A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  The grotesque businessman in the adjoining seat stirred from his deep slumber, no longer lulled by the soothing rock of the train’s path down its track. An eye opened to examine the cause for the cessation of his dreams, and unimpressed with the selection of additional fares, it shut once more, accompanied by a snort from his nostrils.

  “Never knew the train was this popular,” he commented, his eyes still staring at the back of their own lids.

  Oh, we are to converse now? Tempted to ignore the man, Yunus decided the less conspicuous action was to speak when spoken to. “Yes, it seems many people like to use it.” He didn’t try hiding his accent. He found most people pretended to ignore his obvious fresh-off-the-boat nature, too nervous about being given a troubling label.

  Sure enough, the businessman kept up his end of the dialogue without hesitation. “I’ve never ridden before. Prefer to fly, but the company decided to save a few bucks by sending us on these for closer trips.” The man punctuated his anecdote with swear words and a deep inhale and exhale that threatened to pop the buttons of his large jacket. “How about you, Muhammad? Ever take the train much?”

  The man’s use of what he surely meant as a slur took Yunus aback. He wasn’t offended. On the contrary, he appreciated the man’s refusal to be henpecked by a sensitive society. If referring to a stranger by the name of a respected prophet was the worst the man could do, Yunus was guaranteed a blessed and happy life. Real hatred and intolerance looked like the barrel of a gun pressed against your child’s temple.

  Still, he couldn’t let it rest. “My name is Yunus. And yes, I have traveled by train much in my home country of Turkey.”

  “Turkey!” Both of the man’s eyes shot open, and a wide smile spread across his lips. “Antalya is beautiful. Great food. Oh, and sorry about the name. I thought I would take a shot in the dark since it seems pretty popular among folks from that part of the world.” The man started laughing. “I once went on a factory tour in Yemen with three different guys, all named Muhammad. I was so confused. I’m sure you could imagine.”

  Yunus could learn to enjoy this man. Such a shame the conversation came so late into his journey. And yet the man might serve useful before its end. “No apology necessary. It sounds like you travel all over the world.”

  “Used to. Different company. Now the most exotic place I get to see is Richmond. What part of Turkey are you from?”

  “Mardin.”

  “That’s western Turkey, right? Never made it that far inland.”

  “The capital is a wonderful city to visit, but I would not recommend much of the remaining province.”

  “I hear you, brother. Can’t recommend much of Virginia either.”

  The doors to the car closed, the last of those boarding now seated, and the train started its slow climb to cruising speed. Yunus turned his face back to the window to watch the green landscape blend together in a painting of blurred motion.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “I rather like it here.”

  Cross retrieved his car from the garage and maneuvered his way through the winding streets to Highway 60. He spotted Main Street Station two blocks away but took a sharp right on Fifteenth Street and snatched the first available street-side parking spot across from a franchised sports bar.

  Out of the car, the bright sun felt warm but not hot. A steady stream of cars ran back and forth along the street, but Cross saw few pedestrians traversing the sidewalks. He pressed his sunglasses into the bridge of his nose and kept his pace brisk on his way back to the intersection of Fifteenth Street and the highway. At the corner, he paused to survey his path to the front of the station.

  The wide sidewalk opposite him hosted few places to hide the body of a full-grown man. The towering overpass of Interstate 95 cutting across the sky above the road did concern him. With the sun overhead, the black shadow of the bridge fell like a cloak over the area just in front of Main Street Station, a great assist to anyone wishing to stand unnoticed behind a concrete pier.

  A woman, older with tattered clothing, waddled along farther up the opposite sidewalk. An African American man wearing insulated coveralls ran across the street and disappeared into an adjacent parking lot. No bystanders near the station, that he could tell.

  He trekked down the sidewalk, keeping note of any movement in and around the entrance to the station. A freight train sat parked on its own bridge running parallel to the interstate overpass, the clearance between the two bridges just enough for a boxcar to squeak by.

  Cross passed under the bridges and came to a stop in line with the wide staircase cut between two walls built out of massive concrete blocks. The station’s beautiful French Renaissance architecture– inspired brick facade was considered a monument to the city’s rich history. The building was sliced into three layers with a white stone foundation at the bottom, an orange brick middle layer, and a tall roof tiled in red clay.

  The clock tower attached to its left, the distinguishing feature of the station, read twelve fifty-three hours. If on schedule, the train would arrive in nine minutes. Cross evaluated his limited options.

  The general public used the front entrance as their primary way in and out of the station. He could remain outside the building and examine the arriving passengers as they walked into the sunlight.

  What about the other exits? The mark could just as easily slip away undetected. He had to be inside for the best vantage point if he wanted to put an eye on each and every passenger. Just one problem: it would be claustrophobic inside. Not much room for a quick escape should the ex–George Carson bring friends.

  It was a chance worth taking. Cross waited for a passing sedan, then stepped off the sidewalk and into the street. He trotted to the stairs and climbed them one at a time. No need alerting a possible rooftop sniper, though if there was one, Cross became a confirmed target the minute he stepped into the street.

