by R. T. Ray
The few copper coins jingled lightly in Father Timothy’s hand. So few in fact that it seemed hardly worth the effort needed to count them. No matter, he thought. The parish was poor enough; the need was great and the coins would be put to good use. He would tally their worth and place the amount in the church’s ledger… but not tonight. Tonight, he and the visiting curate would gather around the old console. The final installment of Mercury's Radio Theater was due and he didn't want to miss its exciting conclusion.
Cold, and the anticipation of the waiting meal, caused Father Timothy to quicken his pace. His hurried steps resounded on the gravel as he turned onto the last row of gravestones. Without warning, he stumbled.
“What the-” Father Timothy growled.
Quickly regaining his balance, he bent and retrieved a woman's shoe from the pathway gravel. That's strange, he thought, slowly turning the shoe over as he examined it.
He was about to cast the shoe aside and resume his trek, when the outline of the crumpled form lying across the nearby grave caught his attention. In the failing light, several seconds passed before Father Timothy could recognize the shape for what it was.
Father Timothy’s eyes widened in terror. The coins slipped through his fingers; slowly, unchallenged, one by one. Each coin produced a soft, metallic ring upon striking the graveled surface of the pathway.
“Oh Mary, Mother of God,” he cried, as he made the sign of the cross.
1
British Rail Repair shops
Southampton, England
August 1, 1992
“Murray! God damn you!” the deep voice boomed over the din of machinery. “I've got a good mind to come down there and wring your scrawny little neck.”
Startled, the apprentice looked up from his work. Panic quickly spread across his pimple-scarred face as he nervously eyed the screaming foreman.
“Dammit, how many times do I have to tell you? Pick up your damn tools!”
“Sorry, I-”
“Sorry my arse!” the foreman roared. “I fell! Damn you, nearly wrenched my back all to hell. And all you've got to say is, I'm sorry?”
Kicking the tools aside, the foreman descended the cab's ladder. His muscular back, stripped naked in the August heat, still bore an ugly red welt from the mishap. In his haste his boot slipped on a greasy ladder rung and he went down, landing with a heavy thud on the workshop floor.
“Of all the stupid, bloody luck!”
The foreman rose to his feet. Grabbing his hard hat he slammed it to the workshop floor. The force sent the hat careening across the cement flooring, only to disappear under one of the engine's six, giant drive wheels. Whirling about, the foreman stormed past the terror-struck teenager and headed toward the water bucket sitting at the end of the workbench.
As if invisible ropes were dragging him along, the hapless teenager obediently followed, stumbling over a loosely coiled cable in his effort to keep up.
“I'm sorry, Mike,” he babbled, careful not to venture too close to the ill-tempered foreman. “I only came off for a minute to use the vise. See,” he said, holding up a twisted piece of angle iron. “I was going right back up, honest.”
“Aaaaah, it's not your fault, Murray,” the foreman replied. As quickly as it appeared, the foreman's vile temper wilted. His voice softened as the pent-up anger drained from his features. “It's not you, lad,” he said. “It's me. Me, and this damn devil's inferno we're toiling in.”
Dipping the tin ladle into the water, the foreman held it over his head and allowed the cool liquid to trickle down his forehead and onto his face. For the briefest of moments, the din of heavy machinery and the August heat were erased from his throbbing temples. With the ladle empty the pounding returned. Again he dipped into the bucket.
Michael Joseph Thornton, “Iron Mike” to his coworkers, leaned his bone-tired body against the workbench. Exhausted by the intense heat, he wiped his sweaty brow with a rag pulled from the nearby toolbox. The pounding in his head and the rotten, sour taste in his mouth, both byproducts of too many pints of lager and too little sleep, had left him in a foul mood.
“Damn, it's hot.” He refilled the ladle and repeated the process.
“We're in for another scorcher and that's a fact,” Murray agreed, relieved that things were starting to return to normal.
