The Christmas Train by David Baldacci Read Free Book Online Page B

etching state lines, Tom supposed, the tunnel itself was actually in Maryland. The Cap would also be navigating the famous Cumberland Gap, the same natural breach frontiersmen had used to get through the wall of the Appalachian Mountains on their way to the Plains and the Pacific. But for that hole in the rock, America might still be a motley strip of thirteen very oppressed English colonies.
    After Cumberland, the train would next encounter Lover’s Leap. Here, legend had it, an Indian princess forbidden by her father to marry the American soldier she loved threw herself off in despair. The anguished chief then supposedly threw himself over too. Tom didn’t think he’d be sharing that tale with Steve and Julie. They were nervous enough.
    Deciding it was finally time to hunt down the film people, Tom passed between cars in the opposite direction of the dining room and found himself in the other sleeping-room section. By now he’d adjusted his balance to the gentle rocking and swaying of the train, and he was proud to note that he took a tumble only once out of three clear opportunities to do so. He slowed his pace. Deluxe units were marked with letters, while the economy compartments were numbered. He was sure that Hollywood types would only travel first class, especially famous or infamous ones. He drifted toward this section, hoping one of the movie folks would come out of hiding and he could strike up a conversation, perhaps get a part in a blockbuster for a million bucks and become merrily infamous himself.
    He moved to the first compartment. There the curtain was pulled tightly across the opening and he could see nothing, although he heard someone moving around inside. As he went to the next compartment he could see that the curtain was pulled back a bit. He stopped, checked the corridor, and then took a quick peek. The room had been outfitted as an office. There was a laptop computer set up, what looked to be a printer, a power strip complete with surge protector, and a tall young man, with a flattop haircut and wearing a dark turtleneck, pacing in the small space. As he turned, Tom could see that he was wearing a phone headset with his cell phone riding in a belt clip.
    This couldn’t be the famous director, could it? This guy didn’t seem like the director type—not that Tom knew what that type was, exactly. Then he had to be either a star or a writer. Tom’s money was on his being a writer. He had a computer and a printer, after all. And he seemed like the young, hip scriveners probably much in demand out there. As everyone knew, people over thirty were ceremoniously stripped of their cool gene and given a bad haircut and a pair of sensible shoes in return.
    Tom went to the next compartment. He was about to take a look when a man slid the door open and almost collided with him.
    “Sorry,” he said. Tom glanced at the unlighted cigarette in the man’s hand. “I was just told I can’t smoke in my compartment,” he explained.
    Tom quickly ran his gaze over the fellow, a longtime reporter’s habit. He was medium height, early sixties and slim, but with the beginnings of a small paunch. He had thick silver hair, a healthy California Christmas tan, and was dressed very expensively in black slacks, white silk shirt, tweed jacket, and, on his feet, Bruno Maglis. To Tom he just reeked of casual, frolicking millions.
    “They have a smoking lounge on the lower level,” Tom advised.
    “Well, I guess that’s where I’m headed then. Tried a hundred times to kick this habit. Did the patch, even hypnosis. Nothing.”
    “I was a two-packer a day, but now I limit myself to the occasional cigar.”
    He looked interested. “How’d you manage it?”
    “Well, my life sort of depended on it.”
    “I hear you. Who wants to die of lung cancer?”
    “No, that’s not what I mean. I used to be a news correspondent overseas. I was in a convoy of journalists that was attacked by guerrillas. One of the cars in front of us