  He walked through a set of double doors into the bare lobby. The guard desk ahead appeared vacant. Amber light from overhead fixtures bounced off the shiny linoleum floor and collided with white engaged columns framing an ascending set of stairs to his right.

  Removing his sunglasses, Cross scaled the stairs to the second-floor ballroom, a beautiful open space lined by tall marble columns. Black café tables for two, three, or four patrons sat irregularly throughout the room. To his left, light filtered through high windows placed just above four sets of double doors leading to a balcony overlooking the street below.

  Matching doors to his right led to a waiting area adjacent to the ballroom. Voices echoed through the chamber, but he couldn’t spot their owners. Deciding to postpone his entry to the concourse, Cross edged his way around the right-hand corner of the staircase and explored a side area off the hall.

  On instinct he peeked through a set of window blinds and spotted an approaching group of four men wearing shades, the curly crops of hair bouncing in rhythm with each step toward the station. One wore a compression sleeve wrapped around his right elbow and walked with a hobble, favoring his left leg.

  His friend from the train. Cross beat them there.

  Thinking quickly, he snapped off the lengthy lift cord from the blinds and slid over to a balcony exit. He waited for the men to cross the street before cracking the door and tying the lift cord to an exterior café table.

  He left the balcony door ajar and moved back through the ballroom and into the waiting area. It was divinely crowded, as crowded as the small station could ever hope to be. Cross bummed a copy of the Richmond Times Dispatch from an anxious elderly gentleman.

  Taking a seat near a single mother of two, Cross opened the paper full to cover his face as the gang of suspects landed at the top of the stairs and worked their way into the concourse, heads swaying in suspicious gazes about the room.

  Cross bent a corner of the newspaper at a slight angle, catching a glimpse of the men as they separated and stationed themselves at various means of egress. He couldn’t tell if they’d identified him
or just acted according to training.

  The clock on the tower above the roof signaled the arrival of thirteen hundred hours, and a sharp train whistle answered its call. The 79 Carolinian was two minutes early.

  The concourse came alive as passengers gathered bags and bid farewell to loved ones. An exodus to the platform drove a majority of the crowd out of the waiting area. Peering over the newspaper, Cross spotted two of the four men join the celebration of the train’s arrival outside.

  He dared not search for the other two and compromise his position, so he let the blurry black-and-white text of the newspaper cover three-fourths of his vision while keeping his focus on the exit from the platform. A handful of employees assisted with baggage, families exchanged hugs and kisses, and first-time travelers eyed the silver bullet with trepidation.

  Those arriving swapped places with those leaving. College-age students toted backpacks and continued lively conversation started on the train. Mothers assisted toddlers through the large doors. Passenger after passenger disembarked and marched through the waiting area to the stairs.

  Through process of elimination, Cross checked off each person as they passed through the open doorway into the ballroom. Mothers and toddlers made unlikely identity thieves. Loud groups served as great cover for someone wanting to be ignored, but Cross suspected his target to be an older man with West Asian features.

  A rotund businessman squeezed through the door from the platform and thundered across the concourse, his hand waving in an excited fashion and his voice carrying around the room and back. He said something about a coffee-rubbed hamburger at a nearby restaurant.

  Amused, Cross lowered the newspaper a hint more and watched as the man guided a companion toward the staircase. The businessman’s enormous width made it difficult to see the recipient of his eatery sales pitch.

  The paper dropped another inch, Cross concentrating on the pair. Just as they turned the corner to pass under the entryway, the overweight orator stepped in front and presented Cross with an unobstructed view of the man he instinctively knew to be masquerading as George Carson.

  Sun-beaten skin only accentuated the wrinkles of age, and a dark mustache under his flat nose and peaked nostrils hid his upper lip. Unchecked beard growth cupped his chin, and unruly gray hair forced its way from beneath a short bill cap.

  The suspect turned his neck as he followed the businessman, and for a moment Cross thought they made eye contact. The man’s eyes looked past him though, and an imperceptible nod at an unseen ally confirmed Cross’s suspicions.

  Visual confirmation of his identity thief. Now he waited for the others to leave.

  The two men monitoring the platform followed a group of young women out of the waiting area, and Cross sensed movement from behind his position. The second pair of lookouts entered his peripheral and joined the final wave of passengers and loved ones heading for the exit.

  Cross slipped his sunglasses back on and folded the newspaper into a tight cylinder. He stood from his seat and slipped to the rear of the pack. They passed through the doorway and into the ballroom. The mass of bodies accumulating at the top of the stairs slowed their progress, until Cross came to a standstill and waited for his turn to descend.

  A door to his immediate left swung open in a sudden burst of movement, catching him off guard. He looked up to lock eyes with one of the men from the welcoming party exiting the bathroom. Recognition sprang into the man’s eyes as they opened wide, and his mouth dropped against his squat neck.

  “Onu var!” the man shouted.

  His partner took his foot off the top step and shot a confused glance behind him.

  Cross didn’t wait for the pieces to fall into place. He shoved the first man back into the bathroom door and took off for the balcony exit. The second man lunged, but a swipe at his ear with the rolled-up newspaper stunned him long enough for Cross to slip by.

