Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “As I mentioned, Stacy, we’ve been presented with an opportunity.” Wilhelm stood. “With the restraining order in place, you can no longer work here. It wouldn’t be practical to keep you and Thad apart.”

  “That’s where Clarion comes in.” Stacy turned to his agitated boss. “We’ve rented space downtown, a mile from KPXZ headquarters. The office is small, but it’ll have everything you need—an edit suite, a camera for live shots, and a microwave. Best of all…” He offered a lecherous smile. “…we’ll be erecting a huge Great 8 sign in the middle of town!”

  Both men snickered, Stacy looking from one to the other. “Are you saying—?”

  “We’re not firing you, Stacy. This is a fucking promotion! How does ‘Bill Stacy, Bureau Chief’ sound?”

  “But…what about the lawsuits?”

  “I’ve got an army of lawyers,” Wilhelm responded, “who, between you and me, need to start earning their money. And before you ask for money, there’s no raise to go with this move. I’m dropping a bundle on this little outpost. It’s a huge gamble on my part. But I expect it to pay off.” He glanced at Toole, then back at Stacy. “You bring us up in the ratings, and we’ll talk money.”

  Stacy nodded, deep in thought. Clarion was ninety miles away. He couldn’t possibly drive there every day. And what about Katie? She was the regular co-anchor now. If he moved, they’d barely see one another. Then again, what were his options? He turned to Toole. “Am I going to be working the new bureau alone?”

  The news director smiled, moving into the hall. “You and a camera op.” He lit a KOOL as if coming up for air. “And I’ve got a pretty good idea who you’ll take.”

  ***

  Julius struggled under the weight of a box. “Damn, dude, what’s in this one?”

  “Be careful with that. My typewriter’s in there.”

  He glared at his roommate. “Maybe you shoulda got the last six boxes then!”

  Stacy ignored him, plugging in the stereo. They hadn’t planned on moving in together, but Clarion was a college town, and in April rental properties were scarce. Stacy saw the ad in the paper—Fresh-Air Cottage, 3-Bedroom, Transportation Nearby. After paying the deposit, they learned that ‘Fresh-Air Cottage’ meant no A/C, ‘3-Bedroom’ meant two rooms and a closet, and ‘Transportation Nearby’ meant train tracks up the street.

  “Where do you want it?”

  Stacy pointed to the stack in the corner, the boxes holding everything from clothes to demo tapes. He hit the power switch. “Done.”

  “Already?” Julius sniped, tossing him a cassette. Stacy popped it in the deck, the familiar riffs of Robert Cray filling the room.

  “You’ve got this on LP and cassette?”

  “Had it on 8-Track, too, till it melted in the car.” He moved to the beat, careful not to twist his wounded knee. “Well, I guess it’s official,” Julius shouted over Cray’s Still Around. “We’re home.”

  Stacy let his eyes—one still black—wander the room. The walls were covered in faux-mahogany, the bedrooms smaller than jail cells. He’d given Julius the one with the closet to store his ‘questionably acquired’ gear. Stacy took the one with the view—and scent—of Long John Silver’s.

  “Where’s the hammer?”

  “On the windowsill.” Julius reached for it, staring through the pane. Across the drive, a man with muttonchops raked grass. When he saw Julius, he looked away.

  “I’m still not sure ’bout this. White dude and a brother livin’ together’s beggin’ for trouble.”

  “You were the one who said Clarion was more liberal.”

  “It is more liberal, but it’s still Oklahoma.” He closed the curtains and moved to the wall, pounding a nail.

  “You going to tell me what that’s about?”

  Julius hung the Cousteau photo. For a long time, he didn’t speak, then, “When I was a kid…Jacques Cousteau kept me alive.”

  “Kept you alive?” Stacy grabbed a box. “This ought to be good.”

  “Depends what you mean by ‘good’.” Stacy peeled back tape, Julius clearing his throat. “I used to watch him on TV. Down in the basement. Just me and Cousteau, cruisin’ in the Calypso.” Beneath his glasses, dark eyes mirrored a distant sea. “Seems so free out there on the ocean. No one tellin’ you what to do.” He studied Stacy for a reaction. “This one time, he dove right into a pool of sharks. Sharks, man! And they were comin’ right up to the lens! That’s what made me want to be a cameraman.”

  He stepped forward, eyes glowing like an eel’s.

  “You know he invented the Aqua-Lung? Watertight goggles, too. And when he was a kid, he cobbled up a box to take pictures underwater. Dude’s a genius!” He looked to the dark blue carpet, his mind doing the backstroke. “Got my first camera when I was five. Used to shoot bugs, horny-toads, anything I could get close to. When I was eight, I tried to make a waterproof box of my own. Ruined the camera—and got a hell of a beatin’ for it—but that didn’t stop me. When I got older, I started tapin’ all the Undersea World episodes. Still got ’em, too. My dream was…” He corrected himself. “…is…to work for Jacque Cousteau as an underwater photographer.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m serious! I collected cans to pay for swimmin’ lessons when I was little. Took divin’ classes in high school. Got certified in college. I’ve been sendin’ tapes to Cousteau ever since.” He glanced at the photo. “All I got to show for it’s that picture. But I ain’t givin’ up.”

