Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

The birds took flight again, alarmed by a steely screech. The ringing metal sound bounced off the walls as a train slowed to a stop. The 5:30 local was filled with rail riders on their way home from the city—their day ending while mine had just begun. Lady would show up once the train moved on. I slunk back, deeper into a corner, out of the light. My feathered friends returned and cooed a familiar resting call.

  The doors opened like escape hatches, breaking the metal capsule’s lifeless mirage. The trains emptied their rail riders—the workers appearing in pairs and threesomes—some mumbling to themselves, others stretching out their legs. The crowd stayed quiet, one passenger mindlessly following another, filling the platform until the concrete floor was filled. I glanced at the southern entrance, expecting to see Lady arrive. She wasn’t there. I felt a concerning nag. My phone told me it was nearly half a minute past her usual arrival time.

  She was never late.

  The group of rail riders bulged and then thinned, threading a sharp point through the platform’s exit. They trickle through the narrow passage, draining down the steps and onto the streets below. I peered over the wall in time to see the first of the riders appear like a gum ball that had coursed its way to the mouth of a coin-slot vending machine. More of the riders appeared and, as they spread out in every direction, the platform became quiet again. Soon it was empty, and I was alone with the pigeons again.

  The commuter train lurched forward—bumping cars side by side, lumbering at first and then picking up speed until the last car exited the platform. A cloud of dust and loose trash followed the railcars like cans tied to a bumper, kicking and tumbling in chaotic celebration.

  I stabbed my phone’s screen, anxiously pressing my fingers to wake it up and read the time. My heart sank. Lady was going to miss the express train. I could already feel the subtle vibrations in my feet from the oncoming train. I paced beneath the camera like the pigeons on the trusses and tapped a text message to Nerd.

  No show.

  The indicator showed me he had read the message, and then showed me he was typing a reply.

  Cameras? he texted, asking if he should drop the power to them.

  Any risk? I asked, tapping the screen’s keyboard and hitting Send.

  I kept one eye on the burner phone and one eye on the southern entrance. Three dots appeared below my message to tell me he was typing again. I pegged the concrete with my toe, perplexed and upset. The south entrance stayed as empty as an untouched canvas, and I jabbed the platform with my heel. The anxiety sat in my gut like a cold stone—I was a junky who needed to get my fix.

  Yes! he texted back.

  It was do-or-die time. A decision needed to be made. The train rails hummed and the pigeons flew from truss to truss. My heart raced faster, thumping in my chest. I had an idea.

  You still there?

  Drop them! I texted, thinking we’d do a dry run and come back tomorrow to do the job for real. It would be a terrific opportunity to test his hack and make sure all the platform cameras dropped. Was it worth the risk? We’d find that out too.

  She’s a no-show. Let’s call this a dry run.

  The burner’s screen showed that the message had been delivered, then read. I waited.

  Are you sure? he finally texted back.

  Do it! I answered, planting my thumb on Send.

  You’re the boss, he texted. And then he added, In 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.

  With a final look to the south entrance, I gave up on Lady. I glimpsed the cameras, searching along the tops of each of them for their pulsing red lights. They were still on, alive and well, recording everything.

  WTF! I texted back, frowning. I hit Send, but then regretted my tone.

  Give it a second, he replied, ending with a frowny-face emoticon. A second later he added, Propagation delay. I understood what a delay was, which was enough for me. The camera’s red lights dimmed, flickered, and then went dark. They were blind and hung, limp, looking broken and sagging toward the ground.

  You did it! I texted, wondering how to tell him how proud I felt. Great job. I added two smileys at the end.

  As I waited for him to reply, I heard a metal screech from the express line.

  I know, he texted back. I laughed at his smugness.

  Leave them off until I give the signal, I instructed. I needed a fix, and the crazy idea that came to me was to do as Lady would do.

  Will do, he texted. I could tell Nerd had begun to text something else, but I was nearly out of time, so I shoved the burner into my pocket.

