Up in the Pacific Northwest a significant meteorological event was taking place. Competing highs and lows, b.u.t.ting cold and warm fronts, soaring moisture content from off the coast, and upper-level winds that were increasing to enormous speeds were all mixing and spinning and beginning to move in an easterly direction. A similar confluence of weather elements had formed in nearly the same place during one of Mark Twain's trips across the Nevada Territory over 140 years before. The result had been a rip-roaring icy flood and then a blizzard the likes of which most folks had never encountered even in those wild frontier climates. If the story was to be believed - and, in that regard, one was always on dangerous ground with Mr. Twain - the episode very nearly cost the esteemed author his life.

Though still largely undetected by the national weather forecasters, the current storm turned in a southern direction when it slammed into the hard wall of the northern Rockies and slid down the spine of that mountain range like a water leak following an electrical line inside a house. Though no one could yet determine where the forming storm would hit with all its ferocious winter power, its destination seemed to lie right along the path of the Southwest Chief, and at a very interesting spot. It was a very remote, foreboding place in southeastern Colorado, called the Raton Pa.s.s, the highest elevation on the entire Southwest Chief route and the toughest pa.s.senger-rail grade in the country. Not easy for a train to climb on good weather days, it would tax the Southwest Chief almost to its limit when the weather turned really bad.

Later that night the person in black was once more making the rounds of the sleeper cars. Even more cautious this time because of the heightened state of alertness, the person made absolutely sure no one was around. The thief's efforts were aided by the fact that many people were either eating dinner or attending a very special event in the lounge car. Indeed, people were presently being wildly entertained on the Southwest Chief, and such people were in no position to safeguard their valuables. The thief mouthed a silent "thank you" and went about the larcenous business of robbing fellow pa.s.sengers.

chapter twenty.

The lounge car was indeed rocking, and the vibrations had nothing to do with the sections of bad track that the Chief had to race over every day. Roxanne was in the middle of the car, with a hand-held microphone - not that the woman needed any such amplifier to be heard - and was belting out song after song, each more powerful, more viscerally emotional than its predecessor. In the packed car each person's gaze was directly on the woman, absorbing every note pouring forth. The LA Boys' Center Choir, too, had stayed up a little late and was listening with rapt attention to a true artiste who sang only for the love of it. These young men could not have received a better lesson in life than watching and hearing Roxanne Jordan perform while rolling over the rails.

Tom was in a far corner of the lounge, humming along to the tunes Roxanne was singing. After the show was over, the pa.s.sengers gave her a standing ovation, and then people hung around discussing in great, noisy detail all that they'd just seen and heard.

Down in the smoker lounge, Max and Misty were enjoying cigars purchased in Chicago, and Misty was reading the palms of all who wanted their fortunes told. Since it was the Christmas season, she kept her predictions very upbeat, finding in the lines of each extended palm the potential of holiday miracles.

Back in her compartment, Eleanor was making some notes about potential script plots, but she was struggling to concentrate. The process was different this time. She was used to taking other people's work and tinkering with it, not creating her own material from scratch. She kept doodling on her pad, until she realized she was spelling "Tom Langdon" in fat, three-dimensional letters. She ripped up the paper and threw it away, then lay back with her hand over her face.

"Troubles?"

Eleanor looked at the doorway, where Roxanne was standing and staring at her. She was dabbing the sweat from her face with a wet washcloth after her prodigious entertainment efforts.

Eleanor sat up. "Just a little frustrated, I guess."

"Well, you missed a fine show in the lounge car, if I do say so myself."

"Actually I heard it. They piped it in over the PA. You were terrific. The best I've heard." Roxanne glanced at the floor, which was littered with balled-up paper.

"How's the train story coming? We could use a blockbuster Max Powers movie about trains to get the country and the government excited about us again."

Eleanor gave an embarra.s.sed smile. "Well, I have to admit, I don't know all that much about trains. I haven't taken one since I was in college, at least not in this country. And I'm not sure a few days riding the rails will educate me enough to do the thing justice."

Roxanne perched on the edge of the couch bed.

"Well, I've been working these trains longer than most, and I still don't know it all. I guess that's why I like my job so much: something new every day. Sometimes it's good, and sometimes it's not so good, but it keeps me hopping and using my head, and that's a good thing."