  Stacy wondered how realistic it was for a man who’d never seen the ocean to get a job in one, but he kept his doubts to himself. “You shouldn’t give up, Julius.” He stared at the photo. “But none of that tells me how Cousteau ‘kept you alive’?”

  Julius reached for a box, peering inside. “When I was in the basement…I was out of my father’s way.” Stacy waited for him to elaborate, even considered a follow-up, but decided against it.

  As they worked in silence, a train roared up the tracks, rattling the walls. By the time they raised the curtain, it had already passed, a trail of smoke the only evidence it had been there.

  ***

  The monitor flickered, then bounced into focus, a huge anaconda filling the screen. “Check it out, Jul. We’ve got a signal.”

  “Wild Kingdom. I’ve seen this one a buncha times.” Julius pulled up a chair, the clock reading five to midnight. They’d spent the entire day helping Brannuck hook up the microwave. It was the bumbling engineer’s third attempt at the job, the previous two ending in failure.

  The Clarion bureau was supposed to be operational by mid-April, but on the last day of the month, they still couldn’t send video. Instead, Julius was forced to make the hour-and-a-half drive every day, arriving in Avalon with just enough time to edit. That meant a 3:30 deadline for Stacy, who had to finish his scripts before his partner left. The drive was taking a toll on Julius, the early deadlines killing Stacy. None of that mattered to Toole, however. The rabid news director was assigning four, five, even six stories a day—an attempt to establish a noticeable presence in Clarion.

  “Wait’ll you see what dude does to this snake.”

  As Marlon Perkins narrated, his sidekick, Jim, followed the anaconda into the water. Slime covering his safari suit, Jim seized an opportunity and dove, re-appearing with the beast wrapped around his neck. “The South American Anaconda,” Perkins explained, “reaches lengths up to thirty feet. And by the looks of this fella, he’s a full-grown male.” Jim struggled for a foothold, disappearing again. “They eat birds and small mammals, but the larger snakes have been known to attack cattle.” Jim emerged from the depths, face turning blue. “Anacondas kill their prey by suffocation, but they can also deliver a lethal bite.” Jim’s eyes were bulging now. The end seemed near.

  “Watch this, dude.”

  As Perkins described death by asphyxiation, Jim took charge. Digging his thumbs into the snake’s belly, he went under again, emerging moments later with the snake in distress.
As a bored llama looked on, Jim gripped the boa like a Gucci handbag, it’s head falling limp in his hands.

  “I told you, man. There’s only one rule in the jungle—don’t mess with Jim!”

  They cracked up, but their laughter was short-lived. The late-night program gave way to the latest news promo —Stacy running from the tornado. “When Disaster Strikes, the Great 8 News Team is There!” He hit the power button, the image shrinking to a monochromatic dot.

  “I’m starting to hate these damn promos!”

  The door flew open, an excited Brannuck rushing in. “I done it! I done it!” He was completely out of breath, having just climbed down the twenty-foot extension ladder. “The microwave’s up! So’s the antenna! Turn on monitor two!” Stacy punched it up, color bars replacing black. “I told ya, fellas! I told ya!”

  “You told us, all right,” Julius whispered. “’Bout three weeks ago.”

  The phone rang, Stacy and Julius staring at each other. They’d unplugged the scanner an hour ago, using the outlet to re-charge some batteries. Stacy hit the speaker button. “Clarion bureau—”

  “Why the hell are you still there?” Toole roared.

  “We’ve been—”

  “Get to Will Rogers Elementary. It’s on fucking fire!”

  Gut twisting, Stacy reached for a map. “Will Rogers …that’s—?”

  “Corner of Fourth and 89er. I suggest you haul ass!”

  Chapter 10

  May 1988

  (NEWSWIRE): SOVIET UNION BEGINS WITHDRAWING TROOPS FROM AFGHANISTAN ... POLLS SHOW DUKAKIS AHEAD OF BUSH IN RACE FOR WHITE HOUSE ... SURGEON GENERAL SAYS TOBACCO PRODUCTS ARE ‘ADDICTIVE’

  By six in the morning, Will Rogers was a smoldering mess. Three fire units worked till dawn to save the historic structure, but the relentless blaze won out. Channel 7 arrived at 6:30. Channel 2 was still missing. KEGT, meanwhile, captured a glut of breathtaking footage, from firemen risking their lives to flames illuminating the Clarion sky.

  It was another huge victory for Channel 8.

  “Can you tell us what this school meant to you?” Stacy asked.

  Mildred Divine took a shaky breath. “I started teaching here in ’48…” She glanced at the people on hand—students, parents, teachers—all heartbroken. “…it’s been my home for decades. And these people… they’re my family.” Her lip began to quiver, Julius zooming. “Everything I’d kept…the notes, the gifts from students…forty years of memories were in that classroom…” Unable to continue, she turned away, melting back into the crowd.

