Page 1 of With a Vengeance
Departure
The train isn’tempty, although it certainly feels that way. Whole sections currently sit unused. Coach cars. Dining car. Sleeper. All are vacant and silent save for the echo of the train itself clickety-clacking over the tracks. This train that can hold dozens, even hundreds, is occupied by only eight people.
Seven are alive.
One is dead.
That wasn’t the case a minute ago, when the whole lot of them were very much alive. But unexpected things happen when traveling by train, and this, apparently, is one of them. It certainly took Anna Matheson off guard. Her reaction makes it clear this isn’t the plan at all. She seems honestly distressed by the body now splayed flat-backed on the floor of the first-class lounge.
A strange reaction.
Anna has every reason to want the others dead.
Those others, by the way, are the six people aboard this train at her invitation. One that, had they known who was doing the inviting, all would have declined.
Your singular presence is requested on an overnight rail journey from Philadelphia to Chicago beginning the evening of December 14 aboard the Philadelphia Phoenix
Departing Philadelphia at 7p.m.EST
Arriving in Chicago at 7a.m.CST
Not particularly compelling, as invitations go. It’s 1954, after all. No one wants to spend thirteen hours on a train when United Air Lines can get you to Chicago in just under three. Anna knew this, of course, which was why she added a handwritten message on the back, specific to each recipient. Although their misdeeds are the same, their secrets are different.
Those individualized notes were all it took to get the six of them here. They didn’t care that they had no idea who the invitation came from or why it was extended to them. Nor were they bothered by the lack of a way to RSVP. They all showed up at the scheduled departure time, invitation in hand. Now here they are—five guests, one hostess, her accomplice, and a corpse.
Not enough time has passed for color to drain from the dead person’s face. Their eyes are wide open and aimed at the ceiling, and flecks of crimson stain the foam still bubbling at the edges of their mouth.
This, it’s clear, was not a natural death.
Nor was it painless.
At least it was quick, the time between the first sign that something was amiss and sudden death totaling less than a minute. The victim didn’t even have a chance to let go of the white linen yanked off a cocktail table as they fell. One end of the tablecloth remains gripped in lifeless fingers. The rest of it still clings to the table, soaked through with gin spilled from an overturned martini glass.
In another minute, someone will have the good sense to use a dry tablecloth to cover the corpse. Until then, everyone stares at it in combinations of shock and disbelief, none more so than Anna, over whose face ripple a thousand emotions. The biggest of them, though, is fear.
Because now that one of the passengers has been murdered—by someone else in that very car—she fears it’s only a matter of time before it happensagain.
7 p.m.
Thirteen Hours toChicago
One
Anna Matheson clearsher throat, straightens her spine, and steadies her trembling hands. She pictures herself as a statue, rigid and impenetrable. Anything to make her look like she’s not afraid, when in truth she’s been scared for so long that fear has seeped into her marrow.
Still, when she begins to speak, her voice is firm and clear.
“You know who I am. Just as you know why I’ve gathered you here. If you haven’t figured it out yet, you will very soon.”
Anna pauses, just as she’d rehearsed, the length timed to the millisecond to allow any unlikely stragglers to catch up.
“By now, you’ve recognized each other. Maybe you’ve even had a chance to chat a bit. Likely long enough to suspect that you’ve been brought here under false pretenses. That suspicion is correct. The reason for this journey is simple. I’m here to—”
Just then, the train lurches, sending Anna off balance. In the tiny bathroom of her room, she watches her reflection sway in the equally tiny mirror. The first time she’d been on the Philadelphia Phoenix, everything had felt enormous. Not just the room, but the train itself. Every car seemed endless, as if walking the entire length of the train constituted a journey of miles.
Then again, Anna had been eleven at the time, and trains loomed large in her life. Especially ones run by the Union Atlantic Railroad. Unlike most rail lines of the day, Union Atlantic had been privately owned. Her father had inherited the family business when her grandfather passed away. In another bit of unconventionality, it hadn’t relied on an outside company like Pullman to build its cars and locomotives. Union Atlantic designed and manufactured its own in-house at a facility in Philadelphia, including the Phoenix. Anna’s mother had even designed the interiors, filling them with her favorite fabrics and colors. Velvet drapes, chenille upholstery, damask walls. All in shades of peacock blue, emerald green, and rich ivory surrounded by walnut and gold leaf and bronze.
After her mother, her brother, and Anna herself, the Philadelphia Phoenix had been her father’s pride and joy. Debuting in 1937, it wasn’t the first streamliner train, nor was it the fastest or the most famous. But those superlatives didn’t matter. The Phoenix was still a gleaming marvel that offered both jaw-dropping speed and unparalleled luxury.
