Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “Can you give me names?”

  “Harold Albert Griggs an’ Edna Maxine Griggs. Man an’ wife.”

  Darryl handed Stacy the microphone. “Can we interview you or would you prefer we talk to one of your deputies?”

  “Interview away.”

  Stacy raised the mic. “What time did the bust go down?”

  “At 0-200 hours,” the undersheriff swapped English for ‘police lingo’, “we issued a warrant on the alleged perps and conducted a thorough search of the grounds. At 0-300, two deputies located an extensive growth of marijuana. That’s when officers read the suspects their Mirandas.”

  “How much marijuana did you find?”

  “We’ve yet to make an exact determination, but it appears to be a hundred pounds or more.” He picked a foxtail from his sleeve. “We’ve also confiscated cash, ultraviolet lights, and scales commonly used for weighing and selling.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “That’s a question for the D.A.’s office, but I’d assume with an amount this large, they’ll be charged with possession and possession with intent to distribute.”

  Stacy asked three more questions, then wrapped up the interview. “I appreciate your time, sir.”

  “No pro’lem.” The undersheriff had apparently reverted to English—though not exactly the Queen’s. “I’ll take ya out ta the harvest site. We got most a’ the plants dug up. Feel free ta shoot what ya want.”

  As they walked together, Stacy skimmed his notes. “Is this a sizable bust?”

  “Not bad, but for every one we catch, another ten go free. Marijuana’s the number three cash crop in this state, behind cattle an’ wheat.” He stepped through a wall of reeds. “Too much land ta cover’s the pro’lem. An’ the way they’re protectin’ their crops nowadays—”

  “What do you mean?”

  They came upon ten bundles of freshly-reaped pot, Darryl zooming in. “Bear traps. Pit bulls. An’ that’s just the pot growers. The meth labbers’re worse.”

  “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to.”

  His expression turned tempered-steel serious. “Be surprised what people’ll do when money’s on the line.”

  Stacy nodded, writing as fast as he could.

  “Well, I best get back ta the office. You boys watch out for ticks.” He ran a hand through his graying crewcut. “Any more questions, talk ta one a’ m’deputies.”

  ***

  The high-pitched whistle sounded like a scream, steam rising to the ceiling in billowy clouds. Kaye Bridges stared at the wall, her husband grabbing the teakettle.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he uttered in the same happy tone he used on everyone else. Unlike everyone else, she knew it was bullshit. “How was your day, darlin’?”

  “Same as every other, I’m afraid.”

  He smiled, grabbing a mug and filling it with water. After filling hers, he dropped a teabag in each. “Got us a couple more bad guys today.”

  Her face—once a beautiful face with clear blue eyes and the softest lips he’d ever kissed—offered no expression. This was his war. Not hers.

  “Figger they’ll do some time, too.” Still no expression. As much as he loved her, he didn’t know what to say anymore. After a burning sip, he turned on the TV. The black-and-white image was grainy—a twist of the antenna helped. From the electronic snow, a face emerged. He turned up the volume.

  “…couple could face up to thirty years behind bars. Bill Stacy. Eight News.” The man on the tube disappeared, replaced by a glib anchor and weatherman.

  Marv Bridges looked at his wife. Her eyes had moved to the set, her stare one of profound sorrow. They’d never discussed Bill Stacy’s resemblance to their son. They didn’t discuss anything these days. But both had noticed it, feeling the icy knot it produced every time he appeared on screen. At times, it was too much to take. At others, strangely comforting.

  “I’m gonna…” Bridges stood, searching the room for an exit. After a beat, he headed for the room at the end of the hall.

  “Why do you torture yourself?” she cried.

  “It ain’t torture,” he responded, disappearing inside. As the door fell shut, the images began to soothe him. The football trophies on the dresser. The fishing poles. The bed, still unmade from the last time Jake slept in it. Neither Bridges nor his wife had the courage to change things. Sure, there was talk, at least in front of friends and family. But it was just talk. As long as Jake’s room stayed as it was—pennants on the walls, desk buried under clutter—maybe, just maybe, they’d awake from the nightmare.

