The Exile

by Allan Folsom

  “Too late.”

  Winded and wet, cold and grim, Valparaiso was looking down the tracks, watching the lights of a commuter train disappear in the distance.

  75

  6:08 A.M.

  They were in the car behind the locomotive with a half-dozen early commuters. One, a young and very pregnant woman, looked as if she would deliver at any moment.

  Suddenly Barron realized he had to secure Raymond to some part of the train to protect both himself and the passengers. Quickly he glanced down the car and saw a luggage rack bolted to the floor and ceiling near the front. If he had a key he could release Raymond’s handcuffs and then lock him to it, but—in that instant Barron realized he was wearing the same pants and jacket he had worn the night before and that his own departmental handcuffs were in a small black leather pouch at the back of his belt.

  “Come on!”

  Abruptly he took Raymond through the passengers and shoved him up against the luggage rack. Then he shook out the handcuffs and snapped them over the cuffs Raymond already wore and locked him to it.

  “Don’t move, don’t say a word,” Barron hissed. Immediately he turned and held up his gold detective shield to the startled passengers.

  “Police officer,” he said, “I’m escorting a prisoner. Please go into the car behind this one.”

  The pregnant woman looked from Barron back toward Raymond. “Oh, my God,” she said, wide-eyed and loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s Trigger Ray, the killer from the TV! The cop’s got Trigger Ray!”

  “Please,” Barron urged. “Go to the car behind.”

  “I gotta tell my husband! Oh, my God!”

  “Move, lady! Everybody get out of here and into the next car!” Barron herded them back and out the door into the vestibule between cars. He waited for the door to close, then took out his cell phone and started back toward Raymond.

  6:10 A.M.

  “What’re you doing?” Raymond was looking at the phone as Barron reached him.

  “Trying to keep you alive a little bit longer.”

  The faintest smile crossed Raymond’s face. “Thank you,” he said. It was the arrogance again, as if he were certain Barron was still afraid of him, and protecting him for that reason.

  Suddenly Barron erupted. “If those people weren’t out there in the other car,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’d beat the living crap out of you. Fists, feet, anything. And I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass that you were handcuffed. Do you understand, Raymond? Tell me that you do.”

  Slowly Raymond nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good.” Barron stepped back, then clicked on the cell phone, punched in a speed dial number, and waited. Then:

  “Dan Ford.”

  “It’s John. I have Raymond. We’re on the Metrolink from Burbank Airport. Probably twenty minutes from Union Station. I want you to put out the word to as much media as you can as fast as you can. Full coverage when we get off the train. Local TV, national, tabloids, foreign TV, CNN. Everybody and anybody. Make it a fucking circus.”

  “What the hell are you doing on the train? Where’s the squad? What—?”

  “We’re real short on time, Dan—full coverage, huh? The best you can do. The best.”

  Barron clicked off, glanced once more at Raymond, then looked back at the door to the next car. Commuter faces pressed against the glass staring in. In the center of them was the pregnant woman, her face round, her eyes wide and ogling madly, as if this were the most popular game show in the world and she wanted desperately to get on it.

  “Christ.” Barron swore out loud and walked quickly up the aisle to the door, taking off his jacket as he went and hanging it over the window so they couldn’t see in.

  He glanced back at Raymond handcuffed to the luggage rack and checked his guns. The Colt had two rounds left, and his Beretta, a full fifteen-shot clip. He prayed he’d have to use none of them. Prayed the squad had reached the platform too late to have seen the train pull out and were still searching the station and the area around it.

  6:12 A.M.

  76

  6:14 A.M.

  The train began to slow. Just ahead was Burbank Station and after that Glendale. These were quick commuter stops with barely more than five or six minutes between stations. Barron’s first thought when they’d come on board had been to call Metrolink headquarters, identify himself, and ask them not to stop at all before they reached Union Station. But he knew that if he did, Metrolink officials would alert security and in a blink the squad would know where they were and exactly which train they were on.

  Within minutes LAPD units would set up in Union Station and cordon off the entire area, and then the squad would arrive and take over. Once they were in control, no matter how large a media army Dan Ford had amassed, none of them would get anywhere near the action. It meant that all Barron could do was wait it out and hope the train got to Union Station before Lee and Polchak and the others figured it out and got there first.

  6:15 A.M.

  Barron felt the train slow and then slow even more. Then came the sharp clang of warning bells as the train moved at a crawl into Burbank Station. In the drizzle and faint light he could see probably twenty commuters waiting on the lighted center platform. He glanced at Raymond. The killer was watching him. Waiting for whatever was next. Barron wondered what was in his mind. That he was unarmed and shackled to the luggage rack meant little. As Barron well knew, he had slipped handcuffs before. That was how he had killed the deputies in the elevator at Criminal Courts.

  And as always, he bided his time, watching, thinking, as he was now, waiting for the suitable moment to strike. Abruptly Barron’s thoughts shifted to the new commuters. He’d have to do the same with them as he had with the pregnant woman and the others, identify himself as a police officer and order them into the car behind.

  Through the window he could see them roll past the commuters to the far end of the platform. Then came the shriek of steel on steel as the engineer applied the brakes. There was a slight bump, the train stopped, and the passenger doors midcar slid open.

