A/N: Our Christmas tale continues. In case you are wondering, this will be novella length.

The Vanishing Woman

If you board the wrong train, it is no use running along the corridor in the other direction.

— Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Chapter Four: Stay

As Chuck held Sarah tight against him, he looked out her window. Snow was falling, and the landscape had become mountainous and white since he last looked.

Chuck found snow fascinating. Still. His travels had exposed him to it but not enough to make it familiar, humdrum. It seemed visible magic settling on the landscape, a love that covered a multitude of sins.

He made a bid to shift Sarah's attention. "Hey, look, snow!"

She lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes wet, and she wiped her cheeks as she looked out the window. "It makes everything outside seem softer, less edgy."

Chuck nodded. "I'm sure it's old hat to a girl from NYC, but it's still new to me. That's the problem with Christmas in California, LA. The weather's the same as the rest of the year. The old Christmas movies always made me feel like I lived in exile from real Christmas, like all I ever got was a sunny counterfeit."

Sarah brushed at her cheeks again. They were reddened, like her eyes. She gave him a searching look. "You say the funniest things. In exile in LA? Most people would kill to live there."

Chuck shrugged once. "Maybe. And I'm used to it. It's home. But I could live somewhere else, I think. You know, Christmas in Connecticut. Live in a place that changes colors as the year changes. That'd be cool."

"I don't know. I've been a city girl my whole life, really. I may technically have grown up in a suburb, but I was on the train down to the city all the time, first with my mom, then later, when I was older, with my friends."

"Your dad didn't like the city?"

Her face caved in a little. "My dad died when I was small. My mom raised me. I was crazy about my dad. Mom did her best but we clashed. Mother-daughter drama, compounded by the tragedy of losing Dad. Not a pleasant topic or time."

Chuck loosened his hold on her, worried that she would think him trespassing now that she was in better control of herself. It wasn't clear she needed him now. "I understand. My parents died in a car accident when I was a teenager. My sister raised me." Chuck stopped. He had told this sad story recently in an interview and he didn't want to seem like he was trying to trump Sarah's sad story with a sadder story of his own. "Anyway, I get it, and I'm sorry. I truly am. Losing a parent — to death or to disagreement — is like losing a limb."

She pulled him to her this time and kissed his cheek gently, blinking all the while.

"Could you eat? I might be able to and it will give us something to do until we're supposed to meet Casey, get ready for Denver."

"How long is the stop in Denver?"

"40 minutes. At least that's what I remember. Carina made a joke about me being able to find a dog in the station and make a few bucks walking it before I had to reboard."

"Ouch," Chuck said with a mock wince.

"She can be a prima donna sometimes. She needs now and then to remind me that I'm not her, that she is who she is and I am who I am."

"Can't say I'm looking forward to finding and meeting her as much as I was," Chuck offered.

Sarah sat back. "She's an acquired taste. Sort of like vegemite. But I put up with her: 'With the rich and mighty, a little patience.'"

Chuck grinned. "Hey! The Philadelphia Story. You really know these old black and white movies, these screwball comedies."

She grinned. Chuck had succeeded in distracting her.

"I love fast-talking dames. If I could, I'd like to be Rosalind Russell in — "

"His Girl Friday! Hildy!"

"Yeah, although maybe I should want to be Cary Grant in that movie…"

"Walter?"

"He's sort of amazing, the way he runs the show in every scene. Both the character and Grant."

"True, and that poor guy, the suspect — "

"Earl Williams."

"The 'mock turtle'. — Remember, that's what they call him when they hide him in the rolltop desk?"

Sarah laughed and then frowned. "That's a great scene — if you can overlook Walter's unconcern, his hard-heartedness."

"True. He doesn't ever seem to be worried about poor Earl, does he?"

Sarah paused and then went on. "No, he manipulates him to manipulate her, Hildy. A means to Hildy's end."

Chuck nodded, chuckling at Sarah's joke and recalling the movie, its overflow of whip-fast, whip-smart dialogue.

"'No, no, leave the rooster story alone - that's human interest,'" Chuck said, quoting another line of Walter's.

Sarah stood up, smiling at the line and at Chuck. "Thanks, Chuck. Let's go to the dining car. I definitely can eat a bite now."

They stood and Sarah grabbed his hand and gave him a come-hither smile. "Besides, I'm not sure I would be answerable for what happens if we spend much more time in here alone."

She bent down, bottom facing him, to slip on her shoes.

Chuck made himself look away but — but it was too late to prevent another decisive consciousness-raising.

Dinner took place in the shadow of Carina's absence.

