Union Station is the sort of place that looks like it ought to have ghosts. And it does, if you count the dead-eyed -people shuffling through the cavernous main terminal or perched in uncomfortable chairs, watching rows of demonic red -numbers. I checked the boards to remind myself which track the viscount’s train was leaving from and then started down the fluorescent--lit tunnel of doom.
Picture one of those endless corridors in an airport, but take out any windows, moving sidewalks, ads, artwork, or other relief. Make it all concrete and aging tile instead of carpet and plaster. Now add in creepy dungeonlike stairways every twenty feet or so that lead tantalizingly upward, teasing promises of sunlight and air that only make the endless slog to your platform all the more unbearable.
The tired-looking kid trying to sell me candy was probably the least depressing thing in the place, and that’s saying something. I would have stopped and bought some off-brand peanut butter cups for Rivenholt if it hadn’t already been 2:49. I climbed the stairs to track twelve, ignoring aches and pains and a stitch in my side that made me wonder if I hadn’t torn a brand-new hole in something.
Passengers were boarding. Shit, I could have already missed him. I scanned the crowd frantically for blonds, then addressed a friendly looking conductor lady with overprocessed hair. “I’m looking for my friend. He might be on this train.”
“Do you have a ticket?”
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you on board.”
“Could you at least check around, see if you see him? It’s important.”
“What’s his name?”
I pulled the photo from my pocket and showed her.
One of her brows lifted. “He’s an actor, right? You looking for an autograph?”
“No! There’s kind of a family emergency.”
She looked at me skeptically. “If he were on the train,” she said, “I’d have noticed him.”
“Can you please just check? And if you find him, tell him Aaron put David in the hospital.” Even if that didn’t make sense, it seemed a fair bet he’d want to know what the hell had gotten lost in translation.
She gave me a once-over, and her face softened. “Okay, hon. Calm down, and I’ll try and find him for you.”
From 2:51 to 2:56, I repeatedly wiped clammy palms on my jeans and rehearsed a dozen different things to say. I tried to figure out how to work “don’t touch me” into my greeting without seeming unfriendly. But then the conductor came back out, shouting at people to hurry and board. She spotted me and gave a sad little shrug.
“I don’t think your man is on this train,” she said.
I swallowed a bitter lump of disappointment. How was it that nobody ever managed to see him at any of the places he was expected to be? Was he going to a lot of trouble to lead people astray? Or was he somehow here all along, invisible, pressing his hands against a barrier that only his drawings could cross?
I thanked the lady and made my way carefully back down the stairs to the Corridor of Broken Dreams. Now that my adrenaline was easing off, I could feel every ache and pain in my patchwork body.
Teo came jogging up, looking out of breath and displeased. “I take it we missed him,” he said.
“I got there in time to ask a conductor to search the train, but she said he wasn’t on it. I have no way of knowing for sure if that’s true.”
“No biggie,” said Teo. “If he came through here, I’m sure someone noticed him. And if he got on that train, we can still beat him to the next stop.”
“Right,” I said, feeling both relieved and foolish.
It didn’t take long flashing Rivenholt’s picture around before we found an old man with a charming Slavic accent who remembered him. “I think this is the man who is arrested here in the terminal,” he said.
“Arrested?” said Teo.
A sudden dread seized me, and I tore open my bag, rifling through it. The e-mail I’d printed out, the one telling Berenbaum what train Rivenholt was boarding, was gone.
“Work emergency, huh?” I muttered bitterly as Teo continued questioning the old man. I pulled out my phone and the napkin from the coffee shop and dialed Clay’s number. No one answered. He could forget about a date.
The old man stroked a thumb thoughtfully over his moustache as he regarded Teo. “The blond man is standing over there, looking around,” he was saying. “Then the policeman, darker, comes to him and shows a badge,” he was saying. “They have serious conversation which I do not hear. Then they walk together to track two. As they pass me, I try to tell them that train has left already, but I get a little afraid. Policeman has his hand on the back of the other’s neck, tight, like holding a dog.”
Before I could even respond, Teo had bolted toward the stairway in question. I thanked the old guy, slipped him a twenty, and went after Teo with a sigh.
When I finally limped my way to the top of the platform, I found Teo standing with his hands buried in his hair, looking down at the deserted train tracks. His sunglasses served to partially hide his expression, but the way he’d squished his mouth into a tiny line strongly suggested he was freaking out. I moved closer to his side and looked down.
“What is that?” I said, looking at the dark splash marks and streaks on the tracks.