Nick didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the train, toward the burning ball of fire, toward the tormented searing screams.
Sand passed under his feet like a treadmill. He grabbed a nearby rock and, like Spider-Man, climbed on a toppled passenger car. He smashed a window with the rock, and thrust his hand into the void. A hand grasped his wrist, and he pulled. The man in the train car latched onto the outside of the train and pulled himself up. Blood ran from his scalp and hands. Blood stains spattered his jeans and white shirt.
In a weird way, Nick hoped the man would be bloodier. He’d imagined himself pulling bloodied, broken passengers out by the dozen. Instead, the man he’d rescued looked more like a hero than Nick. Strong, big build, square jaw, as if he’d walked off the set of a Hollywood movie, playing the part of the mild-mannered alter-ego.
“Thanks,” the man said. “I tried to get out, but the door’s on the down side. Couldn’t quite get up to the window.”
“Can you help?”
The man nodded.
“Good, you help the people here, I’ll go to the next car.”
“There’s a woman inside this car. She’s old, pretty banged up.”
Nick told the man to wait at the window, then lowered himself into the car. Carnage spilled out on the scale of a blockbuster film. People lay strewn about, limbs at awkward angles, blood smears on walls and seats.
Not as bad as it looks.
Nick didn’t believe himself.
The man called out from above. “She’s near the back!”
Nick moved quickly. Most of the passengers were disoriented and dizzy; some sat down with their faces in their hands, others grabbed at him and pleaded for help. One woman, cradling a child, screamed. “Save my baby! Please save my baby!”
The elderly lady bled from her forehead. Her dull, terrorless eyes roamed the train car. Must be shock. He’d need to get her out quick, but she could wait. The child had to be saved. He took the screaming baby and raced back to the window. “Baby coming up! Mom’s next.”
He moved quickly, covering his face with his shirt to cut down on the acrid smoke and the sharp twinge of blood. His lungs burned as he helped the mother climb out. His arms ached as he worked with other passengers to hoist the old woman through the window.
Once the passengers had been completely evacuated, Nick climbed back through the window. He cut his arms on the broken glass and wondered how many others had done the same. He sucked in lungfuls of smoke-laced air before leaping over to the next car.
Nick still had the rock he’d used on the previous car. “We break the windows first. The passengers can help each other once they have an escape route.”
Even after police and fire arrived, Nick dove into the train cars to help organize escape plans. He ignored his fatigue, the burning of his lungs and arms, legs and back, and pressed on as any hero would, until a young fireman pulled him aside.
“You gotta rest,” the fireman said. “Too much smoke. You’re going to need to go the hospital, man.”
“I can’t leave now.”
“You’ve done enough here. We have things under control.”
“I’m fine.”
“Smoke can mess you up pretty good. I’m asking nicely. Get to the hospital. If you don’t go now, I’ll take you myself.”
Nick nodded. When the fireman turned his back, Nick ran the opposite way to another passenger car where the firemen were not so familiar with him. He stood by them, coughing, hacking, and pulling people from the wreckage like fish from a lake until he blinked three times and collapsed.
* * *
Nick woke up in an empty hospital room with a clear mask over his face. People filled the hallway with cameras and microphones. Had his wife come, too? Had she come to see him and praise his heroism?
In his black sleep, he dreamed rapid-fire that she’d come back to him, that she’d gotten rid of the bearded bum and loved him again, the way she did in high school, the way she did when they married at eighteen, the way she did on their honeymoon in Vegas, the way she did before things got bad, before she started drinking and spending his money on booze, the way she did before he checked her into rehab.
He pulled the mask from his face and called for the nurse.
Was that his voice? Thick with smoke, coming out in a pinched whisper through a swollen throat?
The nurse, an attractive young woman in teal scrubs, came in and shut the door behind her. “How’re you feeling?”
He pointed to the dozen strangers milling around, cameras around their necks, notebooks in hand. “What gives?”
She smiled. “Reporters, mainly, and some of the people you helped rescue. They came to say thanks.”
“Where’s my wife?”
The nurse’s face fell. “No family has checked in to see you. Want me to get rid of the reporters? Or call your wife? Maybe she doesn’t know yet.”
He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand over his neck. “She knows.”
The nurse put her hand on his shoulder. “Doctor Slate said you should be fine with a few day’s rest. He didn’t see the harm in letting the reporters stay a bit to get an interview, provided you feel up to it.”
Nick rumpled his brow. His head hurt. “Don’t even know why I’m here.”
“You swallowed a lot of smoke. You were there for some time, and without a mask. It’s like you suffocated a little bit. Not enough oxygen. They got a mask on you right after you collapsed. No brain damage, but your lungs took a beating.”
“My lungs?”
“Doctor Slate wants to do an MRI to see if there’s any scarring on the lungs. How are you breathing?”
“Through my nose.”
The nurse laughed a full, hearty laugh, and Nick fell in love with her smile. “I mean are you breathing okay?”
“Fine, I think. Throat’s a little sore.”
