Cover Your Tracks Page 4

  She shuddered. If he was right, it would be difficult for a rescue team to reach them. Not only was visibility in this blizzard an obstacle, but the terrain was rugged and treacherous. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her body, but it did little to stave off the cold or her mounting dread. Fatigue nipped at her from the inside out. With eyes closed, she listened to the snow striking the windows and tried to repaint that idyllic scene she’d seen through the picture window of the viewing car. So beautiful; so deadly.

  “Margo, go to the bed and get some sleep.”

  Her moment of repose broken, she opened her eyes. She didn’t want to be alone, even one room away. “I’ll sit with you. I’m not giving up hope that a rescue squad will find us tonight.”

  He grunted.

  On second thought, she might be safer alone. But she stayed put.

  CHAPTER 9

  As a child, Nick Eliot didn’t attend preschool or even kindergarten. “He can play at home,” his father, Michael, had said. “That’s all they do in kindergarten. He’ll get exposed to the corrupt Establishment soon enough.” Michael Eliot hated the government because he’d been drafted into the army and forced to fight in Vietnam.

  “You can’t trust anyone,” Nick’s mother had said. She’d run away from home as a teenager. She refused to say why. She met Nick’s father on the streets of Phoenix, and after Nick was born, they had moved to Flagstaff.

  If not for JJ, Nick’s imaginary friend, Nick would’ve been all alone.

  Then Nick turned six and started first grade. His father drove him to the school five blocks away and pulled into the carpool lane.

  Nick was petrified, but he wouldn’t show it.

  “Let’s go, JJ,” Nick said.

  His father took a deep, impatient breath. “You’ll have to lose Jumping Jack. The other kids will laugh at you if you don’t. They’ll call you a baby.”

  Other grown-ups were getting out of cars and escorting their kids his age toward the school building. His father only pulled forward in the drop-off line.

  “Daddy, come in with me.”

  “You need to learn independence to get by in this world. Go on, you don’t need me to walk you in. You’re a big boy now.”

  A rush of anxiety punched young Nick in the chest, hitting him so hard he could barely breathe. “But I don’t know where to go.”

  His father glowered at Nick. “Figure it out, man. It’s the way you learn to depend on yourself. If you depend on others, you’ll be nothing but a stooge in life.”

  Nick hesitated.

  “Get out of the car now, dammit!”

  Nick’s throat constricted; he tried to swallow. He wouldn’t cry, he couldn’t cry—not in front of his father. “When will you be back to get me?”

  “Your mother will take care of that. I won’t be off work yet.” Nick’s father was a copy editor for a small, local, alternative newspaper.

  Just then, a security guard reached for the handle to open the car door.

  “Bye-bye, Dad.” It was the first time in his life Nick had called his father Dad rather than Daddy.

  The school building looked like a scary monster that ate children. Nick walked a few steps in the direction the other people were going. Then he turned around and looked for his father’s car. He wanted to run back to it.

  His father had driven away.

  The school bell rang.

  Nick hurried toward the giant brick building.

  “JJ,” Nick shouted. “Where do we go?”

  The security guard walked up to him. “Hey kid, you must be in first grade?”

  Nick shrugged.

  The guard grasped Nick’s hand. “Come on. Let’s find your classroom, JJ.”

  Nick was afraid to correct the man.

  The security guard escorted Nick to a classroom filled with children seated at their desks. The first grade teacher, Mrs. Walters, interrupted her lecture on rules and assigned Nick a desk several rows from the front. He wanted to ask where JJ should sit, but he stopped himself, remembering his father’s warning. JJ would just have to sit on the floor. Nick settled into his seat, taking in the classroom. The chubby boy sitting in the desk to his left had brown hair, a pug nose, and a silly smile. Nick later learned that the boy’s name was Donnie Hollis.

  Donnie looked over at Nick, nodded toward the teacher, and whispered, “She’s a mean one. A wicked witch. My dad would say wicked bitch.”

