The Lost City
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A man in a brown shirt and gray trousers, who looked to be about forty, sat on a wooden box at the far end of the train car. He stared at them as they approached him, and he had one hand resting atop an open book. The other was clutching his hat. His feet were propped up against the railing and he rocked back and forth like some sort of mechanical toy.
“I don’t know,” said Tom, “but this is our stop.”
“You got a letter from Miss O’Dell?” asked the man.
Tom handed him a folded piece of paper with his name written neatly across it. The man opened it and read: “Mr. Thomas McBride? I think you’ve forgotten something.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuckled and held up the note. “It means she thinks you’ve misplaced your head if you ask me.”
Susan glanced over her shoulder again before entering the station. It was still early enough to catch the morning mail run to San Francisco, which would put them there by late afternoon. They could have used the money to pay off their debt but decided it’d be better for the baby’s sake not to go into the city.
They had no idea what trouble lay ahead or how long they might need to stay away from town. So far so good though—nothing seemed out of place at all. But she’d kept the note just in case.
She reached into her bag and pulled out one of her two pistols and placed it inside the folds of her skirt. She didn’t want anyone to see her gun and get ideas. Not that it mattered because the man had already seen it anyway. He grinned when he saw the weapon, and Susan wondered if maybe he wasn’t so crazy after all.
The train stopped, and people started boarding, while others disembarked. A group of women dressed in gray skirts and aprons walked down the aisle toward the dining car. One woman had a basket in her arms filled with bread, cakes, and rolls, and another carried a tray of tea sandwiches.
Two young girls followed them wearing white aprons tied tightly around their waists, but their hair flowed loose beneath the cloth.
“Good morning,” said the ticket agent. “Did you enjoy your ride?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, “thank you.”
“Have a nice day then.”
When they were outside the depot Susan turned to Tom and raised both eyebrows. “Was the guy insane or was that a joke? If it’s the latter I’ll kill him right here and now.”
“Oh come on!” he said, laughing and holding out his hands. “That man has probably never seen anything except this small town and he doesn’t know any better. Besides, we didn’t say much to him. You’re acting like the entire town is going to be out to get us.”
She frowned. “Just keep an eye on everything.”
They walked across the street to the hotel. There was nothing to indicate whether it was a respectable establishment. In fact, judging from the condition of its front porch it hadn’t been well maintained either. And the paint peeled off in strips from the wood underneath.
As they entered the main lobby it was obvious why it’d earned the name “haunted house.” The room was dark and gloomy, and it smelled of old tobacco smoke. Three men stood around the front desk, talking among themselves with occasional laughs and snorts, while a fourth man leaned against the wall near a fireplace and watched them.
He was a tall black man in his forties, with skin darker than Tom’s. When he noticed them, he nodded politely and gave a quick glance toward the back of the room where three more men were playing cards. All four wore hats and coats, which made Susan wonder if that was normal attire for this time of year.
They took a seat at the table and waited, and when the waiter came by she ordered a cup of coffee and Tom got a glass of water. After placing their orders, Tom went to the bathroom, leaving her alone at the table. Her stomach felt nervous and uncomfortable.
She hoped she wouldn’t throw up or faint in public like some sort of coward. What if that man in the brown shirt did turn out to be crazy after all? Maybe he would attack them even if he was sitting in an empty room with a dead body lying next to him.
Or he’d try to rob them or worse. She swallowed hard as she imagined how that could happen. A shot through the ear could easily do the trick. How many bullets would be needed to end a life? Five? Ten? Thirty-six? She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself and think of something else.
She opened them again, looking around at the other guests who were eating breakfast and reading newspapers. Most of them sat together with two men and one woman, who looked like she was about thirty years old.
Susan couldn’t hear the conversation but knew it must be interesting judging by the laughter and clapping of their hands. At one point the waitress returned with coffee, creamers, and sugar cubes. When Tom came back, he joined her at the table and asked what he should order for breakfast.
