Punishment

by Scott J. Holliday

  “You do me that favor?”

  Holston nodded. He reached in through the open window of his car and pulled out a folded newspaper, held it out.

  Barnes took the paper, stuffed it into his jacket, and got into his car. He peeled out of the parking lot into Calvary Junction, turning onto the tracks. The train was a dot in the distance. He straightened his tires and stomped the gas pedal. The car bounced on the ties. His teeth rattled. His bones ached where they banged one another at the joints. The rearview mirrors were knocked out of alignment. He lost ground on the train, fought to keep the steering wheel straight against the battering from below.

  The left back tire blew. The car tilted down and nearly veered off the tracks. Barnes held on. Kept going.

  The right front tire blew. The car jerked back into alignment so hard Barnes’s head clipped the driver-side window. He pushed forward on the two remaining tires, his vision blurry.

  When the left front tire blew, the car snapped to a halt, the two front rims dropping hard between the ties, the back end lifting into the air, almost toppling over the front, before slamming back down.

  Barnes staggered out of the vehicle and started running. He was in Whitehall Forest now, out past any depths he’d known before. His lungs burned, his eyes spilled tears against the icy wind. He could smell the pines and the earthy water. The Rouge River was out there, rushing mindlessly over stone and silt with no concern for the human world it sliced through like a wound. The Flamingo Farms trailer park was out there, too, and his old tree fort, maybe inhabited by some other kids now, maybe gone to the animals.

  And Calavera was out there. The deer-tick feeling told him so. Arturo Perez confirmed it from within.

  Barnes thought, Where is he?

  “I don’t want to die.” Arturo Perez.

  Barnes caught up to the train, which had slowed and stopped at a railway-yard switching station. He came to the edge of the yard at a jog, breathing hard, swallowing the smell of coal and oil. At the outskirts there were stacks of empty boxcars, a large crane to move them around, and in the distance an old helicopter in an overgrown field.

  Barnes moved to the center of the yard. There were men in orange vests about, some doing engine repairs, others checking manifests, others unloading coal from the cars into wheeled carts. There was a squat building there, too, a trailer like those found at construction sites.

  Barnes went to the building and pulled open the door. There were two men inside. One was middle-aged. He wore thick glasses and a red-and-black-checkered flannel. He was going over some notes on a yellow pad. The other man was ancient. He wore green suspenders and was seemingly asleep on a battered love seat near the back. His mouth was agape.

  The middle-aged man at the notepad looked up. “Can I help you?”

  Barnes showed his badge. “I need help with a serial number. Might belong to one of your boxcars.”

  The man pursed his lips. “Do you have the number?”

  Barnes took the pen from the man’s hand. He wrote the number down on the pad the man had been using. The man looked at the number and shook his head. “It’s a Canadian Pacific number, sure, but we got a lot of boxcars coming through here. To be able to recall one just by number? No chance.”

  Barnes gripped the bridge of his nose. “Is there a tracking system?”

  “Yes,” the man said. He stood up and went to a computer monitor on a desk at the center of the trailer. The old man’s eyes were now open, his mouth closed, but he hadn’t yet stirred.

  “I can try to look it up,” the first man said, “but the odds of it being anywhere nearby are slim.”

  “Can you try?”

  “Give me the number again.”

  “CP-583427.”

  The man typed with only his index fingers, looking up and down from the screen to the keyboard with each stroke. He got it all in and emphatically tapped the “Return” button. After a moment he said, “Out of service.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “These boxcars don’t last forever. Once one gets too rusted out or damaged, they get retired, so to speak.” He smiled, raised his eyebrows above his glasses.

  “What happens to them?”

  “Usually recycling.”

  “What’s the chance an out-of-service boxcar wouldn’t be recycled?”

  “Not good.”

  “But there is a chance.”

  It was the old man at the back who spoke. He sat up, nodding his head in slow ups and downs. “Used to be we’d sell them off to private owners. Back in my day we used them for fishing or hunting camps.”

