RIDLEY PEARSON
PARALLEL LIES
Betsy Dodge Pearson
For holding us together all these years. For leading the way with grace and creativity. For the neighborhood art fairs in the backyard. For all those things too big and too small to mention. Support is a tiny word when laid at your feet. You hold the world sometimes. And all of us with it. You are the best. The only. The Betsy.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
ALSO BY RIDLEY PEARSON
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
The train charged forward in the shimmering afternoon sunlight, autumn’s vibrant colors forming a natural lane for the raised bed of chipped rock and the few hundred tons of steel and wood. The rails stretched out before the locomotive, light glinting off their polished surfaces, tricked by the eye into joining together a half mile in the distance, the illusion always moving forward at the speed of the train, as if those rails spread open just in time to carry her.
For the driver of that freight, it was another day in paradise. Alone with his thoughts, he and his brakeman, pulling lumber and fuel oil, cotton and cedar, sixteen shipping containers, and seven empty flatbeds. Paradise was that sound in your ears and that rumble up your legs. It was the blue sky meeting the silver swipe of tracks far off on the horizon. It was a peaceful job. The best work there was. It was lights and radios and doing something good for people—getting stuff from one place to another. The driver packed another pinch of chewing tobacco deep between his cheeks and gum, his mind partly distracted by a bum air conditioner in the bedroom of a mobile home still miles away, wondering where the hell he’d get the three hundred bucks needed to replace it. He could put it on the credit card, but that amounted to robbing Peter to pay Paul. Maybe some overtime. Maybe he’d put in for an extra run.
The sudden vibration was subtle enough that a passenger would not have felt it. A grinding, like bone rubbing on bone. His first thought was that some brakes had failed, that a compressor had failed, that he had a lockup midtrain. His hand reached to slow the mighty beast. But before he initiated any braking—before he only compounded the problem—he checked a mirror and caught sight of the length of her as the train chugged through a long, graceful turn and down a grade that had her really clipping along. It was then his heart did its first little flutter, then he felt a heat in his lungs and a tension in his neck like someone had pulled on a cable. It wasn’t the brakes.
A car—number seven or eight—was dancing back there like she’d had too much to drink. Shaking her hips and wiggling her shoulders all at once, kind of swimming right there in the middle of all the others. Not the brakes, but an axle. Not something that could be resolved.
He knew the fate of that train before he touched a single control, before his physical motions caught up to the knowledge that fourteen years on the line brought to such a situation.
In stunned amazement, he watched that car do her dance. What had looked graceful at first, appeared suddenly violent, no longer a dance but now a seizure as the front and the back of that car alternately jumped left to right and right to left, and its boxlike shape disintegrated to something awkwardly bent and awful. It leaned too far, and as it did, the next car began that same cruel jig.
He pulled back the throttle and applied the brakes but knew it was an exercise in futility. The locomotive now roiled with a tremor that shook dials to where he couldn’t read them. His teeth rattled in his head as he reached for the radio. “Mayday!” he shouted, having no idea why. There were codes to use, procedure to follow, but only that one word exploded from his mouth.
The cars rolled now, one after another, first toward the back then forward toward the locomotive, the whole thing dragging and screaming, the beauty of its frictionless motion destroyed. The cars tilted right and fell, swiping the trees like the tail of a dragon, splintering and knocking them down like toothpicks, the sky littered with autumn colors. And then a ripple began as that tail lifted briefly toward the sky. The cars, one coupled to the next, floated above the tracks and then fell, like someone shaking a kink out of a lawn hose.
Going for the door handle, he let go of the throttle, the “dead man’s switch” taking over and cutting engine power. He lost his footing and fell to the floor of the cab, his brain numb and in shock. He didn’t know whether to jump or ride it out.
