An American Bullet

by John Stonehouse

  An attendant is in the aisle ahead, checking tickets.

  Belaski makes a show of twisting sideways, looking to get past to where a handful of passengers are watching a movie.

  “Sir, one moment,” the attendant says. “We’re double-checking numbers, making sure we’ve got everybody onboard.”

  Belaski gives a hawkish grin, no warmth—his gaze flat, deadened.

  “Can I see your ticket?”

  He reaches into the parka he’s wearing, pulls out a square of printed card.

  The attendant reads it. “You got on at Raton?”

  Belaski nods.

  The attendant studies the ticket, makes a note, gives it back. Unsettled by the man’s demeanor, he steps on down the aisle, avoids looking at him again.

  Belaski takes a seat near the group gathered watching the movie. He sits a minute, his face turned toward the screen. Thinks of the sleeper cars, just beyond the diner.

  Glancing back down through the lounge he sees the attendant step out, move on to the rear.

  He stands, passes through into the empty diner car.

  Kitchen staff are somewhere downstairs on the lower level, he can hear them.

  Moving straight through without stopping, he reaches the first of the sleeper cars—roomettes lining either side of a narrow strip, then a center stairwell, a small lobby.

  Beyond it, the corridor dog-legs right then left.

  At the head of the stairs is a washroom—unused. He enters, locks the door behind him.

  Unzipping the parka, he pulls off the watch cap, runs a hand through his dark brown hair. The figure looking back in the mirror is unsmiling; shy of six-feet, though most people think him tall. His eyes have a strange cast, an inner light. Almond-shaped, slavic, gray. His body is hard, his mouth clamped—at odds with the world.

  Taking out his cell phone, he sees a network showing. He searches the list of stored numbers, presses to call, holds the cell up to his ear.

  Jimmy Scardino picks up. “Man, what the fuck? I’m following the goddamn train—the hell are you doing?”

  Belaski bares his teeth in the mirror. Wipes a finger under his long, hooked nose. “The road follows the line of the track...”

  “You going to get this shit done?”

  “It follows right till La Junta...”

  “Get fuckin’ moving—or get off.”

  “She’s with the man,” Belaski says. “The guy in the hat.” He reaches behind his hip to a cut-down holster inside the waistband of his cargo pants. Takes out a threaded-barrel SIG Sauer P226. “You got any other cars out there?”

  “Are you kidding? In this?”

  “Only you?” Belaski places the gun on the basin of the washroom. “There’s only you on the road?”

  “I haven’t seen another vehicle in ten miles.”

  “Watch for me, then.”

  “You’re going now?”

  “Just stay close to the train.”

  Belaski shuts off the call. He slips a six-inch black, metal cylinder from his pocket—a suppressor. Taking up the SIG, he winds the cylinder onto the exposed threads.

  He shoves the pistol into the front of his waistband, half-raises the zipper on the parka, checks the gun doesn’t show.

  Tapping down his coat, he feels for the ski-mask in a pocket, pulls it out. It’s made of black fleece, with twin-eye holes. He rolls it part-way onto the top of his head, stopping just above his brow.

  He puts the watch cap on over it.

  Motionless in the mirror, he pictures the sleeper cabin half-way down the car. He can’t risk forcing the door, he’ll give them too much time to react. He’ll have to get the guy out.

  He unlocks the washroom, steps out.

  The lobby and the stairs are still empty.

  Moving down the corridor, he takes the blind turn, listening to the sound of the train.

  The sleeper cabins are in a line in front of him. He stops halfway along the corridor, studies the blue drape across a glass-panelled door.

  He raps a knuckle against the glass, hard.

  “Message for Miss DeLuca.”

  He knocks again, harder still.

  “Message for you, ma’am. Open up, please.”

  He cuts away, jogs to the end of the corridor, steps around the dog-leg corner.

  Ducking into the vacant washroom, he slips out the suppressed SIG.

