“Do I have to talk to Creagan again? Because I think I might have used up all my leverage with that conversation.”
“No. He's not necessary, but I do need you to do something for me,” I say.
“What's that?”
“Do trains have cameras on them? Like cargo trains. Do they have cameras on the front to see what's happening on the tracks?” I ask.
“Most of them do. By now I'd say probably all of them do unless a company is using really outdated machinery. Why? What do you need?” Eric asks.
“If I send you a map of train tracks and a range of dates, can you figure out what trains were running during that time and get me the feeds off the cameras?”
“I'm sure I could. Does this have to do with the bodies?”
“It might.”
“I thought the train company already examined all the trains and couldn't find one that might have hit either of them,” he says.
“They did. That's not what I want to know. Can you get me the video?”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Thanks. I'll email you the information,” I tell him. “Oh… Eric? Keep this between us. I don't know what it might mean yet, and I don't want to get anybody sniffing around if it doesn't pan out.”
Two hours later, I'm sitting, listening to what sounds like the furnace repairman arbitrarily bashing whatever is inside a furnace when an email finally appears from Eric. Curling defensively into the corner of the couch so the repairman can't catch a glimpse of what's on my screen, I nestle my earbuds in my ears and open the first attached video.
There's no audio, and the image is choppy and slightly grainy. It's the type of video that comes from a surveillance video most people never intend on watching. A few second’s time-lapse makes it look more like a series of pictures flashing by in rapid succession than a smooth video. The video covers several hours, three days before the body of the woman was found by the train tracks. I watch it carefully for markers to identify the specific area of the tracks I'm interested in seeing. Taking notes of what I see during that part of the tracks, I stop the video and move on to the next one.
By the fourth video, I'm able to skip ahead through much of the feed just to the small portion that shows what I need to see. This video is slightly different than the others. Recording the journey of a different train than the others, this one shows a camera position just off from where it should be. As if it's been knocked off center or was mounted incorrectly. The camera doesn't give a full view of the tracks. The screen shows a portion of the train itself and half the tracks along with the gravel bank on the side opposite the woods.
Something catches my eye in the corner of the screen, and I stop the video. I go back several seconds and watch again. Four times through later, I'm convinced I know what I'm seeing. I watch one more time for good measure, my stomach sinking.
“Son of a bitch.”
“I'm working as fast as I can.”
My eyes snap up to the repairman, and I shake my head, popping the buds I forgot I was wearing out of my ears.
“Not you. I'm sorry. You're doing fine. Um. Do you by chance, know how much longer it's going to be?” I ask.
He peers down at the furnace he appears to have gutted. “Give me another hour. Maybe an hour and a half.”
I don't want to sit around waiting for him, but I'm also not going to leave him alone in my cabin. Wrapping the quilt around me again, I pull my computer onto my lap to settle in for the wait. My attention goes back to the man who died on my porch and the note clutched in his hand. Without giving him details why, I already asked Eric to run a check on the name Ron Murdock and see if anything came up, even though I was pretty sure it wouldn't. He wasn't swinging by for a friendly visit. I doubt he gave his real name at the hotel. In tiny places like the towns dotted around here, it isn’t unusual for a hotel to not bother to check identification if someone pays cash. Even if they do, I've tossed enough faked credentials into the shredder to know it isn't hard to convince someone of anything if you pay attention to the details.
It's the details I want to know now. No one outside of the team knew I was coming here. The thing is, he didn't just find out I was here. To arrive so soon after me, he had to anticipate me coming. Just for fun, I ran a check on the name along with my own, but nothing came up. Another search with my father's name and a third with my mother's had equally dead ends. I wasn't going to get anywhere with searches like this. I needed more. But for now, there was nothing I could do but sit and wait.
In the dark.
“What just happened?” I call out.
“Sorry about that. Nothing to worry about. Just tripped the circuit a bit. I'll fix it.” The repairman's footsteps disappear into the back of the cabin, and a few moments later, the lights pop back on. He comes back and crouches down near the furnace. “That box is a finicky thing. I've been tinkering on this house since way back, and it has always given me trouble. Tucked way the hell back there and all.”
“Who lived here?” I ask.
“What's that?”
“You said you've been working on this house for a long time. When I rented it, they told me it was abandoned,” I explain.
“Well, abandoned is a bit of a harsh word. The lady who lived here died, and no one claimed the property,” he tells me.
“She didn't have any family?” I ask.
He runs his hand over his face and looks into the distance for a second.
“Seems to me she had a daughter. Never met her, but Wendy sometimes talked about her girl and a granddaughter who lived somewhere. She didn't get to see them.”
“And they never came for the house or any of her things? Did the police get in touch with her after Wendy died?” I ask.
“Not my business. All I know is the house got taken over by the town, most of it cleaned out, and now it's rented out to folks wanting to visit Feathered Nest. Not that there are too many of those. Last gentleman came to stay didn't even stay for the full time he had booked. Just took his stuff and left. Door unlocked, lights on. Some people have no manners.”
“Someone else stayed here recently?” I ask, surprised.
“Yep. Round about six months ago, I'd say,” he muses.
“No one mentioned it to me.”
“Now, why would they?” There's a touch of suspicion in his voice, and I try to come up with something to cover it, but the sound of the furnace roaring to life brings a smile to his face. “Would you listen to that? She still has some life in her, after all. It might take a little bit of time to get this place warmed up again but should be nice and toasty before you tuck in for the night.”
“Thank you so much. Let me know what I owe you, and I'll write you a check.”
Chapter Sixteen
I've never seen someone pack tools so slowly. The repairman meticulously wipes down each implement with a threadbare red rag before settling them into his bag. I get the distinct feeling he's stalling, trying to take up as much time as he can. I'm not sure if that's because he's trying to spend more time with me, or if he thinks something else in the cabin is about to go wrong. Either way, I'm not interested in the company. I hurry him along his way, and as soon as he heads outside with my check peeking out of his pocket, I rush to change into another layer of warm clothes and put on my boots.
I'm walking back toward the living room when the sound of the door opening makes my heart jump in my throat. The furnace muffles the sound slightly, but I can still hear the footsteps enter the house and stop. Very aware that my phone is in there on the table and even if I had it, the police likely wouldn't be much help anyway, I brace myself and walk out into the living room.