He would later tell investigators that the noise was like nothing he’d ever heard, like nothing that could be described. Part scream. Part explosion. A deafening, immobilizing dissonance, while the smell of steel sparking on steel rose in his nostrils and sickened his stomach to where he sat puking on the oily cab floor, crying out as loudly as he could in an effort to blot out that sound.
He felt all ten tons of the engine car tip heavily right, waver there, precariously balanced up on the one rail, and then plunge to the earth, the whole string of freights buckling and bending and dying behind him in a massive pileup.
He saw a flatbed fly overhead, only the blue sky behind it. This, his last conscious vision, incongruous and unfathomable. For forty long seconds the cars collided, tumbled, shrieked, and flew as they ripped their way through soil and forest, carried by momentum until an ungainly silence settled over the desecrated track, and the orange, red, and silver leaves fell out of a disturbed sky as if laying a blanket over the face of a corpse.
CHAPTER 2
Six Weeks Later
Darkness descends quickly in December. In the flaming blue light of a camp stove, a man’s breath fogged the chattering boxcar as he struggled to warm a can of Hormel chili, the aroma mixing with the smell of oil and rust. The faint vapor of his breath sank toward the planking and then dissipated.
Umberto Alvarez thumped his fist onto the floorboards, the feeling in his fingers lost to the cold, and then cupped both hands around the small stove, wishing for more heat. The train rumbled. The can danced atop the stove. Alvarez reached out and steadied it, burning himself. Be careful what you wish for, he thought.
The train’s whistle blew and he checked his watch. Nearly ten o’clock. The last significant slowing of the freight train had occurred ten minutes earlier, in Terre Haute. Alvarez had taken careful note of this, for at that speed, a person could get on or off the moving train—important to know for any rider. His reconnaissance almost completed, this trip, Indianapolis to St. Louis, would be his last ride for a while. Thank God.
Behind him in the boxcar, Whirlpool dishwashers were stacked three high, their cardboard boxes proclaiming Whisper Quiet as the rattle of steel-on-steel shook his teeth.
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Alvarez’s fatigue-ridden eyes peered out from beneath a navy blue knit cap that he had pulled down to try to keep warm. Still, unruly black hair escaped the cap in oily clumps. A brown turtleneck was pulled up over his unshaven chin to keep out the cold. It protruded from beneath a rat-holed sweatshirt. Over that, a faded fleece vest that had once been turquoise.
The stacked dishwashers occupied half the boxcar, secured by tattered webbing straps held together by cast-iron buckle clasps. The rhythm of the wheels on rail—two loud bumps followed by whining steel, followed again by the two bumps—contributed to Alvarez’s pounding headache, a sound that would remain with him for days, on or off the lines, a sound that lived in any rider’s bones: cha-cha-hmmmm, cha-cha-hmmmm.
Pale blue light from the fire ring limited his vision. He could barely see to either end of the forty-foot boxcar. There was spray paint graffiti there, if he remembered right, or maybe that had been another car, another day, another line. It all blended together—time, weather, hunger, exhaustion. He’d lost track.
The train could move him physically from one destination to another, but it couldn’t change the way he felt. The weary darkness that surrounded him had little to do with the dim flicker of the stove. It lived inside him now. His grief was suffocating him.
Minutes earlier the open cracks at the edges of the boxcar’s huge sliding door had flickered light from a small town. The train’s driver sounded the locomotive’s horn on approach. Through the car’s rough slats, street lamps cast shifting ladders of light throughout, reminding Alvarez uncomfortably of prison bars.
The train had clattered through the crossing, the warning bells ringing and sliding down the musical scale, driving Alvarez further into depression. Any such crossing was an agonizing reminder of his past. The minivan carrying his wife and kids had been recovered nearly a quarter mile from a similar crossing, flipped onto its side and shaped like a barbell—flat in the center, bulging at either end.
