by R. T. Ray
There was no acknowledgment. Matuszak lifted his head. His view was restricted to the Chevrolet’s front seat and a small portion of the opened door. Harold couldn't be found.
“Be finished in just a second, he said. “Grab us a beer from the fridge while I try to untangle myself.”
The steps faded away in the direction of the house, and returned a short time later, stopping at his feet. In the meantime, he had begun the slow, laborious task of extracting himself from beneath the Chevrolet’s dash panel. Somewhere in the process his forehead caught a sharp under edge of the dash panel, sending a searing flash of pain shooting across his brow. His vision blurred. Momentarily blinded and uttering a steady stream of mild obscenities, he continued his painful withdrawal from the car.
Freed, he eased himself up to a sitting position on the Chevrolet’s running board and began massaging the still throbbing forehead. He looked up. Through bleary, tear-stained eyes, he saw not the bent form of Harold Beechum, but the soft, feminine form of Nancy.
“A fine sailor's tongue you have there, Mr. Matuszak.” She smiled, offering him one of the two bottles of Sam Adams she was holding.
Embarrassed, his face quickly flushed with color. He sighed. Slumping back against the side of the car, he managed a weak, “Sorry. I apologize. Didn't know it was you. Thought you were Harold.”
“Obviously,” she replied, showing no sign of having taken offense.
“How did you find my place anyway?”
“Harold,” she said cheerfully. “He called, said you were trying to reach me. We probably just missed each other. I've been out of the office a lot today.”
That sly old devil, Matuszak thought, tilting the bottle and savoring the cold brew flowing over his parched throat. He knew I wouldn't call.
“Harold is running a little late,” she said. “He’s stopping by his house to pick up some paperwork. I volunteered to pick up the pizza. Pepperoni okay?”
“Fine,” Matuszak replied, getting some of his courage back. The pain had begun to subside, replaced by a dull, steady throbbing sensation. If pain was any indicator, he would have a nice souvenir to remember the encounter by.
“You better tend to that,” she said, bending close to examine the injured tissue. “Skin's broken and it's starting to swell.”
Her touch was cooling to the bruised tissue. Their eyes met. In a way he couldn't begin to explain, the pain seemed to melt away. It wasn’t planned, the two of them standing so close, looking into each other’s eyes. It just happened. Maybe it was the closeness of her body, or the scent of her perfume on the still air, but whatever the reason emotions began to stir deep within. Emotions he hadn't felt since before Patricia's death.
It was Nancy who broke the silence. “Harold will be here soon,” she said. “You better tend to that cut.” Still, she made no effort to move away.
“I know,” he managed, in a somewhat strained voice.
The spell was broken. “Good,” she said, as she turned and started for the house. “Then I’m off to set out the pizza.”
Matuszak watched. The skirt did little to conceal the fluid movement beneath. As the screen door closed, he reached down picking up the empty Sam Adams and followed.
Inside, he excused himself and retreated to the bathroom, where he tended to the cut. He slipped into a clean shirt, and then retrieved a packet of papers from the study before returning to the kitchen. Harold had arrived in the meantime and was reaching for his second slice of pizza as Matuszak walked through the doorway.
“Heard you had a heady disagreement with the Chevrolet’s dashboard,” Harold said, pleased with his attempt at a pun. “Need I ask who won?”
“Not me,” Matuszak replied, indicating the bandage covering the small cut over his left eye.
“Good,” Harold said, turning his attention back to the pizza. “It takes a wise man to acknowledge defeat.”
Harold was sitting at the far end of the antique dining table, an enormous piece of furniture, occupying most of the bay window bump out. Fashioned out of thick, honey oak, it had three massive claw feet protruding from its pedestal base.
Like a group of gamblers anteing up at a game of high stakes poker, each person pushed a packet of papers into the center of the table. Each packet contained an assortment of photographs, newspaper articles and various reports obtained over the past several days. Matuszak's packet came from Becker and Sheriff Cardwell. Harold and Nancy, in response to Matuszak's request, had combed their records and computer files. Each had a hefty packet to contribute.