  “Could this boxcar have been sold to a private owner?”

  The younger man looked at the computer screen. “It doesn’t say anything about that here.”

  “That computer wouldn’t know rabbit shit from pinto beans,” the older man said. “Just about any car that starts with a six or below is going to be on paper record.” He gestured toward a stack of boxes against the back wall of the trailer.

  Barnes stepped toward the boxes. There were dozens of them, all marked. He found the one he wanted—CP-57500 TO CP-59500. He pulled the box from the stacks and riffled through the files inside until he found CP-583427. He yanked the file and opened it. There was a record of the boxcar’s travels, including dates, times, origins, destinations, and loads. He scanned through the pages until he got to the last entry.

  Damaged. Private sale.

  “Says here it was damaged and sold.”

  The old man smirked, nodded.

  Barnes flipped to the rear of the file folder and found a receipt. Adrenaline surged when he saw the buyer was named A. Perez. The sale was dated January 17, 2004. “This is the man I’m looking for. Arturo Perez. Does that sound familiar to either of you?”

  The younger man shook his head no.

  The older man said, “Mexican fella?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it say beneath the bill of sale there?”

  Barnes looked at the receipt again. Beneath the line item for the purchase of the boxcar was another item, written in blue pen. “It says, Lift, three hundred and fifty dollars.”

  The old man nodded again. “I remember him. Big jaw on that guy, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “The boxcar had only just a dent on one side, but we couldn’t manage to pull it out. Costs more than a new car to cut out the panel and weld one back in, so it went down as damaged. The fella you’re looking for, he came around looking for one a few weeks beforehand, so we called him up, let him know we had one.”

  “And lift?” Barnes said.

  “I delivered it for him. Picked it up with my chopper”—he thumbed toward the trailer window in the direction of the helicopter outside—“dropped it on his property.”

  “Where?”

  “Out there in Whitehall. Bought himself a remote acre or two along the Rouge, if I recall.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “I might could, but that chopper ain’t been running for years now. Just take Eight Mile back to Featherton Road and hang a left. Go about a mile to the river. Once you get there you’ll have to hoof it a half mile or so into the woods, straight west. Stick to the riverbank and you’ll find it.”

  “I need a car.”

  The younger man said, “What’s this man done?”

  “You’ve heard of the Pickax Man?”

  For a moment they all sat silent, and then the old man tossed a set of keys to Barnes. “My truck’s the red F-150 just outside this here trailer. Do me a favor. Go and put a bullet in that bastard.”

  36

  Barnes pulled to the shoulder on Featherton Road. He stepped out of the old man’s truck and walked until he was standing on a bridge over the Rouge River. To the east the river banked and angled north through some hardwoods. To the west it was all red cedars. The bushes along the roadside were covered with burrs.

  Barnes moved west along the riverbank, stepping carefully over fallen tr
ees, boulders, and cutouts. A quarter mile into the woods he spotted a tarp-covered truck a hundred feet to the north. Likely it was parked at the end of an overgrown two-track. Barnes pulled out his cell phone. He typed a text to Jessica’s number.

  I’m coming to visit you.

  He drew his Glock, held it near his thigh as he continued along the riverbank.

  His phone buzzed in reply.

  You found my address?

  Barnes typed.

  CP-583427.

  The reply was immediate.

  Bravo.

  Then another reply.

  When should I expect you?

  Barnes typed.

  Soon.

  Barnes climbed over the trunk of a fallen cedar. When he came down on the other side, he caught a glimpse of red in the distance. He ducked down and moved his head slowly, side to side and up and down like a cautious deer, until he found what was he was looking for—a serial number, in white lettering against red paint on the boxcar’s side: CP-583427.

  The people inside him emerged from their drawers. Their pains returned to his body, their fears and angers to his mind—each one fought for control of his thoughts and movements. His hands shook. It took intense focus to dial Captain Darrow.

  Darrow answered. “Where are you?”