They had been working for what seemed like an eternity in the furnace-like atmosphere of the repair shop. The wall clock, the one with the beer advert of the scantily clad redhead holding a foam-topped tankard, showed it was only ten a.m..
Iron Mike turned, his gaze sweeping over the massive form of the steam engine resting silently on the workshop's floor. “God, what a beauty she is,” he marveled. He leaned against the bench, allowing his eyes time to absorb each curve, each subtle detail. “Under all that rust she's still a damn fine piece of machinery. Why, just look at her. I mean, you can almost feel the power throbbing in her iron. Aye, and those clean lines. A true classic if ever I saw one. What do you think, Murray me boy?” he said, not bothering to look at the teenager.
Murray stood to the rear, out of the foreman's line of vision. He shook his head. When he looked at the neglected engine, he saw none of the sterling qualities his foreman did. All he saw was a tired, rusting derelict, rescued from the rear of some storage yard where it had been abandoned.
There’s no beauty to be found in this mangled mess of iron and rust, Murray thought. If the truth be known it should have been scrapped years ago.
But Mike? Mike was different. The man loved steam engines. Hell, that was the reason he got the name “Iron Mike.” And if Mike saw beauty in this tortured wreck of a beast, then by God that was good enough for him.
“Sure, Mike, sure,” Murray said, careful to avoid the foreman's gaze should he turn, “and that's a fact.”
Propping his elbows against the bench, Michael Thornton nodded his head in agreement. The restoration was progressing smoothly. Their efforts over the past several months were finally beginning to pay dividends. Another week, maybe two, and they would be ready to fire up her boiler. He couldn't wait. It would be good to smell the sulfuric perfume of burning coal and to hear the familiar hiss of escaping steam once again. Iron Mike smiled. He could almost feel the old engine throb as it came to life under his hand.
Iron Mike wiped his sweaty brow one last time, then shoved the rag deep into his hip pocket. From the corner of his eye, the subtle, curved irregularity of a bulge in the engine's metal skin caught his attention. Located in the boiler plating, near the smoke box, its location spelled trouble.
“Great! That's all I bloody well need,” Iron Mike thundered.
In an instant the lost anger came surging back. A rusted through boilerplate. God, of all things!
There was no money in the budget for additional repairs. This would be a major setback. Hell, even if he could find the extra funding, who was going to duplicate the curve in the new plate? The restoration would be pushed back months.
Grabbing a thin piece of scrap metal Iron Mike scampered onto the side of the engine. Using the metal's tapered edge, he began scraping at the plate's surface in an attempt to reveal the source of the bulge.
After a few strokes, a soft, mellow glow of brass appeared. Puzzled, he paused. Laying the scrap metal aside, he retrieved the sweat-soaked rag and began to rub the plate's surface
“Hello,” he murmured, after several wipes. “What do we have here?”
“What is it?” Murray called from the safety of the workshop's floor. With the foreman’s renewed anger, he had elected to remain on the workshop floor, safely out of harm's way.
Iron Mike didn't answer.
“Well, what is it?” Murray repeated.
Ignoring Murray, the foreman stared at the brassy, warm glow emerging from beneath the tar and multi-layers of grimy paint. Brass doesn't belong here, he thought, not in an area where only common iron plating ought to be. He took out his pocketknife and gingerly began removing individual flakes of p
aint, along with the thick coating of a tar-like substance. Moments later a faint, disk-shaped outline began to emerge. Taking the rag, he wiped the area in a rough circular motion. This time enough tar and bits of paint fell away for him to make out an inscription.
B & O
Mount Clare Shops
Baltimore Maryland USA No. 5320
Iron Mike sat back, stunned. He couldn't believe his eyes. Before him was what could only be described as a builder's plate. Every steam engine carried a builder's identity plate; this was a common enough practice. In his twenty-odd years of restoring steam engines, he had seen his fair share. But, as the records showed, all previous maintenance had been performed under a British identification plate, a similar plate mounted higher on the engine’s smoke box.