  I found the mark where Lady habitually started her advance toward the train. The platform rumbled, sending the pigeons into another feathery commotion. I took my position, pacing off each step until my body was planted firmly on the warning strip.

  I was eleven the first time I ever rode on a roller-coaster, and the sensation I felt running through my body now reminded me a lot of that: I was alive with electricity.

  I could see the front of the train. Two dark windows stared down the tracks like giant eyes. The long wipers made it wear a permanent frown. A single headlight shined like a bulbous nose, and the metal grille sneered in a toothy grin. The train was coming faster than I could have imagined, but I was ready to take the ride, to plunge headfirst into the roller-coaster drop.

  The warning track’s small tactile bumps pushed up into the bottom of my feet, telling me to back away, but I wanted to feel the excitement, capture the adrenaline, leave none of it to waste. I moved forward. The train entered the station with a near-deafening roar. The smell of ozone and electricity filled my nose and mouth, pushed a taste of metal deep into my throat. I urged my feet onto the white edge, curling my toes around the lip of concrete. The face of the train was nearly on me, rocking from side to side. The train’s whistle blew then, causing me to jump. I stuck to where I was, though, challenging the train with the spread of my arms.

  The train covered me like a blanket, began blowing by me in a stormy rush. Sheer exhilaration made my blood rush to my head and then adrenaline spread through me like a sensual climax. Metal flew past my face and my body, a mere sliver of air between the machine and my skin. I couldn’t breathe. All the air was pulled from my nose and mouth, sucking my lungs dry. I was in a vacuum.

  My exhilaration spiked with fear as I realized what was happening. My back arched and my belly bowed in, nearly touching the steely blur. I tightened my middle and tried to slide my feet away, but I was stuck. I slipped closer, like a magnet being pulled. Images of Michael and Snacks flashed in my mind as I lowered my arms, resisting the instinct to push against the metal rushing by. The train’s vacuum pulled harder.

  I’m going to get sucked in! I screamed in my mind, realizing my mistake. Lady was a big woman—huge compared to me—she had the mass to handle this. I was small, light and thin like the student’s answer sheet with the letter B circled in red. I didn’t have a chance.

  A sting came to my eyes, but I ignored it. I focused on my feet, demanding a push to where it was safe. I thought of the cameras then, and was thankful Nerd had shut them down. A video recording of my death would surely go viral, telling the world that I’d committed suicide just like my murdering mother.

  An inch is immeasurable when it comes to a life-or-death situation. And in that narrow space, I saw my regrets surface like scum on a pond. I could’ve let them take hold of my soul like the train was taking hold of my body, but I wasn’t willing to give up yet. My lungs cramped as I rasped for a breath, and my head clouded, starved and dizzy. A cold tingle settled into my hands and feet, turning them numb. I couldn’t breathe and had the macabre thought that at least I’d pass out before feeling the first of the train’s sharp teeth. I held on, planting myself to the platform, but the vacuum was too strong. It continued to suck me in.

  Terror struck me. My brain pulsed in time with the harsh beating in my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut, welcoming the darkness. The train’s steel lips brushed my own and I tensed and turned rigid, emptying my mind in preparation
for the train to swallow me whole. I was vaguely aware that I’d begun screaming—a deathly, primal scream. The train roared in my ears like a tornado-warning siren, drowning out everything. I screamed until I felt a set of hands clutch my arms and jerk me backward in a violent lurch—doing for me what I couldn’t do to myself.

  They saved me.

  Cool air whisked over my wet face as I spun around, pirouetting on one foot like a dancer.

  “I knew it! I just knew it was you!” a voice yelled.

  “What?” I asked. My legs were fading, and I started to fall over. The hands that saved me held on, tightening to help prop me up. “What did you say?” I was crying, and the words came out in a wet babble.

  “You’re safe now,” he assured me. “Open your eyes.”

  I’d kept my eyes closed, squeezing them until they hurt, too afraid to face what was coming. But I listened to the voice and did as I was told. I lifted my eyelids until thin slits of daylight cut in. I squinted and blinked, forcing myself to focus on the blurry face peering down at me.

