The Railroad

by Neil Douglas Newton

  A man walks in through the open door and stares quizzically at the bottle. Then he shakes his head and smiles thinly. Felice and the man study each other for a few moments. Then the man walks forward.

  “Time to go,” he tells her.

  Jeffrey has been watching them, hands clenched on the back of the white leather couch they’ve been sitting on. “Who is he, Mommy?”

  “No one, honey. Everything will be fine.”

  The boy continues to stare, but remains silent. The man moves forward again and grabs Felice’s wrist. He guides her firmly to the couch, prompting Jeffrey to slide to the floor. “What is he doing, Mommy?” he shrieks.

  “It’s okay!” Felice answers, trying to keep her voice even as she’s pulled forward.

  The man pulls a scalpel from his pocket and neatly slices the end of Felice’s index finger. She gasps, staring dumbly at the blood that begins to drip from her finger. After a few seconds the man pulls her down to her knees and begins to write in blood on the back of the white couch.

  When he’s done he pulls Felice up to her feet. Another man enters the room and begins to guide Jeffrey out of the house. She pulls away from her captor and goes to her son.

  “Let me take him!” she tells the man who holds Jeffrey. He grunts and lets go of the boy.

  Jeffrey leans towards his mother as they leave the house. Through his terror, he notices what’s been written on the back of the couch:4-5-1.

  *

  I mulled over the mystery of my unknown benefactor for a couple of hours. Someone had called the police, but no one but the people on my block could have seen or heard what had happened. My house was set back in some trees at the end of the block and no one had a good view of my property.

  I shrugged it off in the end; someone might have made it their hobby to watch me; there were a lot of bored people on that block. Obviously someone had called the cops so somehow someone must have been able to see what happened. Not worth the effort of wondering about it.

  A couple of days later, the doorbell rang. It was about 2:15 and I’d only been up for a couple of hours, which wasn't quite true either, because I was taking my first nap of the day. I still wasn’t feeling quite stellar after my workout with Benoit and company.

  I jumped off the couch and stared angrily at the door. It could have been someone trying to sell me something. Or maybe it was a meter reader. That opened up a whole line of unpleasant possibilities; I’d begun to become delinquent with my bills in the previous few months and it wasn’t impossible that someone was coming to ask me for money. Then there was the possibility, however remote, that it was Bob Benoit or one of his friends ringing my bell.

  I shuffled to the door and yelled, “Who is it?” My voice sounded raspy and weak.

  “Are you sick or are you just hungover?” a muffled voice asked.

  I rolled the voice over in my mind, knowing that it sounded frustratingly familiar. Then a face popped into my mind.

  I opened the door and saw the same annoying face I’d just imagined. “I know. You weren’t expecting me,” Moskowitz said, smiling.

  I wanted to ask him why he was on my porch, but I hadn’t come to dislike him enough to be rude. So I asked him in. Then I remembered the threat that Benoit had made about keeping watch on me. That made me want to ask him in all the more.

  He stood in my living room and surveyed it like he was going to buy my house. “It doesn’t look much better, and I can assume from the way the couch looks and your red eyes that you’ve been sleeping.”

  “And why do you care about all this?”

  “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been up to. I came to the conclusion that you were drinking too much and sleeping late and pissing away your time. You look like shit.” He studied my bruises.

  “Do you want a drink?” I asked him.

  “No I didn’t come over for a drink. It’s two o’clock, Mike. Not exactly whiskey time.”

  “Then I’ll have one.”

  I walked into my kitchen. My walk determined and obviously angry. I could feel Moskowitz’s eyes on my back. He didn’t say anything; I knew he had the patience of the terminally self-righteous.

  When I returned to the living room he hadn’t moved. His eyes tracked me as I plunked down my new bottle of Laphroaig, an ice bucket, and a glass on the coffee table. I dug my hand into the bucket, brought forth five pieces of ice and let them fall noisily into the glass. Then I took a knife, broke the seal on the bottle, pulled the cork and poured a very healthy drink.

  “I really like the bottle in the armpit thing. You’ve become a very efficient drinker.”

  “I practice every day.”

  “And where is that getting you?”

  “Where is it that you think I ought to be?”

  “Not locked in a shithole of a house, drinking yourself to death.”

  I laughed. Then I picked up the glass and drained half its contents. “Do you think I should be more like you?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Why did you come over here?”

  “I told you a few days ago. I don’t like to see people fall into a hole and give up. You’re letting Benoit win.”

  I gestured at my face and the bruises he’d no doubt noticed. “He already has.”

  “No he hasn’t. This will go on his record. Along with the last time he came to your house.”

  I stared. “What will go on his record?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  “In answer to the question you’re going to ask: Yes. I know about the other night.”

  “So why would you say he didn’t win?”

  “He’s been embarrassed. He has to go for some kind of therapy. Group therapy actually. Can you imagine what that would be like for someone like Benoit? He can’t use his influence and get out of it. That makes it worse. He’s going to be like a bad boy being punished.”

