by Allan Folsom
9
UNION STATION. 8:10 A.M.
Red McClatchy watched people beginning to gather in anticipation of the train’s arrival. A quick tally gave him twenty-eight persons on the platform, not counting himself, Lee, and Polchak. The area where they stood was where car number 39002 would stop. When it did, the two doors on the platform side would open and the passengers would detrain. It made no difference which of the doors their man chose. Halliday, stationed at one end, would be right behind him if he came that way. Valparaiso at the other would do the same if he came his way. Barron in the middle would back up either.
Across the track and behind the chain-link fence where their unmarked cars were parked was additional backup. Two black-and-white LAPD patrol cars with uniformed officers in each were parked out of sight behind three empty semitrailers using the area for temporary parking. Four more black-and-whites were positioned at strategic points outside the station in the unlikely event the fugitive somehow eluded them all.
A blast of train whistle made him turn, and he saw a Metrolink commuter train come in on a track two platforms away. The train slowed to a crawl and stopped, and for the next few minutes the area was alive with passengers. Then, as quickly, they were gone, filtering out to jobs across the city, and the platform was quiet again.
The same would happen when the Chief arrived. For a few crazy moments there would be concentrated activity as the train let loose its human cargo, and that was when they would make their move, stepping from the crowd as the cardplayer came off the car, handcuffing him quickly, and taking him fast across the tracks to the unmarked cars. As intense as those moments would be, the reality was that it would be over in a matter of seconds with few people even aware that it had happened.
McClatchy looked to Lee and Polchak; then his eyes swung to the platform clock.
8:14 A.M.
“Let’s see what you have, Frank.” Bill Woods chuckled, calling Miller’s hand and pushing a short stack of the red chips toward the center of the table.
Moments earlier Raymond had dropped out of the game. So had Vivian Woods, and now she was looking across the table at him again the way she had earlier. That her husband was literally at her elbow seemed to make no difference. The trip was nearly at an end, and she was throwing herself at Raymond in some kind of desperate hope he might do something about it when they reached L.A. He let her do it, holding her eyes for just long enough, then looking off down the aisle toward the front of the car.
The wiry man in the sport coat was still in his seat by the door, his head turned, looking out the window. Raymond wanted to swivel around and look behind him, but there was no point. The man in the dark suit would still be sitting near the lavatory by the rear door, and the younger one, midway, in the same seat he’d been in since he’d come on in Barstow.
8:18 A.M.
Immediately he felt the Chief begin to slow. Outside he could see industrial plants, a convergence of busy freeways, and the concrete-lined drainage channel that was the Los Angeles River. They were in the final moments of the trip. Soon the other passengers would begin to get up and collect their belongings from the overhead racks. When they did, he would do the same, standing and taking his valise down like the rest, hoping his move would seem innocent enough alongside everyone else and giving him time to get the Ruger out and into the waistband under his sweater. Then, when the train stopped minutes later and Miller and the Woodses left, he would go with them, chatting personably, making his way toward whichever door they chose. It was then that he would make use of Vivian Woods’s fantasies, taking her arm just before they reached the door. He would whisper that he was mad about her and urge her to come with him, leave her husband, everything, right then. She would be shocked and flattered at the same time. Long enough for him to take her down the steps and onto the platform, using her as a shield against the police behind him and the others he was certain would be waiting for him outside.
Timing, if crucial before, would be everything now. Bill Woods would come down the steps after them, making a loud fuss, wondering what the hell was going on. The police would use that instant to make their move, and when they did Raymond would open fire with the Ruger, killing as many as he could right off and in the process creating as much chaos as possible. A split second later he would duck under the train, cross the tracks to the adjoining platform, and go into the station.
Once there, he would lose himself in the swarm of people inside, find the busiest exit, and go out with everyone else. Then he would be gone, disappearing like smoke from the bloody pandemonium he had just created and vanishing into the endless tangle of the enormous city before him. As long as he had his timing and kept his head, it would work. He knew it.
10
8:20 A.M.
John Barron saw the door at the front of the car open and the conductor come in. Stopping, he looked out over the passengers and for the briefest moment let his gaze fall on Valparaiso in the seat directly in front of him. Then he turned and went out the way he had come in.
8:22 A.M.
Barron glanced at the young woman beside him. She was still absorbed with whatever played over her headset and was barely aware he was there. He looked over his shoulder and saw Halliday at the far end of the coach, then turned back and saw Valparaiso in his seat up front. Neither so much as looked his way.
Barron’s eyes went to his watch, and he saw the minutes ticking down. He took a breath and sat back trying to relax, one hand in his lap, the other just under his jacket, resting on the grip of the Beretta automatic in his waistband.
8:25 A.M.
