AN ENCOUNTER WITH A CRIMINAL AND A GUN
BOWLS OF ROSES WERE SET IN THE MIDDLE OF EACH TABLE. Cut crystal glasses winked in the candlelight. Only six other passengers were enjoying the dining car. Lena, still trembling, chose a small empty table and sat with her back to the door. This way she could watch everyone else. Secretly she liked to imagine other people's lives. The elderly couple was Jack Sprat and his wife. The words of the old nursery rhyme rang in her ears: Jack Sprat could eat no fat; his wife could eat no lean; and so betwixt the two of them they licked their platters clean. The two businessmen were bankers or financial types who took fishing holidays and long lunches. A missionary sent to convert the heathens of Scree, Lena thought, as she glanced at a thickset woman with a stern jaw and two red poppies on her hat. Then there was the reedy man with the newspaper. Now, he was interesting. Perhaps a detective watching the men in business suits from behind the raised page.
She picked up the menu and gazed at the two choices of entrée: roast beef or lamb in a sauce she had never heard of. She sat up straighter. It was elegant, eating in a dining car with silver and crystal glasses as the day dimmed. A white-coated waiter poured water in her glass just as the train slowed, a great belch of steam fogging the window. It must be Cloister. Lena decided on lamb, closed the embossed menu, and looked out over the platform. A tall nun and her companion-a bandylegged little man-were the only ones boarding in the early dusk. The nun was broad-shouldered and a full head taller than the young man at her side. Perhaps it was her brother collecting her for a visit home. Did nuns get visits home? Lena's knowledge of nuns was slight. The nice thing was that they were hidden away from the world. Her own family was Episcopalian. Lena had briefly considered converting and joining a convent just to escape the curious remarks about her hands and feet. But a friend once told her that underneath their habits, nuns were entirely bald, and Lena had put the idea aside.
She peeled off her gloves and laid them beside her on the tufted seat. Then she buttered and bit into a flaky white roll. The nun and the wiry, red-haired man came through a door that opened straight into the dining car. Trying not to stare, Lena watched them from the corner of her eye. Nuns must get tired of people staring at them in their long black habits. She knew exactly how they felt. The red-haired man talked animatedly to the conductor while the nun stood silently holding her valise. The nun's head was bent, her face obscured by the shadow of her wimple. What would it be like to believe in something so strongly that you gave your life to it? That was something Lena couldn't imagine. Her eyes lingered on the nun. Something was wrong. The nun stood as if she was tense enough to spring. Her empty hand at her side was balled into a fist. Lena's own shoulders tensed. The back of the nun's hand was covered with thick dark hair. The nun was a man-she was sure of it.
As if her thought had been spoken out loud, the nun suddenly dropped the valise. From the depths of her habit, the nun drew out something that gleamed in the gaslight. A gun! Lena had only seen pictures of them in books. Her hands grew moist. The gun was pointed straight at the conductor.
The red-haired man spoke. "Give us the prisoner, or we shoot the passengers." His voice was high and reedy as he drew out his own revolver with one hand. With the other, he jerked the emergency brake, preventing the train from leaving the station. The two businessmen gawked with their cheeks bulging. The lone man dropped his newspaper, pages drifting to the floor, while a low moan escaped from the lady with her husband. Only the woman with poppies on her hat looked unperturbed and raised a curious eyebrow.
"Now. And I mean it. One of 'em will go first." He swung the revolver in the direction of the low moan, pointing it at the elderly couple.
Meanwhile, the nun kept a gun pointed at the conductor, whose mouth opened and closed like that of a fish. Lena could see a film of sweat shining on the conductor's brow. He inched slowly toward the door to the next car, with the nun following, gun cocked.
"That's right. Lead the way, old man."
"Now, see here-" But before the conductor could complete his sentence, the red-haired man lunged toward the elderly couple.
Lena braced for a shot. Instead, the man slammed the butt of the revolver against the elderly man's head. A sharp crack of metal against flesh and bone.
His wife screamed.
At that precise moment, the engineer swung through the door. "Who stopped this train?" Bellowing, he crashed straight into the conductor and the nun. They staggered. The gun went off. The wild shot sent a bullet through the paneled wall, leaving a hole to the outdoors. People shouted and the woman continued to scream.
Lena found herself under the table, peeking out from beneath the hem of the white tablecloth. She could see the black edge of the nun's habit just a few feet away. If she could grab an ankle, she might tip the man off balance. Creeping forward as far as she dared, Lena grabbed for the black-socked ankle just below the hem of the habit. From another car Lena heard a second shot. And then everything was chaos. Her fingers closed on empty air. She could hear feet running, muffled cries, and someone quite nearby swearing a steady stream. The black edge of the habit was gone. Then all was quiet.
Lena inched forward on her knees. The gray fabric of her skirt balled up and caught underneath her. She tugged it free. Her armpits felt damp, and a trickle of sweat ran between her shoulder blades. Moving the tablecloth just a fraction of an inch, she peered out. The car looked deserted except for the woman stroking her husband's head. A trickle of blood ran from his ear. Were the other passengers hiding under tables the way she was?
The door swung open. Drawing back, Lena smacked her head on the edge of the table. Pain flared.
"The criminals have left the train." In his blue uniform with polished brass buttons, the conductor stood wide-legged in the middle of the aisle. "A doctor is coming to examine your husband, madam."
Amid rustles and grunts, diners appeared from under tables.
"I am sorry to report that the pretenders have escaped with a prisoner we were transporting to Scree. There will be a short delay, and then we will be able to resume our journey. I am most terribly sorry for the inconvenience." But his last words were lost in a jumble of voices and the arrival of a short, stout man with a medical bag.
"What prisoner? Why didn't we know a prisoner was on board?" A voice rang out above the others. It belonged to the lady with the flowered hat.
The conductor turned. "Trains to Knob Knoster sometimes carry prisoners bound for Scree. A federal marshal and deputies are on these trains."
"Obviously incompetent. You'll be hearing from my lawyer." One of the businessmen was brushing himself off. His face was a pasty gray, his breathing ragged.
"It's the first time a prisoner"-losing his composure, the conductor floundered for words-"has been…abducted."
"What was his crime?" the woman persisted.
"Madam, this one was a bad sort: forgery, stolen goods, a web of crime. A real goblin, he is."