He felt only a sharp, unforgiving pain where he should have felt his heart. Nearly two and a half years had passed, but still he couldn’t adjust to life without them. Friends had comforted him, saying he would move on, but they were wrong. He’d lost everything and now he’d given up everything. To hell with sleep. To hell with his so-called life. He’d turned himself over to the grief, succumbed to it. He had purpose, and that purpose owned him: Payment for atrocities against him and his family would be made in full. If not, he would die trying.
For the past eighteen months the media had reported a string of derailments: a freight train in Alabama; another in Kansas; still others west of the Rockies. Drivers were blamed. Weather conditions. Equipment failures. As many lies as there were train cars torn from the tracks. He had not begun with any grand plan, but somehow one had evolved. He had not awakened one morning to think of himself as a terrorist, although the description now fit. He had a meeting with a bomb maker scheduled for the next day. He had never followed a script, and yet he now found himself with a clear mission: nothing short of destroying the huge Northern Union Railroad would do. David versus Goliath: he’d assumed the role effortlessly.
While one hand stirred the chili with a red plastic stir stick, a shadow drew his attention. Shifting shadows were routine in a boxcar; it was the shadows that did not move that attracted one’s attention. But this shadow was caused by something—someone—on the outside of the boxcar; it—he—moved slowly, boldly negotiating on the outside of a moving freight. Alvarez alerted himself to trouble—some drunken or crazed rider, no doubt, catching a whiff of the chili. It was no easy feat, what this man was doing—inching along the boxcar’s exterior; it implied someone strong, or hungry enough to risk life and limb for a can of chili. Alvarez rose to block the door, but too late. The heavy door slid open—a one-handed move!—another near impossible feat.
Alvarez stepped back. The faceless visitor, silhouetted in the dark opening, stood tall and broad, a big son of a bitch, with a football player’s neck. This man reached for his belt and a flashlight came on, blinding Alvarez, who felt another wave of dread: maybe not a rider but a security guard, or even a cop. The feds had cracked down on riders since one recently had been arrested for butchering people in seven different states. Hobo Homicide! one of the headlines had read. The Railroad Killer, on the TV news.
“Smells good,” the visitor said in a friendly enough tone, the voice low and dry. He did not sound winded by his effort.
The comment confused Alvarez slightly, lessened his anxiety. Maybe this guy was just trying to invite himself to dinner. But then again, that flashlight was oddly bright, too bright. Sure, some riders carried penlights, even flashlights. But one with fresh batteries? Never. Not once had Alvarez seen that. Discarded batteries were scrounged out of Dumpsters, the last few volts eked out of them. If a rider had two bucks in his pocket it went to booze, cigarettes, reefer, or food—usually in that order. Not batteries. The crisp brightness of that light cautioned Alvarez. Heat flooded him. Finally warm.
“You alone?” the visitor asked.
Alvarez had long since learned to keep his mouth shut, and he did so now. Most of the time people tended to fill the dead air, and in the process they revealed more about themselves than they intended.
The bright light stung his eyes. Alvarez looked away, the chili boiling at his feet.
“You Mexican?” his visitor asked. The man’s round face was now partially visible. A white man, with the nose of a boxer and the brow of a Neanderthal.
Riders beat the stuffing out of one another for the damnedest reasons. Most of the time it had little to do with reason—just the need to hit something, someone. Maybe this guy rode the rails looking for Mexicans to pummel. Again, Alvarez glanced down at the simmering chili.
“Or maybe,” the visitor suggested, “your father was Spanish, and your mother, Italian.”
As a part-time rider, Alvarez had learned to live with fear, had learned to compartmentalize it, shrink it, rid it of its power to seize control. You couldn’t be fighting fear and someone else simultaneously, so you learned to let the fear roll off your back. But what he felt now wasn’t fear, it was terror.
He knows who I am!
There was little he could do about terror. Terror, once allowed inside, owned you. There was no fighting off real terror. Survivors could harness it, redirect it, but could never be rid of it. Terror had to be dealt with quickly or it would freeze every muscle.