“How are you feeling?” he whispered. “You don’t look so hot.”
“I’m fine, just a bit nervous.”
He took the menu and read it aloud for her. “Eggs fried any way you like ’em.”
Susan looked at him. “What do you want?”
“Well, I guess I’ll get eggs too.”
The food arrived quickly and they ate quietly, each focused on his own meal. Susan didn’t feel hungry and had to force herself to eat slowly. Tom finished first. “Want some more coffee?” he asked, and the waiter brought another pot while they waited for him to clean the table and put the dishes away.
“Sure,” said Susan.
The server poured them both cups. “Anything else?”
“No thank you, we’ll be leaving shortly.”
After paying, Tom led her outside before turning toward the west. They passed through a narrow alley that ran between two buildings. It ended abruptly, giving way to an open field where cattle grazed. The grassy expanse seemed vast and endless, with not a building or tree in sight.
As they continued walking Susan thought she saw a man standing near a fence, but when they neared him it wasn’t someone in uniform. It was a man in a white suit holding a shovel and working beside a cow who’d recently given birth.
They crossed a wooden bridge over a creek and followed a gravel path for several miles until they reached a long row of houses that lined both sides of the road. They appeared to have been constructed from logs cut from the forest, with only the windows and doors being replaced with new ones.
The roofs were flat, covered with straw-colored shingles. Many of the yards were fenced off by wood planks laid across the ground; others were enclosed entirely by stone walls. The area reminded her of her childhood memories of the New England woods and farmlands.
A few horses stood at the edge of one yard, watching the passersby. A young boy played with one of them, throwing a rope to get it excited. He stopped playing when he noticed them. “Hi!” he yelled, waving. “Can I pet your horse?”
“Sure, come here,” replied Tom, and held out his hand to let him mount. As soon as the child climbed atop the animal’s back, he started running around the yard, kicking dirt and making loud noises.
Tom watched him, smiling. “Do you play with animals?”
“Yeah, me and my brother love them. Why don’t you ever ride yours, Tom?”
“It doesn’t like to be ridden.”
The boy looked disappointed. “Mine likes to run wild.”
Susan laughed. “Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t.”
As they neared the outskirts of town they passed through a large cemetery where headstones were arranged in neat rows. The graves seemed well maintained and the grass was neatly clipped. There was no sign of anyone tending the grave sites.
A single tombstone stood at the rear corner of the graveyard with the name of John D. Winters carved into it. They turned away from it, passing by several small farms. The fences were made of split logs and topped with a wire mesh; most of them weren’t tall enough to keep out deer or rabbits.
The animals would often wander into the fields and graze, causing the farmers to yell at them to leave.
They walked by one house that seemed to have been built entirely of logs and had three chimneys on the roof. Susan looked up at the windows, wondering how many people lived inside. She couldn’t help noticing that there were very few signs of modern society such as electricity, telephones, or cars.
Instead of a telephone booth or pay phone, they passed a large, red box with holes cut in its top. “Telephone? What’s this?” she asked.
“Used to call the police,” said Tom. “But they’re pretty scarce these days. I can still use mine.”
As they continued walking they approached the edge of a cliff overlooking the Missouri River. Below lay a stretch of sand where the water lapped against the shore. A boat docked near the bank, and Tom steered Susan toward it.
“Come on, hop aboard.”
She stepped in and sat on the front bench seat with her back to the railing. As Tom pulled the oars, the boat started moving swiftly. “Where are we headed?” she called.
“Just a bit further,” said Tom, keeping his eyes fixed on the river ahead.
After traveling for some time, the boat slowed to a stop and Tom turned off the engine. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
“How did you know about this place?” asked Susan.
“I just told you—”
“You told me you grew up here,” interrupted Susan.
Tom sighed, then smiled again. “Okay, we both grew up here.”
“What year was this?”