Chuck could see the absence haunting Sarah. She ate a bit, bravely, but Chuck could see that her earlier breakdown was hovering just off-stage, in the wings, ready to make a re-appearance at any moment.

He kept up a steady chatter, talking about everything from his one serious romance at Stanford, star-crossed and bitter to recall, though he played it for laughs, to his closeness to his sister and his excitement at finally meeting his niece when they got to NYC.

He jumped from topic to topic and back again, trying to find something that would hold her attention. It wasn't that she wasn't interested; it was that her missing friend was looming, unignorable, unforgettable.

In the end, Chuck admittedly wasn't listening to himself that closely. He kept hoping Casey might show up, Carina in tow.

But the big man did not show up, and dinner ended with bleak midwinter darkness and swirling snow outside the window, with Sarah idly forking her half-eaten salad as if moving the cherry tomatoes around might make the rest disappear.

Chuck had ordered them both coffees. The wait staff included no one they had seen before, not the waiter from the night before, the man who opened the dining car, Pete, or Jaspar. A woman, quiet and efficient, took care of them and resisted Chuck's two attempts to draw her into conversation.

Christmas music was playing in the background, loud enough to be noticeable during lulls in conversation and general clatter but not loud enough to be attended to. Chuck had asked Sarah about Christmases at her house growing up, but she had not had much to say. He gathered the holidays had been depressing affairs after the death of her father, who had been the life of their family parties.

Chuck had his own history of gray holidays, muted reds and greens, and Ellie struggling to keep at least a few of their traditions on life-support. Chuck had loved her for it despite the fact that it had all seemed more like an empty ritual than meaningful when almost all the people who made it meaningful were gone.

But Chuck kept all that history to himself.

He was already worried enough about Sarah, and they still had Denver, the train stop at Denver Union Station to contend with.

He thought that they might as well get ready for it, so he suggested they return to Sarah's cabin.

She nodded her silent agreement and they left. Casey was not at Sarah's cabin, so they checked Carina's cabin, still empty, and then went inside Sarah's.

Sarah sat down on the bed, staring at her reflection in the darkened window. From behind her, Chuck could see her expression — empty, a mirror of Carina's cabin.

Giving her a minute, not wanting to encumber her with his help, Chuck took out his phone and sent a text to Ellie, his sister, letting her know where the train was and that it was still on time.

So, Ellie texted back after a moment, are you holed up in your cabin with a book and a laptop, despite being the most eligible bachelor on the train?

He responded. No, I'm not. And I'll have you know, I've been mingling — as you like to put the thing you say I never do. But I do. I mingle.

He waited; she responded with a smiling emoji. A Christmas miracle. I assume you found someone to play games with you?

Chuck glanced up at Sarah. She was still staring out the window. He thought of her feet in his lap, their kiss. No, it's a long story. But the trip has sped by. We're on time, about to stop briefly in Denver. Snow outside.

Ellie answered quickly. Snow here too. I know that will excite you. Text me again when you get to Chicago. When is that?

Late morning sometime, maybe noon. Don't remember exactly.

Clara can't stop staring out the window, trying to find you. I keep trying to explain.

Chuck looked at Sarah again and his heart ached for her. She wasn't looking at herself, he realized, she was searching the dark for her friend.

Be there soon. With bells on.

Clara makes enough noise as it is. Leave the bells on the train. Love you, Chuck.

You too, Sis.

When Chuck looked up this time, Sarah was staring at him. She looked unhappy. But before Chuck could speak, there was a knock on the door.

"Casey," said a voice from the other side of the door.

"I'll get it," Chuck said as he did. Casey was standing in the hallway, a red and black checked hunting coat on over his sports jacket, and a knit cap on his head. He came inside.

"Hey, I eliminated some more cabins. Only a few more — and I will try to peek into them from outside after we stop. You two find a vantage point in the station that lets you see all or most of the train. Keep your eyes open. It's snowing hard, so visibility is hampered. Open-air train hall, but I guess I mentioned that, didn't I? You'll need jackets. It's cold in Denver, below freezing by the time we get there. I'm going to go as far front as I can and start from there. Meet you here later. Make sure you take your tickets in case there's a problem re-boarding. Better safe than sorry."

Sarah got up and opened the closet. She took out a red trench coat of the sort she described to him earlier. He stood up too. "I need to go to my cabin, and grab my coat."

Sarah nodded, her hands patting the sides of her coat after she put it on. "Okay, I'll be along in a minute. Thought my gloves were in the pockets of my jacked but they aren't."