Noting Harold’s preoccupation with his pizza, Nancy began the reveal. “There's no evidence to suggest that any passenger ever resurfaced,” she said. “I've checked the usual sources, DMV files, voters' registration and the like. Credit checks for each passenger proved negative; there’s no indication of any attempt to purchase a house or open a major charge account. I even made several trips to local cemeteries, verifying the inscriptions on the family gravestones.”
“And?”
Nancy turned an empty palm. “Nothing. Every person on that train has quite literally vanished from the face of the earth.”
“Same here,” Harold added, carefully brushing pizza crumbs from his papers. “The railroad's employment records stop the night the engine disappeared. Eventually the Railroad Retirement Board declared the train crew deceased and honored benefit claims.”
Handing Matuszak a small packet of court transcripts, Nancy concluded, “Along those lines, I checked with the Registrar of Wills. Eventually the majority of the surviving relatives petitioned the courts and were granted a certificate of death. This cleared the way for them to file insurance claims and receive survivor benefits.” She closed by saying, “I haven’t been able to locate or interview many of them. As you can imagine they're scattered to the wind by now.”
Harold hadn't fared much better with the mail car inquiry. “I've double-checked all manifests and records without finding anything suspicious. It's safe to say we've drawn a blank there,” he said. “If there was anything of value on the train, it certainly wasn't in the baggage car. I don't believe the postal service, or the government for that matter, were trying to conceal anything.”
Matuszak nodded in agreement. “Well, if it's not the train or its cargo, then we're right back to the passengers.”
“True,” Nancy agreed. “But which one?”
Matuszak picked up the file containing the passenger and crew's names. “I've given this some thought,” he said, “and I believe we should concentrate on Jonathan Lambert. As CEO of Lambert Industries, he was the most prominent figure on the train, and therefore the most logical reason for the train’s disappearance.”
“Agreed,” Harold chimed in. “If memory serves me, Lambert Industries was in the shipbuilding business. They're no longer around. Filed for bankruptcy, I believe.”
“What about the new owners?” inquired Matuszak. “They might have retained Lambert Industries records.”
Harold shook his head. “Weren't any new owners,” he said. “The site was abandoned and the yard was torn down. There hasn't been a ship built in Baltimore in decades. Everything's been paved over. Nothing there now but a staging area for import autos.”
“There is one small item of interest,” said Nancy. “But I doubt if it will do us much good.”
She leafed through a small mound of paperwork. “Ah, here it is,” she said, withdrawing a sheet of paper. “On a hunch, I did a nexus search in the newspaper's database, looking for names common to recent newspaper articles and the train incident. Came up with a very interesting name, Victor A. Ewald.
Harold raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “The senator Ewald?”
“No. You're thinking of Ewald's son,” Nancy replied. “This is the father, Victor Ewald, Sr. He's listed as the last surviving board member of Lambert Industries.”
“Then maybe I should look him up,” Matuszak said. “He might remember something, or at least provide us an insight into
this Jonathan Lambert character. Is there an address he can be reached?”
Nancy scanned the paper’s few typed lines. “I’m afraid there's not much information available on the father,” she said. She thumbed through the remainder of her files. “He seems to have dropped out of sight.”
“Dead perhaps?”
“Maybe. But if he is, I haven’t been able to come with any record of his death.”
Matuszak shrugged. “Then I'll try his son, the senator.”
“I'm afraid it won't be that easy,” Nancy said. “The senator maintains an office downtown, in the Federal Building. But you can't just waltz in there and expect to get in to see him.”
“Don't see why not,” Matuszak said. “After all, he is our senator. He should be more than willing to meet with one of his constituents.”
Nancy laughed. “Haven't you been watching the news?”
“No,” he said, “I plead guilty to that charge. It's too depressing.”