  Bridges walked to the bed, turning on the lamp. Jake’s letterman’s jacket hung from the footboard, the leather sleeves beginning to crack. The kid had earned his first letter as a sophomore, a wide receiver with a boundless future. He’d wanted to go to OU, the dream of every kid in Oklahoma. He had the talent. The grades. The whole package.

  Then he discovered cocaine.

  His father raised the coat to his cheek. He could still smell his son in the fabric. Feel his skin. He closed his eyes, hearing his infectious laugh, the jokes he used to tell, the excuses for why his room was always a mess.

  What Bridges wouldn’t give to take back the arguments. To do things differently.

  He lowered himself to the bed, hugging the jacket to his chest. He’d never forget the call, the one every parent dreads. “Jake’s dead, Marv. I’m sorry.” The words were forever in his ear, the feelings they produced never far away. The only way to quell them, at least for this grieving father, was to dedicate himself to the job. Going to work every day and ridding the world of useless trash like Harold and Edna Griggs seemed like the best way—the only way—to honor his son.

  He killed the lamp and fell back on the bed. When his thoughts grew muddled, he let sleep take him, escaping to a wonderful world of summer days and soaring footballs.

  And of laughter. Sweet infectious laughter.

  ***

  “What time’s your next interview?”

  Stacy looked up from his notes, staring at Katie in the front seat. She really was beautiful, he thought—almost perfect—and no one seemed to care that she couldn’t write a lick. “One-thirty…with a rancher up in—”

  “Ever seen the Arbuckle Mountains?” Bub interrupted. Stacy glanced out the window at the passing foothills—in Oregon, they wouldn’t even merit a name. “A few million years ago, they looked like the Rockies.”

  Stacy found that hard to believe.

  “There’s a lot more beauty here than meets the eye,” Katie added. Oh, really? he thought. “There’s even a gorgeous waterfall about a mile from here.”

  “Yeah,” Bub confirmed, slowing down in Sulphur, “and the rock formations are incredible. Like layers on a devil’s food cake.” The salivating cameraman often referred to food. “Hey…it’s ‘Okra Tuesday’!” He skidded to a stop in front of Pearl’s, the trio making their way inside.

  “That’s Katie Powers,” someone whispered. “And Bill Stacy.” It was the first time a viewer had used his name—even if it wasn’t the one God gave him.

  Stacy felt ten feet tall.

  They made their way to a booth, a skeletal waitress with a badge that read DORIS bringing menus and iced teas. “Cobb Salad, no dressing,” Katie ordered. Stacy chose the Monte Cristo, Bub the chicken-fried steak. As Doris brought rolls, Bub shoved two in his mouth, the scent of warm bread filling the room.

  Stacy stared through the plate-glass window. “Seems like a…nice little town.”

  Katie smiled. “Lots of cattle money here. Turner Falls, too.” Doris returned with their lunches, the diner known for its lightning-quick service—a journalist’s dream. “Did you know our G.M. grew up here?”

  Stacy grabbed a knife, spreading jam on his sandwich. Another Dick Wilhelm reference. These people sure loved to talk about their boss.

  “His grandfather moved to Sulphur in the 1920s and started raising cattle.” She sprinkled pepper on her salad. “Wasn’t long b
efore he saw the huge potential for real estate development. He figured with the oil industry pumping out cash and the Arbuckles attracting tourists, Texomaland would be a gold mine for construction.”

  Stacy looked outside—Main Street wasn’t exactly bustling. “I take it things didn’t work out.”

  “They did for him. With the money they earned from cattle, Wilhelm & Son parlayed a modest little construction business into a multi-million-dollar empire.”

  “So why didn’t our G.M. follow in their footsteps?”

  “No interest,” Bub cut in, ‘chewing cud’. “When he graduated from OU, his dad bought him a radio station here. It was losing money hand over fist, but Wilhelm turned it around. Turned three TV stations around, too. In fact, the only venture he’s ever lost money at is Channel 8.”

  “What happened to the construction business?”

  “Closed in ’81 when old man Wilhelm died. Junior died two years later. And that’s when things really got interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Katie took over, “the money—and I’m talking millions—went to foundations all over Texomaland. And Dick Wilhelm didn’t see a penny.” She paused. “Well, that’s not entirely true. He did inherit a thousand head of cattle. And the family ranch. That’s where we’re shooting your livestock B-roll.”