  He rips off the watch cap, pulls the ski-mask down over his face.

  He holds the door an inch ajar.

  Lines up with the SIG.

  Whicher holds the barrel of the Glock on the center of the cabin door.

  Lauren slips out of the jump seat.

  “Get back as far as you can...” Whicher breathes.

  She flattens into a recessed space behind the bathroom wall.

  The marshal stares at the door.

  Any shot will pass straight through.

  He grabs at the edge of the privacy curtain, yanks it—the glass panel shows an empty corridor—a few yards visible to the side.

  Nobody can be asking for Lauren; nobody on the train knows her name.

  He steadies the gun, unfastens the fold-over metal lock, slides open the door.

  Nothing.

  Just the sound of wheels against the rails.

  He counts a beat. Leads with the Glock, swings sideways, out into the corridor.

  Empty.

  No-one—nothing either way.

  He moves toward the dog-leg, trying to widen the line at the blind turn.

  He stops. Checks back over his shoulder—Lauren’s at the threshold of the room.

  “Step back in, lock it.”

  Pistol raised between both hands, he eyes the thin-skinned cabin walls; no protection.

  He takes a breath.

  There’s just the clacking of the wheels on the rails.

  Above the drumming of his heart.

  He called to her—he called out.

  Belaski heard it—the man out of the cabin now, he was out, he was telling her to get back in.

  He raises the SIG.

  Curls his finger at the trigger.

  Pushes open the washroom door.

  Whicher sees the black, ski-masked figure—holding up a semi-auto.

  He fires in the same split-second as the gunman.

  Reeling, he scrambles to get back around the turn in the corridor.

  There’s a muffled scream, voices—someone shouting in a cabin.

  Staring along the iron-sight of the Glock, he hears a thump, feet moving—feels a strange sensation—sharp, cold air.

  The sound of wheels on the rails is louder, now, above the ringing in his ears.

  Something is open.

  A door open.

  Wind is rushing up the corridor, harsh, cold wind.

  Leading with the gun, he forces himself to step around the corner.

  Nobody is in the lobby—the door of the washroom’s open, no-one inside.

  Whicher jumps down the stairwell, to the lower deck. Into an entry lobby, a tight, square space.

  Black sky shows at one side of the carriage—snow swirling, frozen earth rushing by.

  The door’s wide open to the outside

  The marshal’s stomach comes up in his chest.

  He spins around, lowers the Glock.

  A carriage attendant appears at the top of the stairs.

  “US Marshal,” Whicher calls out. “Stop the train.”

  Chapter Six

  The ground rushes at him as Belaski hits the bank of snow—rolling, twisting into the stinging swirl of white.

  A sickening pain pulses through the back of his head. He comes to a stop, pushes up from the ground.

  He sits on his haunches, hands at his knees. The train pulling away into darkness.

  Doubling over, he starts to retch.

  His mouth is full of spit, he pulls the ski-mask from his head, puts a hand into the hair at the back of his head. Blood is beneath his fingers, oily, warm.

  He st
eadies himself, still clutching the SIG. Presses his fingers into white powder beneath him, feels the burn from the cold.

  Rising, he takes in the bleak, flat land, the driving snow.

  Looking back down the rail line, he strains to see into the dark.

  No point of light shows from any house—no farm, no settlement. A black outline of trees is just visible. Between the flat fields he can make out a road, raised banks at either side, covered in snow.

  He spots it, now—sees it out there.

  The single set of moving lights.

  The train conductor, Ross, is at the head of the stairwell. “What in the name of God is going on?”

  The noise of seized brakes fills the entry lobby.

  “Somebody just took a shot at me,” Whicher says.

  The conductor clambers down the stairs as the locked wheels start to grip against the ice-bound rails.

  “They took a shot, then jumped.”

  Ross gapes at the open doorway. “You want to stop? You want to get off?”

  The marshal stares out into the snow—finding anybody will be next to impossible. “Can you call ahead?”

