Page 63 of With a Vengeance

So said Seamus after he and Anna had formed a plan to bring the people who killed their brothers to justice. His assumption was that if things got out of hand, Anna wouldn’t know how to defend herself.

She let him believe that.

Their first lesson in self-defense took place in the backyard on a sunny June morning. Within two minutes, Anna had brought Seamus to the ground three times.

“Maybe you need to learn how to fight like a woman,” she said as he writhed in pain on the grass.

Her secret, Anna later told him, was that Aunt Retta insisted she learn how to fight. One of the many ways her aunt had tried to toughen her up. For years, she was coached by a former boxer who, on a set of used wrestling mats placed on the ballroom floor in Aunt Retta’s mansion, taught her how to punch, to kick, to knock a gun from a man’s hands into her own. And when Anna once accidentally kicked her instructor between the legs, she learned the number one rule of self-defense.

If all else fails, go for the groin.

Now, in the perfectly appointed first-class dining room of the Philadelphia Phoenix, Anna does just that. Lifting her right leg, she kicks backward. And as her foot slams into Herb Pulaski’s crotch, Anna allows herself a single twinge of satisfaction. Those heels came in handy after all.

Behind her, Herb howls in pain and his arms go slack. Suddenly free, Anna springs away before whirling around to face him. She tries to reach for the knife at her thigh but realizes there’s not enough time. Herb is lunging toward her, pained but angry.

Frantic, Anna grabs the closest object within reach. A plate, which she uses as a makeshift shield when Herb thrusts the knife toward her. The blade clinks off the china before Herb charges at her again.

Watching his ape-like approach, Anna thinks fast. She can’t kill Herb. Not even in self-defense. She can only attempt to disarm him, which she does by flinging the plate at his head. It sails past him and hits the wall, shattering. Still, it makes him duck out of the way, which gives Anna enough time to reach under her dress, wrap her fingers around the hilt of her knife, and yank it from its sheath.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she says, wielding the knife at waist height. “Let’s just talk this through.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Ineedto get off this train.”

There’s a desperate edge to Herb’s voice. He’s scared, Anna realizes. As he should be.

“You know that’s not possible,” she says.

Herb takes a half lunge forward, which Anna counters with a full step backward, slicing the air with her knife.

“I’m begging you,” he says. “I don’t want to be next. That’s the plan, you know.”

Anna takes a backward step, caught off guard. “Plan?”

Herb tries to lunge at her again, but it’s more of a stumble, the knife trembling in his hand. A thick sheen of sweat has broken out across his brow. He swipes at it with his free hand, the motion unsteady.

“Can’t you see what’s happening? The killer is making his way up the train, taking us out room by room. First Judd and then Edith. That means I’m next.” Herb sounds more than scared now. He sounds crazed. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“And I’m not stopping this train,” Anna says.

She shuffles backward as Herb surges forward, ungainly but powerful. He catches up to her in the middle of the car and thrusts his knife toward her in a series of quick jabs.

“Please,” he says, his wheedling voice a far cry from his combative stance. “If you’re worried about me running away, I won’t. I swear. Just stop the train and the police can come and take me straight to the slammer. Just don’t let me die on this train.”

Just like with Edith, a strange sensation comes over Anna. An urge to do harm. She eyes Herb’s throat, wondering how much effort it would take to drive the knife right through it.

“The way you let my brother die on a train?” she says. “The way you let dozens of others do the same?”

Herb gulps, guilty as charged.

“You could have prevented it from happening,” Anna says as they continue to circle each other in the middle of the dining car. “You could have saved his life. All of their lives. But you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Herb says, his voice as weightless as a balloon, like even he knows it’s too late for apologies.

“So you admit you could have stopped it?”

“Yes. And I’ll tell the cops the same thing. Just help me off this train.”

Anna comes closer, less afraid than she was earlier, althoughfear still very much exists. Now, though, she’s scared not of Herb but of what she might do to him. That violent urge remains, coursing through her. Her grip tightens around the knife as she pictures driving it into his stomach.

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