  “Donnie, be quiet!” the teacher said, not yelling but certainly not talking in a soft voice.

  “She’s real nasty,” Donnie whispered again. “I bet I know what she’s going to talk about. The Native Americans. I’m part Indian, you know. The Indians scalped the white men. Cut the skin right off their heads, hair and all, while they were alive. I had Mrs. Walters last year too. I’m repeating first grade. It’s cool, I’ll show you what to do.”

  Nick didn’t understand what Donnie meant about repeating a grade, but decided it made sense to stay close to someone who knew what to do. Nick made sure to say practically nothing the entire day. Words got you into trouble.

  Mrs. Walters started moving in the boys’ direction, her shoes pounding the floor like bricks hitting pavement. Then she sent Donnie to the principal’s office. She gaped at Nick for a moment, and he feared he would have to follow Donnie, but she shook her head slightly and went back upfront.

  The teacher spent the rest of the day on counting, the alphabet, and the history of their great state of Arizona, which had the third largest population of Native Americans. Mrs. Walters had a lot of rules, but not as many as Nick’s father. School wasn’t fun like his mother had said it would be—except for the part about the Indians. At recess, Nick stood alone with JJ, unsure of how to join the other kids’ games. When the day ended, Nick packed up his things and went to the carpool line. He waited with the security guard until the last car was gone.

  “Where’s your ride?” the guard asked.

  Nick shrugged. He was too upset to speak.

  The guard shook his head, but his face was kind. “Wait right here, kid. I’m going to find someone from the principal’s office to call your parents.”

  Nick nodded. As soon as the guard went inside, Nick ran toward home—or in the direction he thought was home. A pit bull barked at him from behind a fence, then growled and butted its head against the gate, baring sharp teeth; three older boys pointed and laughed at him; a homeless man reeking of bad smells lunged at him, laughed hysterically, and ranted about someone he called the governor. Nick soiled his pants, but made up his mind that from now on he would be like the brave Native Americans—a tracker who would kill his enemy.

  When he reached home, his mother was sitting at the dining room table, reading her fortune-telling cards. She looked up, not at Nick but at the clock. “What are you doing?”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “How did you get home? I hope you didn’t get in a stranger’s car. You never get in a stranger’s car.”

  “I waited for you, and then I walked home. A dog barked.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize how late it is. Well, you got home yourself. Good.” She frowned. “What happened to your pants?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you pee your pants again, Nick?”

  He shrugged. “There was a dog and this man—”

  “Damn it. Go take them off and put them with the dirty clothes. I’m sick of cleaning up after you.” She went back to her tarot card reading. Just as Nick was about to go to his room to change his clothes, his mother called out to him, “Your father talked to me about JJ. You can’t have an imaginary friend in school. Just like you can’t pee your pants.”

  Nick stopped and looked around the corner. “JJ won’t ever come back, Mommy. I scalped him dead.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Margo must’ve dozed off, because the force of her own snoring woke her. “Is the rescue team here yet?” she asked Nick in a froggy voice.

  “No.”

  Her ar
ms were cramped from clinging to the blanket too tightly. She stretched them as she asked, “Do you have any idea how long it’s been?”

  “Just over three hours.”

  “They should’ve been here by now.”

  “I’ve been wondering if the train was due to stop at the next station.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Trains don’t always stop at every station. It’s possible the train was scheduled to bypass the next junction if there were no passengers boarding or getting off. Which would mean the authorities might not even know the train crashed.”

  “The authorities have to know about the wreck,” she said. “Everything is computerized these days. If people can hack into someone’s refrigerator or sprinkler system, then a train certainly has software that can send out a distress signal. Not to mention that the engineer or conductor would’ve alerted someone at the railroad that the train was making an emergency stop. That we were running headlong into an avalanche.”

  “After I left the army, I became a consultant for private industry. Technology has its limitations. In this storm, I wouldn’t be surprised if communication cut off before the avalanche occurred. I hope I’m wrong. Either way, we need to conserve our strength if we’re going to make it through the night. You especially.”

