Third Rail

by Rory Flynn

  Too surprised to talk, Terrence just stares at this apparition in a cop uniform.

  “How’s that advanced seminar in physics?” Harkness says.

  “Good?” Terrence stares through the windshield at the rows of light poles and expensive cars.

  “Mr. Lombardi teaches that, right? Big guy, not a lot of hair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Used to work at Raytheon. Developed the navigation system for drone bombers. Felt so guilty about it that he quit. Gets paid a buck a year to teach high school.”

  Terrence’s face blanches and his chin quivers. “Who are you? How do you know all that?”

  “Took his class, way back when,” Harkness says. “And I’m a cop, Terrence. I’m supposed to know what’s going on.” No need to mention that the last vestiges of Third Rail are still amping up his memory.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Maybe.”

  Terrence’s confused look says he’s not used to trouble, or getting caught.

  “Let’s take a little drive,” Harkness says.

  Harkness and Terrence stand at the far end of the playing fields, where the track meets the woods. The dormant grass, part green, part brown, is cut close for the coming winter. The pine trees at the edge of the woods are aligned in rows as orderly as an Indiana cornfield.

  “You know Newton’s laws of motion, right?”

  “Yes,” Terrence says quietly.

  “An object in motion tends to stay in motion unless . . . Help me out a little, Terrence,” Harkness says.

  “Unless an external force is applied to that object,” Terrence mutters, studying the knees of his tan cargo pants.

  “So let’s say that object was, in fact, a person—say, the late Kelly Pierce.” Harkness holds up an evidence bag holding a strip of black cloth and an amber vial.

  Terrence starts to shake.

  “So she would stay in motion unless some external force got in her way,” Harkness says. “I suppose a tree might be considered an external force.”

  Terrence turns away from the woods. “I didn’t do anything.” Tears run down his face and he smears them away with his soft hand.

  “Well, actually, Terrence. You did something. You know that, right?”

  “Why are you asking me all this stuff? Aren’t I supposed to have a lawyer or something?” Terrence’s eyes twitch all around the playing fields, empty at midday, as if he might find a lawyer standing there.

  “Calm down, Terrence. Here’s the deal. I have one question for you. I’m going to ask you that question. You’re going to answer it honestly. Then I’m going to let you get back in your car so you can drive to lunch.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets complicated,” Harkness says. “You’ll have to come into the station and a detective will interrogate you for a couple of hours. We’ll have to call your parents, alert the school—you’re applying early to Stanford, I hear—I’m sure they’ll be sorry to hear you’re involved with drugs and implicated in the death of a classmate.”

  Terrence’s mouth moves but no sound comes out. “It’s not my fault,” he says finally.

  Harkness holds up his hand. “Don’t tell it to me. Save it for the jury.”

  “The jury!”

  Harkness lets Terrence Jessup—Nagog High senior and drug aficionado—freak out for a few minutes. Set in motion, Terrence’s well-tuned mind runs through all of the possibilities, none of them very good.

  “Okay, ready?”

  Terrence nods.

  “Tell me exactly what happened on the night Kelly Pierce died.”

  ***

  The smart kids called their game Fate because no matter how well you played, it could still kill you. Once a week, they drifted from their quiet ranch houses and saltbox Colonials and gathered behind the hulking brick high school, the cool air thick with their whispers as Terrence popped up a window with a crowbar. By now, even the night janitor was gone, which was good news, because they were clueless at breaking and entering, Terrence claims.

  Their nervous laughter echoed through the locker room as they tried on the shiny red Nagog Minutemen track uniforms that never fit—the smart kids were all too scrawny from nerves and Adderall or doughy from spending more time online than in the gym. When they burst through the swinging metal doors of the locker room in formation, girls and boys in alternating rows, and jogged out onto the cool wet grass, someone always sang a line or two of “We Are the Champions.”

