SIX MONTHS LATER
T he feeling of riding a train has always put me to sleep. I'm
far from unique in that. No matter what time of day it
is, every train crisscrossing around the country is dotted
with sleeping passengers. Some try to be subtle about it
and pretend they aren't really sleeping, crossing their hands over their
stomachs and closing their eyes as they maintain as perfect of posture
as they can. Others have no shame and dive into it full-bore, slapping on
their sleep masks, and curling up under blankets to hide from the trip.
I have a far deeper knowledge of that phenomenon now after spending
the last sixteen hours in this seat.
Right now, I'm fighting the urge to join the latter group. I have a giant
cardigan in the bag at my feet, and I want to wrap myself in it and just
block out the rest of the ride. Unfortunately, that's not an option for me.
My stop is coming up soon, and for the last seven hours, I've been on
strict orders to stay awake. I am officially on duty even if the messy bun
on tip of my head and my shoes sitting discarded to the side say differ-
ent. Paying attention to my surroundings is crucial, and I can't do that
sleeping.
This is the first time I've been allowed out in the field since the unfor-
tunate incident during my last operation. I'm not entirely clear on why
Creagan sprung me from desk duty to put me on this one, but it doesn't
matter. I'm tired of shuffling papers and never want to see another high-
lighter in my life. I can't afford to mess this up.
"If that means not letting myself sleep so I can be vigilant about what's
happening around me, even when I'm on the train, that's what I'm going
to do. And I will read the same newspaper for the tenth time to keep my
brain going even though it's creeping well past sundown. Fortunately
for this particular mission, the section of paper tucked in my bag when
I got on the train had just he bloody, disturbing story to keep my mind
from wanting to relax.
Unfortunately for me that bloody, disturbing story is the exact rea-
son I'm on this train headed to a tiny in the middle of nowhere. Or
more precisely to a train station on the train and I won't have to
pretend not to know them when they show up in town. Creagan sent me
alone. There's no backup to help in case things start to go wrong.
Which means I sure as hell better keep them from going wrong.
And that brings me to the hours I've been keeping myself awake, pay-
ing attention to every face that walks past. The trip didn't actually have
to be this long. I could have driven straight from my neighborhood right
outside of Quantico in less than seven hours. But the direct path would
have been too easy to track. Instead, I've been on a round-about adven-
ture, changing trains and following a few different routes to get me on
this final leg. After every stop and stroll through the cars, taking
note of passengers who got on and off. I can only hope each of them gets
to their destination and none end up dead along the tracks.
My eyes sweep over the newspaper in my hands again. Ten sets of
eyes in stark black and white stare back at me. For at least two of them,
this train was the last thing they saw. For the other eight . . . well, they'll
have to be found before anyone will know that.
These ten are why I'm going undercover in Feathered Nest, Virginia.
With a name like that, the population of the town can't be high mak-
ing the number of victims all the more staggering. Eight of the ten are
still missing. According to the information Creagan gave me during my
briefing, the amount of blood found at the scene of each disappearance,
theory they are all dead. The two found mangled by the railroad tracks
offers a glimpse into the possibility of what might have happened to
them.
It's the interesting positioning of the tracks that brought me into this.
Though the two bodies were found locations within a few hundred
yards of each other, the curve of the track meant one, the young woman,
was actually in North Carolina. Once the blood starts spattering over
state lines, we tend to get involved.
Personally, I think creating a collection of eight missing person
posters on the utility pole of such a small town is a bit extreme of a
distance to go before calling in help. But I'm here now. And I'm going to
figure out what's happening to these people and stop the son of a bitch
doing it before it happens again.
A few minutes before pulling into the station, the sleepy-eyed
conductor makes his way down the aisle, letting us know we'll
arrive soon. Neon note cards tucked above each pair of seats
contain abbreviations indicating our destination. It's no surprise I'm the