He stared at the water for a moment before replying, “Let’s see…” Then he counted off each decade on his fingers. “Nineteen… nineteen fifty-three, that would make it…”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t think you’d believe me.”
Susan felt uncomfortable and turned away from him. “So now what do you plan to show me today?”
“That all depends on you,” said Tom. He pointed toward a cluster of trees along the edge of the bluff, and added, “Over there.”
“We’ll talk later,” said Susan, climbing from the boat. “Are you coming?”
“Later.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Be right there,” said Tom.
As they approached the woods, Tom stopped short of entering it, then turned and waved. She waved back and he continued alone among the trees. After an hour of exploring the forest, Tom led her to the side of a stream. The rushing water splashed against rocks as if trying to break free.
He climbed down the bank and waded into the water, then motioned for Susan to follow. Her feet touched the bottom and she followed him farther downstream.
She paused, looking around. No other footprints marred the sandy bottom. She could hear the rush of water and birds singing, but not even a twig broke the silence. It was a beautiful spot. The sun shone brightly overhead and it was warm in the shade. Trees crowded close together, creating a maze of trunks.
Tom knelt down and cupped his hands so that she might sit beside him. When she sat down, he moved closer until his lips met hers, then he took her hands and pulled her gently toward him. He kissed her again, softly and sweetly. As he pulled away, he looked into her eyes and smiled tenderly. “This is my favorite place in all of Missouri.”
Susan leaned toward him and gave him another kiss before she spoke. “I’m happy to see you,” she whispered, “but I wish things could’ve been different between us.”
“I’m sorry.” His tone was remorseful. “If only—”
“You mean if I hadn’t come here, you wouldn’t have killed someone?”
His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “No, but—”
“Or if you had never joined the Army,” she went on, “or if you hadn’t gone hunting for those missing Indians…”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The past is always best left in the past.”
“Maybe so,” said Susan. “But it seems like we keep repeating it.”
He shrugged. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look around you.” He gestured to the woods. “I thought your life would be much better away from here—away from the past.”
Her thoughts turned to Edith and how well she was doing at the orphanage, and suddenly the future didn’t seem so bleak. If Susan and Tom were able to get married soon, then perhaps Edith would be raised by them.
Then they could start their own family, live quietly, and not burden others with their mistakes. They’d be safe enough here—safe from the world that seemed determined to drag them into its sordid affairs.
Tom was watching her face, obviously waiting for something. “And how long will it take to become a detective?” she asked.
“Depends on how far I take this case.”
“Your cases?”
“Yeah.” He looked straight into her eyes. “My first murder was just a coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was a man who got killed while hunting for his missing sister. But I found out that he was actually a murderer.”
“Why did no one ever figure that out? You said you solved it quickly—”
“Because I made myself believe it. That’s what detectives do.” He held her gaze, and after a long moment he added, “I guess that makes me an impostor.”
“An imposter?”
“Someone who pretends to be someone else.”
Susan tried to hide her surprise by staring off into the distance. What had Tom gotten himself involved in this time? And why would he be willing to help her when he knew she intended to go home?
“Don’t worry,” he said, sensing her confusion. “I didn’t say anything about killing anyone.”
Susan laughed nervously and glanced down at his hands, which rested lightly on the ground next to him. The fingers of both his hands were crooked, making them look as though they belonged to two different people, and it was hard for her to imagine him doing any kind of real work or having any friends.
Why had Tom ever wanted to join the Army? Had he felt obligated because she was a girl? Or was he simply trying to escape from his troubled past?
“Tell me,” she said, leaning back against the trunk of a nearby tree. She could see his profile clearly and admired his strong jaw and chin.
He took her hand, pulling her up. “That’s a good idea. Let me tell you about the man I shot.”
“Sure,” said Susan, sitting beside him. She was grateful for some distraction from her own thoughts. “Go ahead.”
“It happened during the Indian wars.” Tom paused as though considering whether to continue and finally shook his head. “No, there’s no point in going over that again.” He ran his palm over his hair, then looked at her expectantly.