  “I won’t ask you how you know all this. But I’m getting the impression he won’t go to jail.”

  “No he won’t. That was never a good possibility.”

  “What about the other time he came to my house? Wouldn’t two times make him a repeat offender?

  “Maybe if it was someone else. They don’t consider the first time assault. You didn’t get hurt.”

  “Wonderful. And why wasn’t I invited to his trial?"

  “He didn’t have one. It was a hearing with a judge.”

  “They still could have kept me apprised.”

  He grimaced. “To some extent the outcome was predictable.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It’s our justice system. He’s got friends.”

  “Isn’t this going to make him angrier and more likely to come after me?”

  “He is angry. But he won’t come after you for a while. Even he can take only so many risks.”

  “Maybe he’ll get someone else to do it.”

  “Probably not. If someone comes after you, well you know where they’ll be looking. His friends can’t protect him once he puts his foot in it.”

  “So I have something to look forward to after some time goes by. Is that it?”

  “What’s the saying about revenge?”

  I laughed. “Best served cold. Right?”

  “I think that might describe Benoit’s mentality.”

  “I wonder if it occurs to him that he makes his own problems?”

  “I doubt it. That would be painful. I’m sure he tries to avoid thoughts like that. “

  I shrugged. “Okay. So maybe he’ll win in the long run.”

  “Maybe. I’m going to suggest that you leave Bardstown.”

  “Why?”

  “So he doesn’t win.”

  “I’m not sure I care.”

  “You’re not going to help Eileen and Megan by not caring.”

  “You’re starting to get me angry. I’d still like to think that I live in a place where I can’t be run out of town by the High Sheriff because he doesn’t like my face.”

>   “You’re being obtuse just for the sake of it. I expect better from you.”

  We locked stares. Then he looked away. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

  “Maybe I just don’t want to let Benoit win. We can leave it at that. To tell you the truth, there’ve been a lot of people winning at my expense in my life in the last few months. I’m sick of it.”

  His eyes narrowed; here was something he didn’t know about and that made him nervous. “Meaning what?”

  “Oh nothing. I’m being perverse.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “You seem to think I want your help.”

  “You can humor me.”

  I debated whether I should ask him to leave. Then it occurred to me that this type of pious holier-than-thou crap Moskowitz was dishing out, was one of the things that made me leave the City in the first place. Barbara had been full of it and even Dennis had taken his shots at me. I was still angry and I thought I might as well get it off my chest.

  “Okay. I’m from New York. I worked in the Wall Street area. Anything come to mind?”

  His eyes clouded and I could see him grinding the facts in his head; he didn’t like not knowing.

  “Oh,” he said finally. “That.”

  “Yes, that. Why do you think I moved up here?”

  “Well that’s just another obstacle, but it isn’t an insoluble problem.”

  I laughed. Then I finished my drink, laughed again and poured some more whiskey into my glass. “What isn’t an insoluble problem, Moskowitz? You don’t even know what happened to me. You don’t know how bad it was. How do you know what's insoluble or not?”

  “Well…” he started.

  “You were going to give me an answer without knowing anything, weren’t you?”

  He stared sullenly at the coffee table. “Okay. So I don’t know.” His eye rose to meet mine. “Tell me.”

  I did tell him. And suddenly it seemed good to be talking about it. I was angry at the pricks who’d ruined my life and the lives of others and I was angry at Moskowitz as well. It all seemed to fit together. I must have gone on for half an hour. Moskowitz never moved; he just kept his eyes on my face. When I’d finished, he simply nodded his head.

  I sighed. “Now you’re going to tell me that 9/11 is just another obstacle that I can handle.”

  “Well isn’t it?”

  “Not if you were there.”

  “Okay. I’ll accept that for now. But you need to get out of here once in a while. How about coming over, no, not tonight. How about tomorrow night? My wife is a good cook. I told her about you.”

  “What makes you think I want to come to your house? I only asked you over the other day to talk about Eileen and Megan. I don’t know you.”

  “So? You will.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “Mike! I told you. I’m a Jewish mother. I won’t give up on anyone unless they become dangerous to me and my family.”

  “Let me take a leak,” I told him.

  “That’s fine. How about dinner?”

  “Can you wait?”

  “Not well.”

  I waved him away and went to the bathroom. When I came out he was looking through my cabinet of books and movies. He had a few in his hand which he waved at me. “These are good. You should watch them. It’ll take your mind off yourself.”

  “You really know how to sell yourself.”

  He ignored me and continued removing movies at a remarkable pace. Suddenly he stopped at a particular cover. “Shit. You have good taste.”

  I walked over and saw an old copy of Fahrenheit 451 in his hand. “I am David Copperfield," he said, smiling.

  “I have no trouble believing that.”

  He laughed. “No, that would be the book I’d be. Well, not really. I have my own favorite but I don’t like to give things away, but that book is mentioned in the movie. You’ve never seen the movie, have you?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “So what book would you be?”

