Madeline stared at the Sickle Moon Killer, feeling half in a nightmare. It didn’t mesh in the real world. She looked back at George then, puzzled. “What do you mean, I left without saying good-bye?”
Before he could answer, the Sickle Moon Killer suddenly threw his arms up, throwing off the older train cop before he had a chance to snap cuffs on the powerful hands. “You’re dead!” he screamed at Madeline, spittle raining from his mouth.
He kicked the train cop in the gut just as the officer scrambled to get a hold on his prisoner. The flaying knife lay nearby on the floor, and he dived for it. Wiry fingers closed around the handle, and MacCready brought the knife up, connecting with the officer’s stomach. A long, red line appeared as blood seeped through the man’s torn button-down shirt. He staggered back, clutching his stomach. His young partner rushed to him as he fell, screaming for someone to get a doctor.
The Sickle Moon Killer advanced, eyes crazed and locked on Madeline.
She glanced around for a weapon but saw none, only bolted-down seats and other passengers staring on mutely. Her eyes fell on a hard-sided briefcase, and she picked it up, then hurled it at him. It connected with his shoulder, and he winced with pain.
Then the passengers started to panic. Some ran out of the observation car, piling into the dining car and sliding the door closed behind them. Three passengers came forward, two men and a woman in their forties who seemed to know each other. They moved forward as a single mass, shoulder to shoulder, and leapt as one at MacCready, grabbing his hands.
But the Sickle Moon Killer was amazingly strong, and his armed hand came free, flaying knife striking out at them, aiming for faces and arms and soft middles. One of the men screamed, a gash opening in his chest, and the woman crumpled to the floor when the knife tore open a pulsing artery in her arm. MacCready flung the last man to the side, and he clattered down the narrow stairs to the snack bar below, crying out in surprise and pain.
Now George and Madeline stood in the car with MacCready and the two wounded Good Samaritans, who groaned and lay sprawled on the floor. One train cop was performing EMT duties on his partner, who lay prone, the color washed from his face.
The Sickle Moon Killer advanced on Madeline. She backed up, throwing everything she could find at him. A basket of nachos with dripping cheese. A copy of the New York Times, which rattled and fell at his feet. An abandoned backpack with a heavy book inside. The MP3 player. They bounced off him ineffectually.
George moved to the side, keeping out of MacCready’s reach, furtive eyes searching for a way to restrain him. Madeline tried to think of the train’s layout. The only turf she knew for certain was the cars behind them. She glanced over at the two train cops. The uninjured one leaned over his friend, applying pressure to the slice. Both had guns on their belts.
A whoosh admitted a woman in a white coat to the observation lounge. Taking in the situation and wounded people, she rushed first to the fallen cop.
“I got it from here,” Madeline heard her say to the younger officer.
At that, the cop leaped to his feet, pivoting angrily.
As the Sickle Moon Killer steadily advanced on Madeline with the flaying knife, the cop unholstered his gun and aimed. A series of deafening shots rang out in the small confines of the car. Madeline clasped her hands to her ears as blood exploded from MacCready’s chest in four places, raining over the white plastic seats.
A surprised look spread over his face, and he paused, the knife sliding from his hand. It clattered on the floor, and Madeline stepped forward quickly and kicked it away. MacCready swayed, opening his mouth. Blood spilled out, bubbling on his lips as he tried to suck in a breath. Then he crashed forward to his knees, looked up at her angrily, and crumpled face-first onto the floor. He lay there for several long, agonizing moments, trying to draw in breath, the blood seeping across the floor as it spilled from his mouth and chest. His back spasmed, arcing backward at an awkward angle. Then he went still.
Madeline crept forward. Kicked his arm. No reaction.
The surprised eyes still stared, glistening and wet.
The train’s EMT stabilized the cop, then attended to the three Samaritans, the last of whom had just dragged himself up from the snack bar below. The EMT gestured to the wounded officer and the woman with the sliced artery, and said to the young cop, “We’re going to have to get these people to a hospital in Whitefish.” The officer didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the fallen body of MacCready, gun still drawn. Crinkly eyes that looked like he’d known a lot of laughter in his time now looked gaunt and gray. At last he lowered the gun, put it in his holster, and turned back to his partner.
Madeline looked back at MacCready’s body. As she watched, the eyes began to film over. He was dead.
George rushed to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t look away from the body. All the years she’d lived in terror, the never-ending flashbacks. She didn’t think they’d go away now. She thought they’d get worse. Now the killer truly was free to roam anywhere, no longer confined to a body. His ghost would haunt her forever.
George’s fingers squeezed her shoulder.
She jumped and spun around, flinging off his hand.
“It’s okay, Mad. It’s over.”
She looked into his dark brown eyes. “It’s far from over,” she said. “What did you mean, I didn’t say good-bye?”
“You just left. I thought when I didn’t show up at the diner you’d at least stop by.”
Her brow creased in confusion. “Didn’t show up? But you were there. We had a long talk.”
George took a step back. “What? No, I wasn’t. I got jumped on the way.” He pointed to the underside of his chin. “See this bruise? This crazy guy beat me up! Didn’t even take anything. Just beat me up for the hell of it.”
She stared at him in shock, looking again at the fading bruise under his chin. “You really weren’t there?”
She thought of how alluring George had looked that night, when he never had before. How attracted she’d been. She took him in now. It was the same George she’d known for seven months-nothing strangely attractive about him at all now-and it hit her. Pheromones. It was pheromones that night. So Stefan had jumped George and replaced him for one night, in order to learn Madeline’s route through the desolate backcountry. But she had to be sure. “If this is true, then why have you always been so evasive about your past? And don’t give me that crap about being a bookkeeper.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just answer the damn question,” she demanded.
He looked down, ashamed. “I’m afraid you won’t feel the same way about me anymore if you know.”
“Just tell me.”
He exhaled sharply. “I was in prison. Okay? I got involved with these guys who held up a gas station in Billings. But it was a long time ago, and I’ve really changed my life around now. Going to college. Moving to a new town. Meeting you.”
She couldn’t believe it. The answer wasn’t at all what she’d expected. “Let me see your head.”
Dutifully he peeled off one corner of the bandage, and she peered closely. A dark, painful-looking bruise surrounded a tear in the skin. It was a regular, human-looking wound.
She threw her arms around him. “George! You’re you! You’re human!”
He patted her back, trying to keep her at a distance, still distrustful. “Great news. I’m human. What a relief.” Then he pulled back and looked at her in bewilderment.
“I’ll explain everything when we get home,” she said, glancing around the train car. Behind them, the EMT applied a tourniquet to the woman’s arm and helped her and the chest-sliced victim out of the observation car. The last Samaritan remained with the injured cop, holding his hand.