But only halfway.
Her heart took flight like a startled bird, then Jordan’s strong hand closed around her wrist. He pulled, pulled, her shins sliding and banging painfully against the floor’s edge.
Then she was in!
They lay together on the boxcar’s rough plank floor, the train jouncing and squealing and very gradually building up speed. Fresh air streamed in through the open doors, along with the smell of the worked earth.
The train held its speed and the ride became smoother, the boxcar swaying in a gentle, rocking rhythm. The steel wheels began a steady ticking sound. The night breeze—or was it the moonlight?—played over them. Jordan and Jasmine were out in the endless fields and prairies, their dreams intact.
A man’s voice from the dark shadows at the far end of the boxcar said, “I was glad to see you both made it.”
41
New York, the present
Renz, seated behind his airport-size desk in his office, handed a photograph to Quinn. He had leaned so far over the desk, so he could reach Quinn’s outstretched hand, that Renz’s purple tie dragged and got defaced by what looked like eraser crumbs. Or were they pastry crumbs?
Whatever they were, Renz saw Quinn staring at them and deftly brushed them off and onto the floor behind the desk.
Quinn concentrated on the photo. It was in black and white, and grainy.
“It’s a still from a security camera,” Renz said. “From four nights ago, ten thirty-five p.m. Outside the Devlin Building over on Twelfth Street. The guys who run the coffee shop inside have been bitching about drug deals going down in the passageway. That’s also where a big Dumpster sits, gets emptied every two weeks.”
“So what makes them think this isn’t a drug deal? Or some scroungers looking for a late meal?”
“Look closer at it.”
Quinn moved slightly sideways so a better light would show on the photo.
“That was the best the tech guys could do,” Renz said.
Quinn was looking at a slight figure, maybe a woman, turning and running away from what looked like a Dumpster. She was clutching something white in her (or his) hand, and looking back, as if to make sure no one was following. The camera angle was from approximately ten feet above the subject and at a sharp angle, so her face was barely visible. She was wearing a baseball cap, either blue or black, with the bill pulled down low so her features would be obscured. It did appear that the subject was glancing back.
Renz handed Quinn a magnifying glass. Quinn held the photo at the same angle to the sun and observed through the curved lens.
“That white object the character has in his or her hand looks like a foam takeout box from a restaurant,” Quill said.
“Yeah, but look at the ear.”
Quinn did. The subject’s right ear seemed to protrude at a sharp angle from his head, and might very well be pointed. If it wasn’t simply a shadow. Or an errant lock of hair.
Quinn said, “I don’t know, Harley. Times are tough. This looks like somebody snapped a photo of a Dumpster-diver scouting around for dinner.”
“Or it could be our Gremlin on the run. Taking meals whenever and however possible.”
“With another killer with him? A copycat? Who’d want to be mixed up with a guy who slices and dices people?”
“Somebody who doesn’t know what he’s bumming around with. The worst of these sickos can seem the nicest and least dangerous. That’s their cover, how they camouflage themselves.”
“The public seen this photo?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah. The morning news,” Renz said. “Thanks to Minnie Miner ASAP.”
“That would figure. Minnie can’t stay away from murder cases. They make such compelling news.”
“Well, you can’t blame her for turning death into entertainment. That’s her job. At least we know where she stands.”
With a foot on your balls, Quinn thought, but didn’t say.
The Gremlin put down his coffee cup in disgust. He was on the balcony of his apartment, where he often took breakfast. He didn’t feel his best this morning, so it was coffee and orange juice only. No cream, no fat. He had to stay in shape. Small but mighty, he thought.
He laid the paper out flat and studied the photograph close up. Then he leaned back, satisfied. There was no way anyone could make a positive identification based on the grainy security camera still.
So what was going on? Or was it really only some good citizen who wanted his name in the papers and talked himself into thinking that the small person in the photograph was the Gremlin? And that the Gremlin was Jordan.
The more the Gremlin thought about it, the less likely anything representing a threat, or a plan, had been in evidence. He had simply parked half a block down from the restaurant and then carried his three large black bags from his car’s trunk to the passageway. Quickly he’d lifted the lid of the Dumpster and tossed inside the black plastic bags, listening to them land softly on trash that had built up for the past two weeks and now had a familiar, sickening stench when the lid was raised. That was good, because when the Dumpster was lifted and emptied in the truck, what was on top would be on the bottom, and least likely to be found.
42
Missouri, 1999
The shadow in the corner of the boxcar moved, then stood up and became a tall, potbellied man with a dark beard and gray-streaked hair grown down to his shoulders.
“You two hopped rides on trains before?” he asked.
“First time,” Jasmine said. She sounded almost cheerful, as if they were talking about learning to ride a bicycle.
The man smiled. A couple of teeth were missing, giving him a jovial, carved-pumpkin expression. “I’m Kirby,” he said. He was holding what looked like a gin or vodka bottle. He started to take a drink, then realized the bottle was empty. He skillfully dropped it on the leather toe of his shoe so it wouldn’t break on the boxcar floor and leave grass shards. It rolled whole and harmless away. The whole process looked as if he’d done it countless times before.
Jordan hadn’t moved since noticing the man. “Jordan,” he said, by way of introduction.
There was a slight dip in the rails, causing the car to lurch and sway. Everyone flexed their knees and rode it out.
Looking dubious, Kirby said, “You two sure this is new to you?”
“We’re sure,” Jasmine said.
Kirby stretched as if to show off his height and muscles in contrast to Jordan’s slightness. He looked anything but fit, yet he still held the undeniable advantage in size and strength over Jordan.
“What we gotta do right off,” Kirby said, “is get these boxcar doors partway shut so we won’t draw any attention. Y’unerstan’?”
“Sure,” Jasmine said. “We wanna look like the other boxcars, but not so much that we won’t have enough hiding space to stay outta sight.”
Kirby smiled at her, looking like a happy pumpkin with selectively missing teeth. Then he aimed his smile at Jordan. “This is a smart and sexy little gal you got here.”
Jordan didn’t know what to say to that. Simply muttered, “Thanks.”
Jasmine looked at him, as if for the first time a balance had shifted. He seemed scared, and that scared her.
She wasn’t the only one scared. Jordan wished he had a weapon. A stout club. Even a gun. The only thing he had that could do damage was his folding knife in his jeans pocket, with its four-inch blade. He knew it would take too long to fish the knife out of his tight jeans and open it with both hands.