  Behind him pedestrians screamed as shouting erupted from farther down the stairwell, and a commotion filled the space. Cross lowered his shoulder and burst through the door and onto the balcony. He snatched the window blind lift cord bundled on the ground and looked back to see all four men charging the door at the same time.

  Without hesitation, Cross took a running leap over the rail of the balcony, plummeting toward the concrete steps below.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CROSS ARCHED AWAY from the balcony, holding the coil snug in his hand. Gravity pulled him downward, and the cord tightened. The café table fought valiantly against his weight but lost the battle and flipped on its side as the cord dragged it toward the railing.

  He looked up and saw the legs of the table smash against the rail and hold like a grappling hook. He let go of the coil and loosened his grip on the line, rappelling the length of cord at a harrowing but survivable pace. His palms burned as he slowed himself to a stop twelve inches above the ground, his body swaying between an astonished group of commuters.

  He let go of the lift cord and dropped to his feet. The men on the balcony above stared in disbelief over the rail. One mouthed what was most likely an oath and swatted at the other. They disappeared back into the second level of the station.

  Cross didn’t wait around for them to join him on ground level. He ran down the steps and into the busy street, dodging an irate delivery van by a narrow margin. Just four yards from the intersection of Fifteenth Street, he heard the angry clapping of boots against pavement behind him.

  Rounding the corner, Cross dug his hand into his pocket and pressed the automatic ignition on the keyless remote of his car. Just ahead, the echo of the engine roar faded into a soft purr as the car greeted his arrival.

  He made it to the car and opened the door. Before he got in, Cross took one look back at the intersection and saw only one pursuer running full speed in his direction. He slipped into the seat, shut the door, put the car into gear, and peeled from the parking spot.

  In the rearview mirror, he saw a black van tear across the intersection, brake to stop, and pick up the man before continuing its pursuit down the street.

  After a right turn onto Dock Street, Cross banked hard left and the luxury car shot across the median and onto an exit ramp for Hull Street. He swerved to prevent a head-on collision with an SUV, then jerked the wheel again to keep from becoming a permanent fixture of a brick retaining wall.

  The car barreled through the short ramp and two lanes of oncoming traffic before slicing between a pickup truck and a coupe into an appropriate lane. Cross laughed and shouted, “Try to follow that!” to no one in particular, beads of sweat dripping from his temples, his heart pumping faster than the engine’s pistons.

  That was too close. But it worked. The flow of the interchange blocked the black van, buying Cross enough space to lead them away from the city, and Christine, without trouble. As if to celebrate, the annoying electronic ringer on his phone announced an inbound call from his jean pocket.

  Cross slipped the phone from his pocket and answered without studying the incoming number. “Hello?” He balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder, then returned his hands to the two and ten position on the wheel.

  “Hello, Pastor Cross.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Who is this?” came the confused reply. “It’s Barbara Templeton.”

  Cross’s focus shifted from the mirror to the road. His hands tightened around the steering wheel, and he forced his brain to realign to pastoral mode. Harnessing his focus toward being relational with members of the church meant making a mental disconnect with ingrained training. The information flooded his mind and pressed against the backs of his eyeballs. Barbara Templeton. Knitting. Green bean casserole.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed. “Mrs. Templeton, of course. Sorry about that. I’m actually in the car and wasn’t thinking when I picked up.”

  “You worried me there, Pastor. After yesterday morning’s service, I was convinced you might be suffering from something just awful. A virus, kidney stone, maybe even a
n aneurysm.”

  “I think you would have known if I was having an aneurysm, but I appreciate the concern.” Cross checked the rearview mirror but couldn’t remember what to look for.

  “I had an uncle who died of an aneurysm back in 1983. Of course, this was in Jonesborough, Tennessee, when I was closer to your age.”

  A black van. That was what it was.

  Mrs. Templeton continued, “Poor man lost his vision, couldn’t stand up, said his head felt like it was going to explode. Very sad. Lord took him though, and now he’s singing praises alongside the heavenly hosts.”

  “I’m sorry to hear.” No sign of the van. Maybe his plan hadn’t worked.

  “Oh, don’t mind it much anymore. It was his time for sure. Sweet man when he was alive. Loved to garden. He would grow the biggest crop of …”

  Cross lost attention in the conversation as he crossed over the James River and left the skyline of Richmond in his wake. He glanced in his mirrors again but still failed to spot the van. He couldn’t be the mouse to their cat if he managed to lose them so quickly. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and muttered, “Come on … come on.”

  “Excuse me?” replied Mrs. Templeton.

  “I’m sorry. I’m in the car and I’m …”

  “Distracted, I know. You’ve said that already. You know, it’s not safe to be on your phone if you’re driving a car.”

  No kidding, thought Cross, hoping she would volunteer to call back another time.

  “You need one of those cars with the speaker in it that connects to your phone. Blue monkey. Or blue tower.”

  “Bluetooth.”

  “That’s it. What an odd name.”