  “Garrett?” I asked, recognizing my husband’s replacement—the same face I’d seen at Messenger’s murder, and who I now suspected had been on the scene at Ghoul’s murder too.

  A hunter is the most vulnerable when hunting, I thought, knowing I’d been hunted.

  And that I’d been caught.

  “I know who you are . . . who you really are!” he yelled over the train’s fading noise.

  The last car had just passed behind us and was leaving the station.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I shook my head, disbelieving my eyes and telling myself that seeing Garrett—and being saved by Garrett—was impossible. And then I heard Nerd’s warnings in my head, his warnings about the recent cases and the alterations to the software Steve and the station had been using. Garrett had been the source of those posts. I was sure of it.

  “We have to talk!” he said, his voice low and gritty, like a growl. A contemptuous smile sprouted in the corners of his curling mouth. He raised a brow, and his eyes beamed. “I have a proposition for you.”

  He finished with a wink and gripped my arms. I looked after the train, suddenly wishing it had taken me after all.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE BELL ABOVE THE diner’s door rang out, and the warm smell of food hit me. My stomach growled with a hunger pang, and I instinctively took a whiff. I wasn’t there to eat, though. Even if I tried, I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep anything down. I was there to find out what Garrett knew and to figure out what I’d do next.

  Most of the diner was empty, save for a few patrons sitting at the counter—their heads down, shoulders slumped. I saw a head turn, but the interest in our arrival was brief. And from behind the counter, the waitress with the bluish hair saw me and gave me a short wave. She picked up a menu, motioned to one of the empty booths. Her name tag read Ms. Potts, and it triggered my memory. I remembered her from the day of Ghoul’s hit, from when I ordered a pastrami on rye with spicy mustard and ate it calmly while waiting for him to die. She gave her biggish glasses a push and greeted me with a smile. But the cheeriness in her face dimmed when she saw my watery eyes.

  “Allergies,” I lied, confused by the sudden emotion.

  Garrett was following close behind, nearly stepping on my heels as he hurried inside. I didn’t wait for him and let go of the heavy door, feeling it spring from my hand.

  “Can’t we be civil?” he asked through a tight smile as he grunted against the sudden weight. The bell chimed again while I slipped inside and took to the same booth I’d sat in before.

  Was Garrett watching me that day?

  Now I thought he might have been, but it didn’t matter. Not now.

  “Girl, you look as pale as a ghost.” Ms. Potts said, wiping down the table.

  Garrett stood behind her, tapping his toe, waiting to sit. For a moment, I almost thought he was going to push her out of the way, but he was polite and courteous and took the moment to check his cell phone. I reached into my pocket, thinking I could try and call Nerd—have him listen in on whatever it was Garrett had planned.

  “Feeling bad, are you?”

  I nodded to her, but said nothing and instead looked over her shoulder. Ms. Potts followed my gaze and spun around, startled.

  “Oh my,” she said, playfully clutching her chest. She waved a tattered rag between them, laughing at her own reaction. Garrett leaned away, his face cramping while he covered his mouth. The sight made me smile, but my good humor quickly faded. “I didn’t know you was with this pretty thing. Thought you’d gone and sat at the counter.”

  “We’re together,” he answered. His voice was flat, his expression uninterested. He took the seat across from me and added, “Diet soda with lemon, please.”

  “Sure thing, honey,” she answered, stuffing the rag back into her apron’s waist. “And for you? Maybe something to put that smile back on your pretty face?”

  “She’s fine,” Garrett answered for me. Ms. Potts shifted uneasily, hearing the impatience in his voice. She pitched a foot in one direction and raised her brow. Garrett ignored her reaction, adding: “She’ll have the same.”

  “I’ll have some coffee, thank you,” I corrected him, throwing a scowl in his direction. That brought a smile to her face. “And some creamer too.”