Casey stepped aside and Chuck squeezed by him. Chuck walked quickly to his cabin. He got his coat out of his suitcase — it was one of those that could be folded down to almost nothing, and he put it on.

A couple of moments later, he heard Sarah's knock on the door. He opened it, his heart fluttering at the sight of her wrapped in the red coat, buttoned and belted. She looked flustered.

"Found them," she breathed out. She showed him her gloved hands. "Casey went on to the front. We're almost at the station."

Chuck zipped his jacket and felt the train slowing. He looked out the window at the cityscape. "I'm ready."

Sarah took his bare hand in her gloved one and they left his cabin, then left the train after it stopped.

Chuck was not used to being allowed to leave the train at a stop that was not his, but doing so was a feature of this particular train. It would be allowed in Chicago too. Still holding Sarah's hand, he stepped down off the train and onto the platform.

As Casey said, it was cold. The wind whipped around along and between the train cars. A confusion of bodies occurred near the train, as some passengers got off (some heading for a brightly lit souvenir shop) and others got on, but Chuck and Sarah passed through it in a moment. He turned to her and took both her hands in his.

She was staring at him in the falling snow, her smile wide and wonderful. Her gaze at him was rapt.

"You've got snow in your hair," she said, laughing, her voice full of unfettered pleasure.

"You too," he responded. Her blond hair was frosted with flakes.

They parted hands reluctantly, so as to better weave through the moving crowd, walked a short distance from the train (toward the rear, the dining car), and turned around.

From their new spot, they could see the length of the train, although the distant front cars were obscured by the falling snow. The white walls of the open-air train hall made vision more obscure. The snowy aspect reminded Chuck of Ishmael's White Squall in Moby Dick. Whiteness could blind as completely as blackness. Neither was transparent.

"See anything?" Chuck asked.

"No," Sarah said, peering deeper into the whirling white.

They watched carefully, but nothing that attracted their attention proved to be important. They saw a woman with a coat like Carina's, but she was much shorter. A few people got off with suitcases, but no one with a trunk or a large bag.

"Do you see Casey?" Sarah asked. Chuck had expected to see the big man but did not. And then it occurred to him that the other side of the train might be less crowded, easier to navigate.

They stood there, teeth beginning to chatter. Chuck looked at his watch. "We'll have to board again in a minute. Do you want to go inside the station?"

She shook her head. "No, let's keep watch until the last minute."

They did, but they saw nothing. They hurried to Sarah's car and boarded just ahead of the "All aboard." The cold had invigorated Chuck, but the failure demoralized Sarah.

They entered her cabin and took off their coats. She put hers back in the closet. Chuck folded his up and put it on the end of the bed.

The train had just started rolling again when Casey pushed open the door. Sarah had not closed it all the way.

Casey did not delay. "No luck. You two?" His tone was disappointed and unexpectant.

"No, we didn't see anyone or anything suspicious," Chuck said, starting to feel defeated himself, the raising of the white flag.

"Ok, so do I now go to the conductor?"

Sarah glanced at Chuck and then nodded to Casey. "Yes, I've delayed as long as I can. We'll just have to live with the publicity."

"Okay, well, I'll find him, give him the skinny. Don't know what he'll want to do, probably begin a search. See if I can get him to start with the Baggage/Storage cars. No idea if anyone could have gotten her in one of those but we need to know. We likely won't be able to search all the cabins tonight. He'll probably start tonight, work for a while, then finish in the morning. Do you want to talk to him yourself, come with me? The conductor will probably not want any of us to be with him during the search. Too much of a production. It will create an alarm. Too many people in small spaces."

Sarah glanced at Chuck again. "Will you wait for me here, Chuck? I'll come right back."

"Sure," he pointed to his computer where he left it on the seat, the book beside it. "I can find something to keep me busy."

"Okay," she said with a relieved sigh. She and Casey left, and Chuck sat down. He picked up his book and started reading again.

He had read three chapters before Sarah returned. She looked pale and drained and she came into the cabin quietly, a little shrunken, looking up at him with a small, sad smile.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He heard water, splashing and sighing, then she came out, wiping her face and hands with a small white towel.

She sat down beside him, sighing again. "Casey was right. The conductor's going to search without me or Casey. I was able to send him a picture of Carina. I realized I never showed you one, did I?"

Chuck shook his head. Sarah pulled her phone out of her pocket and fiddled with it, turning it to face him. Chuck was looking at a photograph of Sarah in the red platform dress, Carina was standing beside her, dressed as Sarah had described. She was willowy and attractive in a slightly hard but very expensive way.

Chuck studied the two women for a moment. They seemed mismatched.

