CHAPTER TWENTY

The man waited a little while after the train left the station. Then he got up from his seat and walked from one passenger car to another until he got to the café car. Sure enough, there she was, sitting alone at a table, her eyes focused on her smartphone.

She hadn’t noticed him, and he decided not to catch her attention—not just yet.

Instead he stood at the end of the car and looked at her.

Her name was Sally Diehl, and she looked markedly like the other two women—the same slender face, curly brown hair, slight build. It was that resemblance, of course, that had drawn him to her. Her unwariness, too, was somehow seductive. She didn’t yet know that these traits and characteristics marked her for death.

He shuddered at the thought.

He felt a strong urge to turn around and make his way back through the cars to his seat.

I won’t do it, he tried to tell himself. Not this time.

But some palpable force, much stronger than his own will, physically restrained him.

And the audible voice that had been saying “soon” since yesterday was whispering …

“It’s time.”

That palpable force gave him a push, and he stumbled into the café car and into Sally’s field of vision.

She looked up with a pretty smile.

“Well—imagine meeting you here!” she said.

She laughed, and he did too. It was a joke, of course. They’d seen each other three times before in this very café car. As far as she knew, it was only a coincidence that they happened to be on the same train from time to time.

He walked over to her table.

“I see you haven’t ordered anything yet,” he said.

“Hadn’t gotten around to it.”

“I’ll go get us something,” he said.

Her eyes twinkled.

“That would be nice, Nash,” she said. “I guess you already know what I want.”

He walked over to the counter and ordered two sandwiches and a couple of cappuccinos. As he stood there waiting, he wondered why he’d told all three women that his name was Nash. What did it matter, really?

But of course, it did matter.

If any of the women were to escape from his grim intentions, he certainly wouldn’t want them to know his real name.

When the sandwiches and cappuccinos were ready, he carried them back to the table and sat down.

“Were you visiting your brother again?” he asked.

Her expression saddened and she nodded. He knew she made these trips between Caruthers and Chicago to visit her younger brother, who was being cared for in a drug treatment center.

“How’s he doing?” he asked.

Sally shook her head tiredly.

“Angry this time,” she said. “Trevor wants out of there, says he’s fine, that thirty days is enough time, and he’s ready to get on with his life. I just know that’s not true. He’s not ready. We’ve been through this before. He needs the full sixty days. If he gets out now, he’ll be using again in a couple of weeks.”

She looked into the man’s eyes.

“The truth is—well, this is something I don’t suppose I’d tell just anyone.”

The man was touched that she trusted him.

The other two women had trusted him too, and had felt safe confiding in him. And he’d felt good about that, being able to offer them a sympathetic ear. Poor Fern had been so anxious to tell him about that terrible father of hers, and Reese had longed to talk to someone about the woman she loved in Chicago—someone who would simply listen and not judge her at all.

“I won’t tell another soul,” he said.

Which of course was true.

Sally let out a little gasp of emotion.

“I’m angry too,” she said. “Angry for having to tell him things he doesn’t want to hear, because he doesn’t have the sense to make these decisions for myself. Angry that he resents it and—and hates me for it. Sometimes, anyway. On days like today.”

“Why shouldn’t you be angry?” the man asked.

Sally looked a little surprised at the question.

“Because he’s ill, of course,” she said. “He can’t help it. It’s a disease. And I also feel …”

Her voice faded.

“What?” the man asked.

“Guilty somehow. Guilty that I didn’t wind up the same way. ‘There but the grace of God,’ as they say. Guilty for being … all right, I guess.”

He was rather glad that she was clutching her cappuccino with both hands. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to offer her his own hand for comfort. That would be too much. It would create a bond between them that would hurt him terribly when it finally had to be broken in such a cruel and violent way.

“Survival guilt,” the man said. “It’s only natural. And as for the anger—well, you’ve been saddled with all this responsibility. No one else in your family is willing to lift a finger to help him. The whole thing has fallen on you. You’re a victim of your own compassion.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes a little.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said.

“Take it from me,” he said. “I don’t know anyone else who is so warm and caring and generous.”

He meant it sincerely—although it wasn’t quite the whole truth. He’d known two other women with very similar qualities.

But they were both dead now.

Sally sighed deeply.

She said, “I really appreciate having you to talk to about all this. But … it just doesn’t seem fair. It’s such a one-way street. You’re always hearing about my problems, and you never tell me any of yours.”

The man laughed a little.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t have any problems,” he said.

Sally shook her head.

“No, that’s not true. I can feel it. You’re carrying some kind of awful burden, all the time. You’re just … so sad underneath. You keep too much to yourself. And I wish I could help.”

She winced at her own words.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “When will I learn to mind my own business? That was so out of line!”

“No, it wasn’t,” the man said.

After all, she was absolutely right. He was eaten away inside by guilt and obsessions and impulses far beyond his own control. And he wished he could talk to somebody about it—somebody just like her.

He said, “Maybe someday I’ll tell you.”

He regretted the words the second they were out. It was a lie, of course. He shouldn’t have said it. It was wrong.

It was time to change the subject.

“Tell me what else is going on in your life,” he said.

She started into some familiar topics—her work as a third-grade teacher in Caruthers, Illinois, and how hard it was to be a divorced woman in a small Midwestern town.

Meanwhile, the voice in his head was whispering to him, reminding him of his plans.

She had no idea that he, too, was going to get off the train in Caruthers. She thought he always stayed on the train to Wendover, where he’d told her he lived.

The truth was, he’d secretly followed her off the train the other times they’d met, skillfully avoiding the station’s surveillance cameras, learning her every movement by heart.

He knew what to do, and he knew exactly how to do it.

The voice was saying again and again …

“It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.”

He wished the voice would be quiet.

He only wanted to drink in this woman’s words.

After today, he’d never be able to do that again.