Southern Spirits (6 page)

Donnie's brow furrowed with sudden irritation as he regarded her, then he grunted and returned his watch to his wrist. ‘You a watch expert or something?'

‘An accountant.'

‘Wow.' The daylight had almost disappeared, as had his interest in her. ‘Sounds like the train's finally here.'

He departed, as Cat picked up the distant, steady rumbling, which she had put down as retreating thunder, begin to grow in intensity. She followed Donnie to the front, as the others emerged from the station house. Nathan ambled up to her. ‘You OK?'

‘Of course, I'd been potty trained for years.'

Then he turned with the others towards one end of the tracks, where the approaching sounds were growing louder, stronger, like a stampede, or an avalanche. Thin trees of stark branches
lining either side of the rails swayed in a dusk breeze as if trembling at the approach of the intruder into the bucolic setting. Cat was no child, and yet she couldn't help but feel anticipation, an excitement that others seemed to be experienced openly, like the Olivers standing by Tara. And what was that older man's name? Newholme? Even he had seemed to shake off his dour expression for one of almost childlike wonder – no, not childlike, like a man returning home.

Like Kolchak, he was on his own, too, seemingly flaunting Wheeler's rules.

A chill ran up her spine as she glimpsed the single light cutting through the growing twilight, heralding the thunder, glowing stronger, even as it became clear that it was slowing down, the screech of powerful brakes on steel sending goosebumps along her skin.

And then she drew up to a stop by the depot: the Silver Belle. Cat had seen the pictures in the promotional items, of course, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it. And though Cat had never subscribed to the romantic notion of vehicles referred to in the feminine, she had to concede now that this train was a ‘she'. It was like it had slipped out of the nineteenth century, with polished silver skin and blood-red and jet-black stripes radiating out from the one round light, above the Southern Spirits logo, and back along the entire train. The engine was a massive and beautiful thing, all cylinders and pipes, rails and rivets and gears, fronted with a cowcatcher that looked like claws and topped with a stack that bellowed smoke above the closed driver's cab. She was beautiful. She was elegant. She looked more like she'd been nurtured than manufactured. And as she came to a stop, she made a low sharp sound like a grunt. Behind her, she pulled cars carrying the identical colour schemes as the locomotive, most of them warmly lit from within.

Behind her, Cat heard Nathan whisper, ‘I thought they were all painted black for some reason.'

Before she could respond, she heard Ben Oliver say, ‘They were originally painted many colours, but eventually most companies moved to basic black because it cut down on cleaning costs.'

The door to the car nearest the engine clicked and slid open, revealing a large silhouette filling the entrance. Cat watched the figure reach up above the doorway and, a heartbeat later, a small metal ladder unfolded to touch the ground, and a miniature light illuminated him. He was a tall slim man with neatly trimmed dirty blond hair, moustache and beard, and eyes that sparkled with showmanship and promise. He was clad in an old-fashioned, neatly pressed white linen suit and black tie.

His voice completed the Southern barker's image as he addressed those assembled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends all. I am Jonathan Wheeler, your humble host for this weekend.' He leapt from the doorway, ignoring the steps to easily land in the gravel with a crunch beneath his shiny shoes as he extended his arms wide. ‘And this sweet swift lady here is the Silver Belle!'

The Olivers applauded, at least. Others looked bemused, reserved or impatient. Cat, however, focused on Wheeler; like the photos of his train, the reality of the man seemed so much grander. He was larger than life, even as he began greeting people individually, shaking their hands with enthusiasm. ‘Welcome, welcome, one and all! If you get your bags, we can be on our way.'

Nathan, carrying their cases, leant in beside her. ‘Shall we board?'

‘Why not?' Cat led him towards the steep steps, along with the rest of the passengers.

* * *

The interior of the reception carriage was an opulent display: rich red velvet and polished brass fittings, plush one– and two– seater chairs, ceiling lights designed to look like gas lamps, ornately framed black and white photographs of locomotives mounted on the walls between the shuttered windows, verdant potted plants in the corners and a bookcase at one end beneath some glass display. A woman tended a small bar at the other end. Cat could easily imagine Phileas Fogg making himself at home here during his travels.