“That’s normal. Want me to get rid of them?”
Nick shook his head. “It’s okay. Can I rest a bit more, maybe watch some television before you send them in? And can you send them in one at a time?”
“I’m a nurse, sweetheart, not a receptionist.”
Nick smiled and his throat ached. “Please?”
She winked. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He needed time to think through everything that happened the day before, to anticipate questions that would come up: Why was he there?
He went for a walk on his break to clear his head.
In the rain?
Of course in the rain. The desert doesn’t get nearly enough rain, and he wanted to appreciate it. He’d only be out for a few minutes.
Did he know anything about the blue Suburban parked on the tracks?
One of his co-workers, a fellow with a big beard and a thin face, drove one.
Did he really believe it was a suicide-attempt gone wrong, that whoever was driving the car chickened out and ran off?
Way things were going in Hailey, suicides were pretty common.
He gave each answer to the waves of reporters who came in from as far away as San Francisco, Las Vegas, San Diego, and Los Angeles. He’d expected the AP, maybe the LA Times, but San Diego and San Francisco?
His heroism grew even more when Doctor Slate found scarring in his lungs. Nick would have to stay a week for observation. He considered it a well-earned vacation. He tried not to think about his deductible. Instead, he concentrated on enjoying the days of leisure, the bad hospital food, the sacks of get well cards that came in from all over the state, from Nevada and some from Arizona. He tried not to think about why his wife never sent him a card, why she never came to visit, or why his family, for that matter, never came by either. He’d never felt so loved and so alone at the same time.
* * *
Nick wondered how long his fi
fteen minutes of fame would last, but he didn’t worry long. When he got out of the hospital, he found his house completely emptied. His wife’s heart was blacker than he’d imagined. His brother left him a note stuck to the front door. He’d helped her move in with Beard Face.
Two weeks later, his phone stopped ringing. Reporters no longer asked for interviews. He enjoyed his few trips to LA to appear on news broadcasts. His fame earned him no respect in Hailey. If anything, it did the opposite. Few people talked to him at the plant. He ate lunch alone, and eventually decided to take his meals at Sue’s. It was pricey, but at least he didn’t feel alone, shunned.
He found solace in comics. There, heroes were appreciated. When Spider-Man swooped in and saved the day, someone said, “Thank you.”
Maybe he needed a mask.
Days continued like this, week-in-week-out, month after month and on into years. Before long, it was like the whole thing never happened.
And each sunrise, Nick woke with a question on his mind: What would have happened if he hadn’t chickened out?
Eventually, years later, Doctor Slate called. “The X-rays and MRI don’t look good, Nick. I wish I had better news.”
Nick, happy for a phone call regardless of the message it brought, fell against his kitchen wall and slid down until he was half-sitting, half-squatting. He held the phone tight against his ear with one hand and clutched his shirt in the other. He rocked slowly, quietly for a few minutes until Doctor Slate asked, “Nick?”
Nick said, “Thank you.”
* * *
Twenty-three years ago, on a rainy November day, Nick came home from breakfast before going to the plant. He’d left his lunch and wanted to kiss his wife one last time. When he came in, the bearded man was already kissing his half-dressed wife. She grinned when the man’s tongue slid into her ear. The man ignored him, but his wife eventually asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” without embarrassment, or fear, or remorse for her flagrant infidelity.
The man rolled his eyes and worked his hands over Nick’s wife.
Nick wanted to cry, wanted to hit the man with something heavy, or to choke him and watch him struggle to breathe, but none of the situations had a happy ending. Really, what he wanted was to be the man holding his wife, running his hands over her body, kissing her neck. How long had it been since she’d let him touch her like that? A year? More? Had she been cheating on him this whole time?
“How long?” he asked. “That’s all I want to know.”
“How long what?”
Nick stopped thinking. He walked to the kitchen a few feet away in the small mobile home. He picked up his lunch pail and wished it were heavier. Then, on his way out, he swung it as hard as he could at the bearded man’s head. There was a crunch-thud and the man’s knees buckled. The man fell hard into the rickety coffee table which splintered under his weight. His wife stared at him, her mouth a wide “Oh.”
“I’ll be home late,” he said. “Going to have a few drinks after work.” He slammed the door behind him. He got in his Corolla and drove to the plant calmly. He worked the morning in silence, and no one noticed. He punched out for his lunch, but decided he wouldn’t eat today. He wanted to get out, to think clearly.
He walked out into the rain, thinking it would be nice to go for one last drive. He found a car, a big car, a Suburban, smashed the window, hot-wired it, and drove off to the nearest railroad crossing, where he parked. He could have taken his car, but couldn’t stand the thought of wrecking it.
He left his belt buckled. It might look like an accident, like he didn’t plan on getting hit by a freight train. It would be fast and stylish, a death people would talk about for years to come.
Later, he heard the whistle and had second thoughts. He tried to start the car again, but it wouldn’t turn over. He thought to look under the hood, but it would take too long. He hit the steering wheel, jumped out of the car, and started walking back to the plant.
