A/N: Posted a day early due to unexpected travel. Our Christmas tale continues. Thanks for all the interest!

The Vanishing Woman

When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer.

— Corrie Ten Boom

Chapter Three: Uh-Oh 7

They enjoyed their coffee and their dunked donuts, but when they finished, Sarah became quiet, and her earlier mood seemed to return.

Chuck was tired, and he knew she was too. Sarah now believed Carina was with Jaspar, and Sarah felt mistreated by Carina, but also, she was embarrassed by having awakened Chuck and dragged him from end to end of the train in the wee hours. For nothing.

During those wee hours, Carina was enjoying a different sort of room service.

Sarah insisted on paying for the meal and then excused herself, claiming, believably enough, that she was tired and would return to her cabin to sleep. Chuck let her go, but with a sinking feeling that their adventure together was over.

Before she left, Sarah leaned down and kissed his cheek, whispering thank you in his ear. Her perfume, something subtle, yet spice and exotic, lingered after she left. His whole body lit up like a light bulb as her lips brushed his ear, her breath warmed his neck. When he recovered, Chuck ordered another cup of coffee and pondered the night.

But mostly, he pondered his companion.

He was tired and he took the train trip to relax — but he would not have traded those waking hours with Sarah for sleep, not ever. His mind was replete with images of Sarah Walker — in her blue sweater, her black robe (what was that red lacy thing beneath it?), her black jacket and skirt, and above all, in that red dress.

Coffee done, he trudged back to his room, staring at Sarah's room door for a moment before forcing his feet past it. Once in his cabin, he climbed into bed, clothed, grabbed The Red House Mystery, and read a few pages before he went to sleep.

He dreamed of Sarah Walker, smiling through wardrobe changes — including a few he had never seen with waking eyes.

Chuck woke up with a start.

He thought someone was knocking on his door, but he realized he had only dreamed of the sound.

He sat up, the book open on his chest sliding into his lap. He grabbed the book and closed it while blinking toward full consciousness. He looked at his watch.

It was 12:15 pm.

Disappointment washed over him. He had hoped Sarah would want him with her when she went to the Cafe Car to find Jaspar and, presumably, Carina. Chuck reckoned his nocturnal, tag-team train-prowling might have earned him an introduction to the missing heiress.

But, no.

Noon had come and gone.

Chuck hastily washed and dressed, pulling on a CalTech sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, and donned his tennis shoes again. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry. The donuts hadn't lasted long. Avoiding the Cafe Car seemed like the tactful call — after all, Sarah had to pass his cabin to reach it (did she pause at my door?) and she did not stop for him, so maybe she did not want him there?

Still, his curiosity was awake and aroused, and he decided, against his habits, to go to the Cafe Car.

As he entered, at around 12:30 pm, he saw Sarah seated at a counter, a handsome young man facing her on the other side of the counter, and an older, heavily built man with a graying crew cut standing beside the tall chair she was seated on.

She was in the blue sweater again — or, still? — but her hair had been swept up into a messy bun. She was talking to the younger man intently. Chuck was stabbed by jealousy, deep; it almost stole his breath. But Sarah saw him — she turned just after he entered — and her sudden, happy smile made him forget the wound.

"Here he is, the one I was telling you about. This is Chuck Bartowski."

As Chuck crossed the short distance to the bar, the two men looked at him with different expressions. The younger man stared at him with cool disregard. He was displeased by Sarah's reaction to Chuck. The older man subjected Chuck to a careful visual sweep as if the man were trying to memorize the details of Chuck's clothes, his person.

Sarah stood and reached out a hand. Chuck reached for it and she pulled him close to her. All he could see was her blue eyes; all he could feel was the soft heat of her hand. He was inside her smile, suspended in it.

"Chuck, this is Jaspar and this is John Casey. Jaspar was telling me about his visit to Carina's cabin — after I explained why I was asking. Mr. Casey overheard us talking and he offered his help. He's an Air Marshall."

Chuck looked at Casey more closely. "Air Marshall? But we're on a train."