  “Engineer's already calling dispatch,” Ross says. “We have to stop, now, recharge air, get pressure back in the brake-line.”

  “Tell dispatch to send out the nearest police unit.”

  The conductor swallows, stares out of the open door, at the blur of snow.

  “You know where the next grade crossing is at?”

  “We could find it...”

  “Y’all keep the doors locked,” the marshal says. “Get law enforcement out, have them search the train at the next station.”

  “You want a car out here? In this?”

  “Get ‘em to send out a unit. We’re getting off.”

  Red light streaks the snow at the side of the grade crossing. The train is slowing to a walking pace.

  Set back from the crossbuck is a white Ford Explorer, its light bar popping.

  Whicher waits in the entry lobby of the sleeper car, Corrigan’s tote and Lauren’s case in his hand.

  Lauren’s at the foot of the stairwell, wrapped in his heavy woolen ranch coat.

  Thirty minutes have passed. Thirty minutes to stop, reset the brakes and move up to the nearest crossing point with a road.

  The train grinds to a dead stop.

  Conductor Ross sticks his head out of the open door, cranes his neck, checking up and down the line.

  Whicher scans the white-over prairie—nothing out there but the law enforcement Ford Explorer.

  The driver steps out of the vehicle. He stands, huddled in the wind and snow.

  The conductor waves the marshal out.

  Whicher drops from the train, feels the cold wind nail the back of his suit.

  In the doorway, Lauren turns, climbs down.

  The conductor watches as they step back, clear of the line. “Otero County Sheriff’s office say they’ll have people at La Junta.”

  The marshal touches a hand to the brim of the Resistol.

  Ross speaks into a two-way radio. The train’s exhaust note rises.

  Whicher turns side-on as compressed air hisses—the train begins to move away.

  He walks toward the waiting vehicle.

  The driver steps around to the rear door, motions for Lauren to get inside.

  Whicher lifts the luggage in after her, slides it onto the rear seat, pushes the door shut.

  “Officer Kyle Guillory,” the driver says.

  “Whicher, US Marshals Service.”

  “I'm supposed to meet with you here,” Guillory says, “help out. That's about all I know.”

  The marshal studies the man—he’s in his thirties, heavy-set, a fleshy face reddened by wind. He's wearing a police cap, a padded tan jacket—a city badge, Millersburg, sewn above the right pocket.

  “I can't tell you much,” Whicher says, angling his head toward the rear of the Ford. “Be obliged if you don't ask.”

  The officer glances into the back of his vehicle.

  The marshal eyes the snow chains strapped around the big Ford’s tires. “Whatever help you can give us, we can use.” He takes a last look at the train—moving off into the dark.

  “You don't have any coat?” Guillory says, above the wind.

  Whicher steps to the front passenger side. “We get in?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  The marshal climbs inside, feels heat blowing from the air vents. He thrusts out his hands.

  Guillory swings in behind the wheel. “You’re going to freeze your ass off out here,” he says. “It's fixin' to be a real good one.” He gazes out through the windshield. “Looks like we’re headed south of minus-four Fahrenheit. Plus significant precip.” He turns to Lauren in the back seat. “Evening, ma'am.”

  She nods, saying nothing.

  “You make it out here okay?” Whicher says.

  “Pretty much, with the chains.”

  “What's going on with the roads—there anyplace we can get to?”

  “You’re not from Colorado, are you?”

  Whicher shakes his head. He takes his hands away from the heater vents, rubs at the sleeves of his suit.

  “It’ll get severe, this way,” Guillory says. “I came five miles, is all.”

  “From?”

  “From Millersburg.”

  “So, can you get us back to there?”

  The officer nods. He moves the shifter into drive, turns the Ford around, away from the railroad line.

  Beyond the road, there’s just a smudge of black sky, a blur of horizontals.

  “What kind of a police department y’all have?” Whicher says.