Susan smiled. “Well?”
“When I was in the Army, I got assigned as a scout to track down a group of renegade Apache Indians who attacked a wagon train.”
She nodded and watched the way the sun glinted on his black hair, turning it into strands of gleaming silk.
“We caught them,” he went on, “and we captured one of their chiefs, but it turned out he wasn’t really leading his men and didn’t even speak the Apache language.”
“So how did you learn you were hunting the wrong person?”
“I saw the chief with my own eyes. It was just luck that we had captured the wrong guy.” He sighed. “Anyway, I figured there must’ve been two chiefs in that tribe.”
“Why would there be?” Susan asked.
“Well, maybe one got killed by another. So I started looking for more than one person who could be mistaken for the missing leader.” He frowned and rubbed his chin absently. “Then one night I came across a young boy playing cards in the middle of nowhere.”
Susan’s eyebrows rose. “Playing cards?”
“Yep.” He reached out and took her hand. “He played like an adult.”
Susan remembered seeing Tom play chess with her father when they’d visited the fort. “Did you know him?” she asked.
“No…well, sort of.” Tom cleared his throat. “His name was James. He lived close by. We used to hunt together, and then after he turned ten, he joined the Army.
“James and his mother moved away once he left the Army, so we lost touch.” Tom’s voice softened a little and his gaze focused on the ground as if he were reliving his memory. “A few months later I received word that he’d died in battle…”
Susan stared at him. “The Indians never told you where his body was?”
He shook his head. “They didn’t trust me.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
“It does when you’re in the business of hunting men.”
“You were in the Army.”
“Yes, but I was not a killer.”
Susan’s mind whirled around his words. “How many people have you actually killed?” she asked. “I mean, besides James.”
“None of your business,” he said coolly.
“It is my business,” she snapped.
Tom looked surprised. “How can you know that unless you ask me?”
“If I were to ask you, would you tell me the truth?”
For a moment, Tom’s mouth tightened and the line of his jaw became sharper as though he were battling with some internal conflict. Then he nodded slowly and said, “Probably not. But I’ll answer anyway. Yes. I’m sorry.” His voice seemed to waver a bit as he stared off into the distance. “It was all part of the job.”
Susan was silent. Was it possible she’d met Tom before? If so, she couldn’t remember what town or when. He certainly seemed a lot older now than he had the last time she saw him. She had heard that men changed after being in the army, but this was beyond anything she had imagined.
“What exactly is your job?” she asked him quietly.
He hesitated a moment longer, then turned back toward her. “Let’s just say I don’t do much work in town anymore.” He paused as if waiting for her to comment, but she remained silent. “My job requires me to travel a great deal.”
“Traveling alone,” Susan said, thinking of how isolated and vulnerable he must feel at times. She knew firsthand how lonely the life of a detective could be.
“Sometimes.” He glanced down at his hands, which he’d clenched into tight fists. “But mostly, I go with someone. Sometimes it’s an agent working for a company like yours; sometimes it’s the sheriff.”
“Sheriff,” she repeated. “So you work under a sheriff?”
“Not exactly. I guess I work for both. And I’m free to take assignments anywhere in the States and Canada. I usually stay at the same hotel chain so I can meet up with whoever’s with me for meals and other stuff.”
“And the sheriff?”
“Usually it’s the county sheriff who hires me, but sometimes it’s state police, city police—whatever is required.”
Susan nodded, but she wondered what kind of relationship the sheriff might have with the railroad company.
“I’ve worked for various law enforcement agencies since I got out of the Army,” Tom said. “Mostly it’s the sheriff’s department who hires me. The railroad has no interest in hiring me. They think they can keep their workers safe by themselves.”
She thought about that. What did it matter who hired him? He was paid to capture murderers. “Are the railroad employees really so much safer than other towns?”
“That depends on the town.” He glanced at her briefly. “You want to hear something funny?”