Casey chuckled, but it sounded like a lion's growl. "He doesn't miss a trick, does he? I'm not working, just traveling, kid. Sick to death of planes, of flying. On my way to Chicago."

He took a passcase out of his jacket pocket and showed Chuck his gold badge, then flipped the case shut and returned it to his jacket.

"Miss Walker here told us about her friend, and I can help, but, you know, off the record. If we don't find her, I can mobilize the railroad officials easily enough. Turns out Miss Miller was not shacked up with Jaspar here."

Jaspar frowned at Casey's phrasing but nodded. He had blond and green eyes, and delicate lips. Close up, he was perhaps more pretty than handsome, but handsome enough, and he seemed irked to have Chuck crash the party, irked to witness Sarah's pleasure at Chuck's arrival. He did smile — but without any warmth.

"Yeah, I took her the food. Around 7 pm. She answered the door but did not leave the cabin. I pushed the cart inside, showed her what I brought, and asked if she needed anything else. She told me she didn't. I told her the meal would be charged to her cabin. She said that was fine and I left. That's all. I walked by the cabin later, around 8 pm to see if she wanted me to take the tray, but no one answered." He seemed happy with his own matter-of-factness.

"That must have been shortly before I got back from the dining car," Sarah volunteered as Jaspar finished. So, we now know roughly when…whatever happened happened."

Chuck looked at Jaspar. "Do you have to report this?"

Jaspar shrugged. "Um, gray area. Not right away, anyway. Especially not since Casey's here now and helping Sarah," he emphasized her name, his use of it, looking away from Chuck to her, seeking her eyes and smiling, "She told us that she'd like to keep this on the down low for now, given who her friend is."

Casey nodded, drawing Chuck's attention. "Don't fear. I'll take this to the authorities if need be. But, right now, given what Miss Walker's told us, I wonder if what you two thought was right, but not involving Jaspar here as the other player. I'm guessing she's going to walk out of a cabin any minute now, a little worse for wear, but the victim of foreplay, not foul play." His chest rumbled at the joke.

Sarah glanced at Chuck. Neither of them reacted otherwise.

Jaspar joined Casey in laughing.

"How long will it take you to look around, Marshall Casey?" Chuck asked, trying the big man's title on for size.

"Just Casey will do. No Marshall. I'm not official. Just a citizen helping other citizens. — How long? Don't know. A few hours. Jaspar's going to take me to the employee sleeper and help me run through it, so that shouldn't take long.

"But first, I'll go as orderly as I can through the non-employee sleeper cars. Won't raise any ruckus. Give folks an excuse for staring. Come up with something.

"Some will be in here, or in a dining car, or a passenger car, or in the Sightseer Lounge. So, may have to work through the sleepers more than once. Can't go knock on doors. I'll need them to be open or to open. You two should probably have your lunch then go back to one of your cabins and wait for me."

Sarah nodded, smiling. Her relief at having Casey's help was palpable.

She faced Chuck. "Are you hungry?"

"Very."

Casey looked at Jaspar. "When can you let me in the employee sleeper?"

Jaspar looked at the clock on the wall. "My break's around 4 pm."

"Alright. I'll be back here then. You two eat and then go to Miss Walker's cabin. I'll find you there."

"I'm in 408," Chuck volunteered, "just so you can mark that off your list."

Casey shot him a cool, professional glance. "Everyone's a suspect, Mr. Bartowski. Hell, I plan to check my cabin." His grin as he left was toothy and fierce.

Sarah leaned over and whispered in Chuck's ear. "Intense, huh?"

Chuck went gooseflesh all over at the feeling of her breath on his ear. Her soft voice hardened things.

He sat down beside her, smiling genuinely but also hoping to hide the echo of her whisper all through him.

"Yeah, scary, kinda."

Jaspar watched their interaction, frowning, then picked up his order pad.

"What'll you two have?" The way he said 'two' showed he didn't like it.

They finished lunch slowly. Sarah was enjoying it, and enjoying Chuck.

