James Patterson - Cross Justice

“I just want to talk,” I said again.

“’Bout what, man?” he asked, trying to act tough but looking scared.

I held up my hand, showed him the three-finger salute, said, “I want to talk about this. And Finn Davis. And Marvin Bell. And you riding this train.”

He looked at me like I’d grown horns and shook his head. “No way, man.”

“We know you’re protecting something on this train. What is it?”

He looked away from me, shook his head again. “No way. Can’t.”

“We can protect you.”

“No, you can’t,” he said. “Ain’t no one can protect anyone from Grandfather and the company.”

“Grandfather and the company?” I said as the train started across the trestle high above a deep, narrow canyon thick with woods. “Who’s Grandfather? What’s the company?”

Looking at me with a stricken expression, he said, “Death of me.”

He let go of the wheel, launched out of the crouch, and dove off the tanker, off the trestle, screaming and waving his arms and trying to fly as he took the long fall to the treetops, crashed down through them, and vanished.

I couldn’t believe it, and I twisted around, looking back and down into the canyon and the forest that had swallowed that young man whole. The only creatures I could see were crows circling lazily above the canopy, all of which disappeared from my view when the train rounded a curve.

The tunnel on the other side appeared so fast I had to throw myself down on top of the tanker and hold tight until we exited the other side into deep woods. I tried to call Bree but got no signal. There was no chance for me to get off the train for ten miles.

By the time it slowed and then stopped, night had fallen and the moon had risen. I’d come a long ways down in elevation. In the dim light I could see agricultural fields to either side of the tracks. I peered ahead, looking for a road crossing. Why were we stopped? I was about to climb off when—

“Let’s do this, man,” a male voice called from down the embankment.

I startled and then realized he was talking to me.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Shit, man, don’t be fucking around,” he said, nervous, and I made out the silhouette of him below me. “Gimme the order. I got the cash.”

“Sorry, I’m new,” I said, improvising. “How big’s that order again?”

“It’s on your sheet, man,” he said, irritated. “Just open the hatch, get it, and we do business.”

I looked around. The wheel the rider had held on to. It controlled a hatch.

I walked to it, knelt, and got hold of the wheel. Turning counterclockwise didn’t work. Neither did turning it clockwise. Then I considered that the hatch might be under spring tension. I put my weight on it, felt something depress, and twisted. The wheel turned clockwise.

When I heard a noise like unbuckling, I lifted. Up came the hatch lid, and the air was filled with a pleasant vanilla scent. I cupped the mini-Maglite I always carry, turned it on. Suspended beneath the hatch was an aluminum basket of sorts, about three feet deep and two feet in diameter. The flashlight beam shone through large holes in the walls of the basket, revealing dozens of yellow-paper packages each about the size of a large bar of soap. Some were banded together. Others were single.

“C’mon, man,” the guy said. “Train’s gonna leave ’fore—”

The train wheels squealed. The tanker lurched. I almost fell. I almost let go of the hatch lid, the basket, and whatever was in it.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, shit, man!”

“Couldn’t be helped,” I called down. “Something wrong with the mechanism. I’ll put your order in for a ten-twenty delivery tomorrow night. You’ll get a discount.”

A pause. “How much?”

“Ten percent,” I yelled as we pulled away.

“Deal, man, that’ll work.”

I waited until he was far behind me, then sat with my legs spread against the walls of the hatch. I moved around the basket, inspecting it with the flashlight, and found a hinged door. I opened it, removed three of those yellow-paper packages. Each of them weighed about a pound.

My phone rang then. It was Bree.

“Where are you?” she asked anxiously. “I’ve been calling you.”

“We went off the plateau and there were tunnels, and I have no idea where I am.”

“You talk to the rider?”

I told her all that had happened.

“Jesus, he jumped?”

“I couldn’t believe it, like it was better to die than talk to me and face this Grandfather’s wrath.”

“You think Marvin Bell is Grandfather?”

“It seems likely.”

“So, drugs in the yellow packages?”

“I’m assuming so,” I said. “Ingenious, if you think about it. Using the trains.”

“It is. You going to stay on the train and see where it takes you?”

“No, I’m putting the basket back, sealing the hatch, and then getting off at the next stop. We’ll let Bell or whoever is behind this think their man bailed with some of their product.”

“Makes sense,” she said.

“I’ll call back soon, give you my location.”

Well down the track, I could see streetlights. I’d replaced the basket and hatch cover by the time the train stopped for the second time. On my right, from the brush by the track, I heard a sharp whistle.

Instead of answering it, I crept down a ladder on the opposite side of the tanker and slipped away as the whistle became louder and more insistent.

The sweet little girl with sleepy eyes carried a piece of sheepskin about the size and shape of a face towel. Lizzie rubbed it against her porcelain cheek and sucked her thumb as she ambled across the room to her grandfather.

He had terrible things twisting and knotting his mind, but seeing her so precious, so innocent, they all unraveled. He scooped Lizzie up, said, “Time for bed, young lady?”

She nodded, snuggled into his arms, made him feel perfect. She was hardly a weight at all, not a burden, never a burden. Lizzie’s grandfather carried her from his office down the hall to her bedroom.

He got her safe and warm under her sheets and blanket. Her eyes fluttered toward sleep, but she said, “Tell me the story. What happens next to the fairy princess? To Guinevere?”

Her grandfather hesitated, and then said, “One day, a dragon came into Princess Guinevere’s kingdom.”

Lizzie became more alert. “Did the dragon hurt Guinevere?”

“He tried, but Guinevere’s grandfather, the fairy king, sent out his best warriors to slay the dragon. Guinevere’s older brother tried first but failed to kill the beast that threatened the fairy kingdom. A girl warrior went next.”

Lizzie was listening raptly now. She said, “Did she have a bow and arrow?”

He nodded, said, “She shot at the dragon as he flew by and missed him by an inch.”

A soft knock came behind him. Meeks stood there, dead serious.

“Someone downstairs needs to see you,” Meeks said.

He understood, nodded. “I’ll be a minute yet.”

“No, Grandfather,” Lizzie complained. “What about the dragon?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow night,” he said.

“Oooh,” she moaned. “I can’t wait. Does she get another shot at the dragon? The girl warrior? What’s her name?”

He thought, said, “Lace. And, yes, Lace gets another shot at the dragon, but I won’t tell you what happens until tomorrow.”

Lizzie yawned, said, “Lacey will get the dragon. She’ll save Princess Guinevere. I just know it.”

As her eyes started to flutter shut, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. He turned the light off but left the door to the hallway open a crack, just the way she liked it. He walked down the hall, thinking how many changes were under way and how many challenges they created.