The younger man said, "Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Dennis?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She could not hear the rest of the conversation. She did not want to hear the rest of the conversation.
Trevor took a list from his pocket, checked the contents of the bag against the list, and put the bag in his pocket. "It's all here, Tom."
"We're not permitted to give out any information," Trevor replied. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and to have an attorney present before you say anything. Anything you say now may be used as evidence against you. Do you undersand?"
Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to think about it any further. She felt hot tears, brush her cheeks.
In a moment they returned to the compartment. The older man seemed angry. "All right," he said. "We're not cuffing you. We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment. Is that clear?"
The countryside sped by, flashing vignettes briefly framed by the window, but Tracy was unaware of the scenery. She sat there, paralyzed by fear. There was a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the sounds of the train. She would get no second chance. She was a convicted felon. They would give her the maximum sentence, and this time there would be no warden's daughter to rescue, there would be nothing but the deadly
Monster Beats Studio, endless years of prison facing her. And the Big Berthas. How had they caught her? The only person who knew about the robbery was Conrad Morgan, and he could have no possible reason to turn her and the jewelry over to the FBI. Possibly some clerk in his store had learned of the plan and tipped off the police. But how it happened made no difference. She had been caught. At the next stop she would be on her way to prison again. There would be a preliminary hearing and then the trial, and then....
"I know, but still---"
Tom Bowers said, "I'm sorry about this. I mean, I know about your background, and I'm really sorry."
Her answer was a whispered, "Yes."
The older man held out a pair of handcuffs to Tracy. "Hold ijut your wrists, please."
Tracy felt her heart twisting in agony. She remembered the airport in New Orleans when they had handcuffed her, the staring faces. "Please! Do you--- do you have to do that?"
The agents were outside in the corridor talking to the conductor. Bowers pointed to Tracy and said something she could not hear. The conductor nodded. Bowers closed the door of the compartment, and to Tracy, it was like a cell door slamming.
"For Christ's sake," the older man said, "this isn't a social visit."
"How--- how did you find out?" Tracy asked miserably.
"When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have..."
"That's nothing to what she's going to..."
Tracy nodded, too miserable to speak.
The younger man
wholesale marlboro cigarettes, Tom Bowers, gave her a sympathetic shrug, as though to say, "I wish there was something more I could do."
"For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away...."
Dennis Trevor shrugged. "Okay."
Trevor was at her suitcase, opening it. It was useless to try to stop him. Tracy watched as he reached inside and pulled out the chamois bag. He opened it, looked at his partner
good luck (88), and nodded. Tracy sank down onto the seat
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There was nothing anyone could do. Not now. It was too late. She had been caught red-handed. Somehow the police had traced her and informed the FBI.
It was not until the Amtrak train pulled out of Pennsylvania Station that Tracy began to relax. At every second she had expected a heavy hand to grip her shoulder, a voice to say, "You're under arrest."
The two men stepped outside into the corridor. Tracy sat there, dazed, filled with despair. She could hear snatches of their conversation.
"Come on. Give her a break. She's embarrassed enough, and..."
life is hard (6)
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