The Last Train to Key West Page 18

  The delivery happens so quickly, the baby coming whether I am ready or not. The wind howls outside, the house quavers, and my surroundings simply disappear. John is somewhere down between my legs, his voice soothing, urgent, and then he vanishes, too, and I am alone, pushing, pushing—

  A baby cries.

  Twenty

  Elizabeth

  We face off in Sam’s room at the inn, papers strewn on the ground, photographs of me—walking on the streets of New York, old pictures from newspaper clippings, photos that once graced frames in my parents’ home.

  “You’ve been lying to me all along,” I accuse.

  “No—I—not everything was a lie.”

  “Fine. Then start from the beginning. Who are you, really?”

  “My name is Sam Watson. Just like I told you. I work for the government. None of that was a lie. The badge is real. I catch people. Criminals. Sometimes I infiltrate their organization, go undercover, make myself indispensable to them. It’s the easiest way to get close to them, to get them to trust you.”

  This whole time I’ve been worried Frank would send someone after me. I failed to realize he already had.

  “Like tailing an errant fiancée.”

  “Yes.”

  “So this all goes back to Frank, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you when he hired you? To what—follow me to Key West?”

  “That his bride-to-be had run off. That she was young, spoiled, impetuous. Possibly in the company of another man. He said he was worried about her—you—and asked me to locate you. He knew you were headed down to the Keys and that you’d left on a Tuesday. He’s had someone on you since the beginning. But it’s a difficult time for Frank. There’s trouble in New York, and he needed his most loyal men around him. So he sent me after you. He knew I was originally from Florida, that I was familiar with the area. It was just a matter of finding you on the train.”

  “So it wasn’t a coincidence that we were seated by each other.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “When I flirted with you—” My eyes narrow. “If you were supposed to get close to me, why did you reject me on the train?”

  “Because I saw you—the way you courted men and attention. I knew you would be bored if things were too easy for you. You would have collected me among your admirers and then cast me off. I needed to be a challenge for you.” He gives me an apologetic look. “That’s what I do in my job. I read people.”

  “Learn their weaknesses,” I retort. “Did you even fight in the war? Or was that another lie you told, another way to get close to me, to prey on my feelings and my worry over my brother?”

  “I didn’t lie to you about that. I promise. Everything I said to you was true.”

  “But it wasn’t. Bringing me to Matecumbe wasn’t a matter of chivalry, but rather obligation.”

  And the friendship that I’d thought had sprung up between us wasn’t real at all—the almost kiss on the beach—it was all a lie.

  “Elizabeth.” Sam steps forward.

  “Stop. Just stop. Don’t lie to me. You owe me the truth, at least. What did Frank want you to do with me?”

  “He wanted me to follow you. To make sure you didn’t get into trouble.”

  “Nice try. Frank isn’t that altruistic.”

  “He wanted me to bring you home.”

  “And if I don’t want to go home?”

  “Do you really think I’d force you? That I’m the type of man who would be rough with a woman?”

  “I don’t know what type of man you are. I thought I did.”

  I foolishly viewed him as a white knight of sorts, the sort of man with whom a woman could be safe. It’s that betrayal that cuts the deepest.

  “I never meant to hurt you, Elizabeth.”

  “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it, after they hurt you?”

  “We need to go,” he pleads. “The storm is getting worse.”

  “Not until you answer me. I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me the truth.”

  “Everything I told you was true.”

  “Everything except why you helped me in the first place.”

  “I helped you because it was the right thing to do. Because you needed my help.”

  “Frank can’t want me to find my brother. He has to know that if I do, I won’t marry him.”

  “I agreed to make sure you didn’t get into any trouble,” Sam replies.

  “To make sure I didn’t cause Frank any trouble,” I correct.

  “He said you were to be his wife.”

  “So that gives him a right to be what—my jailer? To spy on me?”

  “I was doing my job. Making myself indispensable to him so he would let me into his inner circle. What about you? How did you end up with someone like Frank Morgan?”

  “I did what I had to. Why didn’t you tell me this from the beginning? That he was the man you were investigating?”

  “Because I didn’t know if I could trust you. We’re building a case against him. It’s been difficult, to say the least. The people he has working for him in his inner circle are loyal. I needed to know if you were. I didn’t know why you were marrying Frank; if you were a love match, or—”

  “Did you think we were a love match?”

  “I try not to make too many speculative efforts in my line of work. I deal best with facts. My firsthand impressions of people. I wanted to see you. Get a sense of your motives for marrying Frank.”

  “Did I pass the test, then? When we nearly kissed on the beach yesterday—was that enough proof for you?”

  His expression is pained. “I want to help you.”

  “So you trust me now,” I say with a harsh laugh.

  “I do. And I need you to trust me. The storm is coming. Fast. Right for us. We need to get out of here. If we miss that train, we’re going to be stuck in the eye of the storm here.”

  He holds out his hand.