  Stacy looked from one to the other. “How do you know all this?”

  “People talk. And in our business, it pays to listen.” She smiled, then glanced at the clock. “We better stop talking—”

  “—and start eating!” Bub finished her thought, mouth stuffed to capacity. With his plate nearly clean, he flagged Doris down. “Can I get an order of okra to go?”

  ***

  “Fire!” A thousand images filled Stacy’s brain. Billowing smoke. Curling flames. Someone running. He swallowed hard, hoping saliva would douse the fire in his gut.

  “Where?” was all he could muster.

  “At the Uniroyal plant!” Amy Chow shoved a camera at him.

  “Do I…get a cameraman?”

  “Sure, Bill.” She pointed to the empty room. “Take your pick.” It was the first Sunday he’d been asked to work. Meeks had changed the schedule to provide better weekend coverage—and hopefully better ratings. On-air talent now worked one of two shifts, Tuesday through Saturday or Sunday through Thursday, Sundays featuring a skeleton crew. He turned for the door. “And don’t forget to white balance!”

  It was a running joke at Channel 8, one he found little humor in.

  Speeding out of the lot, he could see a dark plume in the distance, a spiraling coil that, in truth, wasn’t very impressive. Still, it didn’t take much to elicit memories.

  He rolled down the window, needing air. It had turned cold in recent days, the fall colors blazing—golds, oranges, reds—all in sharp contrast to the black cloud ahead.

  As he arrived, he could see just one fire unit on hand, a single hose dousing the flames. He circled the plant, parking next to the KPXZ news van. “’Bout time, Bill!” the now-familiar cameraman quipped.

  “Hey, there…” Stacy flinched as a man ducked under the CAUTION tape. To his relief, it was Marv Bridges. “…we meet again, Bill Stacy.”

  “How are you, Mr. Bridges?” He powered up the camera.

  “I thought we agreed on Marv.” The undersheriff spit in a cup. “An’ I’d be a whole lot better if I’s still sittin’ in church. Then again, I was cravin’ a chew. Not sure if ’at’s a sin’r not.”

  “It’s a sin, all right.” Both men turned to the voice. It came from a short sturdy fireman, his forearms cut from granite. “But with all the sins you’ve amassed, I wouldn’t worry.” He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt, staring at the undersheriff with the most trenchant eyes Stacy had ever seen.

  “Comin’ from you,” Bridges shot back, the hint of a smile on his tobacco-stained lips, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It’d be the first.” Roy Maghee strolled to his friend’s side, badge reflecting the sun. He looked younger than his fellow lawman, but both graduated from Avalon High in ’59. They played football together there, Bridges an all-state receiver, Maghee a nose guard. Bought their first car together, too, a ’56 Chevy with three wheels and one bumper. Even shared a girlfriend. And in the end, both chose public service careers, Bridges with the sheriff’s office, Maghee with the fire department. “How’s Kaye?”

  “’Bout the same.” Bridges spit again. “Ya’ll met Channel 8’s newest ambulance chaser?”

  Maghee turned, stopping cold. “Nice to meet you,” he finally offered. “I’m Roy Maghee.” He didn’t extend a hand—reporters had burned him before.

  “How do you do, sir?” Stacy aimed his camera at the building, the flames all but out. Unless it was arson, this wasn’t much of a story. “Do you know who I can talk to about the fire?”

  The man sparked another cigarette. “Best bet’s the chief investigator.” He shook the match. “And that’d be me.”

  “An’ you’re in for a real treat,” Bridges added. “He’s quite the public speaker. Maybe he can tell ya ’bout his val’dictorian speech. Eighteen seconds, start ta finish. Still a school record.”

  “Yup.”

  “See there?” Bridges ducked back under the tape. “An’ that’s just a taste a’ things ta come.” He scraped tobacco from his lip and dropped it. “Well, I best get home. Got me a six-pack a’ Hamms an’ the Game a’ the Week awaitin’.”

  As the undersheriff left, Channel 2’s camera op shoved a mic at Maghee. The fireman ignored him, waiting for Stacy to begin.

  “Sir, was anyone hurt in the fire?” It was an odd first question.

  “No.”