Wheeler stood in the centre of the carriage, smiling and silently motioning for the passengers to draw closer. ‘Fellow travellers, before we carry on, I wish to remind you of the safety and indemnity provisos you agreed to upon purchasing your tickets. The rules as described on the website are basic, but non-negotiable: no weapons, no drugs, no illegal business ventures conducted, smoking only in designated areas and we are not liable for losses from any onboard gambling. There are locks on your doors, but we will not be held responsible for anything going missing, so if you have any valuables, please bring them to me for safekeeping.

‘Speaking of safekeeping –' he paused as a young man in a smart black vest, trousers and white shirt appeared with a metal strongbox, set it down and opened it to reveal compartmented shelves like a toolbox, filled with electronic items ‘– the instructions also state that cameras, recorders and cellphones are not permitted while onboard, for reasons of confidentiality. But experience has taught me that not everybody reads these, or believes that the rules apply to them. So here's your chance to redeem yourselves, because if you're caught with any of these following this announcement, they will be confiscated, you will be thrown off Belle – I might even slow her down – and you will not be refunded.'

Nathan glanced at Cat, who nodded to him to give up his
phone, but made no move to indicate she had one of her own. It would appear more realistic to have one phone between them than none.

The young man took Nathan's phone and moved on. But Wheeler seemed to take notice, and drew closer. ‘Is there a problem, Ms Montoya?'

Cat smiled up at him, laying on the charm to distract him. Which wasn't too difficult; he was handsome, in a classic rogue's manner, with those dynamic eyes. ‘No problem, Mr Wheeler. I just don't have a phone.'

An eyebrow rose. ‘Really? That seems incredulous.'

‘Why, because I'm a woman, and must live to gab?'

‘No, because you don't seem the type to depend on anyone else for anything.'

Cat's gaze narrowed, and she let her voice drop to a whisper. ‘You can't do everything alone, Mr Wheeler. As it is, my phone's in the shop for repairs. You can search me, if you like.'

Wheeler chuckled. ‘Tempting, but judging from the quite understandable expression on your partner's face, I'd rather remain ambulatory.' Then he turned to watch the young man secure the phones and depart with the strongbox. ‘I want to also point out the various safety notices near the access ways between carriages. This carriage has the only door to the outside, except for one at the rear. Should an emergency arise, proceed directly to the very rear, if possible.' He beamed now. ‘And with that execrable legal business out of the way . . . Faye?'

From the open doorway behind him, a woman entered, dressed in an elegant black silk evening gown and carrying a silver tray of tall, filled champagne flutes. She was a statuesque beauty, a chestnut-haired, chestnut-eyed woman in her thirties, with a Mediterranean Romany look in her expression, lingering with each new arrival as she offered the drinks.

‘This is my associate and your hostess, Faye Scott,' he introduced with a glimmer of pride. ‘She is an accomplished medium and expert on the occult, and during the course of the weekend will help acquaint us with the residents of the Other Side.' He accepted the last glass on the tray, raising it as Faye stepped aside. ‘And if I may offer this toast: to Belle, who knows that travel, like passion, finds its true pleasure in the journey, not the destination.'

‘To Belle!' the Olivers echoed loudly. Cat looked around: Richard Newholme was already sitting down and back to his book, his champagne set aside. Tara was staring intently at Wheeler, or maybe she was just trying to ignore Donnie.

‘The Silver Belle,' Wheeler began, pointing to the photographs with his glass, ‘was born in the years immediately following World War Two. And one of the last of the steam locomotives. From the beginning, she stood out as something special. Maybe it was her birthplace, in the Lafayette yards outside of New Orleans, coincidently the birthplace of many noted practitioners of
voudon
, what non-professionals call voodoo. Maybe it was the materials used, some unique and unrepeatable mixture of alloys. Whatever the case, Belle has served faithfully on the Southern Rail Express for over five decades, an unprecedented period, when she should have been retired long before.

