Behind the steel eyes she saw his thoughts turning.
"Why, Lydia? Why are you here?"
She allowed her head a tilt. "Isn't it obvious? I love you, Alex."
There! She saw it. A shift in his gaze. His thoughts had lost focus. "The last time I saw you, I'd just sent you tumbling down a staircase," he argued.
"I know. You panicked, like I did when I ran from your room just now." She kept her gaze locked to Alex, not allowing him to concentrate on the surroundings. "And what you did to Edward, as awful as it was — I know you did it so we could be together."
"You can't believe—" his eyes narrowed. "If you came here to warn me, then why were digging through my papers? Why were you in my room?"
Lydia's mind raced. Just a few more seconds. "Didn't you see the champagne? The two glasses? When I sat on the bed, the papers were there. I'm sorry if I messed them up."
Silence. A distracted gaze. The platform tilted slightly. They had reached the rise. Lydia moved quickly She vaulted over the railing and got a footing outside. Leaning back, her hands clung to the platform, stretching for every possible second. Below, the rail bed was a blur. She heard the wheels churning and grinding just below her feet. All of it was dangerous, but less so than the man on the platform.
Her action had frozen Alex. He hadn't expected it. They stared at one another for an instant before Alex understood. His blue eyes came sharp, their raw intensity issuing the first strike. The same eyes Edward would have seen.
Alex lunged, his speed catching her by surprise. One hand snagged her shoulder, snapping shut like a bear trap. She was hanging free, her feet still firm, pushing away, but Alex tearing and ripping from across the iron railing. A foot slipped loose and she saw the huge metal wheel spinning below. Lydia twisted wildly, not knowing where she would fall. Not caring. Just get away!
Lydia s other foot slipped, and her legs slammed against the frame of the car, inches from the wheels. Alex pulled and clawed from the other side, his fingers digging into her flesh. He refused to give up. Amid the clattering mechanical noise she heard the sound of fabric tearing. And then Lydia fell.
She crashed to the ground, tumbling and rolling. Limbs thrashed and flailed, scraping across gravel and down the incline of the rail bed. When it finally stopped, Lydia lay motionless, crumpled in a heap.
She felt pain in every sinew of her body. She tasted blood in her mouth. All of it proved the unlikely truth — that she was still alive. Lydia forced her eyes open. Amid the dust, she saw the train a hundred feet away, climbing the hill. And she saw Alex, leaning on the railing, watching her intently.
Lydia wished she was closer, to see the look on his face. As the top of the train crested the hill, she spit out a mouthful of blood and moved. First an arm underneath, then a shift of a leg. The pain was awful, but using every reserve Lydia did it. In sheer defiance, she stood and stared at Alexander Braun.
Chapter 35
The conductor gave his notice: "Winslow, Arizona, ten minutes!"
Braun would be ready. He had already apologized to the steward and, on hearing his side of the story, devised an explanation. He and his fiancee had just suffered their first row, and dear Lydia was presently brooding back in the day coach. She would come around soon.
There had been no alarms raised. Not yet. But Braun had to get off the train — he was running through a minefield. Tommy, the steward — and Lydia. Her perfume still lingered as he stuffed his belongings into his suitcase. The vision came again. Lydia, bloody and battered, standing by the track. Damny why cant I shake it?
It had been a stunning performance. I had to try and warn you … Isn't it obvious? I love youy Alex. He had listened like a fool as she'd waited for the train to slow, waited for her chance. She had known he wouldn't follow — he had to stay with the train and the papers. A perfectly cunning deduction. Lydia. Witless, feeble Lydia! Braun slammed the suitcase shut, furious. But not because she'd gotten the better of him. He knew it was far more serious.
The train drew to a stop in a cloud of steam. Braun saw a station outside. The sign read: winslow arizona elevation: 4,940.
He got off the train and instantly went to work, driving away what had happened. He had to work fast. There were no other trains on the siding — a westbound freight would have been ideal. Outside, he saw a truck carrying rock. He could jump into the bed, but it might be headed anywhere. Echoes from Frau Schumann. Crowded places are best. He needed a population center, a place to get lost.
A bus was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes, bound eventually for Los Angeles. He found a timetable and mentally recorded every stop it would make on the way. Braun walked quickly across the street. In a gift: shop he found a map of Arizona. Braun studied it against the route he had just memorized. He could not stay on the bus long — the authorities would surely track it down. But he had to leave now, and it seemed the only way.
Braun went back to the station and purchased a ticket all the way through to Los Angeles. He boarded the bus, which was nearly empty, and kept the suitcase close by. He vowed never to let the papers out of his sight again.
When the bus left the station, he closed his eyes. Braun tried to deconstruct everything, tried to make his actuary's appraisal of the events on the train. But the disturbing vision intruded. He saw her hanging outside the railing. He saw her fall to the rocks below. Braun had stood with a torn sleeve in one hand before rushing to the back. He watched Lydia tumble and roll like a rag doll, her body battering down the embankment. His hands had clutched the iron railing with a force that might have bent it. When Lydia finally stopped her twisting, turning plunge, she remained still. Perfectly still.
And then Braun had done the most unimaginable thing. The thing that had absolutely puzzled him ever since. To a God he had never believed in, he'd prayed that Lydia would survive. And when she stood — wobbling, bleeding, but alive — he had felt the most indescribable joy.
A flurry of telephone calls ran between Michael Thatcher, Sargent Cole, and Tomas Jones. The local authorities caught up with the Western Express just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. It was a spot where Route 66 paralleled the rail line. Four police cruisers, the town's full complement, along with five officers frantically waving their arms, were enough to convince the engineer to apply his brakes.
The authorities searched the train for nearly an hour, giving particular interest to one first-class cabin. Interviews with the passengers and rail employees confirmed that a tall, blond man had in fact been on the train, but no one had seen him since Winslow. The officials also noted the absence of a young woman, identified as Lydia Murray, who was supposed to have been on board. Radio calls were made, and the information relayed by wire. The focus of the investigation quickly recentered thirty miles east, back in Winslow.
Seeing their job as done, the Flagstaff police pulled back and stood to watch as the train gathered steam once again. None took notice as a nearly empty Greyhound bus eased behind them on Route 66 and coasted into town.
A trucker carrying a load of hay found Lydia at dusk, limping alongside the road. She told the man her story, which was backed up by her miserable condition, and the driver made best time to Winslow. There, Lydia retold everything to the sheriff, who'd been looking for her. They all tried to guess where Alexander Braun had gone.
At seven that evening, Thatcher arrived at the station. He walked straight over, put his hands on her shoulders, and studied her with clear concern. Lydia understood — she had already been to the mirror. There were scrapes across one side of her face, cuts and bruises scattered all over her body. Her right elbow was severely swollen, but that was at least hidden by the shirt she had on, lent to her by one of the lawmen.