  His face fell as I burst out laughing. “What’s funny?” he said through gritted teeth.

  “It sounds like one of those questions you get on those ‘new-agey’ personality tests. Like, if you were an animal what would you be?”

  “That’s fair. But we’re talking about books now. Books are the guardians of civilization.”

  I studied him. “You’re serious, now, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely. To me, there’s chaos and then there’re books.”

  “That’s an extreme position. Sometimes books bring about chaos.”

  “That’s true. But those aren’t thoughtful books.”

  “Like David Copperfield?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what book would you be?”

  “I’ll tell you when I know you better.”

  “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “That’s because of the scotch. Anyway, I’ll leave. So what about dinner?”

  “Okay! I give in.”

  He took out a pad and wrote down directions. As he handed me the torn out page he said,

  “When you come to my house, you can tell me what book you’d be. Humor me, okay?”

  *

  I made a call that afternoon. I wondered if it was worth it and if I wasn’t just making another enemy. In the end I was pissed and that's all there was to it. Handling Benoit’s assault charges through the local good ol' boys' network was wrong.

  Since I was pissed I went straight to the top; I called District Attorney, John Arnotti. I was surprised when he took my call.

  “Mr. Dobbs. What can I do for you?”

  “Uh, I think you kind of whitewashed the Benoit issue.”

  He sighed. “I won’t pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do have some respect for you.”

  “But not enough to invite me to the hearing or keep me posted on the outcome. And not enough to work within the rules.”

  “Hearings are perfectly legal. This case was tried by the State of New York. Not by you. That’s how criminal cases go. I’m sorry you didn’t like the outcome.”

  “You don’t think that Benoit got preferential treatment?”

  “We try a lot of criminal cases, Mr. Dobbs. This is low priority. We got the case off the books and Mr. Benoit is receiving some treatment. He wouldn’t have gotten jail time under any circumstances unless he was a major repeat offender.”

  “He is a repeat offender, something I think you must know.”

  “What do you think we should have done? Executed him?”

  “I think your sarcasm shows your weak position.”

  “I’m sorry you don’t like the way my office does things, but basically it was a judgment call, as everything really is in the end. We don’t hand out sentences for low-level assaults like this. We did the best we could.”

  “Okay. When he comes at me again, we’ll see how well you do. Maybe someone will find out that you showed favoritism to a man who’s probably friends with your friends. We’ll see how well you do then.”

  I hung up just as I heard him begin to speak. It had given me a mild sense of satisfaction, but probably accomplished very little.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night I was sitting and sipping moderately at some Laphroaig when another creepy story came on the television. It seems that the Chapter and Verse Killers hadn’t given up. Another woman, Felice Hammon, had disappeared along with her son. Unlike the other abductions, this one had occurred in the victim’s house in the Upstate New York town of Multonville.This was well north of the last three disappearances, but like the last three, the numbers 4-5-1 were written somewhere at the scene in the victim’s blood. Like the others, Felice Hammon had recently been involved in litigation regarding the custody of her eight year old son.

  I was sober enough for it to disturb me. But, more to the point, I began seriously worrying about Eileen for the first time since she left. Why hadn’t the connection occurred to me be
fore? I supposed it was a combination of alcohol and denial.

  Just then I wasn’t able to deny it any longer. Eileen and Megan were out there and someone was killing women running from abusive spouses. I could only hope that she was in some safe house somewhere, not driving around. I knew next to nothing about The Railroad, and for all I knew, they were moved weekly just to keep them safe. I began to feel that ache below my ribs that I’d felt just after she left.

  Almost as if on cue, the phone rang about five minutes later. I jumped, almost sure that it would be Eileen, as silly a thought as that was. I knocked the phone onto the floor before I could grab it and get it to my ear.

  “Hello!” I almost shouted.

  “Hitting the bottle, Dobbs?”

  “Who is this?”

  “An old friend.”

  “I don’t know your voice.”

  “You should get used to it. You’ll be hearing it one way or another for a while. Maybe in court.”

  “I still don’t know who you are.”

  “Maybe I like it that way.”

  I was still shaking and this was making me angry. “I guess you don’t have anything to do that’s worthwhile.”

  “Hmm. I used to have a family.”

  It clicked. “Oh, hello Bob.”

  “I’m glad you recognize me now.”

  “If you have something to say, just say it.”

  “Well I should thank you for chatting with me the other night.”

  “Nobody asked you to show up.”

  “That’s true. But I had concerns about you talking to Moskowitz. Now I have more concerns since the fuck came back to speak to you.”

  “I didn’t invite him, and it’s none of your business who I speak to.

  “You think I should stay away from you? That I shouldn’t defend myself?”

  “I think you should find something to do with your time that means something. It seems all you know how to do is hurt people.”

  “Oh boy. You are a good man. Is that why my wife was fucking you?”

  “Maybe. I guess the real question is why she wasn’t fucking you.”

  “Good! I like that. And why wasn’t she fucking me and fucking you instead?”