‘But Dame Fortune could not smile upon her forever, and she found herself abandoned in a railroad graveyard outside of Baton Rouge. It was there that I found her, and promptly fell in love.' He spoke the last with a subtle change of tone, an unexpected note of sincerity. ‘And I spent the following two years restoring her to life again, and purchasing and restoring the carriages she now carries.'

Something from the corner of her eye caught Cat's attention, and she looked behind to see that the train had already started
moving. In fact it was picking up some speed, and only now could she notice the gentle rocking of the carriage and the clack of the wheels on the rails.

‘There are twelve carriages attached to the locomotive and her support car,' Wheeler was saying. ‘This, the reception carriage, serves as a place of private discussion, as well as for the séances and the more worldly pursuit of cards. Occasionally one or two dollars have been known to exchange hands during the latter activities.' He paused for laughter from his audience. ‘The next is our observation carriage, used for dining and the sale of snacks, condoms, toys and other souvenirs and, as its name suggests, it also boasts an observation suite upstairs, one of the few remaining in operation on the rails.

‘Beyond it is the kitchen and pantry carriage, out of bounds but with through-access to the rest of the train. Our games carriages are especially designed for Southern Spirits, complete with a spa, Dungeon, private rooms, dance areas and other features I encourage you to discover and enjoy. Then there are the two sleeper carriages. And beyond these, the final carriage contains my office, private quarters, staff quarters –'

‘Where do you keep your hookers?' Donnie asked.

Wheeler's face tightened, but he still offered a polite smile to the younger man. ‘You seem to be labouring under a misapprehension. This is not a bordello.'

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. All these people spend all their money to ride around in the backwoods, sure. When does the fucking start?'

The tension in the room rose, just a little and, though no one made an effort to back away from Donnie, Cat had the feeling that they would have if they could get away with it and not be noticed.

Wheeler, for his part, maintained a cool demeanour. ‘Our itinerary this weekend is jam-packed with activities, Mr Kolchak:
live music, a séance and tarot readings from Ms Scott tonight, a stop by a haunted church and a refreshing lake for a buffet on Saturday, a costume party on Saturday night. Anything else is at your fellow passengers' discretion – including the “fucking”.'

Then Faye Scott spoke up, smiling enticingly at Donnie, ‘I'm sure a man with your obvious qualities won't be without offers tonight.'

The man winked at her, his posture one of an alpha male being gracious in dropping any further contention. The tension seemed to hang in the air, however, until Tara spoke up, ‘A séance, Mr Wheeler? I'd be interested in participating.'

Wheeler beamed, looking grateful for the change in conversation. ‘And you'd be more than welcome, Miss Gilbrand, there's still a few places left at the table. Until then, I would suggest that you find your suites – your names are on the doors – unpack and unwind.' He set his glass aside. ‘And once more, welcome aboard.'

Cat nudged Nathan. ‘Let's get to our room.'

He grinned playfully as he lifted up their cases. ‘Been waiting all day to hear you say that, Wildcat.'

Their ‘suite' turned out to be smaller than the promotional photos on Wheeler's website had suggested. The berths in the first-class carriage were said to be larger, and themed, but Cat couldn't justify the additional expense for one of those. This was a snug enclosure of plain polished wood interior, the double bed dominating the room, with a two-seater facing the foot of the bed. There was a fold-down table next to a wooden chair and overhead storage cabinets. The windows were rectangular with rounded corners, and had fixed opaque horizontal shutters. The room, the colours of which reflected the red and black colours outside, had a more modern feel than the reception carriage, perhaps something from the 1950s.

Cat entered and went straight for the door beside the head of the bed, opening it to find the bathroom, an even more cramped area with barely enough room for a toilet, sink and a shower stall with a glass accordion door. ‘Intimate', the promotional items had described it. No argument there.

She turned to see Nathan enter, set their cases down and plump onto the seater, putting his feet up on the bed. ‘What, no mints on the pillows? I like mints.'

Cat reached down, touched the tight skin of white sheets. ‘I like Egyptian cotton even more.' She fluffed up the pillow and propped it against the wall, then set herself down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. ‘First impressions?'