The British plate had been issued by the War Ministry, sometime during the Second World War, when the engine first arrived in England. The records made no mention of this other builder's plate. And why was this plate hidden? Hidden so skillfully in fact, that it had lain undetected beneath layers of tar, paint, and grime for over fifty years.
“Murray! Get your useless arse up here,” the foreman yelled over his shoulder.
Mike didn't bother to look up at Murray's approach. After a few moments, he said, “Well, Murray? What do you make of it?”
“Of what?”
“The builder’s plate,” Mike said. This time there was no renew signs of irritation, only curiosity. “Now why in God’s name do you suppose someone went to all the trouble to cover it up?”
“I don't know,” Murray replied, unsure of himself. He cared little about the discovery, but felt compelled to offer some explanation in the hope of staving off another of Mike’s outbursts. “Most likely the ministry covered it up to prevent confusion with the our numbering system.”
“Naaaa. I don't buy that,” Mike said, quickly dismissing the teenager's explanation. “Hell, the plate is only held on by a couple of soft iron rivets. They could've popped them with a screwdriver if they had a mind to. No, it's got to be something more than that.”
Murray shrugged. “Beats me. What’s your thinking?”
The lines on Iron Mike’s brow deepened. “I don't know, Murray me lad. I don’t know. But,” he said, “I sure as hell intend to find out.”
The heat and pounding in his head were quickly forgotten. Tossing the rag aside, Michael Thornton scurried off the engine and headed toward the superintendent's office.
2
Headquarters, CSX Railroad
Baltimore, Maryland
August 3, 1992
Harold Beechum's spine had been cruelly disfigured by childhood arthritis, and it served only to make his already diminutive stature more noticeable. Although his twisted body was gaunt and rail-thin, it was topped with a pleasant face encircled by long strands of thinning gray hair.
At sixty-eight, Harold could best be described as a reluctant bachelor. It wasn't that he had intentionally shied away from the fairer sex. Even in his younger days his first love had always been steam and he had never found the right companion to share that love with. Instead, Harold lived a quiet, but satisfying existence, absorbed in his work as custodian of archives for the B&O Railroad.
His knowledge of company history, and steam locomotives in particular, was legendary among his fellow coworkers. It seemed only natural therefore that the baffled clerk should come to Harold.
“Mr. Beechum,” the clerk said, in her customary high-pitched, nasal whine. “Really, I don’t know what else to do. You’ll simply have to handle it.”
Harold sat at his desk. A delicate stomach had reduced his daily lunch to the predicable cheese sandwich, apple and a container of tepid tea. “Handle what, Henrietta?” he said, calmly placing the sandwich aside and looking up at the bewildered clerk. In his many years as record custodian he had become accustomed to such outbursts. No doubt today’s interruption would prove no different.
“This!” replied the clerk waving a sheet of paper. “There simply isn’t a record of it anywhere. Believe me, Mr. Beechum, I've looked. I even called the-”
“Now, now,” Harold said, in his most patient, father-like voice. Leaning across the cluttered desk he extended an open hand. “Let's see what you have, Henrietta.”
“It's this British Rail business again, Mr. Beechum,” the baffled clerk said. “This is the second inquiry this week. I've told them our files contain no record of that engine number. But would that satisfy them? No. They keep insisting it belongs to us.”
With his usual air of confidence, Harold took the inquiry and casually scanned its contents.
“There's no record of this engine in our files,” the clerk repeated.
An alarm bell went off in Harold's head.
“They must have misread the number or something,” the clerk suggested. “Maybe they...”
Harold paid scant attention to the clerk’s ramblings. His eyes darted franticly about, racing back and forth across the neatly typed lines. No, he concluded. There was nothing out of the ordinary here. Still the alarm continued to blare.
What's wrong? Harold asked himself. It's only a simple routine request.
Since the B&O’s takeover by CSX, he had handled a thousand similar requests. However, for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, this request was different. This one plucked at every nerve fiber, sending a current of apprehension surging through his wracked body. His brain screamed in protest.
