Train Wreck: Chapter 14

"Dammit, Artie," Jim swore, though he was smiling when he climbed to his feet. Jeremy and Steve, sitting nearby burst into laughter as Jim lost his patience again. Artie just snorted, but watched his partner curiously. They were all relaxing now after having a late supper in the private suite Jim had reserved at the Capitol Hotel.

Jim pushed the supper dishes to the side of the suite's dining room table. Remnants of steak and seafood spilled onto the carpet. Jeremy rose silently to pick up bits of food and return them to the plates and get a closer look at the demonstration. Jim picked up a small box, holding writing implements, and slammed it onto the table across from his partner. Standing in front of the box, looking down, he continued, "You received a box from a delivery man, dressed in black with gold and red pin stripes. You brought it to our table in the varnish car and opened it with," he paused, reaching behind him into the air, "the scissors we keep in the drawer behind the table. I have seen you do it a hundred times."

Steve laughed, shaking his head, "you two argue more than my parents. It's like you're married."

Jim paused, picking up a large pair of scissors from the table, turning to glare at the young man. He could hear Jeremy stifle laughter behind him and didn't dare look at his partner. "Don't even go there." Turning back to the box, he made movements as if he was opening the top. He set the scissors onto the table and used both hands, as if opening box flaps.

"Wait," Jeremy said, "he only burned his left hand". He put his left hand on the box near Jim's. "Where are your burns? Top or bottom?"

"Top of my hand," Artie said, watching his friends closely, "And the top of my arm and up, over my shoulder."

Jim paused, thinking, moving his left hand trying to get the angle correct. He shook his head in frustration, "What the hell were you doing?" He bumped the table and the scissors fell off, one pointed end stabbing the top of his bare foot as it dropped to the floor. "Owe," he yelped, grabbing the top of his foot. "Dammit!"

"Wait," Artie said, standing now to walk over. He stared at the scissors, open on the carpet, and Jim's foot, his eyes lost in thought. Then he pointed at the top of his right, bare foot. "I have a sore hole in the top of that foot."

"Well so do I, now," Jim snarled, standing on his foot again. "Obviously you dropped the scissors. That's why I found them still on the floor after the fire was put out." He leaned over to pick them up, his left hand still on the box. He felt Jeremy's firm grip on his shoulder, preventing him from rising.

"Jim," Jeremy said softly, "that's it. Look at how you're standing." Steve stood up and walked over to study Jim as Artie backed up a step to get a better view. "Your left hand is on the box. If the explosion happened, it would burn the top of your hand and up your arm, because you are leaning over so much. "

"And the table," Jim said, looking up at the underneath surface of the top, "is protecting my face from the blast."

Artie turned his body and held his arm out, bending slightly to imitate his partner. "I was standing like this," he said, thinking out loud. "I must have opened the box flaps without looking at what I was doing. But the side of my face, and my eye, was also burned slightly so I must not have been leaning down that far."

Jim stood up as Artie straightened slowly. "Good thing you weren't standing up when you opened that box. It would have blown your face off." He glared at his friend, unable to say anything else, knowing how close it had been.

Artie grinned at him, "good thing I used the scissors and then dropped them. If I had used a knife…" He shrugged, looking down at the small box, his eyes lost in thought again. His hand reached out to rest on the top. "There is something important about that box that I am not remembering,"

"Do you remember getting it?" Jim asked. "The delivery man? Tall, dark mustache?"

Artie just shrugged again but continued to stare at the box, a forefinger sliding across the surface. Jim sighed and turned back to the older agent. "Well it doesn't matter. We know what happened. Maybe tonight I can learn more at the warehouse." He walked to the door of the suite as Jeremy and Steve moved outside into the hallway. Jim paused in the doorway, whispering, "Hey, if I run late getting back tonight, don't let this crazy guy go searching for me. I want him to stay hidden until I figure this out. Someone tried to kill him once. They don't get another chance at him."

Jeremy reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "We'll keep an eye on him."

Jim walked into his bedroom of the suite and started to pull out evening clothes. With the door open to the common living room, he continued to speak to his partner as he pulled his shirt off over his head, ignoring the buttons. "I thought I would head over to that warehouse and watch for a while, just as it gets dark." He peeked out to see his partner sitting back down with a stack of papers. Jim unbuttoned his pants and pulled them off. Standing in his underwear, he looked at his face in the mirror, rubbing his palm over his chin. Stubble was appearing and his skin felt slightly felt rough. Sighing, knowing how it would feel to the red head, he dumped water into a basin and lathered his face. "When I retire," he muttered, "I am growing a beard." He slowly and carefully shaved his face, ending with his chin. He wiped his face with a towel and tossed it on the cupboard. Turning back to the bed, he shook out his black evening pants. "What are you working on out there," he called. He stepped into the pants and pulled them up, closing the button fly as he walked back to the doorway. "Is that the report that burned up?"