“Sure.”
He chuckled. “I’ve found that the safest place in the world is the inside of a jail cell. You won’t find a better lock there than what you can buy at any hardware store.”
Susan looked at him, confused. “Don’t most murders occur at night?”
“Not always,” Tom replied. “Many happen during the day, and often they happen when a person is at home alone, not in a saloon or some other crowded establishment.”
“What happened to James?” Susan asked, trying to imagine a child in a war. “Was he injured?”
“No. We didn’t talk much after I received his letter. That was probably good because I wasn’t ready to face reality yet. It took me another year to come to terms with what had happened… and how much I missed him.”
Susan reached for her water glass to take a sip. “Why didn’t you ever see him again?”
Tom shrugged. “His parents came for a visit. They wanted to thank me for what I’d done for their son. They were grateful and proud to have him become a soldier.”
“Did you meet them?”
“They visited me twice while I was stationed in Germany.”
“Where did you serve?”
“In the Army Reserves.”
“I didn’t realize there were reserves,” she said with surprise. “The Army was very efficient.”
“We train soldiers for combat missions,” Tom explained. “That way we never lose valuable men when there’s a war.”
“I’m sure it’s difficult for children to grow up knowing their father will someday die defending our country,” she said quietly. “And for those left behind to carry on without him.” Her own heart ached to remember her husband’s death and the pain it had caused her and their daughter.
It was one thing for her to know that her husband would die fighting for the nation. She could accept that. But to bury him…
“I don’t think it’s right for people to live in fear of war,” Tom said.
“Is that why you joined the Army?”
He laughed. “No, that’s why I didn’t join the military.” He shook his head. “But I wish it were that simple.”
She stared at him, wondering if she’d ever heard anyone express such strong convictions about peace before. He seemed more comfortable talking about his reasons for joining the Army than his reasons for quitting.
“I don’t think war is ever justified,” he continued. “If a man is going to kill another human being, it should be done through the proper channels.”
Susan watched him, amazed. “You’re opposed to warfare?”
“It isn’t that I’m opposed to fighting for our country,” Tom replied. “I served in the Vietnam War. The only difference between then and now is that we’re at war with terrorists instead of communists.”
“Terrorists!” She sat back against her chair as a wave of disbelief washed over her. “That’s just semantics! You mean that murdering someone in cold blood is different than shooting at a man who has weapons of mass destruction?”
“It isn’t semantics. The enemy is different,” he said, his voice rising. “These are people who attack innocent civilians.”
“There’s no reason for any of us to get involved in this,” Susan declared heatedly. “I know there aren’t many women serving in the Army nowadays, but I’m sure there are plenty who share your view.”
“Some do.”
“What about the president? He seems to think terrorism is an enemy worth sacrificing our young men and women.”
“Maybe so, but I haven’t agreed with everything he’s done. In fact, I’ve protested most of what he has done to protect us from terrorists.”
“I can understand that,” she said quietly. “After all, what kind of world would we live in if every American felt that way?”
“You’re probably right,” he admitted. “So many Americans feel like they need to protect themselves against terrorists by keeping their doors locked and their windows shuttered. Some even think it’s acceptable to shoot intruders. There’s a real danger of turning into a police state if everyone starts thinking like that.”
“I suppose it’s easier for someone who’s not personally affected to say that.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right,” Tom said. He turned to her. “How long will you stay here?”
“Just a few days longer.”
“Good.” He stood up, his movements brisk once again. “Now tell me, how many times have you been shot at?”
“Never,” she answered without hesitation, feeling uncomfortable.
“You won’t get hurt, I promise,” he reassured her. “When I say I’ll keep you safe, I mean it. No one can harm you under my watch.”
“I appreciate that. But please remember this: You’re a guest in these people’s homes. And I don’t think either side trusts the other. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if they thought you were helping the other side.”
“I’ve learned enough to understand the situation.”
Susan frowned. “Have you?”