Chapter 25
Monday, September 7th
Nick lit a cigarette and hung it between his lips. “Doesn’t much matter anymore. I’ll be dead in a month. Maybe less. I’ll finally have what I want.”
I rolled down the window, hoping the fresh air would ease my sour stomach. “All those people.”
“Sad, isn’t it? Not your typical hero story.” He exhaled a line of silver smoke.
I tried the handle on the door, but it didn’t open. “How do I get out?”
“Outside handle.”
I used the outside handle and stepped out of the car. I paced back and forth, pressed my fingers into my temples to relieve the pressure building in my brain.
Nick got out and rested his arms on the hood of the car. “You all right?”
I shook my head. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
He shrugged.
“Connor Reedly. Nadine, Aida’s sister, is my wife. You killed her parents.”
He coughed and spit in the dirt. Slipping the cigarette back in his lips, he said, “You must hate me.”
His voice, like his wife’s before him, lacked fear and remorse. He’d resigned himself to his guilt, and nothing I could do would make him feel worse about himself.
“You probably want to kill me then.”
He ducked into his car, reached in the glove box, and pulled out a revolver. He checked to see that it was fully loaded and then set it on the top of the car. He motioned to the gun, waving a hand over it like he’d just done some magic trick. Then, he spread his arms out to the Cluster and the desert.
“Everyone’s at work. No one’s around. You can just do it real quick, slip the gun in my hand, and it will look like suicide. No one has to know.”
“What?” My nausea had morphed into a sick fear and disbelief. My knees felt weak.
“Do it for Nadine and Aida. A lot of people died unnecessarily.”
I rubbed my temples harder. He wanted a way out of his guilt and misery, but couldn’t muster up the courage to kill himself. That’s why he’d brought me out here. He wanted me to do it for him.
I thought about it for a minute. I weighed my options, and actually considered picking up the gun, but when I thought of Nadine, I knew I couldn’t do it. My anger subsided, and I pitied him instead.
“You’re too scared.”
“You can bring justice to all those people.” He slid the gun to my side of the car.
In my mind, I picked up the gun. Heavy and cold, the grip worn and rough. I leveled it at his chest, squeezed the trigger. The sharp report would push my arm back and jar my elbow. The crack would echo over the Cluster.
I had to get away from him, had to move away from the gun before I picked it up, instead of imagining it. I grabbed my phone and dialed Aida.
His voice rose. “Don’t be a chicken. Put the phone down and pick up the gun.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“Yes you are. Pick up the gun.”
Aida’s phone rang.
“Pick it up!”
“Hello?” Aida asked.
“I need a ride.”
Nick grabbed the gun off the car and pointed it at my head. “Hang it up, now.”
My chest froze. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.
“Still at Sue’s?” Aida asked.
I put my hand up in the air and said, “All right. I’ll hang up.” I slipped the phone back in my pocket. Steeling my will, I asked, “Why the big rush? You said yourself you have less than a month. Why make me do this?”
He cocked the hammer. “Maybe I don’t want to wait a month when now’s just as good a time.” He coughed again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You have any idea what cancer does to you?”
I nodded and tried to keep my cool, but my fear had become anger. “My wife has cancer all thro
ugh her. It’s eating her alive, and I have to watch. But you get a little lung cancer and think you can take the easy way out while my wife suffers? You’re a coward.”
“Never said I wasn’t.” The anger in his voice dissipated, replaced by a gentle sorrow. “I’m okay being a coward. I’ve been afraid every day of my life. Afraid of getting beat up, afraid of being picked on, afraid of never being loved, afraid of losing what love I had. Every day is a new fear for me. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, or the next day or month worth of pain. Dying I can take. Withering away I can’t.”
I called his bluff. “Then do it yourself.”
“Maybe I will.” He put the gun to his temple, the hammer still cocked.
Confident he lacked the courage to follow through with his threat, I decided to push the envelope. “Go on, then.”
He squeezed his eyes tight. In a quivering voice he asked, “What happens to people that kill themselves?”
“You’re afraid.”
“What happens? Do they go to Hell? I’m going to Hell whether or not I kill myself, aren’t I? After so many people died because of me. I’m on a train heading straight to Hell.” His finger shook over the trigger.
I put my hands in my pockets. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t know how all that works, but I know people who do.”
“Who?”
I spoke calmly and firmly. “Give me the gun, and we’ll drive down to see a friend of mine.”
“Who?”
My phone rang. I wanted to answer it, but didn’t want to do anything suddenly or without his permission, nothing to upset him further. Whatever anger coursed through me earlier melted away. Fear moved in on its heels. If I let him kill himself, Nadine would never forgive me. “Aida’s calling.”
“Don’t tell her about me.”
I answered the phone.
“What gives?”
“Never mind about the ride, Aida. Nick and I were just having a little talk.”
“So you’re talking with Nick? How’s that going?”
“Swimmingly. We’re going to run down and see Caleb. Know how to get there?”
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 20