Jaspar interrupted often, pointlessly, but Sarah put up with it graciously and so Chuck imitated her. After eating, they walked to Sarah's cabin, and, at the door, she asked Chuck to wait a minute while she picked up — she'd dressed in a hurry for lunch, waking late after a nap, and making a mess. She had expected him to be in the Cafe Car already, waiting for her.

Chuck didn't remember making plans but was flattered that she simply assumed they were together, er, hunting for Carina together, he reminded himself.

He gave her time to straighten up by walking back to his cabin, retrieving his book and his new laptop. He returned to Sarah's cabin quickly and knocked. She told him to come in.

He entered to bare feet. Sarah had slipped her shoes off and was sitting beside the bed with her feet up. She smirked at him teasingly. "Forgive my manners, but my feet hurt from the shoes I was wearing yesterday and from all the walking around last night in my slippers."

She wiggled her long, elegant toes. "This feels good. You're not getting the ick, are you?" She raised an eyebrow, holding it up as she awaited his answer.

"No, no ick. Much the opposite."

She laughed out loud, surprised. "Why, Mr. Bartowski," the way she said it recalled Casey, "do you have a thing for feet?"

Chuck gaped. "No, no…" He composed himself, let his shoulders sag in confession. "Well, maybe a thing for certain feet."

She had not expected that reply and her face was divided by a wide, delighted smile, her cheeks coloring. "In that case, feast your eyes, sir, I am ready to be brazen."

"Brazen? You know, I'm not the only curious person in this cabin."

She grinned and looked at his CalTech sweatshirt. "So, is that your alma mater?"

Chuck sat down on the bed, beside Sarah's feet. He kept his eyes trained on hers. "Grad school, yeah. Stanford undergrad. You?"

"NYU. Tisch School of the Arts. Acting."

"Wow, that's a serious place. Spike Lee, right?"

She nodded. "Like CalTech and Stanford aren't serious places? Frank Capra went to CalTech, right?"

Chuck shook his head. "Yeah, he did, but virtually no one knows that. No one thinks of artists, directors. Normally, they think of physicists, say, Richard Feynman."

"Right," she said with a pretty toss of her head, "but you're the one who referred to It Happened One Night, the dunking donuts. I thought maybe that was alumni pride."

"No, I just love that movie. Love it. That bit at the road camp, where Peter begins to believe that Ellie really does love him, that she's not just using him. Peter's been smoking, thinking. It takes him a lot of smoking and thinking to understand. Then he asks her if she really means it." Chuck was lost in memory. "That's a great scene."

Sarah studied him and shook her head, her voice was soft. "It is. — You know, I've read a little Feynman. Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman. Bought a raggedy paperback at an LA thrift store. I don't read many books by scientists but that was a good book."

"That's one of my favorites," Chuck said, returning to the present. "It's one reason I went into the sciences. I majored in computer science and mathematics. I got M.A.s in both programming and in number theory."

"Programming and number theory? Distant from my acting classes."

"I suppose. But, here we are. I like films, you like Feynman."

"True," she said, wiggling her toes again and sighing. "So, what are you reading?" She looked at the book in his hand.

"Oh, it's a mystery. I brought several to read on the train, and this one, The Red House Mystery, is the one I wanted to read first."

"So, your mystery got interrupted by my mystery?"

Chuck shrugged. "It did."

He handed the book to Sarah and she took it, looked curiously at the spine, then opened it and turned the first pages.

"Oh, I like the dedication," she said, and then she read it.

To John Vine Milne

My dear Father,

Like all really nice people, you have a weakness for detective stories, and feel that there are not enough of them. So after all that you have done for me, the least that I can do for you is to write you one. Here it is: with more gratitude and affection than I can well put down here.

A. A. M.

Sarah looked up, her eyes full of tears, a pout on her full, lovely lips.

"That's so nice. He must have loved his father a lot."

"Yeah, he must have." They were both silent for a moment, the sudden emotions deeper than either was prepared for, then Chuck asked, shifting his posture and topics simultaneously: "So, are you from NYC originally?"

Sarah made a face, hard to read. "Yes. Well, nearby. North of the city, suburbia. Crestwood. Lots of brick houses and old hardwood trees. Are you a California boy?"