  “We’ve got him, Cap,” Barnes whispered. “He’s out in Whitehall. The serial number was for a Canadian Pacific boxcar.”

  “He’s in your custody?”

  “Track this phone’s location. Bring the machine.” He set the phone down on the cedar trunk, left it connected to the call. He moved toward the boxcar, both hands now on his weapon, the tinny echoes of Darrow’s voice coming from the speaker. “Barnes! Do not advance without backup!”

  He came to a wide cedar with low, sweeping limbs. It was at the edge of the small clearing where the boxcar had been dropped. He moved beneath the limbs of the tree and up against the trunk, staying covered in the shadow the tree provided.

  Chunk Philips felt it was a good place to hide.

  Jeffrey Dunham agreed.

  Calavera’s voice rang out. “I can hear you, Barnes.”

  Barnes settled his back against the tree. He stole a glance toward the boxcar. On the near side was the door, three-quarters open. The outer latch looked like a complicated affair, but there was one long bar sticking out. Above it, in white paint, was the word lock with a down arrow. Dale Wilson thought the boxcar looked like the live animal trap the school used to capture raccoons and badgers.

  “You’re not here to arrest me, are you?” Calavera said.

  “I’m here for your blood,” Moe Chamberlain said.

  “That’s the spirit,” Calavera replied.

  Barnes chanced another peek at the boxcar. His eyes had adapted to the dark beneath the pine, and he could see into the black beyond the open doorway. Calavera was inside, sitting against the back wall, his knees pulled up, a nickel-plated handgun in his hand. Around him were the dregs of a campground—a kerosene heater, a single electric hot plate with a pot on it, a car battery. Attached to the battery was a small electrical-outlet converter. Barnes followed the wire as it traveled up a nearby table leg and led to a machine—a black-market version, one of the early models. No network connectivity. The only memories it could hold were on USB.

  “Will you come visit my grave?” Calavera said.

  Amanda Jones replied, “No.”

  Chunk Philips said, “People don’t visit assholes’ graves.”

  “Piggies visit Jim Morrison’s grave all the time.”

  Fred Jones laughed.

  “But maybe you’re right, Barnes. Maybe none of the animals will come see me. Maybe you’ll have me cremated and dumped in that river there, huh? But at least they’ll visit their loved ones again. We break our promises to the dead—don’t we, Detective? We let them rot in the ground while we diddle our lives away.”

  Edith MacKenzie said, “It’s a waste of life to dwell on the dead.”

  “That’s hilarious coming from you, buddy,” Calavera said.

  “You leave John out of this,” Kendra MacKenzie said.

  “Say what?” Calavera said.

  Barnes fought Kendra back. He focused to form a thought. “You killed the Fero brothers.”

  “Oh,” Calavera said, “you’ve been me, have you? Inside the machine? Not very pleasant to be Arturo Perez, is it?”

  “We can get you the help you need.”

  “Aw, Barnesy, don’t try to sell me that shit.”

  “What about your legacy?” Barnes said. He peeked again at the boxcar, saw Calavera tapping the handgun against his own temple.

  “It’s already cast in stone,” Calavera said. “Kill me, and I become legend.”

  Chunk Philips said, “That’s what you think, asshole!”

  Fred Jones said, “Oh my God, I get it now!”

  “You get what now?” Calavera said.

  Barnes began stuffing the others back into their drawers. One by one he punched them down and in, placing his index finger over their lips as he did so. Let me handle this. They nodded their heads and settled down, watching from their drawers like patrons at some bizarre drive-in.

  Barnes pulled out the newspaper Holston had given him. From behind the tree he made a show of unfolding it, ruffling the pages, and clearing his throat. He began reading aloud. “The Pickax Man is your run-of-the-mill sociopath. He chooses his victims at random, showing no apparent pattern.”

  “What is that?”

