Farraday Road

by Ace Collins

  “When we find the person who killed Kaitlyn, do you think he should be allowed to live? ” Curtis asked.

  The question took him aback. What would he do when he came face to face with the man who pulled the trigger? What would he want to have happen to that man? “At night, when I’ve been unable to sleep, I’ve thought about facing that nameless and faceless person. In those moments, I’ve almost always pulled the trigger and watched him fall. Yet the death of her killer never brought me satisfaction—even when I’ve imagined being at the execution. I finally have figured out why. Even if that person is buried in the cold dirt, it doesn’t mean that Kaitlyn will be coming out of her grave. She’ll still be just as dead.”

  “But—”

  “No, Diana, let me explain something. A part of my wife is very much alive for me. I realize that whenever I think about revenge. Kaitlyn was a New Testament kind of person. Do you know what that means?”

  “No,” Curtis admitted, “I don’t guess I do.”

  “It means she wasn’t an eye-for-an-eye and a tooth-for-a-tooth kind of woman. She believed strongly in second chances.”

  He saw no reason to go any deeper. He doubted Curtis would understand. For the moment, Kaitlyn’s love and forgiveness covered him like a warm blanket. She was a believer in second chances. It was evident in everything she did. Her father escaped from Vietnam and got a second chance in this country, a chance some people in America would rather he hadn’t had. She voluntarily went to jails and talked about forgiveness with prisoners. She believed people could change. She lived by the “least of these” philosophy.

  Lije thought about Jonathon Jennings. He was one of the least of these, and everyone walked away from him. If Kaitlyn had known about him, she would’ve walked along with him. Lije knew that if his love for Kaitlyn meant anything, he had to honor her life and honor her faith.

  Curtis made the turn that led up the steep hill to Robert Cathcart’s home and broke the silence. “I can understand how you feel, that no matter what, Kaitlyn is never coming back. But I want to tell you that in spite of what happened to Jennings, I want to be there when they stick the needle in the arm of the man or men who killed Kaitlyn. I don’t want them on this earth. What they did makes them vermin, not human.”

  “Then,” Lije said as they pulled up to the house, “you’d better be sure you get the right person this time. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. There’s a man you work for who’s been fooling a lot of folks for years.”

  LIJE COULD TELL THAT FROM THE MOMENT THEY stepped out of the car, Curtis was impressed by what she saw. Dr. Cathcart greeted them and ushered them into the den. As she walked through the house, her eyes grew larger with each step. At one point she caught Lije’s attention and mouthed, “Wow!”

  After the customary greetings, the trio sat at the big table in the den. Lije was just as fascinated by his surroundings as he’d been on his earlier trip. The place was unlike anything he had ever seen.

  “I have taken the liberty of pouring three glasses of sweet tea,” Dr. Cathcart said. “I hope that’s acceptable.”

  “Perfect,” Curtis replied.

  “I love having your company,” Cathcart said to Lije, “and especially the company of this beautiful young woman, but I know this is not a social call. So what brings you to my home?”

  There was no reason to waste time, so Lije went straight to the point. “Dr. Cathcart, Diana and I found a rail bed on the opposite side of Spring River from where the Frisco Line now runs. Any idea why that would be there?”

  If the professor was stunned by the discovery, he didn’t show it. He nodded, got up, walked over to a file cabinet, and retrieved what appeared to be a very old map. He returned, carefully unfolded the linen-rich pages, and looked at his two guests.

  “Can the two of you show me approximately where you found the train tracks?”

  Curtis leaned over, slid the map across the table, studied the river for a moment, pointed to a spot, and looked at Lije for confirmation. Getting up and going round to the far side of the table, Cathcart looked over Curtis’s shoulder.

  “This makes a certain degree of sense to me,” the professor announced as he walked across the room to a bookshelf. He pulled out an oversized book that resembled a court docket, returned to his seat, and opened the volume. “After your first visit, I decided to dig deeper into some old railroad company logs I have. I found that in the late 1860s, during the first years of the line’s existence, there was a bridge built across the river to Swope’s Ridge. The bridge connected to the main line through a switch, and a spur line ran over the bridge to the other side of the river.”

  “Why? ” Curtis asked. “There was no one there, no town or passengers, no reason to drop off freight.”

  Content for the moment just to be an observer, Lije waited for the answer to the reason for this bridge to nowhere. After all, only the government did that sort of thing.

  “Yes,” the professor agreed, “there were just a few locals and certainly not the number of passengers to justify the expense. But the man who bought the land from Swope’s estate was on the railroad’s board of directors. He pressured the company to build the wooden bridge leading to his land so that he could sell logs to the line. A train would drop off an empty or near empty tender car on the spur and pick up one that had been filled by the men who worked for Mr.—let me see, I have his name here somewhere—Jefferson. Though it was hardly economical, after all there were woods everywhere around here, all of it much easier to obtain than by using this method, this practice continued for several years. This scheme ended when Jefferson drowned in the river on a fishing expedition. My notes show that within months of his death, the spur rail was taken up and only the bridge remained. According to news accounts back then, the bridge was washed away in the June 1891 flood.”