  At the far side of the playing fields, Terrence fished the amber vial from his pocket. He smiled, pale skin glowing in the moonlight. They circled him, faces tilted toward the stars, mouths open like hungry birds. Joe Maguire, National Merit finalist and late-night gamer, edged forward to taste the first golden drop. Then came Jack Palmer and Lindsay Doherty, stars of It’s Academic, the cable show no one but parents and math teachers watched. A thick drop fell into the eager mouth of Kelly Pierce, the red-haired honors student who talked so fast she seemed to be set at the wrong speed.

  “One drop,” Terrence said that night, every night they played the game. “This stuff’s expensive—and strong.”

  He didn’t need to warn them. They knew not to ask for more.

  In a few minutes they were pacing in circles, running fingers through hair, and pressing hands on temples as if that alone might calm their febrile minds. Thrumming from the first rush, they raced around the darkened field, stopping only to blurt out half-formed ideas and sudden declarations. They clutched each other like drowning sailors, slipped fingers down past elastic waistbands. Inhibitions dissolved, nervousness transformed to swagger, tongues flickered, cocks pointed moonward, and white legs scissored on the cold grass.

  Dr. North was right about sex on Third Rail.

  On game night, everyone was hot, everyone was cool. Everyone knew everything.

  When their minds settled, Terrence held out the deck and they each took a card. Kelly Pierce won with the jack of spades.

  The others gathered around the chosen and tied her black blindfold tight. They kissed her cheek, whispered in her ear, then turned her toward the woods, narrow pines planted in close rows.

  They cheered as Kelly ran across the field toward the edge of the woods, red uniform flashing in the fading light, to smash into the pines or rush in triumph and relief into the dark spaces between them. The chosen could never be sure.

  Fate would figure that out for them.

  ***

  Terrence sits in the cold grass, sobbing. Remembering Kelly has opened a well of guilt, and Harkness plumbs its depths to get answers.

  “This is the part I don’t understand, Terrence. From what I can tell, you and your friends played the game every week or so, isn't that right?”

  Terrence nods and a tear drops from the end of his nose.

  Harkness leans down to put his hand on Terrence’s shoulder. “Chances are someone must have run into a tree before,” he says. “I mean, there’s no way every fucked-up kid before Kelly managed to just run into the woods without hitting anything. What happened to Kelly? Why her?”

  Terrence shakes his head slowly for a moment. “Everyone else just jogged toward the woods,” he says quietly. “If they hit a tree, maybe they ended up with a scrape on their forehead or something. But Kelly, Kelly . . .” He sobs.

  “Kelly what?”

  “She ran,” he says. “She ran as fast as she could. Crazy fast.”

  “Was she trying to kill herself?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think she was just really high. She didn’t weigh that much, and that Third Rail stuff went to her head.”

  “Thought she was invincible.”

  Terrence nods.

  “But we both know no one’s invincible. Can’t beat the laws of physics.”

  “I know that,” Terrence says. “But it’s so safe in Nagog, you know. Nothing happens here. It felt good to do something stupid and dangerous.”

  Harkness r
emembers dodging cars on the Pike. “I know what you mean, Terrence.”

  “The game was really fun for a while, then it turned into something terrible.”

  “That’s pretty much how it always goes.” Harkness reaches down to help Terrence up from the cold grass.

  “Am I going to jail?”

  Another cop might pin Kelly Pierce’s death on Terrence, turning an accident into second-degree murder. But Harkness just shakes his head. Fate’s already tying knots in Terrence’s life. “No. But when you get home, I need you to find that amber vial of Third Rail and dump it down the toilet.”

  Terrence nods and they walk back toward his car.

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Three hundred dollars.”

  “Short, hairy guy sold it to you, right?”

  “At first, yeah. Then a taller guy. Long dyed hair, kind of yellow. Called himself Straight Ed.”

  Harkness stops cold. “Well, that’s an ironic name for a drug dealer.”

  Terrence opens the door to his mint-colored Prius and climbs inside.

  Harkness leans down to pass along one final message to Terrence. “Forget you ever heard it.”

