Love and Terror on the 5:58

On November 27, 2002, a Metro-North commuter train left New Haven, Connecticut, at 5:58 a.m., bound for Grand Central Terminal. Its scheduled arrival in New York was 7:39 a.m. This is what happened that morning.

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Karen Rizzini DiFalcone, a marketing administrator for an insurance broker on West 57th Street, boarded the train at the second stop, Milford, at 6:08 a.m. She shrugged off her heavy tan coat, with a fox-fur collar, and sat on a seat facing forward. She had ridden the train for six months, since she and her husband – Michael DiFalcone, an associate professor at Yale Medical school – traded a Queens apartment for a beachfront suburban condo.

“It’s so cold for November,” thought Karen as she fanned her black hair against the seat’s purplish vinyl. “The heat won’t get cranked until Bridgeport.” She closed her eyes. Twenty people were scattered through the car, a lot for an early train. As the train clanked west through the darkness, her mind drifted.

“Tomorrow – Thanksgiving. Our first as a married couple,” thought Karen. Her sister Rita with husband and kids were coming from Providence Wednesday night. Before they arrived, she and Mike would stuff the turkey, chop the vegetables, set the table, and take a deep breath. And make Thanksgiving love.

“Mike, our own place, with all this room! I love it,” cooed Karen as she prepared a pumpkin pie shell. “And I love you.”

“WHAT?” yelled Mike over the vacuum’s whine. He flicked the power switch with his shoe. The sudden quiet was jolting, as if the off-white carpets swallowed all noise.

“I said I love our new place, and I love you,” she called. “And I love having Thanksgiving with you and not having a gazillion people running around an apartment.”

Mike walked into the kitchen. Shiny appliances gleamed in the soft light. A microwave whirred. Working at the white-topped center island, Karen nudged the crust into the corners of the pie pan. She wore a baggy SUNY-Stony Brook jogging suit – “my cooking clothes,” she called them. Stepping behind her, Mike tried to focus on the pie pan. They’d been working for hours. Like, enough housework, he thought.

“Nice pie crust,” he said, wondering what Karen wanted to hear. Holiday preparations, he knew, were always a big deal for women, so he wanted to say and do the right things.

“I’m just about done,” said Karen. “I’ll put it in the fridge to set over night and we can put the batter in tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’m done with the vacuum.”

“Hmm, so I’m done and you’re done. That’s nice,” said Karen. She looked over at Mike. He stood there, rocking slightly on his heels. “Did I spill some flour on my cheek?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me wipe it off,” said Mike. He dusted her cheek with his hands, then pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Uh-oh, I see some more flour. Better get that off, too,” he said, a little too seriously. He moved closer to her neck, tan beneath her pinned-up hair. “Yep, there’s some.” He flicked his fingertips over the warm skin. With a great show he dusted his hand against his pants. “There. Can’t have stray flour all over the place. You know, Karen, a recent Yale study found that flour is an aphrodisiac, right up there with the olive oil our grandparents used so effectively in Sicily.”

“That so?” she asked, catching the mock-serious tone in his voice. He had sidled closer to her, his khaki pants leg pressing against her jogging pants. She felt his heat, the hardness of his thigh and calf muscles, through the fabric.”

“Gee, you Yalies study the most interesting things.” With a quick move she flicked a pinch of flour against her throat. “Oh dear, I just got some on my throat. Could you get that off, too? Pleeease?”

“Let Dr. Mike take a look.” He turned her to face him. “Yep, flour right there.” He bent slightly and kissed her neck. Karen leaned her head back. “I’d better keep checking.” He pulled the sweatshirt’s collar, noticing she had no bra on. “Jesus, everywhere I look, more and more flour. Girlfriend, how’d you get so messy?” Mike kissed her shoulderblade, with one hand snaking under the sweatshirt to cup a warm, freeswinging breast. The other cupped her rump through her sweatpants.

“I bet you got a lot of flour on you in that chemistry research lab today,” said Karen. Her eyes closed, she reached out and unzipped Mike’s pants. Her manicured hand stroked Mike’s cock through his underwear. “Flour. I can feel its magic impact. I don’t even have to look,” she said in a throaty voice.

“Maybe you should look,” gulped Mike, squeezing her ass and boob.

“You’re right, I’d better do a visual inspection to be on the safe side.” Pulling a folding step stool from under a counter, Karen sat down on it in front of Mike. Her head was at crotch level. In a flash she eased Mike’s hardening cock out of the Dockers and eyed it critically. Her red-tipped nail traced its length from base to tip. “Covered in flour, just as I suspected. Time for an emergency floursuckectomy. They taught you about that in medical school, didn’t they, Mike?” she said.