  “Please, Elizabeth. Whatever anger you have, whatever mistrust exists between us, the most important thing right now is getting out of this storm. After that, I’ll answer whatever questions you ask me. I promise.”

  * * *

  —

  Outside the inn, the conditions are even more hazardous than I thought they’d be. We drive slowly, the water flooding the roadway. Sam grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The visibility is so bad, we can only see a foot or so ahead of us, the rest of the road obscured by the storm. The car appears featherlight as the wind blows it around, the struggle to keep it under control evident by the tension in Sam’s face and body. There’s no time for me to be angry at Sam; our sole focus is getting to the train, heading north, and escaping the hurricane’s path.

  I don’t know how the forecasters got the trajectory or the timing so wrong, and at the moment, their oversight hardly matters. Survival is everything.

  The storm makes the drive much longer than it should be, and it’s late by the time we arrive at the train station. I fear we’ve missed our chance at escape, but when we approach the depot in Islamorada, we’re confronted with a sea of men, women, and children.

  Sam parks the car quickly, taking my hand and tugging me toward the station. The storm has already damaged the structure, and the hurricane is blowing even harder than before, debris flying past us. I use my free arm to shield my face from the sand and earth whizzing past us.

  “Has the train already left?” Sam shouts to the man standing closest to us.

  “No. It was delayed on its way down. We’re still waiting for it.”

  I scan the crowd. There are many locals here, families pressed together, but also a fair share of men who look like the ones we saw in the camps.

  Sam wraps his arm around me, bringing me against his side, sheltering me from the people p
ushing and shoving their way toward the train tracks. The chaotic nature of the scene is all too familiar, the desperation on people’s faces reminding me of life after the crash when crowds gathered outside banks, angry, terrified—

  “I’ve got you,” Sam murmurs. I cling to him, grateful for his strength, for the fact that he hasn’t left me alone in this madness. I don’t trust him, but at the moment, I’d rather be with him than alone.

  A rumble comes, building louder and louder, distinct from the sound of the storm.

  The train surges into view, heaving its way down the tracks, a mighty beast.

  “We made it,” I shout, throwing my arms around Sam. I release him, gathering my bag sitting next to me on the ground, heading toward the train, joining the mass of people surging forward—

  The train doesn’t stop.

  It keeps rolling down the track, car after car headed past us.

  There’s still Camp Three to the south of us. Is that where the train is headed? To get the veterans in that camp? Will it come back for us? Surely, it will be too late. The storm is too powerful, too close.

  Beside me, people scream and cry, the terror settling over the crowd reaching a fever pitch as the train passes; our last shot at hope leaving us behind.

  We are doomed.

  The station has already sustained a considerable amount of damage from the storm. There’s no way the structure will be able to shield all of us. How many people will die?

  Hundreds.

  “It’s stopping,” someone shouts.

  Sure enough, the train has halted up ahead.

  Around us, people are running now, babies scooped up in their mothers’ arms, couples clinging to each other. We move in a blur, bodies clambering to get to the train, desperation moving us past the paralyzing sense of panic.

  A woman brushes against me, a little girl clinging to her skirts. Her expression is grim, the little girl’s cries barely audible over the din of the crowd.

  On the other side of me, a man prays, reciting the same words over and over again, the pink color of his lips a stark contrast to the pallor of his face.

  The crowd helps lift the children up onto the train, assisting the elderly, everyone scrambling for purchase. Sam grips my waist, hauling me up to an open car. Arms reach from above and pull me up. I stand on the edge, staring down, waiting while Sam climbs up with assistance.

  Sam throws his arms around me, and I sag into his embrace, my earlier misgivings momentarily forgotten.

  We’re safe, and that’s all that matters.

  “They said the train is heading down to Camp Three to get the rest of the veterans out, and after that, we’ll be out of here,” a man near us shouts.

  Camp Three is the camp we didn’t get to visit earlier, and I hope my brother is waiting there for the train, that I’ll see him shortly, that he’ll be carried to safety, too.

  Before the train can move forward, the railroad car shudders.

  “Hold on,” Sam shouts to me, as the impossible happens. The sturdy train car that moments ago seemed so imposing and big becomes as flimsy as a tin can.

  I don’t know how long the train wobbles and shakes, only that it’s an eternity.

  People scream around me, children crying.

  As quickly as it began, it stops, and for a heartbeat, everything is still.

  It’s silent inside the car.

  I leave Sam’s embrace and lean toward one of the small windows in the train car, gazing out the water-soaked pane.

  Surprisingly, the sky is clear.

  The scene in front of me changes so abruptly I almost miss it. I blink, and the unnaturally bucolic landscape is gone. Instead of the ground and the sky, blue stares back at me.

  A wall of blue.

  It’s the most gorgeous mix of blues—aqua, turquoise, and cerulean like the most perfect of stones.