Harold laid the paper aside. Snap out of it! he silently chided himself. Won't do for a junior clerk to see the senior member of the department getting so riled up over a simple request. He looked at his trembling hands. Why, just look at yourself, Harold Beechum. You're shaking like you've seen a ghost.
Unable to rid himself of the uneasiness, Harold’s eyes returned to the sheet of paper. When they reached the line containing the number 5320, Harold stiffened.
“No,” he mumbled, pushing himself away from the desk. He sat stunned, unable to lift his eyes from the paper. “No,” he repeated louder, as the first rumbling of the most insane thought crept into the fringes of his tormented thoughts. “It simply can’t be. That's, that's impossible!”
“What's impossible, Mr. Beechum?” the clerk said.
Harold Beechum didn’t answer. There had to be a mistake! Maybe he had read it wrong. He picked up the paper and read it again.
B&O Railroad Mount Clare Shops - Baltimore - USA
No. 5320 Type Y62 - Class P9 - Weight 569,500 lbs.
The words hadn’t change, but the alarm bells sounding in Harold's head had. Their clanging reverberations grew even more deafening. Crumpling the letter into his fist, Harold rose from the chair.
“Mr. Beechum, where are you going? What do I tell them? They're only going to-”
Harold didn't answer. He disappeared through the office doorway, leaving the puzzled clerk in mid-sentence.
* * *
Shrouded in a thick layer of perpetual dust, the archival storage area reeked of mildew and old age. Laid out in a grid pattern with long narrow isles branching off a broad, central corridor, it occupied the entire basement level of what was once the B&O’s headquarters. Lining each aisle were massive, ceiling-high tiers of industrial shelving. Even with their heavy construction, the shelves sagged under the accumulation of more than a century of record keeping.
Like a hungry fox picking up the scent of wounded prey, Harold began his hunt. At first the idea had seemed so insane, so utterly ridiculous that he didn't dare believe it could possibly be true. Surely there had to be a rational explanation. That, or what his coworkers had always predicted had come true; he had finally gone mad. Either way the answer waited for him in the pages of the missing file.
“What a God-awful mess,” he grumbled; carefully making his way around a group of carelessly stacked filing boxes littering the pathway. “Company's gone to hell in a tin boat.”
Alone in the archives, away from the turmoil and chaos raging overhead, Harold was in his
element. It was here, in the basement's crypt-like atmosphere, that he had first developed the habit of talking to himself. A harmless vice, it kept him company during long hours of tedious research.
Slow and methodical in his customary manner, Harold began meticulously working his way backward in time, back past the era of modern, high-speed electric's and through the age of noisy diesels. God! How he hated those damn, noisy diesels with their sooty black, smelly exhaust.
A crude but necessary progression for the company, he begrudgingly conceded, as he grabbed the next folder in line. In due course he arrived at the correct time slot, the late 1920s. He stretched; reaching as far as the ladder, the malformed spine, and his spindly legs would permit toward the vacant spot on the uppermost shelf. His thin bony fingers probed first left, then right.
Nothing. The quarry wasn't there.
Painfully, Harold hoisted himself up and squinting, peered over his glasses into the darkened recess of the shelf. Still, nothing. Undeterred, he ran his hand behind the stacks of dusty folders.
“Just as I suspected,” he chuckled, as his fingers touched a packet encased in a cocoon of cobwebs and bone-dry dust. The packet's title, Steam Locomotive #5320 - The President Cleveland, stamped across its thick canvas cover confirmed his find.
Now, by God, he would get to the bottom of this mystery. Harold took the packet and headed for the archive's reading table. Sweeping a pile of papers aside, he pulled the ancient reading lamp closer, adjusted its goose-neck to a better angle and sat down.
Harold rummaged through the packet's contents, ignoring the usual accumulation of loose paperwork and yellowed photographs. Instead, he withdrew the engine's logbook; a hardbound ledger that chronicled the history of the engine from the day its steel bed was cast, to its last run or eventual disposition.