“Uh, yeah, all the time,” said Mike, his head spinning from the speed of their leap to lust.

And then . . .

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Karen remembered nothing else. She fell asleep as the train pulled into Stratford, the next stop. The cold of the train’s window felt soothing against her cheek. It was 6:13 a.m.

“Please put your coats and cases in the overhead racks,” squawked the conductor over the intercom. “We’re one car short this morning and it’s the day before Thanksgiving. We’ll need all the seats we’ve got. Thank you for your cooperation.”

FBI Special Agent Jessica Chou rocked her briefcase between her feet. She looked down the platform straining to sense the train approaching Stratford from Milford. The platform was cold and crowded. Pre-holiday impatience rippled through the commuters anxious to get on, get to the office, and leave as early as possible. Family and football and turkey filled their thoughts; nobody was noticing odd packages or out-of-place passengers. The five frantic weeks of holidays were starting, for God’s sake. Who had time to think about less pleasant things?

Jessica pushed through the doors of the third car from the front when the train reached Stratford. With a sweet smile she eased between two businessmen with their faces buried in the Wall Street Journal. Jessica stood on tiptoe, stretching to put her trench coat on the rack, her breasts floating like apples on a tree before one of the businessmen. Jessica sensed, rather than saw, his glance appraise her lithe, silk-bloused figure. Let him look, she thought.

According to intelligence reports, the party would start in Bridgeport, right here in the third car from the front. She tapped a message on her BlackBerry to a beefy young man one car up, Special Agent Harris Birdwell, a former linebacker at the University of Texas. He was talking football with another big guy, Special Agent Armando Ruiz. “I’m on,” Chou wrote to Birdwell. “Target due here soon?

Birdwell wrote back, “On the Bridgeport platform now, position as expected.”

“I’ll confirm when he boards.”

A blue-collar crowd stepped on when the train reached Bridgeport at 6:19 a.m.; electricians, maintenance workers, nurses. Some would exit for the corporate centers in Stamford, others would head on to Manhattan. The man identified as Abdel Al-Malhouf entered the third car from the front. He carried a black North Face backpack and wore blue jeans with a cell phone on the belt, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater over the shirt with a pocket removed, and a long fleece jacket. He sat down on one of the few single-seat sections of the car, ensuring nobody would sit beside him. Al-Malhouf stuffed the jacket in the overhead rack, removed a thick book on electrical engineering from his backpack and started to read.

Jessica’s casual glance picked up Abdel Al-Malhouf as he entered the car. Looking away, Jessica slipped on her portable stereo headset, then pushed a button, supposedly adjusting the sound level. Then she tapped a message on her BlackBerry to Birdwell, confirming Al-Malhouf boarded and she had him in view. “Three yards and a cloud of dust,” Birdwell told Ruiz, their signal that the target was on the train. Adjusting her headset to pick up reports from other agents, Chou settled back to watch and wait.

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Al-Malhouf’s cellphone chirped. He answered after a single ring. “Yeah, I’m on,” he said quietly. Surveillance had already identified the caller as a person using the name of Akhbar Mohammed. “And I’ve got the pumpkin. You got the turkey? Good. See ya.” He spoke without an accent. He idly turned the pages of the book. His studies did not matter, anymore. A hand slipped, unthinkingly, through the sweater slit that had no pocket underneath. His fingers touched the other belt, the one under the sweater, jolting him. Already he felt himself sweating through the undershirt – not what he wanted. Al-Malhouf concentrated on the book to force himself to calm down.

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“South Norwalk,” said the conductor. Another incoming crowd groaned as they saw the train doors open -- standing room only, at least until some people exited at Stamford. The time was 6:43 a.m.

“The hell I’m going to stand,” thought Daniel Lissner. He squeezed into the undesired but empty corner seat of a foursome of facing seats. From the crammed corner he saw a petite Asian. She combined corporate hardness with soft edges, with bobbed black hair, gorgeous make-up, just the right mix of blush, eyeliner and lipstick to tell Daniel -- as he told himself -- that that’s a woman who enjoys being a girl. If only she’d apply her cosmetics on the train, why, I’d cream in my Eddie Bauers.

Would Laurie Warshaver, waiting for him at Grand Central for their breakfast meeting, look like that? Laurie, who wouldn’t give him the time of day when they Princeton classmates, but now couldn’t wait to see him?