  I didn’t need Garrett ordering for me, but I did want the waitress to leave us alone so that I could find out what he knew. I wanted to get this meeting over with. I thumbed the burner’s screen, glancing into the space between the tabletop and my lap. A faint glow turned my fingers blue, and I hit what I thought was the Redial button. Nerd’s was the only phone number it had ever called. That was the point of the burners: security.

  “Coffee it is,” Ms. Potts said, smiling in my direction. She turned and slowly raked Garrett over with a stern look before adding, “And a soda for you . . . with lemon. Will that be all?”

  “Nothing else,” he said, waving his hand at her and shifting to face me.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. Her shoe let out a squeal when it turned on the tiled linoleum as she turned to leave, as if signaling to Garrett that he should begin.

  “What is it you want?” I asked, glimpsing a change of colors in my lap. My heart lifted, hoping to have Nerd as backup on the other end, but the phone’s screen faded to black. It was lifeless. “I don’t know why you were following me, or what you think you know—”

  “I just want to talk,” he said, interrupting. “But since you’re jumping ahead, then why not?”

  I shook my head, confused. “Why not what?”

  “Let’s start off with these,” he said, wasting no time. He reached into his coat and pulled out an evidence bag. I stopped breathing and nearly dropped my phone.

  “Where did you—” I began, but I couldn’t finish. What dangled from his fingers should have been safely hidden away by Steve, should have disappeared forever, never to be seen again. I darted a look around, scanning the diner to see if anyone might be watching, to see if anyone else had glimpsed the evidence from my first murder.

  “Nobody here cares,” he said, tossing the evidence bag from his fingers. The buttons clunked against the tabletop, facing us with a stare.

  “What are those?” I asked in a low voice, careful to hide my reaction.

  “Like you don’t know,” he laughed. “Your husband certainly knows . . . knows enough to sit on them awhile anyway. Now, why do you suppose he’d do that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lied.

  “Sure you do!” he answered. His voice’s pitch rose as he said it. He was teasing, having fun, and I detested him for it. “Charlie hired me to take over all of your gimpy husband’s cases. And that includes the ones he’s never processed.”

  “And what’s that got to do with me?”

  He picked up the evidence bag between two fingers—the buttons dangled in there like an evil charm, mesmerizing.

&nb
sp; “Maybe your husband simply overlooked the case. Or maybe he doesn’t care enough to protect them anymore. I’m sure the district attorney would like some background. What do you think?”

  His words knifed my insides. I reached across the table, the tips of my fingers touching the plastic. I trapped the evidence bag against the table like I was catching a spider. I almost believed I could take the buttons with me and be done with Garrett.

  Our waitress returned, her smile fixed as she set down a cup of coffee in front of me and a glass in front of Garrett. I glanced at the evidence bag, then to Garrett, and then to Ms. Potts. Her face emptied when she saw what was at the center of the table. Without a word, she set a tiny pitcher of creamer next to my coffee and left us alone.

  “Isn’t it funny how people react when they see anything that looks official?” he said jokingly. He ripped the evidence bag from my grasp and waved it around his head while whistling. Nobody moved. “You see . . . they don’t care. Only the DA will care.”

  “Maybe I don’t care either,” I added.

  He dipped his chin and furrowed his brow. He saw right through my lie, saw right through me. I wasn’t going to get anywhere.

  “Let’s dispense with the trivial shit. You care,” he answered, plunging the evidence back into his suit jacket.

  “You don’t know what you have,” I said. “Why don’t you ask my husband?”

  He began to laugh then, and patted his jacket pocket. “I have a confession to make. You’re right about the buttons. You’re one for one,” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure of what I had until I saw your reaction. Only thought it was odd your husband sat on the case.”

  Motherfucker! I screamed in my head. My insides exploded, and a flash of heat rocketed into my neck and face. I’d been mind-fucked by his little game, and played right into it. My hands shook, and my heart made huge, walloping beats. I stabbed a quick glance at the table settings, thinking I could sink a fork into his eye or maybe jab the prongs deep into his throat. Just breathe, I warned myself, swallowing hard and holding back from doing what I was born to do.