularly at the tops of the hills where she could see mountains that must have been a hundred miles away. The openness was a comfort, daylight against the dark shadow of Alexander Braun.
The more Lydia thought through the situation, the more she calmed. Even if Alex were to come back, she was safe here, surrounded by dozens of people, half of them strong young men. He was a killer, but not a stupid, reckless one. She had certainly erred by getting on the train, but now the way out seemed clear. She would simply sit here in coach until the next station, a place called Winslow, Arizona. They were scheduled to arrive in an hour, and at the station she'd get off and call her father. It would work perfectly as long as Alex didn't see her.
Then Lydia remembered something Thatcher had said. Alex was here to contact a Nazi spy. The question rushed to her mind — could that person also be on the train? Perhaps in this very car? Lydia looked all around. A man two rows back was leering at her obviously. His face was narrow and pinched, with a rodent's black eyes. A shiver went down her spine, and Lydia turned away in fright. Had it been the sneer of an old lecher? Or something else?
She tried to see him in the reflection of the side window, but it was no use — too many faces, too much commotion. Still, it felt as if the man's eyes were boring into her back. But he couldn't be the one, she reasoned. If there was a spy on the train, it would be a stranger, someone who couldn't possibly recognize her. Unless… unless Alex had pointed her out.
She imagined the black eyes, felt his stare still fixed on her. Lydia had to do something. She turned to Tommy. He was nearly asleep, having long ago given up his offensive in the face of her cool, distracted responses.
"I'm sorry to bother you—"
His eyes opened fully, but the earlier excitement was gone. "Yeah, what is it?"
"There's a man back there — he's staring at me."
He started to turn, but Lydia took his arm. "No, don't look," she whispered. "He's middle-aged, wearing a brown shirt and a flat cap."
His chest puffed out. "You want me to go set him straight?"
"No, no. Look, it's probably nothing." She hesitated. "Listen, I'm going to go up to the next car. Could you just make sure he doesn't follow me?" She squeezed his skinny bicep. "It would really mean a lot."
The soldier grinned, awash in confidence. "Sure, sweetheart."
Lydia got up, walked quickly to the front, and passed into the next car. It was a sleeper, and there were more soldiers here, lounging in bunks on their elbows with magazines and cigarettes. More smiles. When Lydia reached the front of the car she ventured a look back. The man had not followed her. Ahead was another Pullman sleeper, also loaded with soldiers, many more solid and steeled than the wisp who was already serving as her guardian.
The sea of uniforms gave her a sense of security. Lydia gained confidence. Alex was up there, she thought, only a hundred feet away. The man who had killed Edward was relaxing, perhaps taking a Scotch. Enjoying a casual afternoon. But what was he doing here? Lydia wondered. And why San Francisco? Or was he even going there? It dawned on her that Alex might also get off the train in Winslow. If he did, he could disappear forever. And how many more would he kill? How many more women would feel what she felt at this very moment? Anger. Even hate. It made her seethe. Lydia was tired of being weak and ignored. It was time to stand up and fight.
And so she came up with a new plan.
Braun had settled into his tiny room. The flimsy door shut, he was sprawled on a bed three inches shorter than his frame. One arm lay draped over his forehead, a cigarette between thumb and forefinger, while the other hand held Heinrich's papers. He studied them now with ravenous intensity. Braun had tried to sleep, but even with the gentle rocking of the train it was no use. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the incredible light, felt the wind rush over him like a breath from hell.
And if that wasn't enough, he had found more evidence. The steward had delivered a newspaper to his cabin, a local rag called the Albuquerque Journal Braun found the article on page eleven, buried beneath a drab piece about the state budgetary process. "Early this morningy an ammunition magazine exploded near Alamogordo. There were no reports of injuries.. "
Braun was not a newspaper man, but he knew there were deadlines. The blast had taken place at 5:30 this morning, yet there had apparently been a delay. Heinrich's theatrics suggested that 4:00 was the original target. It all made sense — the story had been planted by the War Department. There would have to be some explanation put forward, some account for the few night watchmen and freight train engineers who would undoubtedly witness the event. The article in the paper was further proof about the scope of this Manhattan Project. And proof that the whole thing had not been a dream.
Braun rose from his bunk and stretched. He flicked his cigarette out the window that was cracked open and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. His stomach reminded him that he was neglecting it once again. It was time for a good meal and a decent cigar. He tucked Heinrich's file under the pillow, and gathered up his fresh clothes and shaving gear. A gentleman doesn't go to lunch unclean, he mused. Stepping from his compartment, he locked the door and headed for the washroom.
Thatcher waited thirty minutes before putting through a call to Newport. Sargent Cole confirmed that the train and time were correct. Baffled, Thatcher went to the ticket window. A young girl stood behind the counter, chewing gum and filing her nails.
"Perhaps you could help me," he said. "I'm looking for a young woman who came in on the last train. She's about your height and has dark hair, rather long."
The girl studied Thatcher for a moment before shrugging. "No, sorry mister." She went back to her nails.
Thatcher turned away with a sigh of frustration. Where had Lydia gone? Had she even arrived? He decided to walk down the street and look over the restaurants.
Back at the ticket counter, the young girl watched him from the corner of her eye. She was having a grand time thinking of all the scandalous possibilities. Most likely, Dreamboat had been the boyfriend, and the gimpy Brit soldier was the husband. She blew a bubble and it popped. Any way she figured it, she'd done the girl a big favor. "You owe me one, sister," she giggled under her breath.
Chapter 33
Lydia found the man she wanted in the dining car. Not knowing if Alex might be there as well, she leaned in and beckoned him over with a wave. He saw her, smiled, and came as requested.
"Hello, ma'am. I thought you got off in Albuquerque."
Lydia smiled conspiratorially. She dragged the old black man out of sight and into the next car. "Clifford, I'm so glad to see you!"