He struggled to think happy thoughts. He looked at the Asian woman again, bopping to headset music. He imagined her in the bed of his new apartment in Norwalk, naked, warm, a sheet flung over her spreading legs, those red lips drifting toward him like balloons. In his reverie, November’s chill pushed them closer together. A Chet Baker jazz CD, with sinuous, fingers-on-her-cunt trumpet melodies, made his heart race.

But the dream faded as the train clanked along. The real warm body vanished with the separation from his wife Rebecca, six months earlier, and no body filled the void. Two decades earlier, he fantasized that Laurie would fill his empty heart and bed. Their social circles touched at Princeton -- Hillel, Film Society -- but never intersected like he wanted. Their single date ended abruptly when Laurie ducked a goodnight kiss and put Daniel on the wrong side of a door in Holder Hall (Don’t Holder Hall, he thought bitterly for years). After graduation he stumbled through communications gigs in New York, succeeding despite himself. Laurie raced along the corporate route -- University of Chicago b-school, Procter & Gamble, Enron -- and settled as CFO of a foundation in Philadelphia. They were polite at reunions, where Laurie’s height, busty figure, mop of wavy brown hair and go-get-‘em personality still appealed to Daniel. But he was married, and that was that.

And then that wasn’t that anymore. After his separation a letter came, pleading for volunteers to get the class ready for the upcoming Big Reunion. Laurie was co-chair of reunions committee. Well, why not, he thought when he emailed the president an offer to work on communications. That’s what I do for a living. He would outline his ideas at the officers’ meeting on campus after Thanksgiving.

The call came one morning at his office. “Lissner speaking.”

“Daniel? Hi, it’s Laurie Warshaver.”

His ear burned. “Laurie? This is a nice way to start the day.”

“Well,” she said, skipping a beat to launch well-considered thoughts, “I’m so happy you volunteered to work with us on communications for the reunion. We’ve needed a really good writer like you for years.”

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.” His mind went fuzzy. Laurie had never called him, at Princeton or beyond.

“You’re going to be at the officers' meeting in Princeton?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. The timing’s good. That’s not my custody weekend.”

“That’s nice. I mean, that you can come to the meeting, not that you’re not seeing your daughter. How old is she now? Shayna’s her name, right?”

The surprises kept coming. How could she remember that detail? “Right, Shayna is seven.”

“I remember you pushing her in the stroller at the last reunion. She was adorable. I was sorry to hear about the divorce.”

“We’re all doing OK. I’m getting settled into the apartment. And now I’ve got lots of time for class projects.”

“That’s what I was calling about,” she said brightly. “I’m going to be in New York in a few weeks and I’d love to get together to talk about some of your thoughts before the officers’ meeting.”

“That’s fine.” Breakfast on the 27th, at Grand Central, worked for both. Laurie could stroll over from her room at the Princeton Club, a few blocks away. They agreed to meet at the top of the escalators, by the giant Eastern Lobby newsstand, then walk down a short hallway to Cuchina & Company for breakfast.

“I’m looking forward to catching up with you, Dan,” she said. “Me, too. Laurie. We can reminisce about the good old days of watching Bergman movies at the Film Society.”

“I’ve gone mainstream, I’m afraid,” she laughed. “I’m more a ‘Punch-Drunk Love’ type these days than ‘Wild Strawberries.’”

That evening Daniel read Laurie’s entry in the face book from the last major reunion. There was Laurie, 20 years on, outdoors, with a big but somewhat forced smile, tank top showing toned arms and a swell of East European bosom. Zaftig, the Yiddish word for top-heavy, fit her like a silk teddy. Her essay galloped through her career, plus hiking, social-action committees, and exotic vacations. And also: “I’ve got a Siamese cat named Cho-san that I love. It’s a great life, although I’m still looking for someone special (male human, please!).”

“Male human, hmmm. That’s me, in a generic sense,” thought Daniel as the train plowed toward Stamford. The old attraction rose from an emotional crypt to intrigue and excite him. Resentment from her previous dismissal entwined with his yearning. “You need me for something, so now you want to be my friend,” he grumbled.

Daniel shook his head. Princeton was a long time ago. We’re all older and have mileage on us. Enjoy the breakfast. Maybe she’s got some freelance work from her foundation. He smiled: mutual exploitation. He pulled the “New York Jewish Week” from his briefcase, to scan the personal listings. Looking to his side, he saw a dark haired man in a single seat, scowling, fidget his hands inside his sweater. That wool must be itchy as hell, Daniel thought.