Chuck nodded. "I grew up in LA. I've hardly ever left the state, to be honest. Now and then for business trips, or to see family — but that's all. My life pretty much has a Beach Boys soundtrack, the opening scene to the present scene."

Sarah nodded. "Crestwood doesn't have a soundtrack. — So, is that a new laptop?"

Chuck grinned, excited. "Yeah, just got it before the trip, and set it up a bit, but I haven't really had a chance to explore it or install what I've downloaded. It's got all Roarke's bells and whistles. Plus, if I say so myself," he paused, extending his arm in the air and his index finger like a lecturer, "it has some bells and whistles of my own I've downloaded and will install, bells and whistles that Mr. Roarke has yet to imagine."

Sarah shook her head. "Had a feeling you had a huge brain. Don't they say you can tell by the size of a man's foot?"

Chuck gulped, unsure how to answer, and Sarah laughed softly. "So, show me your bells and whistles, Chuck."

Chuck moved to sit beside Sarah, and opened the computer on his lap, turning it so that they could both see the screen.

"Should we be searching with Casey?"

Sarah shook her head. "He and I had that argument before you came into the Cafe Car. Given that, I want this to stay quiet until he's done what he can; he insisted that we do it this way, let him check, alone."

"Do you trust him?"

Sarah gave Chuck a hard look. "He's an Air Marshall, and I got good vibes. He's abrasive, sure, but I'm guessing he's seriously competent. You're right, though: as he said, everyone's a suspect." She leaned closer, teasing and serious in equal measure. "We should keep our wits about us."

"He said I was a suspect."

Sarah swatted his arm, then squeezed his shoulder. "You are the only person on this train I am certain of, Chuck Bartowski. You're a 3D Boy Scout poster."

Chuck felt his insides buzz. He wondered if it was consistent with a Scout's honor to be conscious of Sarah's bare feet as he was, conscious with a raised consciousness.

"Give me a minute to install some programs of mine, and I'll show you."

Chuck was flattered. Sarah paid close attention as he downloaded his programs and showed her what they would do.

He had his own security programs, his own browser, a light, effective one that was particularly private, particularly secure. He then downloaded a couple of games he had been tinkering with lately, ones that were not part of the sale of his company, but were his, to do with what he would, when he would.

One of the games was a purposely old-fashioned, partially text-based spy game that was a successor to a game he had first created at Stanford, a text-based fantasy game. The spy game was called Dork, Uh-Oh 7. Chuck liked the way that text-driven parts of the game now and then were replaced by splashy graphics, pictures, and animation he had created over the years.

Sarah seemed to love the game, caught up in playing it and laughing at the fun and silly things that happened to the spy partners, a mostly incompetent male spy, Irving (Uh-Oh 7), and a cooly competent female spy, Lisa. After a particular exchange with an informant, and before the next part of the game, the screen of text was replaced by a cartoon portrait of the female spy. Chuck inhaled sharply but quietly. He had not looked at the game in a while — he had been too busy to tinker with it. That cartoon portrait he had not seen for years.

The cartoon of the female spy was the very first graphic he had created for the game. The spy was dressed in a black evening dress, her long neck framed by a string of pearls. And she was a dead-ringer for Sarah Walker. Blonde, blue-eyed, with full lips and a strong chin, and a long, athletic build.

He had created Lisa wholly from his imagination; he had no one he knew, no one he had ever seen in mind.

And yet, the woman he created years ago was now in the flesh looking at herself on the screen.

Sarah did not seem to notice the resemblance, though, instead, caught up in the action of the game, she quickly touched a key and the picture was replaced by more text, and she started reading it aloud.

Chuck was too discombobulated to listen for a moment. He glanced out the window at the passing scenery, half expecting it to be a vast and snowy scene, arctic, feeling as if he really were on the Polar Express, on a magic train. It was as if he had conjured Sarah from his subconscious, as if she had materialized in that red dress on the platform, stepping across dubious twilight from a dream he had not remembered and right into his life.

