Free The Christmas Train by David Baldacci Page A

introduced herself as Sue Bunt from Wisconsin. She was dressed professionally, was about fifty or so, tall and on the heavy side, and her hair was cut very short. The guy in the suit was next to her. Tom knew they weren’t together, because the man had been seated right ahead of him. Sue had already been at the table alone.
    “How about that,” the man said. He didn’t offer up his name.
    “I usually don’t take the train, but the flights aren’t as convenient in my circuit anymore,” she explained.
    “What do you do?” Tom asked, deciding to get into the spirit of conversation.
    “I’m a sales rep for a health-food company,” she said as she slathered her roll in butter.
    “Happy holidays,” said the waitress as she came over and presented them with complimentary glasses of eggnog, a Cap holiday tradition, they were told.
    “Happy holidays,” they all replied, and then Sue asked the waitress about the condition of the train.
    “Conductor said we’ll be up and running in no time. We just ran over something on the track.” She wore a Christmas hat, and Tom noted that the windows and tables were strung with holiday lights.
    They placed their orders. The menu was very good, and Tom could actually smell the meals being cooked in the downstairs kitchen, which would then be sent up to the dining car via dumbwaiters. He ordered the prime rib and, instead of the salad, asked for a screwdriver as his appetizer. He was just putting it to his lips when he felt himself being propelled to the side of the dining car. He turned and there was Agnes Joe wedging next to him, leaving him about six inches in which to eat his dinner.
    “Hi, Agnes Joe,” the man and Sue said in unison.
    Tom looked bewildered. Did everybody on this train know the woman?
    “Hi there, honeypies.”
    When Tom looked her over he was stunned. Agnes Joe was wearing nice dress slacks—stretched to the fabric’s absolute breaking point, no doubt, but still nice slacks—a tasteful sweater, and her hair was done. She had on some makeup, and she didn’t look nearly as old as before. It was such a stark transformation that he could only stare.
    “Hi,” he said dumbly.
    “Hello, Agnes Joe,” said the waitress as she came up. “You want the usual?”
    “That’ll be fine, with extra onions.”
    “I take it you ride the train a lot,” Tom said as the waitress walked off.
    “Oh, I love the train and the people on it. Good folks. I tried flying for a while. I’m a licensed pilot in fact, general aviation, but I prefer the trains.”
    For Tom the vision of Agnes Joe crammed inside the cockpit of a two-seater Cessna, her hammy fingers curled around the yoke, her enormous feet on the rudder pedals, wavered right on hallucinatory.
    The man turned to Sue. “You say you’re in health care?”
    “Health foods , as a sales rep. I used to be a legal secretary, but I couldn’t take working for lawyers anymore.”
    Well, Tom had also had his fill of the species americanus legalis cannibalis during his divorce, and more recently with Gordon Merryweather. He held up his glass to her in a sign of empathy.
    “What do you know about ginseng?” asked the man.
    The guy was in his fifties and seemed like a normal business type, yet he had exhibited some fairly strange physical ticks that set him apart from his fellows. For example, his mouth kept opening really wide, at which point he sucked in air like he couldn’t get his fair share. Then his eyes would bulge out, causing Tom to think he was going to pitch headfirst into his salad any second. He’d also lick his lips, so furiously you thought his tongue would cramp up or simply fall off. Finally, he had the incredibly annoying habit of looking like he was going to say something, his lips puckering, his fleshy neck quivering, his eyes blinking rapidly, his hands rising to the sky, all building to some titanic outburst of wisdom or at least scandalous gossip, and then it all would just collapse; he’d