"Yes," Artie said, opening the box and pulling out a pen. "I am starting from scratch."

Jim grabbed at a coat and dug into an inside pocket. He pulled a folded piece of paper and, grabbing his clean shirt, and walked out to the table. "I forgot to show this to you," he said, handing it to Artie. "I tried to fill it out with Charles while in his office but he was driving me crazy." He pulled on his shirt and fixed the buttons while watching his friend review the sheet. "It's those boxes to check off. If it was a blank page where I could write what happened, I could finish it. But those choices don't match what happened."

"You told Charles what happened?" Artie said, reading and talking at the same time.

"I said there was an explosion and fire on the train," Jim said, now shoving shirt tails into his waistband, "and he wanted to know what the train hit; another train? Ran off the rails?" He took a deep breath, "When I explained that the train was parked in its siding, he asked how did we have a train accident while not moving? I didn't even mention the boiler needing work. I figured he would think that's what exploded." Jim took a deep breath, leaned both hands on the table, and let the air out slowly. He looked up to see the brown eyes laughing at him.

"Partner, you're trying to give him too much information," Artie said, "He doesn't give a damn how the train was damaged. He just files his paperwork and pays the bills for the agency." He smoothed out the page, "I'll fill it out. Don't worry. It will give me something more to do tonight while you run around with a crazy red-headed woman. You know what my Great Aunt Maud always said about red-headed women?"

"Ya, I know," Jim said, smiling now. "And that's why I like them." He winked and walked back into his room. Hollering out again, he continued, "and don't wait up for me. Just get some rest." He pulled on a deep blue tie with silver threads. He looked at the mirror as he pulled on a black coat. The only light cloth showing was the top edge of his white shirt collar. "I need darker shirts," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair to comb it. He turned to walk out of the room, spinning on his right leg. His knee shot pain into his hip and he staggered into the door frame with a gasp of pain.

"How's the knee," Artie asked without looking up.

"Fine," Jim snapped, "I knew I should have dragged you through that fire. Damn, still feels like there's glass in it," he said, rubbing his pantleg.

"Well, you'll know better next time," Artie chuckled as he wrote on the form. He glanced up at the clock. "You leaving now?"

Jim looked at the clock and back to his partner. "Don't sit there and try to figure out how long it will take me to get to that warehouse. You have no idea what direction I am going in." He stared at his friend's head as his partner avoided his eyes. "Maybe I should take your boots with me," he added. Artie snorted, still keeping his eyes down. Jim remembered the sleeve gun and grabbed it up from the table nearby where he had left it out. He took his right arm out of his coat and pushed his sleeve up. He slid the leather straps of the sleeve gun under his shirtsleeve and added the Derringer. Then he pushed the shirtsleeve down, fixed the cufflink, and pulled the coat back on. "All right, I'm out of here."

Artie looked up at this, his dark eyes deep with worry. "Sure you don't want to take someone with you? Steve could use the training and seems pretty tough."

"I'm fine," Jim said, walking to the door. He grabbed his hat from the rack by the door. With a last nod, he slipped outside, shutting the door, with a "Good Night."

The door shut. Artie sat, listening to his friend's steps disappear down the hall. He looked at the clock, noting the time and marking it onto a sheet of paper. He pulled a map of the city out from under the pile of papers where he had hidden it. Measuring with a small ruler and calculating speed of travel, he drew a circle around the hotel. "Dammit, James," he muttered, rubbing his sore left eye. The suite seemed empty, the only sound coming from the ticking of the wall clock.

After watching the building from different angles, checking numerous doors and windows, Jim was satisfied that the building was empty in the back work areas. He had watched men leaving, many with lunch pails in their hands, obviously heading for home after a long day at work. The last man to leave, walking alone, was huge. Jim was reminded of Voltaire, since this man appeared to be as tall, but he was also very broad. Jim sighed with relief, watching him walk away, thankful the man was no longer inside.

The office had a few lanterns burning and he had seen the receptionist moving around the large front room. He suspected there were offices between the front room and the back since there seemed to be space between the dividing walls. He glanced at his pocket watch and saw that it was ten o'clock.

Jim stepped silently to the front door. He looked through the decorative glass panel and watched the woman standing again at the front desk. He turned the handle but found it locked. The woman looked at the door and walked quickly to it, stealing a glance over her shoulder as she moved. At the door, she moved her hand and a loud click sounded as a bolt was turned. Jim opened the door and stepped in, quickly shutting the door behind him.

"You came," the woman whispered. She stood very close, looking up at him, only a few inches shorter than he was. "I wasn't sure you would return."

