who have the babies are Mormons, members of God's Elect, then so much the better for all those children, as they've been born into the right place—so to speak. Therefore I assumed Pratt must have a slew of children.
"I do not yet have any children," Pratt said in a sepulchral voice. "The first five wives are barren, even to the youngest. But you, Caroline, will be fruitful. It is promised by the angel that led me to you."
The train rolled into the night, on tracks climbing ever higher into the Sierra Nevada. In the prevailing silence of Pullman cars long since made up for sleeping, Michael could hear occasionally the train's long, moaning whistle; and if he listened intently, the chuffing of the locomotive working hard to move a great weight up and up, in defiance of the laws of gravity.
He couldn't sleep. He lay in the bunk created by folding down the bench seat in his private compartment, and thought about the plans he'd laid out for Meiling. In the dark Michael grimaced with knowing how much he'd wanted to hear Meiling say, Yes, of course that will work, that is the best plan, you have done well, we will find her. But Meiling was too smart for that, and too honest to make false promises. She had inclined her head in a slight gesture of assent, and that was all—the only approval he was going to get. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do.
Michael grunted, turned onto his uninjured side, got up on that elbow, pounded the pillow a few times, then put his head down again. Of course mauling the pillow about had not helped—the discomfort that kept him awake was internal. A thin line of light from the outer corridor showed beneath the door, enough to illuminate the shapes of his shoes on the floor and his bathrobe hanging on a hook, swaying with the train's motion like a bodiless wraith. His mind felt as dark and constricted as the tiny room, consumed by the unanswerable question: Where are you?
Michael began to go through his plans again, reciting them like a litany to keep fear away: He and Meiling would leave the train at Provo, Utah. There they would hire horses and a guide. They'd have to be satisfied with whatever they could get, even if that meant substituting mules for horses. Such elements of uncertainty were maddening, for Michael was a meticulous planner; he believed in spending weeks, months if necessary, making sure all the pieces were in place before moving a muscle or even a finger. But there had not been time. Then too, writing or wiring ahead for horses or reservations of any sort might possibly alert the wrong people—they were out there, even if he didn't know who they were.
It was frustrating as hell, not knowing what or who was behind that explosion, and whether the goal had been simple destruction or destruction for a particular purpose, and if so, what that purpose might have been. Robbery-gone-wrong was still a possibility. The dynamite could have gone off a minute too soon—perhaps it had been intended to send the two baggage cars rather than two passenger cars to the bottom of the canyon. Another possibility: disruption of the train's route for the weeks it would take to rebuild the bridge across the canyon. Now on its temporary route the train switched onto a secondary rail line at Provo, and from there went due south, to a junction at a place called Nephi. From there, the Southern Pacific Railway was providing wagons to transport passengers overland to the undamaged portion of track, from which they would continue on east. Michael hadn't paid much attention to those details, since he knew he would not be going that far, not this time. Not unless he found Fremont, and probably not even then.
This time he and Meiling would part company with the train at Provo. On their own they would ride into the mountains. He aimed to start at the scene of the wreckage, at the bottom of that gorge he had since learned was called Fretts Canyon; he intended to go at last where his lack of identification
"I do not yet have any children," Pratt said in a sepulchral voice. "The first five wives are barren, even to the youngest. But you, Caroline, will be fruitful. It is promised by the angel that led me to you."
The train rolled into the night, on tracks climbing ever higher into the Sierra Nevada. In the prevailing silence of Pullman cars long since made up for sleeping, Michael could hear occasionally the train's long, moaning whistle; and if he listened intently, the chuffing of the locomotive working hard to move a great weight up and up, in defiance of the laws of gravity.
He couldn't sleep. He lay in the bunk created by folding down the bench seat in his private compartment, and thought about the plans he'd laid out for Meiling. In the dark Michael grimaced with knowing how much he'd wanted to hear Meiling say, Yes, of course that will work, that is the best plan, you have done well, we will find her. But Meiling was too smart for that, and too honest to make false promises. She had inclined her head in a slight gesture of assent, and that was all—the only approval he was going to get. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do.
Michael grunted, turned onto his uninjured side, got up on that elbow, pounded the pillow a few times, then put his head down again. Of course mauling the pillow about had not helped—the discomfort that kept him awake was internal. A thin line of light from the outer corridor showed beneath the door, enough to illuminate the shapes of his shoes on the floor and his bathrobe hanging on a hook, swaying with the train's motion like a bodiless wraith. His mind felt as dark and constricted as the tiny room, consumed by the unanswerable question: Where are you?
Michael began to go through his plans again, reciting them like a litany to keep fear away: He and Meiling would leave the train at Provo, Utah. There they would hire horses and a guide. They'd have to be satisfied with whatever they could get, even if that meant substituting mules for horses. Such elements of uncertainty were maddening, for Michael was a meticulous planner; he believed in spending weeks, months if necessary, making sure all the pieces were in place before moving a muscle or even a finger. But there had not been time. Then too, writing or wiring ahead for horses or reservations of any sort might possibly alert the wrong people—they were out there, even if he didn't know who they were.
It was frustrating as hell, not knowing what or who was behind that explosion, and whether the goal had been simple destruction or destruction for a particular purpose, and if so, what that purpose might have been. Robbery-gone-wrong was still a possibility. The dynamite could have gone off a minute too soon—perhaps it had been intended to send the two baggage cars rather than two passenger cars to the bottom of the canyon. Another possibility: disruption of the train's route for the weeks it would take to rebuild the bridge across the canyon. Now on its temporary route the train switched onto a secondary rail line at Provo, and from there went due south, to a junction at a place called Nephi. From there, the Southern Pacific Railway was providing wagons to transport passengers overland to the undamaged portion of track, from which they would continue on east. Michael hadn't paid much attention to those details, since he knew he would not be going that far, not this time. Not unless he found Fremont, and probably not even then.
This time he and Meiling would part company with the train at Provo. On their own they would ride into the mountains. He aimed to start at the scene of the wreckage, at the bottom of that gorge he had since learned was called Fretts Canyon; he intended to go at last where his lack of identification
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