  Before she could reply, he rose from his seat and began searching around the cabin.

  “What are you looking for? Maybe I could help.”

  “Sit and save your energy. I’m looking for a flashlight or some flares.”

  “Flares would be great.”

  “Unfortunately, not the way you think. With the trees and the snow, a rescue squad couldn’t see a flare a mile away. But we could use the flares for light and fire.” He began rummaging through cabinets inside the kitchen area, and out of the blue, he asked, “Why were you on the train?”

  Was he trying to get her to talk so she’d take her mind off their dire situation? Or was he nosy? Maybe he was just making conversation? Whichever, it felt good to talk like normal people did. “My niece is getting married. I’m headed home for the wedding.”

  “A flight would’ve been easier. Much shorter.”

  “It’s a short flight from Chicago to Spokane, true, but my doctor won’t let me fly.”

  “So you took a jarring thirty-one-hour ride instead?”

  She didn’t appreciate his sarcasm, but she answered anyway. “My doctor said I could take the train. If I had a problem, I could get off. Where were you headed, Nick?”

  “Seattle.”

  “And you live?

  “DC area. You must be close to your family for you to put yourself and the baby through the train ride.”

  “We are close,” she lied.

  They had been close, once. The kind of family that would take Sunday drives in their father’s brown-and-banana-puke 1967 Ford Country Squire station wagon, paneled in wood—a car he’d owned since his youth.

  “It’s a classic,” her father would proclaim. “It’s got versatility and space that new cars don’t. And it’s safer than any new car on the road.” Her father was obsessed with safety. He actually made and installed seatbelts for the back seats, even the far back, instead of spending the money to have them professionally fitted.

  Cheap, she used to think. She was so embarrassed to be seen in that car. Several times during rides through the city, she’d duck below the windows so her friends couldn’t see her.

  After the third time, her mother pulled her aside and said, “You know your father didn’t have much growing up. He joined the navy to get out of Tacoma, used it to get an education, and earned his PhD. I call that impressive for a man whose parents didn’t even go to college, whose father made picture frames for a living. You should understand why he’s so frugal.”

  Right now, Margo would’ve loved nothing more than a Sunday ride in that car.

  Nick was still searching through the cabinets. “Brother’s daughter or sister’s daughter?”

  “What?”

  “Your niece’s parent. You must have a sibling.”

  “I have two sisters. Heather is older. The younger one is Blanche.”

  “Are they both married with kids?”

  A bitter taste formed in her mouth. “Heather is married; she has a daughter. That’s the niece who’s getting married.”

  “Just the one?”

  “Yes. Blanche doesn’t want children, or so she says. She’s an engineer and loves her job. Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “Your older sister is married and has a kid, and you’re going to be a single mother. I wonder what that feels like.”

  How presumptuous. She wanted to call him out, but refrained from going too far—he’d saved her life. Yet, she had to draw boundaries. “I never said I wasn’t married. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  He stopped what he was doing and took a step back. “No reason to get upset,” he said. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

  Apparently the army had never taught him manners. But he was right. There was no man in her life.

  He returned to the living area. “You know how I know? Not once have you mentioned a husband or a boyfriend.”

  “We’ve been too busy trying to survive to talk about that.”

  “Almost anyone in your situation would’ve mentioned it, would’ve said he’d be worried, upset. And the fact is, you still haven’t denied that you’re going to be a single mom.”

  She remained silent. It was no business of his if she chose to have a child when she had no husband or significant other.

  “You think I’ve overstepped my bounds,” he said.

  “You have overstepped. What about you, Nick? You haven’t mentioned a wife or a girlfriend. Why were you heading to Seattle?”

  He regarded her with a look of amused condescension. “You should rest. Let’s call it a night. I’ll stay out here and keep watch.”

  She folded her arms across her upper chest. “Heading to Seattle to visit family, Nick?”