“Jeez, one more time, Ray, sorry.” Frank Miller was getting up again and squeezing past Raymond into the aisle. It was the second time in the last twenty minutes he’d stood and gone to the lavatory in the rear of the car. The last time he’d apologized openly, admitting that he had a bladder problem. And when Bill Woods told him he’d had bladder tumors removed twice and recommended he see a urologist as soon as possible, Miller waved him off, saying he was fine, that it was the long train ride that irritated things. The last made Raymond think he’d been right when he’d thought Miller’s hairpiece might be an indication that the salesman was ill. Maybe he had been in Chicago not on business but for treatment, and Bill Woods’s reference to tumors had only made things worse.
Again he thought about the critical timing in the station, the split-second way things had to work once they reached it. It made him worry, as he had before, that whatever Miller’s problem was, he would cause some kind of difficulty as they were trying to get off the train.
8:27 A.M.
The Chief began to slow even more.
11
UNION STATION.
McClatchy stood just down from Lee and Polchak, watching the activity on the platform around them build. By now the number of people waiting for the Southwest Chief to arrive had grown to fifty or more, and others were coming by the minute. Any crowd complicated things, and the larger it grew, the greater the potential for something to go wrong.
He glanced down the track, then was turning to look in the direction of the backup black-and-whites hidden beyond the chain-link fence when his jaw tightened. A troop of Girl Scouts was walking up the ramp from the station below. There were a dozen of them at least, ten- or eleven-year-olds in tidy, crisp uniforms. Two women in Girl Scout uniforms accompanied them, women McClatchy assumed were troop leaders. The situation was tense enough as it was, but put together a troop of Girl Scouts and an unstable killer stepping onto the platform who suddenly went crazy and started shooting, then what?
“Eight-twenty-nine.” Lee came up to remind him of the time, but his focus was on the Girl Scouts, his concern as great as Red’s. “We’ve got eleven minutes and counting.”
Polchak joined them, looking from the troop to Red. “What do we do?”
“Get them the hell out of here.”
8:30 A.M.
“Ten minutes to Union Station. Southwest Chief arriving
track twelve. Ten minutes.”
The train’s public address system broadcast a recorded announcement, and the Chief slowed to a crawl. Almost immediately people stood and began to take down their luggage from the overhead racks, and Raymond started to do the same. Then he saw the young policeman stand midcar and reach for his own bag, blocking the aisle just as Miller was returning from the lavatory.
The policeman smiled, said something, then slid back into his seat, letting Miller pass. As he did, the conductor came in from the front car and stood in the doorway near Valparaiso. For a moment Raymond froze, uncertain what to do. He needed the gun, and he couldn’t get it without taking down his bag. All around him others were still collecting their belongings. There was no reason he shouldn’t do the same.
Abruptly he stood and was reaching for his valise as Miller reached him.
“Don’t,” Miller whispered, then leaned in toward the Woodses, his voice hushed and urgent. “I heard railroad people talking. They think there’s a bomb on board. They don’t know which car. They’re going to stop the train before it gets to the station.”
“What?” Raymond was thunderstruck.
“People are going to panic,” Miller said with the same urgency. “We need to get to the door right now, so we can be first off. Leave your bags, leave everything.”
The color drained from Bill Woods’s face as he stood. “Come on, Viv. Let’s go.” His voice was anxious and filled with fear.
“Come on, Ray, hurry.” Miller pressed as the Woodses moved into the aisle in front of them. Raymond looked at him, then glanced up at his valise. The last thing he wanted was to leave it behind.
“My bag.”
“Forget it.” Miller said quickly, taking him by the arm and forcing him after the Woodses. “It’s no joke, Ray. That thing goes off, we’re all in a million pieces.”
8:33 A.M.
Valparaiso and the conductor saw the cardplayers coming. Behind them Halliday and Barron were suddenly on their feet, as surprised as they were by the foursome’s move.
“What the hell?” Barron mouthed openly at Valparaiso.
“What are they doing?” The conductor was staring at the cardplayers pushing past people, heading toward the front of the car where they were.
“Don’t move, don’t do anything,” Valparaiso warned.
Barron stepped into the aisle and started after them, his hand on the Beretta. Three steps and he felt Halliday’s hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t give him a reason to do something.” Halliday pulled him back.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but he’s not going anywhere. Sit back down. We’re only minutes from touchdown.”
Valparaiso saw Halliday draw Barron down and into the seats the cardplayers had just vacated. In between the foursome kept coming. They were close together, squeezing past other passengers. He heard the conductor take a deep breath. A few more rows and they would be next to him. The train was still moving. Where the hell did he think he was going, the next car? Yes, of course. But after that was the engine, so the next car was as far as he could go, and they could handle that if they had to. As soon as they went in he would radio McClatchy and—suddenly the conductor was moving toward the cardplayers, blocking the aisle.
“There’s been a problem with the ticketing,” he said with authority. “Will you please return to your seats until it can be corrected?”
“Christ,” Valparaiso breathed.
Barron was staring at the conductor, the Beretta out of sight under the card table. “Leave him alone, you asshole,” he whispered out loud.