  ***

  Harkness pulls in front of the Old Nagog Tavern, a tilted white Colonial with peeling paint, gap-toothed clapboards, and plastic stapled over its windows. Gray lumber is piled in the front yard, and behind the house, battered cars point in all directions in a weedy field dotted by black trash bags, fifty-gallon drums, and rusted junk. At the far end of the field there’s a big red barn, roofline sagging like a telephone wire.

  No warrant. No probable cause. No discussion with the captain. No plan. No gun. Harkness knows he has no justification to show up here on a crisp fall morning except that he’s pissed off at Dex for selling drugs in Nagog—and for using his old nickname as some kind of joke, or worse.

  The unexpected arrival of a cop in a squad car can have a catalytic effect.

  Before he gets to the battered door, a barefoot girl in jeans and a T-shirt walks outside.

  “Uh . . . like, what’re you doing here?” She squints at Harkness through oversized black-rimmed glasses.

  Harkness scrambles for the right lie. Noise complaint. Lost dog. Escapee from the Concord prison.

  But she talks first. “Right, the rent,” she says, drawing air quotes with her fingers. “Usually one of the guys brings it out to the car. Hang on.” She pads back into the house, then emerges and hands him a white drawstring bag with the Apple logo.

  “Usually it’s the first Thursday of the month,” she says.

  “Well, I’m early, then.”

  “How come you’re not the sweaty guy with the Sox jacket?”

  Harkness feels a gear click into place. “You mean Sergeant Dabilis. See him here a lot?”

  She nods. “Him or the old cop, the Irish one.”

  “I think you mean Scottish.”

  “Maybe. Polite, tall, with an accent. Usually he just waits in the car.”

  Another gear clicks.

  She pivots and walks back into the house without another word. The rent is delivered, her work done.

  Harkness walks back to the squad car and pulls open the drawstring to find dozens of neat stacks of hundreds. He shoves the bag under the seat and drives away.

  18

  HARKNESS JUMPS UP the hospital steps two at a time to the ICU. Candace is stomping around the waiting room in her engineer boots, ripped jeans, and a Ramones T-shirt. Tears stream down her face.

  “You okay?”

  “No,” Candace says.

  The TV blares from the ceiling and the chairs are strewn with sweat-weathered copies of People. Nothing good can happen in a bright waiting room at four in the morning. That Candace called him here in the middle of the night, sobbing and hysterical, tells Harkness something important—she doesn’t turn to Dex when she’s in trouble.

  “I need you to get them to let me know what’s going on,” she says, voice quavering. “That Indian stoner won’t tell me.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Do more than talk to him.”

  “You can’t beat up nurses.”

  “I can,” Candace says.

  “Don’t.”

  When Andy Singh walks in, Candace grabs the front of his blue scrubs. “What’s going on with my dad?”

  “Ouch. Hey!”

  “Tell me!”

  “Doctor’s coming. Just wait a few minutes.”

  Candace lets go and paces around the room. She jumps up and turns off the television with a slap.

  Harkness walks over and stares into the night nurse’s bloodshot eyes. “Andy, what’s the news?”

  “Eddy, just wait for the doctor,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the protocol. I can get fired if I do anything else.”

  “You smell like weed.”

  “Shut up, please, Eddy.”

  Candace spins around. “If you don’t tell us what the fuck’s going on right now, I’m going to tell the doctors you put your hands all over these.” Candace pulls down the neck of her black T-shirt to show her full breasts.

  Harkness looks away, after a moment.

  “TMI.” Andy Singh waves his hand.

  “Start talking,” Harkness says. “Just tell my friend what’s going on. She needs to know, right now.”

  “Okay, okay.” Andy Singh shakes his head, then stops and turns slowly to Candace. “Your father’s dead,” he says softly, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “I’m really, really sorry. He died about half an hour ago. Went into cardiac arrest and we just couldn’t get him going again. Whole unit was working on him. But the accident did too much internal damage.”

  Andy Singh sits on a plastic chair, lowers his head, and starts to cry. “I hate this fucking job.”

  Candace tilts her face up to the white tiles of the suspended ceiling, eyes pressed closed. She looks like she’s praying for a moment, then slumps to the floor. Harkness catches her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, shaking with sobs. Her wailing brings the other nurses running.