  “No,” Lije cut in, producing a few photographs that Curtis had taken down at the riverbank, “you can clearly see the track’s still there.”

  Cathcart picked up the pictures and examined them. After pushing them back across the table, he began to lightly drum his fingers, momentarily lost in thought.

  “What you’re showing me has nothing to do with Jefferson’s logging venture. In the late 1800s, rails were at a premium. Many other lines had more money to buy them than did the local ones here in Arkansas. This line was a marginal moneymaker at best. So when a spur was discontinued in this part of the country, the rails were removed and reused. Besides, the track they built for the firewood project ran along the bank and looped. That way the train didn’t have to back across the river to pick up the filled tender car. What you’re showing me is just a line that went across the river and stopped. No loop.”

  “More precisely,” Curtis added, “it ran to a bluff and stopped.”

  An exasperated look on his face, Cathcart said, “Which is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen in all my years of studying railroads. Facts are facts. This is not the same line as the one built to retrieve firewood. This is something very different. I have no record of it being built or any idea why it would have been built. It makes no sense at all. This line is a complete mystery.”

  Lije leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers together in front of his face, and considered the new information. Why was it there? What reason was there for this track being built in such an unlikely location? And if Cathcart didn’t know about it, then who did? “It couldn’t have been built later? ” Lije asked. “Like in the 1940s?”

  “No,” the professor said. “I’d definitely know about that, as would a lot of other folks around here.” He paused. “What’s this? ” He pointed to Lije’s hand. “Can I inquire about your ring? May I ask where you bought it?”

  The ring, the one he had dug up by the track. As an afterthought he had slipped it on his pinky right before they left the house, then promptly forgot about it. “Actually, I found it down on the riverbank when I was examining the track. Have you seen anything like it before?”

&nbs
p; Dr. Cathcart bent forward. He took hold of Lije’s wrist and brought his hand closer to the table lamp. As he did, the jewels seemed to come to life. They shone like cat eyes caught in headlights.

  “It appears to be very old,” Cathcart said. “In fact, I would guess it was made well before any Europeans came to the New World. Would you mind removing it so I can look at it more closely?”

  Lije slipped the ring from his finger and handed it to him. If Cathcart was right, then this wasn’t something a fisherman had dropped.

  “Yes,” Cathcart said, “I can clearly see this is high-quality gold. The ring was made by an artist. These are real rubies. High-grade stones.”

  “Professor,” Curtis said, “are you an expert on jewelry as well as trains?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” he answered, waving at her, “but I do know something about the symbol on this ring. You see how the inlaid jewels form a rather unique cross?”

  “Yes, but it’s not like any cross I’ve ever seen. Is this some kind of religious symbol?”

  Cathcart placed the ring on the table and left the room. He returned a few moments later with a small book. After skimming through a few pages, he turned to a color photograph showing a similar ring.

  “This ring is in a museum in France,” he explained as he tapped on the page. “It was worn by one of the first members of the famed Knights Templar.”

  “I’ve heard that name,” Curtis said. “Didn’t they lead some of the initial Crusades into the Holy Land?”

  “Over nine hundred years ago,” Cathcart said. “In the 1300s, they were disbanded. Many were burned at the stake. That’s far too simple of an explanation, but by that time they had become so powerful they were a threat to the church and to European monarchies. The allure of the Crusades had faded. The Arab armies had become powerful enough to offer great resistance to the Christian invaders. With the death toll mounting, most felt it was best to keep the young men at home and out of harm’s way.

  “When they fell out of favor, the remaining members of the Knights Templar fled north. Some stayed in the upper reaches of the British Isles. They found a welcome home in Scotland. It was rumored that a few even went as far as Scandinavia, becoming powerful Viking warriors. As they were renowned for their seamanship, there might be some truth in that. Legend has it that the Knights took with them untold riches, as well as several biblical relics, including the preserved head of John the Baptist, the ark of the covenant, and even the cup from the Last Supper. There have been a lot of movies and books that centered on their exploits. I find it strange that what appears to be an original Knights Templarring should end up buried on the banks of Spring River.”

  Lije retrieved the ring. “Doctor, I think the word that best fits this entire case is not strange, but bizarre.”

  “So much of history is forgotten and so much is lost. You have found a wonderful artifact, Mr. Evans, but none of us will ever know the real story behind its coming to Swope’s Ridge. When you visited me the other day, do you remember I spoke of a real railroad mystery? … No? I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten. You were lost in grief and shock that day. Well, I believe this might well be the time to tell you that story.”

  ANOTHER MYSTERY? LIJE SMILED. HE DIDN’T REMEMBER and didn’t much care. What could it possibly have to do with the more urgent mystery that was going to get him killed if he didn’t find the answer to it soon?

  But the hint of a historic unsolved mystery seemed to fascinate Curtis. She smiled at Dr. Cathcart and said, “Another mystery?”

  “Yes, it’s one of my passions. I’d love to share the story with you. Sitting here all alone in my retirement, not getting many guests, I’d almost forgotten how nice it is to talk with people face to face.”

  He stood up. “I tell this story much better in my library. I have a display there that will bring the events into sharper focus. Please join me.”