  My brain catches up with the image before me, and I see it—the water, like the hand of God, lifting itself up, up, until there is nothing else, rushing past us, curling over us in a massive wall with seemingly no end, Sam screaming—

  It hits me then. As plain as day.

  It is too soon. I am not ready. I do not want to die.

  There is a righteous bellowing in the wind, debris floating past me as though I am in a dream, and a sharp pain hits the side of my head, a jolt, and I pitch forward, water engulfing me, and darkness envelops me.

  Twenty-One

  Mirta

  The waves crash against the beach, water pounding the tin roof. The sound of the wind is deafening, a shriek like a never-ending whistle.

  I stare out the window, trying to get my bearings.

  I pull back the curtains—

  Where I expected to see sand, I am greeted by the sea pushing against the white porch.

  My heart pounds. “The water’s rising. We need to get to higher ground. We should go upstairs.”

  I take Anthony’s outstretched hand and follow him up the stairs.

  My foot catches on one of the steps, and Anthony hoists me up, carrying me along. He doesn’t let go of me until we reach the bedroom.

  “How high has the water risen?” he asks me.

  “Ten feet, maybe. We weren’t that high above the ocean to begin with.”

  “Maybe it was a mistake to come upstairs,” he says. “If the water continues to rise, where will we go?”

  “We wouldn’t have had a better chance out there. The water’s too strong. It’ll carry us away.”

  The sound of glass breaking somewhere in the house makes me jump.

  “It’s probably a window.” Anthony strokes my back, unease threading through his voice.

  Our surroundings have suddenly become hazardous, Mother Nature turning against us. It’s not only the peril from the storm system you have to fear, it’s anything the storm can sweep up in its path and use against you.

  “The bathroom is probably the safest place for us to go,” I say.

  At least downstairs, most of the windows were boarded up. Now all that stands between us and death is the roof, and given the sounds of metal shearing, I don’t have a lot of faith in the roof’s sturdiness. But with the water rising—

  There are no good options available to us.

  We run to the bathroom and close the door, huddling together in the bathtub, Anthony’s arms wrapped tightly around me, his breath hot on my neck.

  “I hate this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “Hate being so helpless. We should have tried to leave. I should have taken you to safety.”

  “You had no way of knowing it would be this bad. I’ve never experienced a storm like this.”

  Anthony’s grip on me tightens. “If we don’t make it—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “If we don’t make it,” he continues, “I want you to know that these past few days with you have been some of the happiest of my life.”

  I swallow, threading my fingers through his, lifting our joined hands, and pressing my lips to his knuckles.

  We don’t speak, the storm raging around us.

  How many hours do we have left?

  And then, the world stills.

  Anthony releases me, and I follow him to the bedroom. He peers out at the ocean through one of the bedroom windows, one we never got around to boarding up.

  The stars are out in the inky black sky, the breeze dormant, everything peaceful and calm.

  “Is it over?” Anthony asks, and I am struck again by the sensation that we have switched places, that I am the experienced one as he looks to me for reassurance.

  “No.” Memories of my childhood in Cuba flash before me. “It’s about to get worse. This happens with storms sometimes. There’s a moment of calm before it kicks back up again, sometimes worse than it was to begin with.”

  A bli
stering curse falls from Anthony’s lips. “Go back in the bathroom. I’m going downstairs to see if I can bring some food and supplies while the weather is calm. Who knows how long we’ll be stuck up here, and I’d rather be prepared for the worst.” He grimaces. “We certainly weren’t ready for this.”

  “It’s not your fault. No one could have predicted it.”

  “I made a vow to keep you safe.” He gives me one of the Coleman lanterns, taking the other for himself. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I grab his forearm. “Are you sure you want to go down there? The water was rising already. Who knows what it’ll be like now? A few supplies aren’t worth risking your life.”

  “They will be if we’re stranded for days waiting to be rescued, and I don’t want to chance the water and wind carrying everything away when the storm starts up again.”

  Anthony’s right, of course, but I can’t deny the fear that he will walk downstairs and never come back.

  “I’ll go with you, then. I’m a strong swimmer. I practically grew up in the ocean—”

  “Mirta. No. I need you to stay here.”

  “Two of us can carry more items back.”

  “And there’s a greater chance of something happening to both of us. Please. I’ll be quick. I promise.” He presses his lips to mine in a swift kiss that seems a lot like good-bye.

  Tears sting my eyes, but I let him go.

  The night is quiet, and I listen for the wind picking back up, the sea pummeling the house, for Anthony calling out for me if the waters get too deep below.

  The wait seems interminable.

  Finally, the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor breaks up the quiet.

  I leap from my position on the bathroom floor, lantern in hand, and go to greet Anthony.

  “How bad are the conditions downstairs? Were you able to get supplies? I was so worried.” I turn the doorknob, stepping out into the dark room. “Anthony?”

  I grip the lantern, shining the light around the room.

  It settles on a man.

  He’s dressed in a ratty pair of overalls, a threadbare shirt.