***
The conductor had not bothered to do a survey of the last car on the train because they weren’t paying customers. The federal marshals had commandeered the train car for the purpose of transporting their prisoner, and the company executive were none too pleased given how close the company was already to bankruptcy. And so they implied to Allen before the trip to make the ride uncomfortable for the marshals, in the hopes that they won’t be asked for such a favor again.
Fortunately, the marshals had survived well enough, with only a few scrapes and bruises. When they had first set out from Burlington, Iowa, the marshals had positioned themselves so that two men guarded the front door of the car while the other two men guarded the back. It just so happened that the two men positioned on the rear platform, Haley and Bowman, had moved up front, the biting cold just too much for them. And so the four marshals were huddled together on the front platform of the car, cocooned in the womb of the vestibule between the cars.
When the derailment had happened, the men had flung forward as if flicked by the hand of God. As one, they landed against the railing, grunting and yelping in surprise. As they worked to untangle themselves, the marshals didn’t realize how lucky that two of their numbers were on the back platform not too long before. If the train had derailed while they were back there, it was likely that one of the marshals could have fallen off the train and mangled themselves in the stampede of metal.
“What just happened?” One of the marshals, Haley, wheezed. His ribcage had clanged against the railing, and the pain gnawed into him. Still, he ran his fingers through his hair to make sure that he was presentable before inspecting his bruised ribcage.
“We must have hit something,” Irving said in his usual, deadpan voice.
“We’re in the middle of a desert…” Haley began.
“Prairie,” Irving corrected.
“Whatever,” Haley said, shaking his head. “What’s out here that we could possibly hit?”
“Make yourself useful, Nigel,” Ansel said, “and go up front and check with the conductor.”
Still massaging his ribcage, Haley grunted and walked into the train car ahead. The door had barely closed behind him when Irving said with a rare flare of emotion, “What an insufferable brat. I couldn’t take one more second of him boasting about his investments. Some risk – he was gambling with the money his father gave him.”
The grizzled and sour Bowman barked a laugh. “You know, I was wishing for his conversation to go off the rails, not the train.”
“Next time, pray louder so there’s no misinterpretation,” Ansel said, before turning serious. “Are you two gentlemen alright?”
“We’re just fine. And you, sir?” Bowman asked.
“Hopefully just as fine as our houseguest is,” Ansel said, jerking his thumb back at the car behind them, where their prisoner was housed. As he said that, his eyebrows notched up a little. “That reminds me – we should check on him.”
As Ansel moved to open the door to the refrigerated car, Bowman asked, “What’s the point? The animal gave up his soul long ago when he started butchering people. All we’re doing is transporting a bag of bones to Wyoming. Who cares if the bag spilled out?”
Ansel, who was ignoring everything that his colleague was saying, turned abruptly and said, “I can’t get the door open.”
“What do you mean, you can’t get the door open?”
“What else could I possibly mean? The derailment must have jammed the door in place,” Ansel said between pushes. Suddenly, he gave up and kicked the door. At first, the door was stubborn, but after the third kick, it surrendered, and a clumsy light spilled into the dark train car. The derailment had pried some dust that was painted into the roof above, and it was raining down like salt from a shaker. The inside of the car was a bearable temperature. Ironically, the insulated interior of the refrigerated car – meant to prevent the hauled meat from being spoiled in the summer – protected them from the brutal blizzard outside.
“Get me a lantern,” Ansel called back. One of the marshals handed Ansel a lantern, the glass broken from the accident. Ansel held out the light and stepped cautiously into the dark car. There was only a little fuel left in the lantern, and the flame couldn’t pierce more than a few feet away. As Ansel walked, he said loudly, “Prisoner, are you alive in here?”
There was nothing but an overwhelming silence. The hairs on the back of Ansel’s neck slowly began to stand, like sunflowers at dawn. “Answer me, prisoner!” Ansel snapped. With a free hand, he slowly reached down to his waist and gripped the revolver at his side. He was prepared for the worst. He was prepared for the pole that kept McKenna in place to have come undone from its bolts. It reminded him of when he served as a Union scout in the war, and he was sent deep into Tennessee on a moonless night to cut the enemy’s telegraph wires. Then, he expected death to leap at him out of the dark at any moment. He found himself experiencing that same feeling of dread again.
He took a few more steps before suddenly coming to a halt. Ansel groaned softly. He said slowly, “You gentlemen better see this.”
Bowman and Layton walked into the car, armed with a lantern themselves, and stood to either side of Ansel. As they did, Layton asked, “What’s wrong, Russell…?”
Layton’s voice ran away from him when he saw what Ansel was looking at. Laid before them was the body of feared killer, Sheldon McKenna. The corpse was still tied securely to the pole, and that was the only thing that kept the body from going limp altogether. The head leaned forward slightly, blue in the cheeks, with a stream of vomit still dripping from the corner of the mouth. There was a necklace of bruises around McKenna’s neck, and the legs were frozen in rigor mortis at bizarre angles.
“Check the car for any signs of a break-in,” Ansel said softly.
“You don’t think…?” Layton wondered out loud.
“Someone did this to him. Check the car.”
Bowman and Layton checked the backdoor for the car while Ansel kneeled down and put a finger to McKenna’s neck. He was checking for a pulse but not expecting any. Shaking his head, Ansel stood up as he heard Layton call out, “No signs of this door being opened.”
“Are you sure?” Ansel asked.
“I’m sure. The lock we put on the inside of the door is still intact. We were guarding the only other entrance. There is no possible way that someone could have snuck in without us knowing.”
“Somebody had to have killed him,” Ansel said, pointing at the body beneath him. “This is no natural way to die.”
“Then who?”
Chapter 7