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Abdel Al-Malhouf saw the newspaper the man with the glasses had opened. A Jewish paper, he thought with disgust, a very good reminder of why THIS ACT must be done. The masthead pulsed at him, mocking his beliefs and strengthening his resolve. Put me in a train with a thousand such readers and I will gladly pull the cord, he swore. He hoped the Jew would follow him up the escalator at Grand Central.

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“Stand aside and let them off, we’ll keep the doors open,” the conductor boomed as the train glided into Stamford at 6:53 a.m. “We’re one car short, so it’s gonna be crowded.” Jessica Chou’s headphone crackled with a call from the platform. “We’re lined up with the fourth, right behind you. If the bird flies, we’ve got the net,” she heard. One car up, Birdwell and Ruiz heard the same message. The second team shuffled into place, just faces in the crowd. Ruiz patted his jacket, where his service revolver and handcuffs were ready.

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Karen Rizzini DiFalcone woke with a start at Stamford. She had been sleeping for 20 minutes, lulled by the warmth and deep rumble of train mechanical systems. “The train’s so crowded, even for a holiday,” she thought, yawning. Although 20 people left the car in Stamford, another 30 got on. People jammed into every seat and stood in the aisles, maneuvering in the vestibule for enough space to flip open a cell phone or paper. Some big blue-collar guys moved back on the platform from her car to the one behind. More space there, maybe, she figured. They didn’t seem like regulars on this train. She shrugged. The holidays scrambled schedules. Her ideal schedule called for a quick finish at the office, a slog back to Milford, and a ravenous jump onto Michael before her sister arrived. Far below her jacket, leggings, skirt, and panties, she felt her clit tingle a bit.

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At 7 a.m., Laurie Warshaver critiqued her appearance in room 417 of the Princeton Club of New York. She dressed for a full calendar: grants meetings, a luncheon at the Museum of Modern Art, a chat with the outside auditors on Park Avenue, an afternoon exhibition preview, and finally the Long Island Rail Road to Merrick, Long Island, for Thanksgiving with her mother and, she sighed married siblings.

In the day’s scheme, Daniel was the odd duck -- but an intriguing duck. His nonchalance on the phone hadn’t covered his shock, and her brightness couldn’t black out her nervousness. The force of emotion surprised her. Preparing for breakfast, she thought, “We’ll just talk about the reunion, because Daniel really could pitch in on communications. As the reunion co-chair, I need to speak with him.” Still . . . something made her giddy. She swore off men a year earlier, when she broke up with a married stockbroker. What was I thinking, she kept asking herself. I was so stupid. She pushed the memories away. Then she heard that Daniel -- sweet guy, Jewish, chased her around Princeton but never caught her -- had answered the class plea for volunteers.

She smacked her lips in the mirror. The shading was understated, but noticeable. She drew in the faintest hint of eyeliner -- nice. Before she called Daniel she read his entries in past reunion books. The pages practically bled with his litany of jobs and layoffs, his marriage and fatherhood and . . . that’s where the story ended at the last reunion. She checked around for the latest news from other officers, and learned about the divorce. Laurie had even skimmed the CD of hundreds digital photos from the last reunion. She found a picture of Daniel and Shayna in matching reunion costumes, sharing big smiles and a hug. A dank chill seeped out of a photo of Daniel and his wife Rebecca. Several inches separated them physically, and Laurie pegged the emotional gap as a chasm.

He’s aged well, Laurie told herself as she dabbed Chanel perfume behind an ear. She smiled as her fingertip touched her skin. The perfume wouldn’t be for my auditors’ meeting, would it? So who would it be for? Smoothing her blouse over a slip and bra, she thought, “OK, for Daniel. It’s crazy. I blew him off at Princeton when he was such a love puppy, but we both moved on to other things. Maybe he’s a little more together than I remember. And he’s cute.” She shook her head, sending waves bouncing. “Cute? Come on, Laurie, you’re past 40. Those are kids’ terms. He’s a classmate who can help on a big project. OK, he’s single and Jewish. And straight and smart.” She walked out of the bathroom and looked at herself in a full-length mirror. The Saks Fifth Avenue ensemble fit her figure nicely, she admitted. Professional but feminine, the suit subtly showed she still had the curves she caught Daniel ogling in Firestone Library during their undergraduate years. With the jacket off and no slip there would be nipple bumps -- she could tell when men’s eyes drifted thataway -- but for professional meetings she played always wore the slip and jacket to keep the focus on her agenda, not her boobs. And the reunion was the breakfast’s agenda, not tits and ass. But like a good corporate executive, she knew knew the strategic value of making tactical adjustments in fluid, fast-changing circumstances. Maybe she’d remove the jacket at breakfast.