Jim purred softly, "why wouldn't I?" He wrapped an arm around her waist. "Who would miss a chance to be with such a beautiful woman?" She ran her hands slowly up his chest, her eyes moving over his clothing. "Are we alone?"

She smiled, tilting her head back. Her red hair was loose now, hanging in thick waves around her shoulders. Her gaze looked in approval from his clothing to his hair and finally to his eyes. "Do you trust me," she breathed, her lips coming closer to his.

"No," he whispered, leaning down, kissing her. His arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her body to his. He felt her hands moving over his shoulders, pulling him even closer. He felt a tug at the back of his collar and he pulled his head back, looking down at her, as he felt his necktie pull away.

"You won't need that," she breathed, dropping the tie to the floor. The buttons on the back strap clicked as they hit the hard wooden floor. She pulled him down to her into another kiss, one hand wrapping around his shoulders and the other hand sliding up his neckline into his hair. She pulled at his thick hair, her fingernails digging into his scalp.

Jim tried to pull his head away, trying to remember what he wanted to ask her. "We need to talk," he managed to say. He slid his lips down the side of her neck. She leaned back, allowing him a better view of the low neckline of her dress. "I wanted to ask about your work her." He ran the fingers of one hand through her long hair. He paused to look at her face. Her eyes were open, watching him. "I need to know more about this business."

"Really?" She smiled, one hand sliding forward. Her fingers quickly opened the buttons of his shirt and vest, moving their way down to expose his chest. She slipped her hand underneath the cloth, moving it over his warm skin. She moved her hips closer to his and leaned in to kiss his neck. "I don't think you really want to talk."

Jim swallowed, trying to calm his body so that he could think. "I want to look out back in the warehouse." He felt another hand move around his waist, just under the edge of his jacket. "I want to see…." He paused, feeling his shirt tail pull from his pants and the hand slide underneath the cloth.

The woman leaned back, sliding her lips up his neck again, "what a coincidence," she whispered, licking his ear, "I want to take you out to the warehouse and look everywhere too."

Jim continued, gritting his teeth against the sensation of the woman's hand sliding up his spine. "I want to look inside some containers." He stopped as both of her hands were now underneath his clothing. He twisted his face, kissing her again, his hands pulling at her dress and hair.

Suddenly he felt a strong slap across his cheek, knocking him backwards. He lost his grip of her as she pushed against his chest, propelling herself away from him. Stunned and completely surprised, he froze, staring at her. She backed quickly away from him as another man stepped to her side. A man with a long, thin mustache holding a revolver with the barrel pointed Jim's his chest.

"Good evening," the man said, smiling. "I see you are enjoying my wife's company."

"Wife?" Jim looked at the woman, who lowered her eyes now and stepped behind her husband. "She had me fooled," Jim added, smiling back and nodding to the man. "My compliments."

The man smiled again, those his eyes were glaring now. "Rose?" he asked, without looking at her.

"He has a gun hidden in his right sleeve," she whispered, "and a knife in a pocket in the back of his coat, just under the collar. I couldn't find anything else."

"And you searched me very thoroughly," Jim said, "The most pleasant search I have ever had."

"Enough," the man snapped. "My name is Michael Stubbin. You don't remember me, though, do you Mr. West. You will remember my father."

"Will I?" Jim was looking around the front room, holding his hands out to his sides. He felt foolish with his vest pulled open and his shirt tails hanging out. "Why should I?" He looked back at Stubbin, who was still holding the gun.

"You put him in jail," the man said, "but he was recently released. I saw you the other day, going into that fancy train of yours and I told him about it. He was so eager to pay you back."

Jim arched an eyebrow, "revenge? I was hoping it was something more interesting than that." He paused as the door behind him opened and shut. He sensed someone walk up quietly behind him. He turned slightly, glancing over his right shoulder, and saw the giant. He turned back to see Stubbin laughing at him.

"I think it just got more interesting," Stubbin said. He nodded toward the giant, "that's Tiny, my assistant. He is a special employee here. He is very strong and does whatever I tell him to do." Jim rolled his eyes and stole a glance at Rose. The woman had looked up when the giant entered and then looked back at Jim. She had a guilty look to her now, standing with her head down, her red hair hanging around her face, hiding her eyes. "Are you alone tonight, Mr. West?" Jim nodded. "Where is your friend from the train?"

"He is resting this evening," Jim said, relieved that he didn't have to worry about Artie in what would probably be a tough fight soon.

"Not at a hospital though," Stubbin said. He laughed at Jim's surprised expression. "Rose checked all the hospitals, didn't you, darling?" He nudged the woman with an elbow. "She has been searching all over the city and can't find your friend anywhere."

