He started to lay back but then noticed a sign on the station's wall: NEWBERN-DYERSBURG, TENNESSEE. A hand seemed to reach inside his barely full stomach and twist at his guts. The northward Amtrak line passed through the extreme western edge of Tennessee, he knew. A hundred miles to the east was Nashville, where Carl's father had taken the family after his drunkenness caused him to lose his stockbroker's job in Iowa City.
In Nashville, the arguments and beatings had worsened. One night, Carl found his father unconscious at the kitchen table at three in the morning. The lights were on. A half-empty bottle of peppermint brandy sat next to him. The peppermint soothed the stomach inflammation that years of too much alcohol caused.
Carl had laid out bread, mustard, mayonnaise, lettuce, dill pickles, and a chunk of ham, as if his father had decided to make a sandwich. His father was so stupefied that the muted sounds didn't wake him. Carl applied mustard and mayonnaise to one slice of bread. He took a sharp knife and cut into the ham. He used a dishtowel to wipe his fingerprints from everything. He used the same towel while he held his father's hands and applied fingerprints to bottles, plates, and the bread wrapper.
"Uh," his father said.
"Ssshh," Carl said.
He raised his father from the table, then hefted him to the counter and the half-prepared sandwich. He put the sharp knife in his father's right hand and knocked his father's legs from under him, making sure that the knife plowed into his father's stomach when he hit the floor. His father tried to moan, but Carl pressed his hands over his father's mouth. As a pool of blood spread, his father trembled, then lay still. Avoiding the blood on the floor, taking care that none was on him, Carl went back to bed. He enjoyed the most satisfying sleep of his life.
Now Carl wished that the same peaceful sleep would come to him. Watching the ripple of shadows across the train compartment's ceiling, he tried to think back to when, if ever, his life had been the way he wanted. There had been a time, he decided.
Chapter 11.
Daylight. The Illinois train stations went by. Champaign-Urbana. Kankakee. Homewood. That name filled him with bitterness. Next stop: Chicago.
He used his cell phone.
A woman's pleasant voice said, "Grand Cayman bank."
"I need to wire-transfer nine thousand dollars to my bank account in Chicago." That account, under an assumed identity, had been carefully established two years earlier. The nine thousand dollars was less than the ten-thousand-dollar transaction amount that banks were required to report to the federal government.
"Certainly, sir. May I have your account number and your password?"
Carl recited the number from memory. "The password is 'stiletto.'"
"Thank you, sir." A moment lengthened. "Sir, would you please repeat that account number?"
"Is there a problem?"
"I may have mistyped it."
Carl repeated it.
"Sir, our records fail to show any funds in that account."
"But there should be a million dollars!"
"No, sir, I'm afraid there aren't any funds."
"Try that number again." Carl recited it slowly.
"Yes, sir, that's the number I'm accessing, but the account does not have a balance."
The undigested sandwiches from the night before soured Carl's stomach. "Was there ever any money in it?"
"Yes, sir. As you mentioned, a million dollars. Yesterday afternoon, it was wire transferred to another bank."
Carl swallowed something bitter. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Chapter 12.
Cavanaugh admired the Gulfstream's interior, the last time he would see it.
"The jet needs to go back to its base in New Jersey anyhow," William said. "The expense is the same whether we're aboard or not, so we might as well take advantage."
"It never occurred to me to ask how much it costs to fly this."
"Four thousand dollars an hour."
"And we crossed the country several times. No wonder the company's going bankrupt."
"When you're protecting a Saudi prince, the fee's high enough to earn out," William said.
"But when I'm fighting to stay alive, it's too expensive."
The powerful engines whispered as the jet reached its scheduled altitude, streaking through clouds.
"Less than a week ago, you didn't want anything to do with Global Protective Services," Jamie said, "and now you hate to lose it."
"Yes," Cavanaugh told her bitterly. "Because of Carl."
Chapter 13.
The train arrived in Chicago ten minutes late. Slouching, Carl blended with the departing passengers on the damp, shadowy concourse. He carried his briefcase in his left hand while his right hand was primed to reach for a weapon. He had strips of a towel under his lips and inside his cheeks, altering his features. His ears had Kleenex wadded neatly into them.
Keeping in the thick of the crowd, he entered the brightly lit terminal, the din of which was muffled by the padding in his ears. He tensed when he saw two policemen studying everybody. They stopped a tall, thin man, who looked somewhat like Carl, and asked him questions.
Carl showed no reaction. Face blank, eyes forward, shoulders drooped, he kept moving, not breaking rhythm, just another zombie. Take it easy, he thought. You'll be fine. The "you" was deliberately chosen, a way of disassociating from the moment and keeping his emotions in check. If they really believed you were on a train that arrived here, there'd be a small army to welcome you, not a handful of cops, he tried to assure himself.
Approaching an exit, he glanced at a newsstand, then looked ahead, as if the newspapers meant nothing, even though a large photograph of him stared from the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, and USA Today.
Not a military photograph. Not him young and in uniform. This was a recent photograph of him among a crowd on a street. New Orleans. Taken by a security camera, it depicted him chasing somebody. Raoul. Digitally magnified and enhanced, alarmingly clear, the image showed Carl in profile. More than in profile. Three quarters of his features.