"We took this before we got on the train. A baggage handler in LA took it."

Chuck kept studying it, trying to find some clue in Carina's face about what had happened but her face told no tales. She seemed as absent in the photograph as she did on the train.

"I told the conductor what happened on the train, and then Casey asked me a bunch of questions about what happened before we boarded, even about how we planned the trip. I don't think I told him anything that provided any fresh leads."

Sarah took her phone back and leaned to place it on the small stand beside her bed. She leaned back and looked at Chuck.

"The conductor said he would call me if anything changed — if they find her or find some clue. Casey gave him the list of cabins he had checked, and he was going to take Casey to the Baggage/Storage cars to start."

Chuck nodded. "Look, you're tired, so I'm going to leave you — "

Sarah put her hand on his arm. It was surprisingly warm. She squeezed his forearm gently.

"No, Chuck, don't go. Please. Stay." She caught his eyes with hers and held them. "Don't want to be alone, worrying about this. I want to be with you. Stay."

Chuck's heart flipped, then flipped again, a gymnast in his chest.

Sarah's words sped his pulse. Her earlier remark about not being answerable for what happened between them if they stayed in her cabin never entirely left his mind after she said it, not even with the changes of scene and the ups and downs.

How could any man forget that?

But he did not want to take advantage. And, to be completely honest, he did not want only to be a diversion, not even for her. "That's probably not a — "

Sarah was kissing him before he finished, her lips depriving him of the need for punctuation.

The kiss was different from before, hungry and frank. But it did not last long. Sarah pulled back from him so that she could see his eyes, he could see hers. "You can decide whether anything happens, Chuck. But I want you to stay."

She leaned toward him again, her lips just touching his.

He sat poised for a moment, then he kissed her as hungrily and frankly as she had kissed him.

The cabin blinds were down, Chuck's eyes wide open. The only light in the cabin came from the bathroom, shining in one yellow legal page across the bed.

Chuck was unsure how they had ended up there, the covers pushed back, Sarah's clothes gone, all of them, and his gone too, except for his boxers.

Sarah pulled them off him as he bent his legs to help her pull them off his ankles. He had never been so excited. She tossed his boxers into the reckless pile of clothes beside the bed and leaned over him. Her hair was down now, hanging in a delightfully ticklish fashion against his neck and shoulders. Her face above his was framed in gold made more golden by the page of yellow light. Her blue eyes were bottomlessly blue, mountain lakes impossibly suspended above him, her hands pressing his shoulders, arms bent.

Her breasts hung down against him, tantalizing him, her nipples grazing him. He felt them pebble. His eyes moved from her breasts to her eyes and back, unsure where to linger.

She chuckled. "It's okay, Chuck, you can stare. Please stare. Feast your eyes," she added, continuing her chuckle, "I'm ready to be brazen."

Chuck conflagrated. His skin was fire, and his midsection steel. She positioned herself above him and moved tantalizingly, damply up and down, her breasts swinging, teasing him, touch and vision.

Her bare feet had distracted him mercilessly; her bare breasts robbed him of willpower altogether.

He was hers. Her eyes said the same, in reverse.

She reached down and took him in her hand. He did not know if the molten heat of the contact was due to him or her or them both, but a moment later, sea creature, she had him wetly inside her, the heat unbearable, the need to move undeniable.

He did move and she gasped. Her eyes closed, and he felt a tear splash warm onto his chest. He stopped.

"Please don't stop," she asked with a whimper. "It feels so good, overwhelming. I need you, Chuck."

He started moving again to another gasp, and then he settled into a building rhythm.

She lay down on his chest, her chest flattened against him, her mouth at his ear, and she kept him aware of each thrust with a warm, soft gush of breath against his ear.

Eventually, her breath became a moan, and then it became a cry, sharp, ringing, and joyous.

He joined her, quieter, her name on his lips. She collapsed on his chest and she wept there.

Confused, he tried to move, but she stopped him. "It's okay, Chuck. It's the release, not you. Never you. That was…perfect. Knew it would be." She caressed the back of his neck with her hand and kissed his shoulder, nuzzled him.

She relaxed on top of him and he ran his hand down her back, making tight, gentle circles in the small of her back. There had been little foreplay, no discussion. They had gone from the kiss to lovemaking with almost no detour and in record time. Chuck had never felt so wanted.

Consumed.

He had certainly never wanted anyone so much.

Consummated.

But it had all taken him by surprise. He was trying to catch up to himself, to her, to the two of them, mutually entangled.