  “Today’s edition of the Motown Flame, hot off the press. Shall I continue?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “In a world where mothers drown their own children, where ritual beheadings are common, and serial killers are treated like rock stars, the Pickax Man is a breath of fresh air: he’s just an ordinary madman, killing without reason, intelligence, or flare. He’s more like a rabid dog than a man, and I ask you, dear reader, do you care what a rabid dog does? Of course not. You just want him quietly and namelessly put down.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Barnes refolded the paper and stuffed it inside itself like a paperboy would. He reached around the tree and flicked it toward the boxcar. It landed just outside the open doorway. Calavera came to the front of the car, reached out, snatched it up, and retreated.

  Barnes waited a moment, and then said, “Still ready to die?”

  Calavera flicked the paper out of the boxcar with a laugh. It was a giddy little sound that rose to a high pitch before dying down to intermittent chuckles.

  Arturo Perez, from within Barnes, said, “Who the hell is that? I never laughed like that in my life.”

  A new voice emerged from the boxcar. A young voice. “You dumb-asses never tracked down the money.”

  “What money?” Barnes said.

  “The ten thousand dollars, Barnes. Where did it come from?”

  Barnes scanned his memories, came up empty.

  “Andy Kemp’s money, Detective.”

  Barnes shook his head, confused. His mind’s eye saw Andy Kemp’s decayed corpse, the rotting skin, the bloated fingers and nostrils. He recalled reaching into the boy’s front pocket to retrieve the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills.

  “My money, dummy!”

  Barnes said, “Andy?”

  “Well, duh.”

  “What are you doing here?” Barnes said. He peeked around the tree to see Calavera’s mouth moving to Andy Kemp’s voice.

  “I’ve been here all along, shithead. Waiting for you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ya know, for a detective you’re pure shit at figuring things out.” He sighed. “Okay, look . . . Arturo paid me for my memories, understand? His little sister and I had been hanging out before she got whacked. She let me feel her tits a few times, but that was it, the dumb bitch. Hardly knew English. Anyway, her perv older brother had a serious crush on her. And what I had was what he wanted. The sicko paid me—get it? I sat in his loser apartment every night for
a week, hooked into his busted-ass machine. It took forever to pull those titty memories from me. Once it was done he handed me the ten grand. Next day he had me killed.”

  “Why?” Barnes said. “He got what he wanted. He paid you.”

  “Sure, Perez was just going to let me walk, but then he thought I might come around, asking for more cash. He was right about that. I was going to blackmail him for the rest of his perverted life. That’s some gross shit, even by my standards. Of course, it took me a while in his head to figure that out. That heroin balloon really jacked him up, ya know? He sees people as animals and shit. Pigs, mostly. He despises people who don’t visit their dead relatives, left them passive-aggressive notes. Made people feel guilty if they ever did decide to show up. And every night when he’d come back to the machine and his little sister’s titties, I was waiting for him. Didn’t take much for me to gain control. There wasn’t much left of his brain, maybe not much to begin with. Once I was in control, I took revenge for what the Feros did to his family.”

  “Why’d Perez hire Dawson to kill you? Why didn’t he kill you himself?”

  “I told you. He’s a pussy. Didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Dawson was a lowlife meth head. Perez paid him a hundred bucks to take me out. Dumb-ass never checked my pockets. He got scared and ran.”

  “Why did you lead me here?” Barnes said.

  “You never solved my murder, Barnes. Not you or Watkins. Couple of dumb-asses. I had to give you some clues to keep you coming. How else was I going to show you who murdered me? Besides, I want to be done with this perv and move on.”

  Barnes shook his head in amazement. “Your teachers said you excelled at writing. They never mentioned poetry.”

  “Those swirling turds wouldn’t know good writing from a hole in their head. Those poems I left were shit. But you needed to believe that dumb-ass Artie wrote them. All that Day of the Dead crap.”

  “You could have just lived on, Andy. You could have taken Perez’s body and made a life for yourself.”

  “Where’s the fun in that? What’s the point? So I can end up a mindless pig like you? I’ll pass.”

  “If I kill Reyes, you’ll die.”

  “I’m already dead, dummy. Now I’m just bored.”