  “We’re not that big of a town—around a couple thousand,” Guillory says. “The department runs to two men. Me. Plus my boss.”

  The marshal peers out at the glare of the SUV’s lights.

  “We have a station house, an office.”

  “Anybody else know about you picking us up?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who took the call?”

  “You mean, from the rail folk?”

  Whicher nods.

  “I did. I took it right at my house.”

  “You tell anybody? Before you came on out?”

  “No, sir.” The officer steals a look at the big man in the hat.

  “Alright.” The marshal says. “If you can get us to your station house, I need to make a call.” He turns back to Lauren, tries to catch her eye.

  She sits with her head turned to the window, staring out. A cold reflection in the curved black glass.

  Chapter Seven

  In the driver’s seat of the Toyota Tacoma, Jimmy Scardino lights another Camel from the cherry-red end of the last. “I put my lights on now?” He blows smoke. “I mean, the main beams?”

  Jerzy Belaski looks at him from the passenger seat. “Keep ‘em off.”

  Maybe it was the eyes—always pissed-looking. Like a pissed-off teenager. Brown hair plastered to his forehead, the hook of a nose. A hawk, what he looked like. A Polack hawk.

  The tail lights of the vehicle ahead glow dull red in the distance.

  “I follow the train out of the pass,” Jimmy says, “is one thing.” He points a finger out of the windshield. “A white cop car ain't the same—in all this shit.”

  “You want to shut the hell up?”

  Scardino clamps the cigarette in his mouth, steers the truck down the center of the road. Better not to provoke the son of a bitch. Better just to let him be. The guy was off the deep end, a mad-whack. Mean. Fast. But good at what he did—Jimmy'd seen his handiwork, didn't need to see it twice.

  Anybody needed taking care of, Belaski’d do what needed to be done. But nobody liked him, back in Chicago, back in the neighborhood. Nobody among the men.

  Belaski shifts his weight, takes a cell from out of his parka pocket.

  He stares down into his lap—at the screen.

  Not a single bar of network showing.

  The
city-limit sign looms out of the dark at the side of the road—Millersburg—Whicher casts an eye over the buildings at the edge of town.

  Board-clad houses are set in big plots—open barns around them, rough timbered, the houses old, tall, their roofs steep-pitched.

  Scant light shows in any window. Along the tree-lined route, branches hang low beneath the weight of snow.

  No other car is moving.

  There’s not a living soul in sight.

  Whicher eyes a row of grand houses faced with stone, sees a bright-lit area ahead—a broad intersection, flurries swarming the orange-glow of the street lamps.

  A handful of businesses are spaced about the main road—a grocery store, an outdoor supply. An auto shop. A bar.

  Guillory points at a double-wide brick building—at the far side of a one-room church. “That's the station house.”

  The town is silent, the only sound the faint whump of the tire chains on the road.

  In the lots between buildings, solitary cars and trucks are covered in snow, abandoned to the night.

  Whicher looks from one end of the intersection to the other.

  “Winter time,” Guillory says, “the middle of the Comanche Grasslands, it'll get quiet.” He steers off the main street, pulls into the empty lot of the police department.

  The marshal stares through the windshield. “How 'bout you head on in, put on the lights?”

  Guillory looks at him.

  “You want to give us a minute?”

  The patrolman shuts off the motor. “If that's what you want.”

  He pushes open the driver door, levers himself out against the wheel.

  A blast of frozen air enters the cab before he swings the door shut.

  Trudging through the thick snow, he finds a set of keys, opens up.

  From the back seat, Lauren lets out a constricted breath.

  Whicher turns around to her. “Nobody knows we're here. Sheriff Dubois said there was no way out by road.”

  Her head moves lightly from side to side.

  “We need to go on inside the station.” He holds up the collar of his suit jacket, pushes open the door. “The son of a bitch that took that shot at me jumped, right?”

  She looks around out of the window, despite herself.

  “You see him get off at that grade crossing?”