"How long have you worked this train?"

"Oh, me and the Chief have been courting now going on twenty-one years. Up, back, up, back. Know every bit of sagebrush in New Mexico, every wheatfield in Kansas, even know some of the farmers by their first name. Wave to 'em when we go by. I could drive the train with my eyes closed, only Amtrak frowns on that sort of thing."

Eleanor pulled out a fresh piece of paper and made some notes. "I bet the farmers wave back."

"Girl, I've gotten three marriage proposals in the last two years. One gent tied a banner to his John Deere and raced the train. It said, 'Will You Marry Me, Roxanne?'"

"That's pretty creative. It's nice to be popular."

"Oh yeah, farmers like their women with some meat on 'em, and I fit that bill." She stood up. "If you're having trouble coming up with ideas, why don't you come with me to make my rounds? I guarantee it'll stimulate your your creative juices." creative juices."

After Roxanne's show had ended and the boys' choir had returned to their quarters in coach, Father Kelly came into the lounge and started chatting with Tom. Max and Kristobal joined them. It turned out the priest and the director had much in common.

"I wanted to be a priest," said Max. "Well, more accurately, my mother wanted me to be a priest. Even joined the seminary, but it didn't stick. I wasn't wired for it. And I liked women too much. Forgive me, Padre, but it's true. It was actually an easy decision. Yet if I'd taken the vows, it would have saved me millions in alimony."

Tom said, "I briefly considered the priesthood myself." He looked at Kristobal. "You ever think about being a priest?"

"Oh, sure, doesn't every Jew?"

Tom mouthed a "sorry" to the man and took a swallow of his drink.

"Well, I'm a confirmed film buff," said Father Kelly. "And I truly appreciate your talent, Max. I've seen all the cla.s.sics and I thought moviemaking would be an exciting way to spend one's time, but then I received this very strong calling, and my hands became tied in the matter, so to speak. Though don't believe for a second that priests don't admire a pretty girl. It just takes a back seat to a higher power."

Just then Agnes Joe came in and joined them. She was dressed in holiday colors that actually rode well on her challenging frame. They'd all finished their drinks, and Agnes Joe offered to take away the empties and bring them new ones. She came back a few minutes later with fresh refills for everyone. The men reached in their pockets to reimburse her, but she shook her head. "My treat. Consider it an early Christmas present."

Father Kelly said, "Bless you for taking such good care of us."

Tom watched as Herrick Higgins, a couple of chairs over, stared out into the night. The man seemed deeply preoccupied.

Tom called out, "I'm taking your word, Herrick, that sleep will come easier tonight."

The older man smiled. "It will. The Chief is the fastest train to the West Coast, the only one that maintains the level of track speed you find in the east. Just under forty hours to LA, about ten less than the other western trains."

Kristobal blanched. "Forty hours! Gee, a virtual bullet. I could almost fly to Australia and back, twice twice, in that time." He finished his comments with a hearty, "Chooo-chooo!"

Higgins smiled good-naturedly. "Well, bullet trains would be nice out here. Flatland is good for it, but you got some tricky grades too. And the government would never fund that. Most other major countries have seen the benefit of high-speed rail corridors. However, one needs vision to see the payoff from such an undertaking, and 'vision' isn't something our leaders a.s.sociate with train travel." He pointed out the window. "Now, the Chief follows the old Santa Fe for the most part. Takes you through some rugged country. Dodge City. That's where they based the TV series Gunsmoke Gunsmoke, you know."

"Gun-what?" asked Kristobal.

"I guess you're too young to remember that," said Higgins.

"I guess so."

"We go through some high places, 7,600 feet high at Raton Pa.s.s, a little less than that at Glorieta Pa.s.s, and then we descend into Apache Canyon, but that's after we get through Las Vegas."

"Las Vegas!" exclaimed Father Kelly. "I didn't know this train went to Las Vegas. Does it stop long enough for people to get off?" He looked around. "Well, not that I'm really into gambling or anything, but I do occasionally like to have a go at the slots."

"It's not that that Las Vegas, Father," explained Higgins. "It's Las Vegas, Las Vegas, Father," explained Higgins. "It's Las Vegas, New Mexico New Mexico. It's the stop right after Raton. And not a neon tube or gaming table in sight."