  Cathcart signaled for them to follow, leading them past the front of the dining car, then through a sitting room, and finally into his library. This was the smallest room they had seen, yet it was still impressive. Every one of the room’s walls was lined from the floor to the crown of the twenty-foot-high ceiling with books, many looking as if they were more than a hundred years old. This was not a room for show; it was stocked as if for a purpose. Each book must have earned a spot on the shelves.

  A large dark table sat in the middle of the room. The huge piece was surrounded by matching chairs. In the center of the table sat an ancient green-shaded brass lamp. But the real focus was an intricate scale model of what appeared to be a nineteenth-century train.

  “Well, I see what caught your eye,” Cathcart began. “This is a replica of a train that left Hardy on June 7, 1891. You can see that Ole 74 was a normal locomotive of the era, followed by the tender loaded with wood, a postal service car where a mailman sorted mail for delivery down the line, a standard boxcar carrying the typical load of its day, two more rather unique cars, and a caboose. Those two green cars are what make this train interesting. Why don’t the two of you take a look at them as I talk.”

  Cathcart waited for his guests to move closer to the exhibit. “The car closest to the caboose was a private club car. That club car and the green boxcar were owned by a gentleman from Canada. Records show the man’s name was Godfrey Payens, though that might well have been an alias. Payens used the club car as his home on wheels. Think of it as a nineteenth-century RV. It probably had an office area, a sleeping section, and even a small kitchen and dining area. To this day no one knows what was in the boxcar that was coupled to his private club car. My studies indicate it was always securely locked and never inspected. Try getting away with that today.”

  Curtis leaned in closer to examine the scale model of the club car. “Where was he headed?”

  The professor smiled. “Best to try to answer that by explaining where he was coming from. Though records are sketchy, I think Payens was about forty years old. To have two private cars, he had to have been a man of means. But the strangest part in all of this is that I can find no record of his existence until he purchased the cars in January of ’91 in Canada. He bought these two cars from the Canadian Railroad. With cash. A few days later, in the dead of winter, he began a long odyssey that led him to Hardy.”

  “Why Hardy? ” Lije asked. Why would anyone coming from a great distance make this obscure area a destination? And why these two very different foreigners, the German and the Canadian?

  “Why indeed. In fact, why would he have gone to any of the places he went? ” Cathcart sat down and leaned back in one of the leather-backed wooden chairs. The professor’s face almost glowed. He was enjoying the drama of revealing his tale bit by bit for his guests.

  “Payens avoided all the major railroad lines of that time. He stuck to small lines, contracting with them to take him from one point to another. That took him on a rather bizarre route through the Northeast and into Tennessee. It often took him several weeks to make distances he could have made in a day or two had he used one of the bigger railroad companies. When he arrived in Hardy, he had been traveling for almost five full months.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to see the country,” Curtis suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Cathcart said. “His route suggests he was headed generally west, but nothing indicates why he was employing the unpredictable method he was using. No record of where or when he planned to stop riding the rails. I believe he had a purpose but felt a need not to allow anyone to know what that purpose really was. He was avoiding detection. It was almost like he was running from someone or something.”

  The host’s right hand reached down just below the tabletop and slid open a drawer from which he retrieved what appeared to be an old document. He carefully unfolded the yellowed paper, placed it on the table, and pushed it toward his guests.

  “If you will look at the map, you’ll note the original rail line between Hardy and Mammoth Spring. As it still does today, it pretty much followed the
river. There are no spurs or places where the line connected with any other rails. You left Hardy and you ended up sixteen miles upriver in Mammoth Spring.

  “When Payens and the train pulled out of Hardy, the area was experiencing the worst storm it had faced since the Civil War. Spring River was well up over its banks.”

  Lije had seen the river like that three times. He could clearly picture the scene being laid out through Cathcart’s words.

  “This was no normal flood. On that day the river was in an ugly mood as rain continued to pour from the skies. Ole 74 had just pulled its cars across the bridge outside of Hardy when the wooden structure gave way. It’s doubtful anyone on the train realized that they could no longer turn back. What the engineer, fireman, postman, brakeman, conductor, and Mr. Payens also didn’t know was that the telegraph line had gone dead just as they left the station. Hence, no one in Mammoth Spring was aware that the train was on its way. Because most of the area roads were washed out and water levels stayed above flood stage for almost a week, Hardy was pretty much cut off from the rest of the world for seven full days. It was another full week, making almost two weeks, before the telegraph lines were finally repaired and the railroad discovered that the train never arrived in Mammoth Spring. As you can imagine, on a normal day that would’ve been big news and featured in all the regional papers. But with half the area having to rebuild after massive flooding, unless you were a family member of a victim, this was just another problem, and a minor one at that. You see, railroad accidents were very common. So beyond Hardy, it went almost unnoticed.

  “Over the course of the following week, search parties were sent out along the rail line. They expected to find a place where a landslide had washed out the tracks. They figured they’d discover the train in the river. It was a logical theory. It had happened at least five times on that stretch of track. But this time the track had survived the floods with no damage. You can imagine the shock when the search parties found no sign of the train on the track or in the river. It had simply vanished.”