Alvarez bent down and launched the boiling chili into the visitor’s face. He charged, hoping to drive the man out the open door. But behind the ghoulish scream, as his face burned, the man produced a nightstick or a sap, connecting it with the side of Alvarez’s face. He felt his nose crack and he spewed blood. Alvarez faltered, regained himself, and turned, diving for the small stove. Coming to his feet, he waved it as a weapon, prepared to strike.
This would be a fight to the finish. Alvarez knew it before the next blow landed.
CHAPTER 3
Alvarez awoke to the jarring sound of a garage door being hauled open, a pickup truck starting, and the sharp smell of engine exhaust. He quietly moved a garden spade and peered down through cracks in the garage loft into which he had climbed the night before, weary and soaked in another man’s blood. Dried blood, now brown, caked and cracking. If he were spotted, it would mean the police. He couldn’t allow that. Not after working at this for eighteen months.
He shook from the cold and from his memory of the night before, realizing that he had probably killed a man, whether in self-defense or not. By the time Alvarez had thrown the intruder from the freight car, his attacker had lost so much blood that under the glare of the flashlight he’d looked ghostly pale. Even the man’s lips had been white. And now …now he felt forced to question his own motives. He’d been accused of killing his own attorney, Donald Andersen—a phony accusation that had caused him to flee in the first place. The thought that he now indeed might have killed a man could add weight to that earlier accusation. Wi
th their relentless pursuit of him, they may have turned him into a killer. Now resentment and anger overrode his initial self-questioning. Northern Union Railroad would cease to exist. This, for their lies and endless atrocities.
His position up in the garage loft afforded Alvarez a view of the truck’s steering wheel and two large male hands gripping it. Alvarez lay down flat just in case the driver happened to look up as he backed out. As a precaution, he remained still, even after the truck cleared the garage, and this paid off because the driver left the vehicle to manually pull the garage door back down. Alvarez listened to the truck pulling away, waited another half minute, and then moved the ratty blanket and canvas tarp off himself, grateful that the owners had left a hot lamp going all night for the cat. The lamp had taken the edge off the cold and had probably kept him from freezing. It was the glow from the lamp that had called him to this garage: a beacon seen through the woods.
A train whistle sounded, reminding Alvarez again of last night’s horror and that he had to keep moving. They might not find the body for weeks—or perhaps as soon as that same day—but whatever the timing, he needed to put as many miles as possible between himself and southern Illinois, and fast. The man in the boxcar had known his birth heritage—had teased him by saying “Mexican” first, then waiting and identifying Alvarez’s Spanish father and Italian mother. It meant that Northern Union Security was closer to capturing him than they’d ever been. He’d obviously screwed up—had allowed himself to be seen or recognized, or worse, he’d become predictable. Had they known which train he was on, or had it been random chance, a lucky guess? Had they determined his next target? Did they know he’d sabotaged the bearings? Had they finally made this connection between the various derailments?
He climbed down from the loft, all his joints aching, cold to the bone, passing a small bicycle hung on the wall and catching a glimpse of his own face in the bike’s tiny rearview mirror. His wife had claimed he looked more Italian than Latino, citing his olive skin, thin face, and sharp features, but he saw his father’s face in the mirror, not his mother’s. He gingerly touched his nose. Bruised, but not broken as he’d originally thought. Like the rest of him, his face was crusted in blood and dirt. He needed a shower, or at least a facecloth. He had a small tear in the skin above his slightly swollen left eye, the cut clotted shut. It would clean up and eventually recede beneath his thick black eyebrows. His dark skin would go a long way toward hiding the discoloration. Now he needed to get back on schedule: he had a plane to catch. But he couldn’t even walk out in public looking like this, much less hitchhike. He glanced around the dimly lit garage, the morning sun just burning the edge of the horizon and sparkling off the fallen snow. Panic struck him: snow. Footprints. A trail to follow. Them—right behind him.
Parallel Lies Page 1