"He isn't in a hospital," Jim said, unable to keep his anger out of his voice. "He is hidden outside of Washington. You'll never find him."

"Oh, we'll find him, eventually," Stubbin said. "My father always said never leave lose ends. You see, that's all you are, Mr. West. A loose end." He laughed as Jim's face flushed.

"I grow tired of your useless conversation. Is your father coming out here or is he frightened of me?" Jim nodded toward a large framed mirror that hung behind the counter; a mirror that would look more appropriate in a dance hall. "Or does he just like to watch through the mirror?"

Jim saw the man nod to the giant behind him. Before he could move away, the giant grabbed his shoulders and pulled him backwards, off balance. His coat was ripped down shoulders and twisted together at his wrists, pinning his hands behind him. Tiny held him fast, tipped over slightly backwards.

Stubbin darted forward to yank open his sleeve and pull the derringer from the sleeve holster. The cuff link pinged as it hit the wooden floor. Jim kicked at him, twisting his sore right leg. The young man easily stepped behind him to avoid the boots. He laughed, sucker punching Jim in the side of the head and then digging at the coat for the throwing knife. He pulled it out and pushed the sharp tip into the side of Jim's neck. "Thanks for the gun and the knife," he snickered. Jim glared at him, still held awkwardly off balance.

The sound of a door opening and shutting drifted into the room from far away. Then footsteps sounded in the hallway and finally a tall, gaunt man entered. His face was long and narrow with deep lines. Thin whips of grey hair hung around his face. He paused on the edge of the room, staring at Jim. "You," a dry, high pitched voice said, "You are the cause of so much pain, so much failure. You and the other agent."

Jim stared at the man, trying to remember him from a past case. He finally shook his head, "I'm sorry but you seem to have me at a disadvantage. I just don't remember you."

"It's been a few years but not that many," the older man said, walking slowly toward Jim. He held up a hand and long, boney fingers reached toward Jim. Nervously, he tried to lean back but felt the solid body of the giant behind him. Thankfully the old man stopped a few feet away. "But not that many years. You see I looked different before…before you came and caused the pain."

Jim cleared his throat, "Could you tell me your name, sir?" He felt oddly curious and revolted at the same time. Causing pain was a common thing to do in this work, he thought, but he usually didn't feel guilt after since he was always after the worst murderers and it was usually kill or be killed.

"My name is Marcus Stubbin," the old man said, "but you knew me as the Engraver."

"Ah," Jim said, nodding. "I do remember you. About five years ago? You were helping a man become wealthy by making him his own money and he was using that money to start an organized crime syndicate that tried to take over Washington D.C." He smiled, "and you went to prison. I remember the sentence was ten years, not five."

The old man laughed, "well prisons are so crowded now and I was a model prisoner. Being so old, I couldn't do much fighting with those younger fellows." His smile disappeared, "and my lawyer appealed to a judge regarding your entrapment of me! You and your partner, that sneaky, skinny, old man."

Jim paused, remembering suddenly that it had been Jeremy Pike that had helped him on that case while Artemus was assigned temporarily to the Washington office. And now the man had pursued his revenge on the wrong agent!

"All right," Jim snapped, suddenly tired and annoyed with the situation. He had a beautiful but untrustworthy women, a crazy man with a pistol pointed at him again, and a giant breathing on the back of his neck. He had lost some weapons but not all, he thought, if he could only break the grasp of the giant behind him. Stalling for time, he tried to relax his arms, hoping the strong grasp on his wrists would relax in time. "You are out of jail and appear to own a business. Why did you blow up my train?"

"My son told you; Revenge," the man said, "I will hunt down all of you agents. I was imprisoned, my health ruined, my career ruined…"

"Your career was to make fake money and if you do it again, you'll go back to prison," Jim said, his voice rising. "And I am the only agent involved in that case. You attacked my assistant and he didn't even help me with the investigation of you and your friend years ago."

"What do you mean an assistant?" The old man snapped back. "Everyone knows Secret Service agents travel in pairs."

Jim interrupted, "we are in pairs because one is the agent and the other is just the assistant. The guy you injured is not an agent so you can leave him alone now. He just does what I tell him; looks up information, maps out locations, writes the reports. He does all the boring work that an agent doesn't want to do. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't even work for the Secret Service. So you can forget about him." Jim leaned closer, his voice rising, as the old man stepped back. "If you want revenge, I am right here. But leave him out of it!"

"No," the man yelled back, stepping backwards toward his son. "No, he will be killed, as you will be. We have been searching for him; for both of you. Tell us where he is!" Jim shook his head, silently glaring at the old man. The old man looked to his son, who nodded again to the giant. Jim felt himself being dragged backwards toward the back warehouse.