The Controller

by Matt Brolly

  ‘So, what does the guy do? Doesn’t he work?’

  ‘These sorts of people don’t have to work. I’m doing more research but the guy has fingers in everything. Thousands of investments spread throughout every imaginable industry. I started trying to make contact but it’s proving nigh on impossible. I’m being passed from department to department, lawyer to lawyer.’

  ‘So, we don’t even have a location for him?’

  ‘Not yet, Rose, but I’ll get one. The more obvious concern is the link between him and Razinski. I find it impossible to believe that Razinski knew Mallard. I think we may have to face facts that Razinski sent Lynch on a fool’s errand.’

  ‘Maybe but he’s the only link we have now so we have to follow it up. Let me know when you’ve got an address for him. Or, ideally, a meeting arranged.’

  ‘Will do, Boss.’

  McBride went silent and Rose closed her eyes waiting for him to vocalize his thoughts.

  ‘So, what are we going to tell Miller about Lynch?’ he said, eventually.

  ‘Leave that with me,’ said Rose, wondering how she would explain Lynch’s abduction

  ‘Don’t forget to mention the ghost train,’ said McBride.

  ‘Fuck off, McBride,’ said Rose hanging up.

  The train engineer gave her a pinpoint location for the area where the train had stopped. From St Louis, she was taken by helicopter to a stretch of land between Marshall and Texarkana. The area was humid, the only sound the gentle hum of insects and the distant drone of the cars on the interstate.

  Rose twisted her neck, severe fatigue having set in following the helicopter rides. Although it was unlikely she would discover anything worthwhile here, it felt important to attend. A distant part of her hoped she would find Lynch’s burner phone, or a further note from him. She stood by the tracks, picturing the two trains, trying to make sense of the fantastical description of McBride’s so-called ghost rain.

  Rose was joined by Captain Westcott from the local Rangers department. He stood in the background, continually rubbing the back of his head as if he had a skin infection. Westcott oscillated between embarrassment and acute rage that someone had impersonated officers from his department. Rose felt for the man, but the last thing she needed was another head of department to worry about.

  ‘What is the normal procedure? The train driver knows when you’re due to stop?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. We liaise with the National Operations Centre, the NOC, in Fort Worth. They notify the engineer to stop the train at a specific location. We have to liaise with the NOC for safety reasons. We only do it every few months.’

  ‘We’ve checked with the NOC and no call was made.’

  ‘Apparently not, Ma’am.’

  ‘Could anyone from your department get straight through to the driver?’

  Westcott lowered his eyes. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Okay, when your men enter the train what is the procedure?’

  ‘The train guards will sometimes ask for ID but rarely. Why would they try to stop two armed Rangers?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Do you think anyone from your side could have tipped the assailants off?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Now listen here, Missy.’

  ‘Save it,’ said Rose, holding up her hand. ‘You won’t be the only force to have suffered the effects of an insider, if we understand each other.’

  Westcott grunted. ‘We have a few bad apples, but I refuse to believe any of them would be prepared to stoop this low.’

  There was the doubt in the Ranger’s eyes, as if he was appreciating the full extent of the day’s events for the first time. Rose showed him images of the Railroad tattoos on her phone. ‘You need to check your whole team, including civilians, for this. With immediate effect.’

  ‘And if we find anything?’

  ‘Treat with extreme caution and let me know.’

  36

  It was close to midnight by the time Rose reached her hotel room in Marshall. The transient nature of her job didn’t usually bother her but the constant change of scenery had been getting her down of late. The interior of the various hotel rooms she found herself in over the years had blurred into one. As she switched on the television set and poured herself a miniscule shot of gin from the mini-bar, she realized she could be anywhere in the country.

  The search for an informer within the Rangers had so far proved unsuccessful. Captain Westcott was proving to be a far from willing partner, which had prompted her to start an investigation into the man himself.

