Sundown

Part One

Confidence

“I was quiet, but I was not blind.” –Jane Austen

Mark

This time it’s different.

I’ve made the annual journey from British Columbia to Juneau and back on the White Pass-Yukon Route for as long as I’ve been a detective. It’s a treacherous route in the winter, one with no direct connection to any other railway.

Tourists will ride it in the summer to see the glaciers, gorges, waterfalls, and steep grades. Now, only a very few individuals with proven business in the remote stops are allowed to travel this line.

Perhaps that’s why I do it each year at this time, for the adventure.

Perhaps it’s nostalgia, missing the dusty clutch of regulars riding these rails for their line of work.

I’d say I’m doing due diligence, keeping tabs on the outer reaches of my territory. This part of the country is so remote and isolated, anyone could get away with anything, and it would take months if not years for the authorities to notice. If it were even reported.

The truth is I’m here for a very specific reason.

I’m here waiting for him to slip up, to give me the reason I need to nail him.

“Confidence.” The slender man’s pronouncement breaks through my musings.

He leans forward on the bar, grasping his chunky shot glass in three fingers. Emerald-green absinthe swirls around inside the cup.

“Confidence is the key to everything,” he slurs. “The best criminals know this.”

Dropping back onto his stool, he slides two fingers along the corners of his thin mustache, pushing down his shifty grin. Aleister is a hustler, and he seems to be feeling the effects of his liquor.

Or it could be a lie… a grift. He could be stone cold sober and trying to get my guard down. He knows I’m searching. He wants to know why, what for.

His brown tweed three-piece suit has the finishing details only a tailor would know, tabs on the lapels, specialty labels. It’s old, but it’s expensive.

“Is that so?” I take a small hit of my scotch, poker face in place.

Unlike this fellow, my suit is off the rack, and I wear a beard, although I do keep it neatly trimmed. He’s a relic from another way of life. I’m the younger generation he feels compelled to educate.

“Yes,” he continues, “no matter what happens, the authorities will walk right past a perpetrator if he acts like he’s supposed to be there. No one questions him.”

I smile at that. “You don’t have much respect for my profession.”

The dining car sways, and I clutch my tumbler to keep it from sliding across the glossy wooden bar. Everything about this line is vintage. It’s filled with highly polished antiques, and the smell of cigar smoke, wax, and days gone by.

“Au contraire!” Aleister places a palm flat against his vest. “I have great respect for law enforcement. I am merely a lifelong student of human behavior.”

“I see.” I take another sip. The alcohol warms my chest on this frigid night. “You’re a profiler. I’m afraid your line of work has fallen out of fashion, my friend.”

“Pah! I’m a profiler of the profilers,” Aleister argues. “Profilers make judgments. I merely watch for patterns. Men see what they’re looking for, and they’re looking for suspicious behavior, fear, defensiveness. The most cunning serial killers—the Unabomber, the Boston strangler, Jeffrey Dahmer—they all walk around in plain sight because they’re confident. They’re calm.”

My lips tense, and I’m ready to argue when the double doors slide apart, and my insides go completely still.

A woman enters the dining car.

I don’t believe my eyes.

It’s her.

She’s more beautiful than ever. Her long, brown hair is perfectly straight, and her skin is as gold as the California sand. I meet her bright blue eyes, a spark flickers, and it’s gone.

Still, she recognized me. My stomach is tight, and I can only imagine she feels the same. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other in five years.

She continues, poker face in place, and behind her is the girl. Stike that, behind her is the young woman. She’s grown and changed, and while I know she’s eighteen, she seems more mature. Her hair is now bleached pale blonde, but her skin is still peachy. Her body is much curvier, and she moves like she’s become accustomed to attracting the male gaze.

They’re both stylishly dressed for dinner. Lara wears tight black pants and a flowing burgundy blouse that reveals her slim neck and elegant collarbones. She still has the body of a dancer, long and willowy, and her skin is as smooth as I remember her voice. My fingers curl at the memory.

Molly is in a short skirt and thick sweater. She’s completely new to me—almost like a different person.

I watch Aleister studying her ass as they go to a table near the window, and I can’t help thinking she’s the wild card in this game of cat and mouse.

Outside, winter white blurs our view of the scenery. It’s all mountains and treacherous canyons, but as they sit, Lara turns to us.

“Our route is appropriately named.” She smiles, and her voice is smoky silk and longing. “White as far as the eye can see.”

My drinking companion is quick to answer. “The White Pass is one of only two train lines running from Alaska into Canada.” He doesn’t try to hide his interest, and his eyes burn with lust. No doubt he’s hoping to find a bunkmate with whom to pass this cold winter night. “You’re from Montreal?”

“I’m American,” she answers, turning her gaze to the menu on the table.

It’s the universal sign she’s finished with us, but Aleister isn’t done. “You’re traveling to Whitehorse?”

The faintest hint of annoyance is in her blue eyes. It disappears when they meet mine. She smiles at me, and I fight the heat flooding my stomach, the tightness across my fly.