  “I don’t have a family. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Everyone has a family.”

  “Not me. They’re all dead. Even those who still walk the earth.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. Anything else you want to know?”

  She rose from her seat. “Take my blanket, Nick. I’m sure there are more on the bed.”

  He accepted the blanket and placed it on his lap. “Do you need some help getting to the back?” he asked. “It’s dark.”

  “I’ll be fine. Wake me if anything happens.”

  He nodded. “Wrap the blankets tight. Like a mummy.”

  She made her way to the bedroom compartment and maneuvered her large body underneath the sheet and comforter, pulling them over her head and wrapping them around her as Nick had suggested. Fatigue overwhelmed her, yet sleep didn’t come. The howling wind and the rumbling and clapping of thunder kept her awake. So did the memory of Nick’s behavior, the judgmental prick.

  She thought of her family. Did they already know about the train’s catastrophic loss? If so, they would believe that she’d perished along with the other passengers. Sure, they’d mourn her. They loved her in their way. Would they feel remorse for having stolen from her?

  CHAPTER 11

  The morning light seeped in through the edges of the bedroom curtains. The dawn always woke Margo, no matter how late she’d stayed up or how much she’d struggled to sleep the night before. She opened her eyes, and the reality of their dire situation rushed back in. She threw the covers back, sat up, and glanced around the private chambers. Luxurious, yes, but now hollow, mocking luxury. There was even a private lavatory, a godsend for a pregnant woman.

  When the baby moved, the tension eased, but not the hunger pangs. Nick might be abrasive, but he was right to remind her that she had to keep up her strength for the baby’s sake. When she tossed the covers aside, the chill inside the room assault
ed her. She went to the living area. A blanket lay neatly folded on the couch. Nick was gone.

  Why hadn’t he awakened her to tell her he was leaving? Her heart beat faster. Where had he gone?

  Shuffling from window to window, she tried to see out, but ice on the glass obscured her vision. She tried the back door. The handle turned, which meant that Nick had already loosened it when he left. She pushed the door open, looking for footprints but finding none. How quickly the snow blanketed the ground, obscuring every trace of humanity. Pale gray clouds hung low in the sky. The snowfall was light but endless.

  A snowflake fluttered down and landed on her nose. In minutes, the sky darkened to an ominous gray, and the snowflakes began to clump. A strong gust of wind strummed the tree limbs as if they were guitar strings. She turned to go back inside, checking the ground to make sure she wouldn’t trip—which was how she noticed the blood in the snow. But what kind of blood? Animal or human?

  She shut the door and waddled to the kitchen to find something to eat. A tray holding a single envelope sat on the counter. She opened the envelope, maybe because the contents would make her feel as if she were in contact with the outside world. The note, in the seller’s own handwriting, revealed that the passenger car was being delivered to a customer. The note gave Margo hope. Scores of people, some rich and powerful, would wonder what had happened to the train. She placed the note down on the tray.

  A wave of guilt overwhelmed her. All those dead passengers, not to mention the hundreds of grieving friends and family and coworkers. Why had she and Nick survived? How unfair. She caught herself. She had one obligation—to survive and save her baby. She couldn’t mourn the others. Not yet.

  She began opening cabinets, looking for sustenance. The kitchen was stocked with dishes and utensils but no food. She tried turning on the faucet over the sink—no water. If there ever was water, the tank was now frozen. Or maybe the lines had broken. She twisted the knob on the stovetop—no heat. No surprise. If the stove had worked, Nick surely would’ve made that discovery last night.

  She returned to the living area, sat down on the couch, and wrapped in a blanket that didn’t come close to staving off the cold, waited. She wished she didn’t need Nick so much, but she did. To pass the time, she blew vapor rings in the air, a silly game that reminded her of when her mother brought home candy cigarettes for the kids. She and Heather pretended to smoke, feeling like sophisticated actresses. That fun ended when their father caught them. He deplored the idea of his daughters consuming sugar and pretending to ingest nicotine.