  Rose didn’t expect much. Whatever organization they were dealing with was clearly at least two steps ahead of them. They wouldn’t be so unprofessional as to leave one of their own in danger.

  Somehow, they’d managed to kidnap Lynch in broad daylight.

  McBride’s ghost train was beginning to appear to be just that. So far, all enquiries had turned up blank. The NOC had no record of the second train and claimed it would be impossible for such a train to go undetected. Yet Rose had over a hundred passengers who swore they’d seen this second train, including the engineer on the Texas Eagle.

  Rose collapsed on the armchair and tried to focus on the banalities being played out on the television screen. The task proved impossible. Every few minutes her attention would turn to her iPad and the installed app tracking Lynch’s whereabouts. She remembered the adage that a watched phone never rang but still her heart skipped a beat every time she glanced at the screen. The two tracking devices were inactive red dots on the screen, the last known coordinates at the location where Lynch was taken. The device Lynch activated had worked for four minutes and twenty-eight seconds. Long enough for Lynch to have been taken from the train and for the device to have been destroyed. It was the obvious explanation but not the only one. It was possible to mask GPS signals and for Lynch to still have either device on his person. Rose would be notified if either device was reactivated but still couldn’t look away from the screen.

  With a sigh Rose pushed herself up and walked to the mini bar. She glanced through the contents, satisfied there was enough alcohol within to send her to oblivion. She picked up a second small bottle of gin, the glass cold on her skin, and weighed it in her hands. She rarely gave in to such instincts but was so overwhelmed with exhaustion that it felt like a logical move. She was about to unscrew the top when the sound of her mobile phone rescued her.

  Abigail’s name flashed on the screen like a danger warning. Guilt gnawed at Rose as she considered not answering. Not because she didn’t want to speak to her sister, but because she feared what she had to say. She answered on the fifth ring. ‘Hi Abi,’ she said, trying to hide the mounting emotion in her voice.

  Her sister didn’t answer.

  ‘Abi?’ said Rose, forcing her phone against her ear, a sense of desperation in her voice.

  ‘Abi,’ she repeated, a panic she wasn’t used to spreading through her body, her normal rational mind destroyed by the silence on the other side of the line.

  From nowhere, a blast of sound reached her followed by the sound of her sister crying.

  ‘Oh, Abi, you scared me,’ said Rose, vaguely aware that she too was crying. ‘What’s happened?’

  Rose allowed her sister time. She listened to her crying, desperate to comfort her younger sibling but not knowing how. Eventually she cried herself out and between sobs said, ‘It’s Mum. They’re considering turning off her life support machine.’

  Phone in hand, Rose collapsed back on the armchair once more. She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. The news was not surprising - she’d been expecting the call ever since she’d left Abigail at the hospital - but part of her thought this day would never come. Her subconscious hope had been that life at the hospital could continue without her, that if she didn’t worry too much than the worst couldn’t happen, that her mother would never die.

  ‘Sandra? You still there?’

  ‘Sorry, Abi. I…’

  ‘You don’t
need to say anything.’

  ‘What exactly did they say?’

  ‘She’s not coming back, Rose,’ said Abi, with a certainty that alarmed Rose.

  ‘Is there no one else we can speak to. A second opinion.’

  ‘It’s time, Sandra. They’re going to run some more tests over the next few days but I can tell it’s just a formality. She’s not responding to anything, and with her condition…’

  Rose didn’t want to argue. Abigail was the one who’d looked after her mother over the last few years and she respected her judgment. They spent the next hour reminiscing, sharing tales. The trips they’d made as young girls to the coast, the scent of their mother’s only perfume as she’d held them close. Rose recounted the one and only time her mother had got drunk in their presence. Rose had been nineteen at the time and they’d been celebrating their mother’s birthday. Sad laughter came from both of them as they recalled her swearing at the waiter at a local restaurant who she’d believed had given her the wrong drink.

  ‘What was it she called him again?’ said Rose.

  ‘A bucking fastard.’

