Julian Vance felt the freezing breath of the Marrow River against the back of his neck.
Twelve inches behind his spine, the open rear stair-well plunged into the foggy void. The Marrow River roared two hundred feet below the chassis, churning against the bridge piers with the sound of grinding boulders. The spray rose in fine, icy needles, settling on the collar of his denim jacket.
Through his left ear, the Littmann stethoscope piped the internal mechanisms of Conductor 00 straight into his skull.
Click-clank... click-clank...
It was the sound of five white nylon cyclometer wheels rotating inside their split-brass housing. The digits sat locked on 99999, trembling with the mechanical tension of an old spring waiting to snap. The nickel coin chute hummed like an empty organ pipe catching the winter wind.
In the sixteen-inch convex mirror thirty feet ahead, the Fare-Box Revenant stood motionless.
His mildewed 1968 greatcoat draped over his massive shoulders like wet sailcloth. The fabric was stiff with thirty years of dried salt and river grease. His left arm remained extended down the center aisle, presenting the transfer slip directly between Julian’s shoulder blades.
Julian stared at the curved acrylic glass.