Sarah turned from the screen to face him. "What should I do next? Tranquilize Dr. Nope, or wait to hear what he says? It'll probably be a long, boring monologue."

Chuck had to force himself to read the text on the screen to remember where she was in the game, but once he had, he refused to answer her question.

"You're the spy, the player," he said, the words striking him, "you have to make the call, yes or Nope."

She grinned, completely absorbed. "I'm going to shoot him with my tranq gun." She typed:

Tranq nasty Nope with pistol.

She grinned at Chuck again, lit up. "This is fun!"

Sarah paused the game.

"I never played anything like this, Chuck. I don't play games regularly, I admit, but the mix of the old and new, the clever idea of the odd-couple partners. All the bungling and good humor. People will love it. You really do have a big brain." Her eyes flashed.

Chuck smiled, deeply pleased by her words, her look. "Thanks."

Sarah scooted closer to him. "I do have one question."

Chuck inhaled again. She was going to ask about the spy, about the resemblance to herself. But she didn't.

"Do the partners ever become more than partners in the game? Irving and Lisa. Do they hook up? Is that a possibility, depending on the choices the player makes?"

Chuck exhaled but also blushed a little. "Yes, certain decisions will result in them becoming lovers. I like love stories too much not to make the game a possible one."

Sarah scooted a bit closer. "You're a romantic, aren't you, Chuck? Not just a talking one, but a living one, a real one?" Disbelief colored her voice.

He nodded, all too aware of her so close to him, her scent suffusing the air around him. He could see her lips. They were damp like she'd just licked them, although he missed it if she did.

He stammered out a question, tearing his eyes from her lips. "Are…Aren't you?"

She looked at him closely, as if taken aback by his question, its off-hand sincerity, her blue eyes so close to his that he could see his face reflected in them. But then she sat back, still close to him but no longer leaning toward him. "I've always secretly wanted to be, sometimes I think I am, deep down, but mostly, I'd say I'm practical, maybe even pragmatic, ends and means, you know?, not romantic, hard, not tender." She was looking at him but considering herself, judging.

She frowned. "This is a practical world, Chuck; I've learned that. You get what you work for. Being an actress sounds romantic, but it's a grind. I walk dogs all day and squeeze in auditions as I can, hoping I don't have dog hairs on my sweater or smell like wet Mugs when I show up. You audition and then you get a call. 'Not quite right.' 'Talented but not right for the part.' Or they tell you they want you for a call-back, but when you get there, it's with a greasy guy older than your father who claims to be a producer and who wants you to audition in a room in which the only furniture is a couch. And so it goes.

"Another six months, maybe a year, and then I'm going to give up on the whole business. If I walked dogs full-time, I could make a decent living. Or I could find something else; I'm smart, young enough; I can go in another direction." She shrugged gently. "I could maybe teach drama at a high school or something. Or maybe I could let the acting go and start directing. I did a lot of that at NYU. Directing. My profs thought I was good."

Chuck tried to hide the disappointment her leaning away caused him, to focus on her and not his reactions to her.

"I don't doubt it. I'd bet on you Sarah, whatever you decide to do. Whatever! You're amazing."

All of a sudden she leaned toward him again and did not stop until she kissed him, her warm, damp lips pressed softly against his for a second. He could feel the smile on the lips he was kissing.

She broke the kiss but kept her face close to his. "Thank you, Chuck." Her tone was so earnest he was taken aback. "You're sweet, you know that?"

He glanced down. "Sweet? Did I just get friend-zoned?"

"Did I kiss you, Chuck Bartowski? On your sweet lips?" Her eyes were unashamedly focused on his mouth.

He blushed and nodded.

"Don't kiss my friends on the lips, Chuck." She met his eyes. "Don't tell them their lips are sweet. You're in a zone, but it's not the Friend Zone."

Chuck was reading to Sarah from The Red House Mystery.

Her bare feet were in his lap as he read. The contact was intimate and heady. Distracting.

He was trying to stay focused on the words he was reading, to think only about them and not on her bare feet, his reactive lap.

HIs present sentence was snapped in two by a knock on the door of Sarah's cabin.

"John Casey."

