Andrew Grant - Even

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You know what? Let’s do more than that. Let’s play right now,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack. They were white with a gold band around the edge and a large, ornate eagle design embossed in the center. They looked well used. “One hand of blackjack. For Mike. And for you. Help you straighten out your situation. I’ll deal. You tell me when to stop.”

“Stop,” I said.

He carried on shuffling, then laid the pack facedown on the table.

“Ready?” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“OK, here we go,” he said, turning over the top card. It was the two of clubs. “Lavine and Weston told you about the bodies. We’ve found five, male, near railroad tracks, their necks broken.”

The second card was the four of diamonds.

“I assigned Mike after the second one was found,” he said. “It was slow, but he was getting somewhere. He followed the trail to New York City. Set up in here, to stay under the radar while he was undercover.”

Next was the two of hearts.

“Yesterday morning, he missed a regular contact.”

Two of spades.

“We followed protocol. Spoke to the local police, emergency rooms, everyone else. At midday we heard the NYPD had found Mike’s body.”

Three of clubs.

“And they also had his killer in custody.”

Three of diamonds.

“With eyewitness testimony on tape.”

Four of spades.

“Which indicated a leak inside the bureau.”

Rosser leaned back and gestured to the line of cards.

“So, how are we doing?” he said.

“How should I know?” I said. “I told you. I don’t play.”

“Just look at the cards. Add them up.”

“Seven.”

“Don’t count them,” he said, after a moment. “Add up the values.”

“Twenty,” I said.

“Twenty, that’s right. A good hand. Almost unbeatable. The guy who killed an FBI agent, served up on a silver platter. A lot of people would stick with a hand like that.”

“But you’re not going to.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s think about it. Break the puzzle down a little more,” he said, splitting the cards into three piles. “See, I think we actually have three problems here. You follow?”

“You have a dead agent,” I said. “You have someone killing railway passengers. And you think you have a leak in the bureau.”

“Good. We’re on the same page. And these problems-separate, or connected?”

“Can’t say. I don’t know enough about the case to connect them, but if they’re not connected, that would be a pretty big coincidence.”

“And I guess we both feel the same way about coincidences, right? So let’s start at the beginning. The railroad guys. They weren’t passengers, the victims.”

“So who where they? Employees? People living near railroad lines?”

“No. Free riders.”

“Who?”

“People who hitch rides on freight trains.”

“They still do that? I thought leaping onto moving trains went out with the Depression.”

“Most people think that. It suits us. And we don’t go out of our way to correct them. The fewer know about it, the fewer start doing it.”

“Maybe. I just wouldn’t have thought it was such a big deal.”

“It’s not al-Qaeda, granted. But it’s big, and it’s getting bigger. Try this. Right now, this moment, guess how many free riders are out there?”

“I don’t know. Twelve?”

“No. Any given time, around two thousand. And a group that size, it needs to be managed.”

“Really? Sure you’re not exaggerating? There’s not a bit of budget padding going on here?”

“We’re certain.”

“How do you know? About the numbers. Do you have people standing on bridges with clipboards, counting?”

“Not exactly. But we do keep a close eye.”

“How?”

“Not your business.”

“OK. So why do people do it? To save the price of a ticket?”

“It started that way, years ago. But now it’s a way of life. Bums, with nowhere else to live. Illegal immigrants, sneaking into the country. Vets, from Nam. And lately Iraq, obviously. And Afghanistan. It’s the closest to peace some of those guys are ever going to get, now.”

“It doesn’t sound very peaceful to me.”

“I don’t know. Riding around, alone, in an empty boxcar. That rhythm you get, with the wheels on the rails. It lulls crazy people into a kind of trance. Or lying under the stars, on an open trailer, winding slowly through the mountains. It’s like being on vacation, for them.”

“So what do you think happened? Did some vet start taking out his post-traumatic stress on these bums?”

“No. We don’t get much trouble with the vets. They’re mostly pacifists, now. They just want to be left alone.”

“Who then?”

“Another kind of person altogether. Someone who doesn’t need to ride the rails. Someone who wants to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s against the law. Because it’s fun. The greater the danger, the greater the thrill. People get all romantic about it. They think they’re modern-day cowboys, riding the last freedom trail around America.”

“Oh, please.”

“They do. It’s true. Or how about this? Because it’s a great place to kill people no one will miss, and then disappear before the bodies are found. It’s like a recurring stain.”

“It’s happened before?”

“Many times. Four years ago, a guy killed eleven. The last guy, thirteen.”

“You caught them?”

“Raab’s team did. Eventually. But there’s over a hundred and seventy thousand miles of track in the major routes alone. That’s a lot of places to hide. Or you can run. One side of the country to the other in three days flat. Or cross into Mexico. Or Canada.”

“And wherever you go, you don’t leave any records.”

“You got it. No tickets. No credit cards. No hotels. Nothing.”

“So if the guy’s still in the wind after five murders, what changed? Why would he suddenly think the net was closing? Late-onset paranoia?”

“Someone told him. Warned him. That’s the only answer.”

“Now you’re being paranoid. It’s more likely Raab just showed his hand somehow. He probably screwed things up himself.”

“No. For two reasons. One, we’ve traced every step he took. He didn’t give himself away. We know that. And two, this guy didn’t just spot some anonymous cop breathing down his neck. He had specifics. Who was running the investigation. Where they’d be. When.”

“But that’s high-level information. How would a bum or a vet get access to it?”

“You’ve got to understand the kind of guys we’re talking about. They’re not garden-variety lawbreakers. There’s a whole subculture building up around this. There’s a lot of juice involved.”

“You said they were bums and vets.”

“I did. And they’re still there, sure. But now we’ve got movie stars doing it. Rock stars. Tycoons. Guys who are used to getting what they want, when they want it, regardless.”

“So?”

“I’m talking about powerful guys. People with contacts. Especially the business guys. They all have politicians and public officials in their pockets. One of them must have a hook in the bureau, as well. It’s not good, but it happens.”

“So the guy who killed these riders was tipped by his buddy in the bureau?”

“Yes.”

“And then he took Raab out to save his own skin?”

“Yes.”

“It was the same guy?”

“That’s how we saw it.”

“What do you need to complete your hand?”

“An ace.”

“Then go ahead. Deal your last card.”

“If it is an ace, we’re going to start the paperwork on you,” Rosser said, his hand hovering just above the pack. “You still want me to do it?”