“The senator is the most high profile politician in Washington right now,” Nancy replied. “He's the chair for that new trade treaty with Japan. He’s certainly not available for someone of our lowly station.”
Harold rose. In a catlike ritual, He arched his back in an effort to drive the stiffness from his arthritic body. “High profile politician?” he repeated between movements. “An understatement if I ever heard one. Odds are he'll be our next president. His picture has been plastered on the front page of every newspaper and TV screen in the country for weeks now.”
“Word is that he's considering making a run for the presidency in ninety-six,” Nancy agreed. “If he can pull this trade deal off, he'll be a shoo-in.”
Matuszak was insistent. “With Farley dead, and no leads on the passengers and crew, I don't think we have any other option. Face it. As weak as it is, this Victor Ewald is our only link to the train.”
“He's not our only option,” Harold boasted, carefully unrolling a scroll of thick, yellowed paper. “I've been busy too, doing a little detective work on my own.”
“Somehow that doesn't surprise me,” Matuszak smiled, giving a wink in Nancy’s direction. “And just what has this detective work of yours produced?”
“My last, and conceivably the most important item of the day,” Harold boasted. “A period correct chart showing the train's route. It was drawn up several years before the train's disappearance, but for our purpose, it remains fairly accurate.”
“Did you find anything of interest?”
“It's what I didn't find,” Harold corrected, “that's of interest. Comparing it against present-day maps, I've been able to eliminate the most obvious places suitable for hiding the remaining three coaches.”
“Great job!” said Nancy. “That will save us some time.”
“I thought you would agree,” said Harold. “Now, with this map, we can eliminate whole blocks of abandoned railroad sidings, along with the accompanying factories and warehouses they once served. In most cases the tracks were removed and the factories torn down years ago. We can safely assume that any demolition activity or new construction would have uncovered our missing coaches.”
“I’ll agree the map will come in handy,” said Matuszak, “but you mentioned something about the most important item of the day. How does your map fit in with that?”
Harold pointed to a circled reference point on the map. “There is this one tantalizing bit of information,” he said, “an abandoned rock quarry. Located just outside Violetsville the place is a deep-water lake now. As close as I can tell it was flooded just about the time our train disappeared. And this, my friends, ” he said, drawing a long bony finger along a set of parallel lines, “is a railroad right of way. At one time, a short section of track must have connected the quarry to the B&O's mainline. How else could they transport the rock and gravel?”
“Makes sense,” Matuszak agreed, glancing over Harold's shoulder at the outstretched map. “If the time slot's right and the water proves deep enough, it's worth looking into. Our missing coaches could have been backed up to the quarry's edge and ditched overboard.”
“Nancy and I should be able to nail down the exact closure date of the quarry, along with the time of its flooding without too much trouble,” Harold volunteered. He looked to Nancy for confirmation. Nancy nodded.
“Good,” Matuszak said. “If they fall within the correct time frame, we'll need to know if the waters were checked in connection with the original search.”
“I've already started working on it,” Harold said, smiling.
“Good,” Matuszak said. “In the meantime I'll check with Natural Resources Police. Bradford said MARC's budget won't allow for any additional expenditures, but he didn't say anything about making use of other agencies’ resources. Maybe I can enlist some outside help. God knows we're going to need it.”
Harold nodded and reached for the last slice of pizza.
15
Abandoned Rock Quarry
Violetsville, Maryland
August 25, 1992
Seeking escape from the swirling wind, the two men huddled against the leeward side of the ambulance, sipping lukewarm coffee from paper cups. As if seeking retaliation, the wind increased its velocity, scooping up handfuls of the coarse quarry sand and hurling it with sandblasting force against both men and machine.
Matuszak's companion was Lieutenant Barksdale, training officer for the Violetsville Volunteer Fire Department. Learning of Matuszak's plight, he readily offered the assistance of the department's water rescue squad. From their position on the slight rise of ground, the two men had an unobstructed view of the lake and the divers' Zodiac boat bobbing on the water's choppy surface.