“Easy,” Halliday said softly. “Take it easy.”
8:34 A.M.
The conductor was right in their faces. Bill and Vivian Woods looked at Miller for help. They were scared and had no idea what to do. Raymond looked back toward his valise. The police were right there, in his seat, the valise in the rack directly overhead.
“I asked you to go back and sit down. Please do so and remain seated until we reach the station.” The conductor continued to push them. Bomb or no bomb, Raymond thought, here was a man who truly believed this was his train and he was master of it. No one was going to march toward the doors until he gave the okay, especially a wanted felon. Suddenly it was all too clear who had alerted the police.
It was a move that was not only stupid but reckless. And Miller called him on it. For the second time in what seemed seconds he did the wholly unexpected.
“Stop the train,” he said sharply. “Stop it now.”
The conductor flared. “That’s not possible.”
“Yes it is.” Suddenly Miller pulled a huge Colt automatic from under his jacket and shoved it hard against the conductor’s head. “You have an emergency key. Use it.”
“Jesus Christ!” Barron stood up fast. So did Halliday.
Raymond was staggered. He stood frozen, unbelieving. Bill Woods pulled Vivian back tight against him. People stared, mouths agape. Then Raymond saw Valparaiso raise his arm. A 9 mm Beretta was in his hand, and it was pointed directly at Miller’s chest.
“Police officer, freeze!” Valparaiso’s eyes were locked on Miller’s.
In the same instant Barron and Halliday made their move up the aisle from behind, their guns up and ready.
“Drop it! Or I’ll kill the conductor right here!” Miller yelled at Valparaiso, then abruptly pulled back and swung the Colt at Barron and Halliday.
“That’s all!” he yelled.
The policemen stopped dead where they were.
“Put the gun down, now!” Valparaiso shouted.
Suddenly Miller pivoted toward Bill Woods.
Booooom!
A thundering gunshot rocked the car and the top of Bill Woods’s head exploded, showering his wife and the closest passengers with his brains and blood, his body collapsing to the floor as if he’d been poleaxed. Vivian Woods’s screams were drowned by the shrieks of other passengers. Some, near the back, stampeded in horror toward the rear door, desperate to get out. Immediately Miller twisted the Colt toward Vivian Woods.
“Put it down, cop!” Miller was staring at Valparaiso. The car went stone silent.
8:36 A.M.
Barron inched forward, easing past terrified passengers, trying to get a clear shot. Miller saw him.
“You want somebody else dead?”
Miller’s whole being was on fire, his eyes little more than seething dots retreating deep into his skull.
“Drop your weapon, Donlan!” Valparaiso barked, his finger easing back on the Beretta’s trigger.
“Not me, you! All three of you, you bastard fucks!” Miller’s hand flashed out, grabbing Vivian by her hair, dragging her to him, the Colt shoved tight up under her chin.
“Opleasegodno!” Vivian Woods screeched in terror.
“Drop your guns, now!”
Donlan! The named identification stabbed through Raymond like a dagger. My God, the man’s name wasn’t Miller, it was Donlan. He was the one they’d been after all along. Not him at all!
Valparaiso looked past the gunman to Barron and Halliday, then slowly opened his fingers and let his gun fall to the floor.
“Kick it here!” Donlan barked.
Valparaiso stared; then his foot slid out and kicked the automatic toward Donlan.
“Now you two!” Donlan shifted, his eyes going to Barron and Halliday in the aisle behind him.
“Do it,” Halliday breathed. He let his Beretta drop first. Barron hesitated. He was standing sideways in the aisle, and he could see the mother clutching the little child with the teddy bear. The girl who had been sitting beside him was frozen against the window, her face twisted in horror. This was the dread he had felt coming, the awfulness in the air before it even started. But there was nothing he could do now without endangering more lives. He let go of the Beretta and heard it clunk as it hit the floor at his feet.
“Ray.” Donlan was suddenly looking at his card-game companion. “I wa
nt you to pick up their guns and drop them out the window, then come back here to me.” His order was quiet and exceedingly polite.
Raymond hesitated.
“Ray, do what I said!”
Raymond nodded and, with every eye in the car on him, slowly collected the guns and dropped them from the train window, then walked back to where Donlan stood. It was all he could do to keep from grinning. This was fortune from Heaven.
8:38 A.M.
Abruptly the gunman turned to the conductor. “Stop the train. Stop it now.”
“Yes, sir.” Trembling, horrified, the conductor took a ring of keys from his belt, walked down the aisle past Valparaiso, and fitted one of the keys into a slot above the door. He hesitated, then turned it.
12
Fifty yards ahead, warning lights danced across the control panel of the Chief’s lead engine as the train’s emergency brakes automatically engaged. At the same time a warning buzzer blasted over the engineer’s head. He felt a jolt as the brakes caught; then beneath him came a tremendous shriek of steel on steel as the locked wheels slid forward over the rails.