  6:16 A.M.

  Barron held the Colt beside him out of sight and moved back, watching carefully, half expecting to see Polchak or Valparaiso suddenly appear, leading the others in a rush. But all he saw was commuters loading onto the cars behind. Five seconds, ten. He glanced at Raymond, then past him and through the closed door to see the massive hulk of the locomotive just beyond. He looked back to the passenger doors. So far no one had tried to come in. Another five seconds and the doors slid closed. A whistle sounded from the locomotive, there was a whine of diesel engine, and the train moved off, little by little picking up speed. Barron let out a sigh of relief. Five minutes more and they would be at the Glendale stop. Then it was straight on to Union Station, a fourteen- or fifteen-minute ride. He tried to picture the rush of media Dan Ford would have unleashed. A horde of reporters, paparazzi, camera and sound crews, invading the station and battling for space on the platform to so very publicly capture the infamous Trigger Ray Thorne as Barron brought him off the train. Then and only then would he be able to—

  Suddenly dread shot through him. Why had no commuters attempted to board the car they were in?

  “Damn!”

  In an instant he was shoving the Colt into his belt and racing toward the rear of the car. He reached the door and ripped down the jacket he’d used to cover the window and keep the prying faces out.

  “Oh, Christ!”

  All he saw was train tracks. The passenger cars that had been there before no longer were. The brief moments they had been in the station had been time enough for someone to uncouple the cars. The train was now made up of only two components, their car and the engine.

  6:18 A.M.

  77

  “What are they doing?” Raymond shouted at him as he walked back down the car.

  “Shut up.”

  “Take off my handcuffs, John, please.”

  Barron ignored him.


  “If we can get off the train before they see us, John, I can have the plane brought back to any airport. We can all go. You and me and your sister.”

  “My sister?” Barron reacted as if he’d been slapped.

  “You wouldn’t leave her behind.”

  “And you’d pull every string in existence to have me get you out of this.”

  “Think about it, John—you love her. You really couldn’t leave without taking her with you. Could you?”

  “Shut up!” Barron spat angrily. It was bad enough Raymond had violated him by coming into his house. But Rebecca? What the hell was he doing even thinking about her? Suddenly Barron remembered where he was and what was happening. He turned and looked out the window. They were rounding a bend. Ahead was Glendale Station. In seconds they would be there. He slid the Colt from his belt, and his other hand slid to the Beretta. His first thought when he’d seen that the train had been uncoupled from the other cars was to call Dan Ford and alert the media there had been a problem with the train. But it was no good. Even if Ford had gathered them, they would be at Union Station, and he knew this train would never get that far. Where it was going he didn’t know either. Glendale Station was coming up fast, and after it there was a myriad of sidings and rail yards where the engine and its lone car could be diverted.

  “Give one to me.” Raymond was looking at the guns.

  Barron looked at him.

  “They’ll kill us both.”

  A loud whine of diesel engine suddenly came from the locomotive. Instead of slowing, the train picked up speed. Barron grabbed a seat back to brace himself. Outside, in the gray-wet light of early morning he saw Glendale Station flash by. He expected to see a group of surprised commuters, instead of the blur of uniforms and a half-dozen black-and-whites in the parking lot. Then he saw Lee rushing up from the parking area, staring straight at the car as he came. For the briefest moment their eyes met, and Barron saw him raise his radio.

  Then they were out of the station, the train racing forward like a runaway. He glimpsed the L.A. River and beyond it the headlights of cars jamming the Golden State Freeway.

  Suddenly the train slowed and Barron had to grab on to a handrail to keep his balance. The train slowed more. He heard a distinct clunk-clunk as they passed over a series of switches, and then the train turned onto a spur line. He saw another spur line beside them and warehouses on either side. They rattled over more switches, and then what little daylight there was abruptly disappeared. For a few seconds they moved forward in the dark, and then the train gave a lurch and stopped. Seconds later the engine shut down and everything was silent.

  “Where are we?” Raymond said in the dimness.

  “I don’t know.”

  6:31 A.M.

  78

  Barron slid the Colt into his belt and took out the Beretta, then moved down the car looking out the windows. From what he could see they were under a roof or some kind of enclosure for a massive, U-shaped warehouse that had raised platforms all around to accommodate the unloading of freight cars. High, closed overhead doors reached to the platform and were individually spotlighted and identified by large, brightly colored numbers painted in reds and yellows and blues. Spill from the lights flooded in through the car’s windows, cutting its interior into areas of searing brightness and equally deep shadow.

  Barron craned his neck. Outside he could see several freight cars on the spur line next to them. Other than that the area was dark. They had gone from night to early morning and back to what felt like night all in the space of barely twenty minutes.

  Barron glanced back at Raymond, handcuffed at the far end of the car. Then motion outside caught his eye and he saw a tall man in a railroad uniform run from the locomotive and disappear from view. The train’s engineer.

  “Give me a chance, John. Take off the handcuffs.” Raymond had seen the engineer, too.

  “No.”