  ***

  Watt’s pacing around on the slab when Harkness pulls in from emptying meters. He parks and walks over, carrying a bag from the Nagog Bakery.

  “Want a scone? Like biting into a cinnamon-flavored rock.”

  “Sounds great, but no thanks,” Watt says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You see the final report?”

  “Which one?”

  “On that girl who died,” Watt says. “Kelly Pierce?”

  “No.”

  “They said it was an accident. That she got disoriented and ran into the woods.

  “Seems pretty unlikely, doesn’t it?”

  “I saw her parents crying their eyes out on the news,” Watt says. “I got a four-year-old daughter, Eddy. Something crazy like this ever happened to her, I’d find out the truth. Accident? I don’t think so.”

  “You want to know what really happened?”

  “Sure. How do you know?”

  “Asked around, the way cops are supposed to.”

  Harkness leads Watt to the edge of the slab, where no one can see them from the station. “Kelly and her friends broke into the locker room and stole some track uniforms. Then they went out to the fields, tied blindfolds on, and took turns running into the woods.”

  “Who came up with that?”

  “It was from some metal band video they saw on YouTube. Most of the kids ended up missing the trees. A couple of guys scraped themselves up. But Kelly ran full tilt and took a direct hit.”

  “That’s crazy. What makes a bunch of smart kids do something that stupid?”

  Harkness shrugs. “Easiest reason in the world. They were on drugs.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “Third Rail. New stuff that really messes with your mind and won’t let go.” Every day, Third Rail dares Harkness to take it again.

  “The final repor
t doesn’t even mention that vial we found in the woods. I checked.”

  Harkness puts his hand on Watt’s shoulder. “Exactly. There’s a lot going on behind the scenes, Watt. Not exactly the Nagog Police Department’s finest moment.”

  “Heard the captain yelling at Dabilis in his office this morning, Eddy.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe he’ll get fired.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Guys like Dabilis rise to the top.”

  “Like turds,” Watt says.

  “Like that.”

  ***

  From where he stood at the front of the stage, Harkness could see the stranger across the crowded VFW hall, moving against the tide of sweaty bodies. It was the last set of the Saturday afternoon all-ages show in Watertown, a triple bill with Art Carnage, Lawless Order, and Temper Fi. Outside it was a gentle spring day with early flowers in bloom and families riding bikes along the banks of the upper Charles River. Inside the VFW hall about a hundred skinheads in leather shoved and danced, yelled at the band, and had as much fun as teenagers could without drugs or drinks. But the outsider had other plans.

  Harkness and Skørge, the other unofficial bouncer, watched the big guy in a spiked leather vest and camouflage pants slamming around in the crowd. He seemed to be zeroing in on the girls and young kids in the crowd, slamming into them extra hard and grabbing at them. Maybe he was a kid with attitude up from New York with one of the bands or some North Cambridge joker, the kind who talked like his mouth was crammed with soft serve. But he wasn’t one of their tribe.

  “Fucka needs a thumpa,” mumbled George Perkins, a quiet electrician in a battered leather jacket who lived in a Worcester apartment lined with sagging record crates. During the shows, he transformed into Skørge.

  “I’ll get this one,” Harkness said, as if he’d just volunteered to take out the trash. As he slipped through the crowd, everyone stepped aside to let Straight Ed do his work. He rented the hall, made sure the bands got paid, sent out the e-mails, put up the posters, and kept the outsiders under control.

  The welterweight punk’s shaved head was marked with cuts and scars, and his eggy eyes shone from afternoon drinking. He thrashed around to the blistering music, the room so packed that no one could get out of the way. Harkness tapped his shoulder, and when the stranger turned, he clamped his right hand over his eyes. In that moment of confusion, Harkness stepped his right leg behind the stranger and shoved him backwards. Harkness slammed the back of the stranger’s head twice—just hard enough to stun—against the linoleum floor. The thumper was no more painful than a hard hit during a football scrimmage. But it sent a message—Get lost.