Harold's research had been successful. It revealed the quarry had lain abandoned since the mid-thirties, well in advance of the train’s disappearance, when mining operations struck a powerful underground stream. Unable to stem the rapidly rising waters, the workers were forced to abandoned their machinery and scamper to safety, leaving the bottom of the quarry littered with the rusting hulks of abandoned equipment. In the ensuing years, this was augmented with stolen or illegally dumped vehicles.
“I appreciate your unit turning out on such short notice,” Matuszak said, trying to shield his open cup from the gritty, blowing sand.
“No problem, Agent Matuszak. Our semiannual re-certification test is due anyway. This will give the unit some valuable training experience.”
“In any case, it should provide an answer to my problem.”
Barksdale paused to watch the activity in the zodiac. “Do you really think your missing coaches are down there?” he said, turning back to his companion. “We’ve done several dives in this quarry in the past, and no one reported sighting anything like your coaches.”
The lieutenant was probably right, thought Matuszak. Still all the right ingredients were there and he was fast running out of options. “It's possible,” he answered. “Time frame's right, the water's deep enough, and there's the remnants of an old spur leading right to the water's edge.” He shrugged. “We'll have to wait and see what your squad comes up with.”
“Mardis,” the Lieutenant said, indicating one of the divers in the Zodiac, “he's our dive leader. If your coaches are down there, Lee will find it.”
Scowling, Matuszak dumped the remainder of the sand-laced coffee to the ground. “Good is he?”
“More than good,” the lieutenant answered. “He's the best. Made more dives than I care to count.”
Lee Mardis had positioned the bobbing Zodiac over the most likely location for the missing cars to settle, had they actually entered the water. This was only a training exercise, but he approached it as seriously as if it were an actual recovery operation. He and one of the squad’s junior divers would make the descent into the dark waters. A third diver would remain in the boat, fully suited and ready to dive if the need arose. The boat’s fourth crew member would maintain communications with on shore personnel, as well as operation of th
e boat.
A veteran of many dives, Mardis had pulled his share of lifeless bodies from the area's waters. Each body demanded a heavy price of him, and with each he had paid that price. Now he wondered if the bones of still more bodies waited for him in the quarry’s depths. The chilling vision of twenty-six screaming people, being pulled into a watery grave, was all too real for him. Their anguished cries, trapped in the darkened cars as the frigid waters rushed in reverberated in his mind. It made the quarry's cold water seem much more hostile than it actually was.
“My last dive,” he murmured.
His dive partner looked up. “Say something?”
“No,” Mardis answered. “Just thinking out loud.” He lowered the diver's mask over his face.
“Ready?”
Mardis nodded, released his grip on the side of the Zodiac and slipped into the water's darkness.
The divers descended slowly, reaching the twenty-foot level, before the surface light began to fade. Looking up, they could see the sunlight filtering down through the openings in the quarry’s vegetation, forming great shafts of diffused light. The dark silhouette of the Zodiac was clearly visible.
At this pre-selected level, they paused and rechecked their equipment. Satisfied, they continued their descent, until the shadowy hulks resting on the quarry's bottom slowly loomed out of the watery depths.
A slow, systematic grid search was conducted. As suspected, the quarry's bottom was a watery graveyard littered with numerous rusting hulks. Most were readily recognizable as the lost construction equipment or the occasional abandoned vehicle.
All appeared to be progressing normally, until a huge shadowy form appeared before them. Covered in dense vegetation and protruding from the quarry’s collapsed wall facing only a portion of its dark, bulky body was visible.
A few powerful flipper pumps brought them to within reach of the object. The two divers glided silently over the object, carefully surveying their find as they went. Encrusted in a thick layer of vegetation and shrouded with a curtain of gray it was little wonder it had escaped prior diver’s notice.