Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle

claim his life. A sense of doom washed over him, and endless sadness.
    He heard the rushing of another locomotive from the left. He had time to do no more than glance up before it was upon him. This one slowed, rolling to a gentle stop beside him. A woman’s voice called out from it.
    â€œYou OK?”
    Clive slowly stood up, blinking rain from his eyes. The lights were pointing off into the night, raindrops glinted in their twin beams until they fell upon the riverboat which swallowed them into its blackness. The boat was closer now, and he could see a young man dressed in black standing on its deck, the orange lights from the torches glinting in his eyes. The youth waved to him.
    â€œI-I was looking for the Morris Canal,” Clive said, turning away from the boat.
    â€œYou’re right next to it. It’s the JFK Parkway up here, mostly.”
    Her face, dimly seen in the darkness, seemed kind but her words made no sense to him. She turned her head away and he heard her talking in a low voice. A man’s voice answered, then she looked at Clive again and smiled.
    â€œLousy night for a history walk. Want a lift to someplace dry?”
    Clive’s heart rose at the suggestion. He glanced at the riverboat bearing down on them and hesitated no longer. “Thank you. Much obliged.”
    â€œClimb in.”
    He stepped toward the vehicle and hesitated. It was smaller and lower to the ground than the locomotive things. He had no idea how to get into it.
    â€œYou sure you’re OK?” the woman asked.
    â€œI-I’m sorry, I—I was robbed.”
    â€œOh, you poor thing! Let me help you.”
    â€œSheila—” called the man’s voice.
    A hatch on the side of the contraption swung open and the woman stepped out, wearing a greatcoat over trousers and boots. She pulled open a second hatch behind the first, then took Clive’s elbow and guided him toward the vehicle.
    â€œWatch your head,” the woman said, putting a hand on the vehicle’s roof above him.
    Clive obeyed, ducking his head as he sat on a cushioned bench. The woman bent closer to him.
    â€œLet me find the seat belt for you. It likes to slip down behind the seat.”
    He sat completely still, afraid to move while she leaned across him. In the front of the vehicle, a large, heavyset man sat looking back at him. Clive couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but knew the fellow was keeping an eye on him. Beyond him, through the rain-dappled glass window at the front of the vehicle, the orange eyes of the riverboat loomed. Clive drew a sharp breath.
    The woman stepped back, and Clive found that she’d lashed him into the seat with a couple of broad straps. He was about to protest when she shut the hatch, startling him. The vehicle sagged as she climbed into the seat in front of him. Instead of facing his as it should have in a carriage, it faced forward, like a rail car’s.
    Ahead was the riverboat, still coming nearer. Would it crush them? Didn’t these people see it?
    The young man on the boat’s deck put his hands to his mouth, calling out, “Mr. Sebastian!”
    The vehicle rumbled, then started forward, rolling smoothly over the road. The riverboat vanished, the vehicle passing swiftly through the space where it had been. Clive stifled a gasp.
    â€œDo you want to go to the police station?” the woman asked. “There’s one close by.”
    Clive shook his head, weak with relief. “No, no. I just want to get to the coast.”
    â€œWhere are you headed?” the man asked.
    â€œAtlantic City,” said Clive, naming the first seaside resort that came to mind.
    The man harrumphed in his throat. The woman spoke to him in a low voice again. Clive let the sound wash over him as they conferred. It was marvelously warm in the vehicle, so warm it made him realize how chilled he’d become.
    â€œWe can drop you at the bus station in Newark,” the woman