  Rose’s laughter turned once again to tears as the enormity of losing her mother rushed her once more. ‘When are they going to do it?’ she said.

  ‘It’s our decision. We need to sign the consent forms. I’ll let you know, Sandra,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this alone, Abi. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better sister…Or daughter.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sandra. You know I love you.’

  Rose struggled to speak. ‘I love you too, Abi,’ she said eventually, her voice choked with tears.

  Unable to sleep, Rose spent the rest of the evening searching for details on Mallard. McBride had sent over Lynch’s notes. As McBride suggested, Mallard was something of an enigma. She was unable to find any further photos of the man save the one from twenty years ago. He’d been a handsome man then, a strong jawline and an effortless style that was an obvious by-product of his extreme wealth. The picture had been taken with a high-powered lens, Mallard leaving an apartment block in New York seemingly unaware someone was photographing him. Then nothing.

  There was no credit for the photograph and Rose wondered why and how it had been taken. McBride’s report was piecemeal. Wilberforce Mallard The Sixth was the sole heir of the Mallard fortune and appeared to have no immediate or extended family. She scrolled through pages and pages of company names where it was believed Mallard had some sort of interest. It was impossible to know for sure without trying to audit him. Such a procedure would take an age, and it was unlikely they would be given permission to audit the man. All they had to go on was Lynch’s frantic text, and the dying word of Razinski.

  Rose was about to give in for the night when she spotted a name she remembered. One of Mallard’s companies had a controlling interest in Hanning Industries. The name sounded familiar. Rose searched through her notes confirming that Edward Gunn, Razinski’s first victim, had been working for the company at the time of his death.

  She called McBride.

  ‘You do know what time it is, don’t you?’ said McBride.

  ‘You were asleep, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘We should go tomorrow,’ said Rose, ignoring McBride who sounded like he’d failed to resist the temptation of his own mini-bar.

  ‘You’ve seen the list of companies Mallard has an interest in?’

  ‘Yes, but this is the first one which links Mallard and Gunn, and thus Razinski.’

  ‘Thus?’

  ‘Fuck off, McBride. I’ll see you back in San Antonio first thing.’

  37

  Lynch’s uneasy sleep was punctuated with images and senses rather than dreams. He was descending the world surrounding him insubstantial, colored in fiery shades, to the extent it was almost liquid.

  It was a relief to wake to find he was still sitting on a leather sofa. He blinked open his heavy eyes and realized he was no longer on a train. He was in a large open space, the curved walls and ceiling of which were painted white and interspersed with numerous spotlights lighting the area to an unnatural degree. The interior gave the place a dated futuristic feel. It reminded Lynch of sci-fi movies he’d watched in the eighties, the clean white surfaces suggesting a purity and hospital-like cleanliness, the effect of which was destroyed by the five armed guards dotting around the room dressed head to toe in black.

  Lynch tried to move, remembering the drink he’d refused on the train that had probably been fed into his system. It was only then that he realized he was no longer handcuffed; he tried to stand up, only for his legs to betray him. Whatever poison they’d forced into him was still travelling through his bloodstream. His limbs were heavy and ineffectual as if he was drunk or severely hung-over. His head pounded and he reached for the tenderness on his skull where the fake Ranger had struck him. Falling back down on the sofa, he studied the armed guards searching for the obese Ranger but the guards were all new to him, each lean and poised for movement.

  Ghost-like, the woman from the train appeared next to him. ‘Rest, Mr Lynch,’ she cooed.

  Lynch had little option but to take her advice allowing the softness of the leather to envelop him, the material adjusting to the shape and movement of his body as if it was made just for him. ‘Where am I?’ he said, surprised by his rasping voice.

  ‘Here, drink this,’ said the woman, as picture-perfect as the last time he’d seen her.

  Before him was an antique china tea set, steam billowing through the spout of a pot painted with elaborate swirls depicting the ancient east. ‘You must think I’m stupid,’ he said.