Sarah kissed him on the lips, a long, soft, wet, and lingering kiss. Then she rolled off of him, although she left her hand on his chest, like a tether to him. She started humming, something dreamy, waltzy.

"What's that?"

Her answer was tinctured with sadness, but she was breathless at the same time. "A song, a song I love. It started playing in my head a second ago. It's Sam Phillips, her song, Reflecting Light."

Sarah reached for her phone. A moment later, the sound of a guitar was audible, then a soft woman's voice:

Now that I've worn out
I've worn out the world
I'm on my knees in fascination
Looking through the night
And the moon's never seen me before
But I'm reflecting light

I rode the pain down
Got off and looked up
Looked into your eyes
The lost open windows, all around

My dark heart lit up the skies

And the chorus repeated; the song played on, sweet-sour.

Chuck listened carefully. Sarah seemed suspended by the music. She looked up at the cabin ceiling, tears running slowly down the side of her face.

When the song ended, she rolled to face him, her eyes wet but with a melancholy smile. "Beautiful, isn't it? For some reason, maybe it's the lines about lights, it makes me think of Christmas, the world starting over, starting over with the world."

Chuck's eyes misted over. He was as overwhelmed by the song, by everything, as Sarah seemed to be. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, deliriously happy despite his brimming tears, despite the strangeness of the situation.

Sarah snuggled against him, closing her eyes and starting the song on her phone again.

Chuck was asleep before it ended a second time.

Chuck woke up in a cabin lit by multiply divided sunshine as it snuck through the still-closed blinds. He rolled over and put his hand on nothing.

He sat up. Sarah's side of the bed was empty. His clothes were still on the floor, but Sarah's were gone.

He started to stand when a riptide of nausea and vertigo pulled him under.

He fell onto his back, doing his best not to vomit.

His bed, the cabin, spun like a cheap carnival ride. He grabbed the edges of the mattress as if to keep himself on the bed, although at some level he knew it was not in motion.

It took a few minutes for the spinning to slow and finally stop.

Chuck sat up but did not stand. He crawled off the bed and into the bathroom, pulling himself up to the sink. He turned on the water, cold, cupped his hand under it, and splashed a handful on his face, then another on his neck, the cold water beading down his back. Hanging by the sink was a towel and he reached for it, yanked it off the rack, and wiped the water from his face and his back.

He took several slow deep breaths. He felt better although his head was throbbing fiercely, each throb a hammer blow. He turned and crawled to his clothes and slowly put them on, all but his socks and shoes. When he had them on, after wiggling into his pants, he sat panting on the floor.

The room was no longer spinning, but everything in it seemed to be changing, fluctuating in place.

For a moment, he thought he must be ill, that he had the flu — or something. And then he began to doubt that. His illness felt artificial, not natural, although he could not explain that to himself. Using the bed, he stood, unsteadily, but made it to the closet. It was empty.

On the nightstand next to his side of the bed was his laptop, closed.

The room finally stopped changing size and shape and color; everything stabilized. His breathing seemed less labored. His head continued to throb but it cleared somewhat. Thinking became easier.

He sank down on the bed as his heart sank within him. He sat for long enough for his breathing to be less ragged, then he scooted along the edge of the bed until he could reach his computer. He opened it up and put in his password. The screen swam before his eyes before it came into soft focus. A few minutes later, he had his bank account in front of him.

Several hours earlier, he had transferred seven million dollars to an account he did not recognize.

Except he did not transfer any money.

His wallet was still in his pants pocket. He took it out and looked inside, blinking, trying to see. All his cash was still there as far as he could tell, all his credit cards. His phone was in another pocket. He could feel it though his hands felt partly numb. Nothing was missing.

Except for seven million dollars from his bank account.

He stood again, more steadily, and scanned the room. All of Sarah's things were gone. And then it hit him, crazily, that his mystery was gone too.

The Red House Mystery was missing.

Groggy. So groggy.

Cursing himself for a fool, he walked to the window and opened the blind, his eyes hungry for more light and more clarity.

The train was leaving another city. Chuck saw a road sign in the distance, across several rooftops.

Chicago.

He looked at his watch. Slowly, the watch face came into readable focus. It was almost 1 pm.

The stop in Chicago had come and gone.

So too had Sarah Walker.

For a mad moment, he wanted to throw open her cabin door and howl, to tear along the hallway, back toward the Chicago station, as if he could somehow reach it by running in the opposite direction on the departing train.

It was not the money — not yet, anyway. It was Sarah. It was her.

He wanted her to stay; he wanted to stay with her.

A/N: As Volkoff would say, the turn. See you next Sunday, assuming we didn't leave you behind in Chicago.