Sarah jumped up and opened the door. The big Air Marshall was standing outside. The look on his face told them all they needed to know.

But he stepped inside and closed the door before he spoke. He was so large that the cabin suddenly seemed small when it hadn't before. His face was grave.

"No luck. There are cabins I couldn't get a look inside, and Jaspar could get me in the employee sleeper but not in the Baggage/Storage cars. If you're friends on the train, she's either deliberately hiding or she's being deliberately hidden."

Sarah seemed to wilt. Chuck realized just how much hope she had pinned on the big man. "What do you think, Casey?"

He twisted his lips to the side. "Someone took her. The phone bugged me from the beginning. Folks your age treat those damn things as external bodily organs. You don't just leave them behind. She could've turned it off if she wanted to hide."

"But how could someone get her out of her cabin?"

"Probably some kind of trick. Maybe — and I don't mean to scare you — maybe they drugged her somehow. They'd almost have to since it would be hard to keep a prisoner quiet in a cabin and — "

"Prisoner," Sarah said, cutting Casey off, stuck on that word, and then seizing on another: "Drugged?"

Casey made an awkward gesture with one hand, meant to pacify Sarah. "You asked what I think, but I could be wrong. This is a strange business. We need to talk about all this again, particularly about what happened before you boarded. Maybe that's key." He looked at his watch. "We're due for a stop in Denver later. Passengers can get off the train for a little while. Open air train hall. I'll get out and take a look around, look in any windows that are open. You two need to get out too, and keep an eye on the train, make sure no one tries to get Miss Miller off the train. Pay attention to groups, especially. Any woman in a hat or large coat. Or — " he paused, swallowed, " anyone with a particularly large trunk or bag."

"My God," Sarah said, falling in Raggedy-Anne limpness on the bed. "This isn't funny anymore. Not even a little. I kept hoping it would get cleared up, be a kind of funny misunderstanding…"

"Look, do you want me to go to the conductor, report this to the train company? I can tell them to keep it private, and they'll try, but — you know how these things go. If we do, and we don't find her before Denver, law enforcement will almost certainly board the train. Everyone has a phone, takes pictures. Questions will be asked. Hard to contain that."

Sarah began to cry. She made no sound but her shoulders shook, her face in her hands.

Chuck looked at Casey. He shrugged. Chuck moved beside Sarah on the bed. He knew what had happened to her because a version of it had happened to him.

He had half-forgotten about Casey and his hunt for Carina, half-forgotten about Carina. In Sarah's cabin, Chuck had half-forgotten everything but her, Sarah.

The portrait in Dork and the kiss from Sarah had not helped him remember either.

And then Casey arrived like an avalanche on the tracks, bearing bad news. And the whole situation returned, but darker, more sinister.

Chuck had expected Casey to find Carina somehow, to solve the mystery.

But, no.

Nope.

Casey shifted his bulk from one foot to another, heavily uncomfortable. "Look, I'm going to walk around a bit again, see if I can get a glimpse into some of the cabins I missed." He took a piece of paper from his pocket. It was covered in numbers, most with check marks but some without. "You two should eat. I'll come back here shortly before we're due to stop in Denver, around 7:15 pm and we'll get organized. If we don't find her — "

Sarah uncovered her face, wiping away tears, and interrupted. "I'll talk to the conductor. If we don't find her by Denver or in Denver." Her voice was firm; she was resolved.

Casey nodded, satisfied, and left the cabin.

Sarah turned to Chuck and hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder. He held her as she began again her soundless sobs.

Chuck felt confused and useless, dorky, like Uh-Oh 7.

A/N: Hope you are enjoying the train ride. Happy Thanksgiving to all who are celebrating, and a good week to each and every one. I'm close to having the story finished. I expect to write the final chapters this week, although I plan to stick to my announced schedule. I do expect to have the entire story posted by Christmas.

If you're enjoying the story, on my profile are a bunch of different Chuck Christmas stories, long and short, dark and light, funny and serious. I'll just mention two from last year, the light, long-format story, Her Gift, and the one-shot, Assassin Down the Avenue.