  ‘Please accept my sincere apologies for what transpired on the train. The guard who struck you has been dealt with.’

  Lynch wondered what the full extent of ‘dealt with’ meant. ‘I don’t care about that coward’s sucker punch. I was thinking more of the poison you forced down my throat.’

  ‘A mere sedative,’ said the woman, with a sympathetic look. ‘There is nothing but hot sweet tea in this pot. May I?’ she said, filling his cup.

  A sweet aroma filled the room. Lynch failed to place the smell, something reminiscent of wild flowers and cinnamon. The woman filled a second cup and, savoring the aroma, drank the liquid. ‘If we’d wanted to drug you we could have done it at any time. Please, Mr Lynch, for me.’

  The cadence of the woman’s speech reminded him of the telephone conversations he’d had with the man he believed to be the Controller. She spoke as if every word was considered, the delivery slow and deliberate. He wasn’t convinced by the display of her taking the tea but her words made sense. Why drug him again when they could have upped his dose at any time?

  He picked up the cup noticing hints of other smells from the hot liquid, cinnamon and the faintest scent of ginger. If he’d been alone with the woman he would have thrown the tea in her face and followed the action by bringing the china cup hard down on her head, but the armed guards were watching. The other option would be to take the woman captive but he imagined her life was expendable. Instead, he continued drinking surprised at how dehydrated he’d become and studied the area biding his time to strike.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked the woman, who’d sat down next to him.

  ‘Somewhere special,’ she said, her face painted with a fixed smile.

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘You can call me Clarissa.’

  ‘Clarissa. Are you one of them, or are you a prisoner too?’

  Lynch studied Clarissa’s face as she failed to answer. Behind her mask of beauty, he noticed the fear in her eyes. Her pupils were still diluted which suggested she was drugged, though her speech and demeanor were normal. She remained focused on him, not once glancing at the guards dotted around the circular room. ‘All will become clear,’ she said eventually, as if the response had just been fed to her in an earpiece.

  Lynch reminded himself that these were the pe
ople who’d taken his son, who were responsible for the thousands of people who’d vanished by the tracks and for the mass slaughter at the compound. Could Clarissa really be one of them? Would the removal of her clothes reveal hidden track tattoos like the others? ‘Did you know Razinski?’ he said, trying to surprise her into revealing something.

  ‘All will become clear,’ she said, repeating her new mantra.

  ‘What about Mallard?’

  Clarissa rose from her seat with a silent grace. ‘Please, drink your tea. Someone will be with you shortly,’ she said, gliding across the circular room and exiting through a set of sliding doors integrated into the curved walls.

  At no time did any of the guards change focus as she made her exit. Lynch was impressed by their professionalism. He wanted to check that the tracker device was still inside the hem of his jeans but it was impossible without drawing attention from the men. He hoped that somewhere Sandra Rose was reading his signal and tracking his location. It was possible he’d inadvertently infiltrated the lair of the phantom organization but he wasn’t about to take that as granted. The Railroad had avoided detection for so long that it was highly unlikely they would let their guard down so easily.

  He drank more tea and waited. He thought about Sally and Rob, about Rose and Daniel. After all these years of trying to find Daniel he was on the threshold. So why did he feel deflated?

  He was distracted from his thoughts by the opening of the sliding doors through which a procession of people entered. The first was a heavily-muscled man with long blond hair. He was wearing a wife beater and every inch of the visible skin on his arms and neck was decorated with the crude marks of the Railroad organization. Lynch estimated there were hundreds of tracks on the man’s arms and shuddered to think what he’d done to gain them. Two nondescript men followed, if they had tattoos they were covered by the tailored shirts and light-colored summer jackets they wore. Next was an overweight woman in her late fifties, her crumpled face decorated with layers of makeup that only served to make her look older. The last to enter the room was Balfour. Lynch saw the triumph on the man’s face and promised he would one day rid the man of the look.