  Suddenly Barron remembered his police radio. It was in his jacket at the far end of the car. Ducking low he rushed for it, passing through the black-and-white chiaroscuro like a harlequin.

  Then he was there, retrieving his jacket, slipping the radio from it and clicking on the squad’s secure channel. Loud static crackled through the car, then—

  “John, you there?” Valparaiso’s voice came over the radio. It was relaxed, even calm.

  Barron felt the hair on his neck rise up. He looked outside. All he saw were the rows of brightly lit doorways. He crossed to the other side and saw nothing but the dark silhouettes of the freight cars and the hint of more lighted warehouse doors beyond them. Then he saw the headlights of a car turn in at the far end of the buildings and start down the uneven gravel between the tracks. A moment later the car stopped, the lights went out, and the car door opened. For the briefest moment he saw Lee’s silhouette, and then he was gone in the darkness.

  “John?” again Valparaiso’s voice sounded over the radio. “You’re in an enclosed warehouse. The uniforms have the entire area outside sealed off. We can do it hard or we can do it easy. You know how the patter goes. Give us Raymond and you can walk away, nothing will happen. Even if you felt you had to report it, it would still be four to one against. They’d just give you a little stress-related time off.”

  “He’s lying.” Raymond’s voice suddenly came from the far end of the car.

  Or had it?

  It sounded closer, and Barron wondered if he’d slipped out of both sets of handcuffs and come partway down the car.

  “Just Raymond, John. Why take you out when we don’t need to?”

  “It began on a train, John, it ends on a train,” Raymond’s voice came again.

  Radio in one hand, Beretta in the other, Barron peered down the car. All he could see were the zebra stripes, jet black cut by bright light. Yet the voice had been closer. Raymond was coming toward him, he knew it.

  6:36 A.M.

  Gun in hand, Halliday slid from the shadows near a doorway with a red number “7” painted next to it and crossed the tracks to the front of the locomotive. To his left he could see Lee move up beside Valparaiso, and then the two of them go toward the Metrolink car’s rear door.

  Barron slid back in the dark, listening. He heard nothing and wondered if he was mistaken.

  “Make it easy, huh, John?” Valparaiso’s voice rattled through his radio again.

  Barron’s eyes were on the black-and-white lights and shadows in front of him. He was listening for Raymond even as he lifted the radio. “Marty,” he said.

  “I hear you, John.”

  “Good. Fuck you.”

  6:37 A.M.

  Raymond heard Barron click off the radio. He was flat on the floor and out of the light spill, inching forward on his elbows and knees. He had purposely kept one of the handcuffs on, holding the free half in the same hand. A perfect garrote for Barron’s throat when he got to him. He stopped and listened. Where was he? There was no sound, nothing.

  Suddenly cold steel jabbed hard under his ear.

  “You’re missing the concept, Trigger Ray. I’m trying to keep from killing you.”

  Suddenly Barron squatted beside him. “Try something again and I’m going to let them have you.”

  Raymond felt a trickle of sweat by his ear where Barron’s gun was. Abruptly Barron took hold of the free handcuff and pulled him close, shoving the Beretta hard under his chin.

  “Who the hell are you?” Barron’s eyes danced in the reflected light.

  “You wouldn’t guess in a lifetime.” Raymond smiled arrogantly. “Not in two.”

  Suddenly Barron erupted in rage. He grabbed Raymond hard. Slammed his head against a handrail. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood ran from Raymond’s nose and dripped onto his shirt. Then Barron pulled him up close, staring into his eyes.

  “What is Europe about? And the dead men and Alfred Neuss and Russia? What are the safe deposit keys to?”

  “I said you would never guess.”

  Barron pulled him closer still. �
��Try me,” he said, his voice full of menace.

  “The pieces, John. The pieces that will ensure the future.”

  “What pieces?”

  Again came the arrogant smile. Only this time it came slowly and was more calculated. “That, you will have to find out for yourself.”

  “John—” Valparaiso’s voice floated from the radio. “John?”

  Abruptly Barron snapped the free handcuff back over Raymond’s wrist. “Take that off again, I’ll kill you.”

  Barron reached for his cell phone. At least he knew where they were and he still had Dan Ford. If they could hold on long enough, Ford might bring the media here—he flipped open the phone and hit the POWER button and waited for the phone to light up. It didn’t. He tried it again. No luck. Maybe he hadn’t charged it. Maybe he had forgotten to—

  “Dammit,” he swore under his breath. He tried it once more. Still nothing.

  “It’s dead, John.” Raymond was staring at him.

  “Alright, it’s dead. We aren’t. When I say move, we’re going to the locomotive end of the car. We’re going low and we’re going fast. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Move.”

  79

  6:48 A.M.

  Someone in the media horde at Union Station had picked up the warehouse action on a police scanner. Immediately Dan Ford tried Barron on his cell phone, but he got nothing more than Barron’s voice mail. A second try and the response was the same. A call to a confidant in Robbery-Homicide at Parker Center confirmed what had been picked up on the scanner. Raymond Thorne was holding John Barron hostage on a Metrolink train. The police had diverted it to an isolated warehouse district that was now cordoned off. The 5-2 Squad had been put in charge of the situation.