The knife is a problem. It is too long to go in a pocket, too sharp to stick in my waistband. In the end, I wrap my jacket around it and tuck it under my arm. Then I run my fingers through my hair, wipe the blood off my lips, and slide the door open.
The corridor is empty, illuminated by moonlight coming through the windows. I pause long enough to look out. We’re on the trestle now. I had underestimated its height—we’re a good forty yards above the boulders of the riverbank and facing a wide area of nothingness. As the train sways, I’m grateful I’m no longer on the roof.
Soon I’m staring at the doorknob of stateroom 3. I unwrap the knife and lay it on the floor while I put my jacket back on. Then I pick it up and stare at the doorknob a moment longer.
There’s a loud click as I turn the knob, and I freeze, keeping it turned, waiting to see if there’s a reaction. After several seconds, I continue twisting and push the door inward.
I leave the door open, afraid that if I close it I’ll wake him up.
If he’s on his back, a single quick slash across the windpipe will do it. If he’s on his stomach or side, I’ll plunge it straight through, making sure the blade crosses his windpipe. Either way, I’ll hit him in the neck. I just can’t falter, because it must be deep enough that he bleeds out quickly, without crying out.
I creep toward the bedroom, clutching the knife. The velvet curtain is closed. I pull the edge of it toward me and peek in. When I see that he’s alone, I exhale in relief. She’s safe, probably in the virgin car. In fact, I must have crawled right over her on my way here.
I slip in and stand by the bed. He’s sleeping on the near side, leaving space for the absent Marlena. The curtains on the windows are tied back, and moonlight flashes through the trees, alternately illuminating and hiding his face.
I stare down at him. He’s in striped pajamas and looks peaceful, boyish even. His dark hair is mussed, and the edge of his mouth moves in and out of a smile. He’s dreaming. He moves suddenly, smacking his lips and rolling from his back onto his side. He reaches over to Marlena’s side of the bed and pats the empty space a few times. Then he pats his way up to her pillow. He takes hold of it and pulls it to his chest, hugging it, burrowing his face into it.
I raise the knife, holding it in both hands, its tip poised two feet above his throat. I need to do this right. I adjust the blade’s angle to maximize side-to-side damage. The train passes out of the trees, and a thin streak of moonlight catches the blade. It glints, throwing tiny shards of light as I make adjustments to the angle. August moves again, snorting and rolling violently onto his back. His left arm flops off the bed and comes to a stop inches from my thigh. The knife is still gleaming, still catching and throwing light. But the movement is no longer a result of my making adjustments. My hands are shaking. August’s lower jaw opens, and he inhales with a terrible rumbling and smacking of lips. The hand beside my thigh is slack. The fingers of his other hand twitch.
I lean over him and lay the knife carefully on Marlena’s pillow. I stare for a few seconds longer and then leave.
NO LONGER RIDING a wave of adrenaline, my head once again feels larger than my body, and I stagger through the corridors until I reach the end of the staterooms.
I have a choice to make. I must either go up top again or else continue through the privilege car—where there’s every possibility someone is still up gambling—and then also pass through all the sleepers, at which point I’ll still have to go back up top to get to the stock car. And so I decide to make the ascent earlier rather than later.
It’s almost more than I can manage. My head is pounding, and my balance seriously compromised. I climb onto the railing of a connecting platform and somehow scrape my way up to the top. Once there, I lie on the top rail, queasy and limp. I spend ten minutes recovering and then crawl forth. I rest again at the end of the car, prostrate between the top rails. I am utterly drained. I can’t imagine how I’ll keep going, but I must, because if I fall asleep here I’ll fall off the first time we hit a curve.
The buzzing returns, and my eyes are jerking. I dive across the great divide four times, each time sure I won’t make it. On the fifth, I nearly don’t. My hands hit the thin iron rails, but the edge of the car hits me in the gut. I hang there, stunned, so tired that it crosses my mind how much easier it would be to simply let go. It’s how drowning people must feel in the last few seconds, when they finally stop fighting and sink into the water’s embrace. Only what’s waiting for me is not a watery embrace. It’s a violent dismemberment.