The Night Train: A Novelette (The Strange Files of Modesty Brown Book 1) by Evelyn Archer Page B

anything about that would
you?"
    Modesty
shrugs. "Just got caught in a bad place."
    "You
said it, sister.” He picks up the typewriter case that she slung onto the train,
and lets out a whistle. He taps the bullet hole on the top of it. “Wow. Looks
like you had quite a night.”
    “You
should see the other guy.”
     He
lets out a chuckle. “You know? You don’t really look like trouble.”
    “This
is the Baggage Car, right?” she asks.
    “Next
one down.” He taps his finger to his forehead, tipping an invisible cap. “Catch
you later, Sidecar.”

 
     
     “Jeepers Crow, Pilgrim!” Pinky
cries. “What happened to you?”
    “You
should see the other guy,” Modesty says, pleased to use the line again.
    “Oh,
my god. You’ve managed to shoot up your typewriter. And you’ve just ruined
those stockings!” She sounds much more concerned about the latter.
    “Sit
down, this minute,” Pinky clucks. “Well, there’s nothing to be done with them
now. Just roll off what’s left of them. You’ll have to bare leg it, because I
wouldn’t put anything over those bloody knees.”
    Janet
hands her a hanky. “Maybe this will help?”
    “Thanks
kid,” Modesty says, dabbing her stinging knees with the girls wedding
handkerchief.
    “And
is that…Is that blood, Pilgrim? On your dress there?”
    Pinky
gestures to a tiny dark spatter over the waistband of her skirt.
    “Don’t
worry,” Modesty says, stuffing her ruined stockings in her coat pocket. “It’s
not mine.”
    “Well.
I may have pegged you all wrong.” She brushes her hands together three times.
“You know what? Not my circus. Not my monkeys. But I’m guessing everything’s
back where it belongs.”
    “Just
about.”
    “Well,
then. I think that calls for a bit of a celebration.”
    Pinky
brings out a flask from the cleavage of her dress. Does she have a dozen of
those things hidden on herself? Modesty thinks. Does her body produce
little silver flasks?
    “Pinky’s
right,” Janet says. Her voice at once wistful and strong. “Here’s to us!”
    “Here’s
to you, Janet. And to you, Pilgrim.”
    Janet
raises the flask like it’s a glass of champagne. “Here’s to daring escapes,”
She sips, passes it to Modesty.
    “To
daring escapes, and to new beginnings.”  Modesty tips the flask up and
passes it to Pinky.
    Pinky
tips it up, taps the bottom to bring the last few drops out. “To daring
escapes, to new beginnings and to the Night Train. For bringing us all home.”
    “To
the Night Train.”
    “To
the Night Train.”
    Pinky
grabs her ukulele from where she’d stashed it in a mailbag, plinks the four
strings. My. Dog. Has. Fleas. She strums a couple of times.
    “ Pack
up all my cares and woes ,” she sings. “ Here I go. Singing low. Take
it, girls.”
    “ Bye
bye Blackbird.”
    Modesty
feels something bubble inside her. Something like the feeling of being between
the cars, something like the moment when Bill pulled her onto the train,
something like when she shot Franco in the foot. It is a rush of something like
joy, and something like discovery, like the last answer to a hard puzzle, like
an unexpectedly good cup of coffee in a dive diner on a rainy night. She finds
herself singing. She finds herself a little in love with Pinky and Janet and
the Night Train. A little in love with her red coat, and her carpetbag and her
typewriter case with the bullet hole in it.
    There
somebody waits for me. Sugar’s sweet. So is he. Bye Bye Blackbird.
    But
this is all over when the Baggage Car door swings open and the conductor is
standing there, all blue uniform and brass buttons.
    Pinky
plucks her ukulele. My. Dog. Has. Fleas.
    “Just
what’s going on in here, ladies? This is a restricted area.”
    Modesty
glances around and Janet is nowhere to be seen. Although one of the mailbags
attached to the wall does seem to have a bit of a runaway bride shaped bulge to
it. She thinks about what this guy sees. Her, stocking-less and