  “Have you determined a cause?”

  “We have.” Maghee was living up to his ‘man of few words’ reputation.

  “Well, what is it?” the KPXZ cameraman butted in.

  The investigator glared at him, turning back to Stacy. “We’ve determined the fire to be accidental in nature. Caused by a maintenance man burning leaves, the investigation a Uniroyal matter.”

  “Jesus Christ!” The irate camera op stomped back to the van. “I can’t believe I wasted an hour on this shit!”

  Stacy stared at Maghee, face red. Although he’d done nothing wrong, he felt the overwhelming urge to apologize. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  The man tossed his cigarette and walked away.

  ***

  Stacy rushed into the building, tying his tie. He’d stayed up late again, rewriting his scripts on the Underwood. When his alarm went off, he’d slept right through it.

  “You must be Bill.”

  He looked up to see a busty redhead at the front desk. “Where’s Norma?”

  “She resigned. I’m Cindy.” He eyed the lobby. Gone were the nail polish bottles and glass trinkets. The desk was stark now, but for a lone photo of an angry Chihuahua. “You’ve got a nine o’clock meeting.”

  “Oh…thanks.” The place seemed quieter than usual. When he reached the newsroom, he found out why. Practically everyone was gathered inside, with a few notable exceptions. Raul Guttierez was missing. So were Phil Twitchell and Connie Calloway. Stacy scanned the flock. Katie stood next to the water cooler, a look of uncertainty in her beautiful eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “D-Day,” she whispered. “Wilhelm pulled the plug.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s been threatening to clean house for months. He finally did.”

  Stacy looked around. “Where’s Terrance?”

  “Don’t know.”

  A hush fell over the crowd as Dick Wilhelm entered. His forehead looked larger than usual, his mustache blacker. As he moved to an empty desk—Twitchell’s—several people lit cigarettes, smoke filling the room. “I have in my hand the last eight ratings results, people.” He surveyed the faces. “And they’re not good. I can’t say that any one person was responsible for these numbers. But some of you were more responsible than others. Those
people are no longer with us.”

  Stacy took note of the multiple casualties. Meeks was definitely gone. So was Terry Perkins and half the sales department. Unfortunately, Thad Barker had survived the blitzkrieg, as had Amy Chow. But thirteen had not.

  With one sweeping brushstroke, Wilhelm had created a whole host of enemies.

  “Over the next few weeks, you’ll begin to see their replacements arrive. Until then, every one of you will be asked to do more. That’s going to mean some long days and nights, people. But rest assured, we’ll all benefit.” He raised his hand and waved off smoke. “Now to some important business. I’d like to introduce our first new hire, and believe me, we’re lucky to have him.” A rawboned man with a larger-than-life head entered the room, shirt starched to a saber’s edge. “I’d like you to welcome Larry Toole, Channel 8’s new anchor and news director.”

  Stacy and Katie looked at each other, then back at their new boss. He had the face of a ferret, eyes too close, mouth too small. And there was something else about him, a sense of perennial movement, of refusing to rest for even a moment.

  “Larry’s a hometown boy. Went to Avalon High, then to the University of Texas. But we won’t hold that against him.” Wilhelm’s joke fell on deaf ears, the assemblage in shock. “After graduating from UT, he came back and joined Channel 8 as a reporter. But he was too good to hang onto. Joplin snatched him up after a few months, then Tulsa, Oklahoma City, and Dallas. For the last three years, Larry’s been working as a reporter in Big D. But thanks to a little coaxing—and a lot of money—he’s come home.” The man rolled up his sleeves as if preparing to sift through sludge. Wilhelm took his hand, a sign of open solidarity. “Welcome home, Larry.”

  As the new chief faced his tribe, Stacy shuddered, not sure why. “Good morning, folks. As Dick told you, and I hope he didn’t lay it on too thick…” He smiled at the G.M., Wilhelm smiling back. “…I’ve spent the last ten years climbing the television news ladder. During that time, I’ve seen it all. I’ve covered presidential elections, natural disasters, high-profile trials. I know the news business, inside and out. And I know what it takes to build a winner. That’s why I accepted this challenge.” He walked to the cooler and filled a Dixie cup, Stacy noting an obvious hairpiece.