Father Kelly looked very disappointed. "Ah well, some things are just not meant to be, I suppose."

"Well, Padre," said Max, "I'll do you one better. We're having a wedding on this train tomorrow, and there's a young bachelor on this train who needs a bachelor's party, and I intend to provide it and you're all invited. In fact, attendance is mandatory."

"Well," said Father Kelly, "that sounds very nice. I'm a.s.suming libations will be served?"

Max winked. "Padre, my whole compartment is a libation." He told them the time for the party.

Tom rose. "I'll be there," he said.

Max glanced at him. "You want to start now, feel free. Maybe we can sit and talk for a bit."

"No, I think I'll go for a stroll."

"On a train?" exclaimed Kristobal. "What's there to see?"

"You'd be surprised," replied Tom as he walked out.

Tom moved down the corridor. The lounge car was still full, the dining car was serving its last meal of the day, people were in a festive, friendly mood, and thus many of the sleeper compartments were empty. It was a perfect time for a thief to strike again, and Tom wanted to see if the crook on the Capitol Limited had managed to hook a ride on the Southwest Chief. He also wanted to check out one sleeper in particular.

He knocked, and when he received no answer he poked his head inside Agnes Joe's compartment. Fortunately for him, the door couldn't be locked from the outside. It was empty. The phonograph was set up on the fold-down desk, as it had been on the Cap. The place was neat and tidy, with few personal possessions laid out. There were two pillows fluffed up and leaning against the wall at the head of the couch, and a blanket was neatly folded there. Two suitcases were against one wall. Tom didn't bother with those. He was more interested in the duffel bag that was wedged between the wall and chair, just as it had been on the Cap. And a blanket was also covering it.

He checked the corridor, drew the privacy curtain closed, and unzipped the bag. Instead of loot, he found something inexplicable. It was newspapers balled up, just like the bunch that Regina had been carrying on the Cap. He looked at some of the papers. They were from various editions of newspapers on the East Coast. Unable to make sense of this, he kept looking through the bag until he found a photograph of Agnes Joe and what Tom took to be her daughter. He didn't know for sure, because the two women could not have looked more dissimilar. The younger woman was taller than Agnes Joe and was one of the most beautiful women Tom had ever seen, truly a stunner. And she was dressed in a circus performer's outfit, so at least that much of Agnes Joe's story was true. He looked for a date on the picture, on the front and back, but there was none. Agnes Joe looked about the same, so it couldn't have been taken that long ago. They seemed happy or at least cordial in the photo. He wondered what had gone wrong since the picture had been taken, something that might explain why the mother wasn't spending Christmas with her only child.

Not wanting to risk discovery, he put the photo back in the bag and slipped out of the compartment. He went to the other section of sleepers, stopped dead, ducked inside a vacant unit, and peered out cautiously. Agnes Joe was emerging from one of the units. She looked around, as Tom had, to see that no one was watching. She didn't appear to be carrying anything, but she could have had something in her pockets. She headed off in the opposite direction. Tom slipped out, moved down the corridor, and peered into the compartment she'd been in. He didn't see anything that identified whose unit it was. He was about to go in to determine who was staying there, but he heard people coming and walked away. However, he got the letter of the unit, and he figured it would be fairly easy to find out whose it was.

As he walked off, his thoughts returned to a seemingly lonely woman with a curious background, gregarious nature, and propensity to stuff old papers in her bags and invade other people's dwellings on a moving train. His trip of soul-searching and personal discovery was turning more into an investigative journalism outing, solving the matter of the modern train robber, who was perhaps named Agnes Joe. For many reasons, however, he hoped she was innocent.

As he came through the lounge car he saw Herrick Higgins at the other end peering anxiously out the window.

"What's up?" asked Tom. "You look a little uptight."

Higgins smiled, but Tom noted there wasn't much sincerity behind it.

"Oh, nothing much. Just watching the snow coming down."

"Well, snow can't hurt a train."

Higgins didn't smile or nod in agreement. "We'll be hitching on a third engine at La Junta before we cross the Raton Pa.s.s," he said.

"Is that normal practice, or because of the snow?"

"Oh, it's normal. See, it's quite a climb, and a third engine just adds a nice little comfort zone." His gaze returned to the snow falling outside, and his expression grew serious again. Tom walked on, but he glanced nervously back at the old railroad man, trying without success to read his thoughts.

chapter twenty-one.

Upon Roxanne and Eleanor entering the coach car housing the boys' choir, Roxanne pulled out a can of Lysol and started spraying everywhere. "Okay," she said, "we got us some serious travel funk going on here. Now, do not try to deceive Ms. Roxanne about this for she has five sons of her own and lots and lots of grandsons, and thus she has a Ph.D. in what she likes to call 'stinky young men syndrome,' and that just won't cut it on Ms. Roxanne's train. Do we all understand this?" All the young men nodded. "Good, now I have two showers reserved for you for the next hour, and we will make good use of that time, won't we?" They all nodded again. She a.s.sembled them in two rows. "Three minutes per boy per shower, no more no less, for this train does many wonderful things but it does not make water out of air. And we will shampoo and we will get behind our ears and between our toes, won't we, and we will come out with not one dirty digit because there will be an inspection - oh yes there will. And the good Lord will look down upon all of you squeaky clean young men and He will bless you this Christmas like no other." For emphasis she sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of tunes Pearl Bailey and Billie Holiday had made famous, and then the chaperones marched the lads out.

"How did you end up being the choir's caretaker?" asked Eleanor. "I understand the singing connection and all, but is there something else?"

"They're good boys, with a lot of potential, but also lots of things in their way too, especially where they're going back to. I won't accept that fifty or twenty or even ten percent of those boys won't make it to adults, I won't! Every one of them, every single one of them, is going to make it. I'm taking a month-long vacation come this summer, been saving up for a while now, and we're going to go on the road, me and those boys, and we're going to play some places, and they're going to see some things that will make their bellies burn to do the right thing in life. They'll find dreams they never thought they even had, and old Roxanne will be right there holding their hands 'til they don't need me being Momma anymore."

"That's quite an ambitious undertaking," said Eleanor.

"But they're worth it, don't you think?"

Eleanor smiled. "I think they're more than worth it."

They went into the next coach, where a dazed-looking man was walking up and down the aisle.

Roxanne said in a low voice to Eleanor, "You'll find that coach on the long-distance trains can be an interesting place. You want some stories, you could do a lot worse than plunking yourself down right here."

She said in a loud voice, "h.e.l.lo, Ernest, you feeling okay today, baby?"

"Demons, demons everywhere, Roxanne - out the window, in my clothes, the food. I saw some in my Diet Pepsi."

"I know, I know, but I tell you what, I saw you were going to be on the train so I brought some antidemon dust. This concoction is guaranteed to take care of any demon there is, including supersize." She handed him a bag that she pulled from her pocket. "What I'd do, Ernest, is sprinkle that on you, but no one else. You don't want to waste it, 'cause that's all I got."

"Thank you, Roxanne, thank you. You're the only one who understands."

Ernest went off, sprinkling himself along the way.

Eleanor said, "Sounds like he might need professional help."

"Yeah, I thought so too, but what I think he wants is attention. He's got n.o.body, so far as I can tell. He's been riding this train for years, never hurt anybody, just walks around, looking crazy, but I don't believe he is at all. He dresses like he's homeless, but this train trip is beyond the purse of any homeless person I've ever met, and I've met quite a few. I found out he's an engineer at a firm in San Diego. He's the sort probably never had a lot of friends, and now that he's around forty-five or so, I don't think he knows how to make them. I've spent time with him, and he's intelligent, articulate, but his brain's not wired the same as you and me. When he first gets on the Chief he always does the demon thing. We get past that, then things are cool."

"Why do you think he takes the train so much?"

"Well, n.o.body wants to be alone, especially around Christmas. I'm sure you know that most suicides happen around the holidays. Besides, this isn't a train this time of year. It's a social club of strangers looking for a friend."

A frantic-looking older woman ran up to Roxanne waving her ticket. "Oh my G.o.d, I don't know where I'm going."

"Well, honey, tell me where it is you want to go, and then we'll work from there."

"Denver," said the woman.

"Denver, okay, you need to be on the Zephyr, not the Chief. The Chief goes to LA and not by way of Denver. I'm surprised they let you on here."

"I think I stepped on the wrong train."