  Stacy hated asking questions like that. They were designed to elicit emotion, from interviewees at their most vulnerable. The technique was used by every journalist in the business. But was it right? He couldn’t help feeling he was invading his subjects’ privacy somehow, exposing them unfairly for his own personal gain.

  “We’ve got enough, Jul.” He unhooked the mic. They’d talked to three teachers, six parents, and the fire chief, all while Brannuck worked feverishly to establish a signal.

  “Five minutes!” he hollered from the truck. As they moved their gear, the sound of screeching tires stopped them.

  Channel 2’s news van had arrived, its occupants furious.

  “Just what kinda shit are you trying to pull?” The burly camera op leaped from the vehicle, veins bulging. “We been on a wild damn goose chase for hours, looking for a ‘meth lab bust’. I wonder who left that tip on the hotline!”

  “What are you talkin’ ’bout, dude?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about!” His eyes moved from Julius to Stacy. “We see what you’re doing, with your fancy live truck and your little office. You’re trying to come up here and fuck us! Well, dropping a bogus lead mighta worked once, but it’ll never work again!”

  Stacy had heard enough. “If you think for one—”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The bickering journalists turned. Clarion Fire Chief Gary Schnea stared from beneath a blackened helmet. “I thought you’d like to know. We just discovered a body.”

  ***

  The victim was Leonard Catesby, a 63-year-old janitor known for hitting the bottle and falling asleep. This time he never woke up. Toole had a field day with the story— ‘Texomaland Torch Turns Cold-Blooded Killer’—Stacy going live three times, twice from the scene, once from the office. By the time he and Julius called it a day, they’d been up for thirty-nine hours.

  “How does a beer sound?”

  Julius climbed in the Escort. “Sounds great if you’re buyin’.”

  “I’ll get the first round. You get the next two.”

  A minute later, they pulled up to the Lion’s Den, the marquee flashing five of eight letters. “This the joint Brannuck’s been ravin’ ’bout?”

  Stacy nodded, climbing out of the car—he could already taste the ice-cold beer inside. Julius hesitated. There were three vehicles in the lot, all pickups. He knew by now to keep his guard up at a place like this.

  They opened the door and walked inside—cinderblock walls, shadowy booths. “Two Michelobs, please.” Stacy handed the bartender a five.

  As the man slid them their mugs, Julius stared at the broken jukebox, the empty dance floor. “This looks like a place Brannuck’d rave ’bout!”

  Stacy snickered, hoisting his glass. “To Don Brannuck, the worst engineer in the history of television.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They made their way to a booth, passing an elderly couple, a dozing midget, and a man with a guitar, all smoking like wood stoves.

  Sliding into their seats, they drank in silence for a time, but there was something Stacy needed to ask. “Have you been thinking what I have?” Julius shrugged, raising his mug. “It just seems strange that our little arsonist friend decides to hit a building in Clarion—another Wilhelm building, by the way—right after we move to town.”

  Julius adjusted his glasses, the flame of a candle dancing in each lens. “Just a coincidence, dude.”

  “Is it a coincidence that someone gave Channel 2 a bogus tip this morning? And that today happens to be the first day of ratings?”

  Julius stared, the man with the guitar strumming a decent version of Desperado. “I’m not big on conspiracy theories. Not even sure I buy Maghee’s idea. And besides, I ain’t gotta solve ’em. I just gotta shoot ’em.”

  Stacy nodded, raising his stein. “Maybe you’re right.”

  As the midget snored, the guitarist transitioned to Robert Cray’s I Wonder. Julius turned. The man had thinning hair and an S-shaped nose, the vibe he emitted one of disquiet. But, man, could he play!

  As he strummed his steel-string Gibson, he looked up. “Evening, gentlemen. It’s an honor to be in the midst of celebrities.” His slit of a mouth formed a cryptic smile. “Bill Stacy and Julius Candelle, the Great 8’s latest attempt to infiltrate Clarion.” The reporter and cameraman exchanged glances. “Don’t worry, boys. I’m not clairvoyant. Just highly attuned to the world around me. I read about the move in the paper. And, of course, I watch Channel 8 every night.”

  “You play a mean guitar, dude.”

  “Thank you, young man. I hear you do, too.” Julius turned to Stacy, the reporter returning his stare. “Let’s see if you know this one…” He moved his fingers up the frets, playing a haunting Paul Simon tune. When he broke into song, he stunned them both.

  “Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance.

  Everybody thinks it’s true.”

  He looked up, fingering the refrain. “I love this song, Mr. Zwardowski.”

  The unexpected reference hit Stacy like a bad note. Zwardowski? “How do you know so much about us?”

  He changed chords. “I should’ve properly introduced myself. Trevor Carson, Attorney at Law. Well, at least I used to be. Used to work for Channel 8, too. Until I grew… uncomfortable there.”

  He paused to reiterate the chorus, Stacy leaning forward. “Uncomfortable?”

  “Let’s just say we had an
ethical discord. Unfortunate part is I haven’t been able to find work since.” He glanced at the stirring midget. “On the positive side, I’ve got all night to make music now.” With that, he began singing again, his voice smooth as the polished table.

  “What is the point of this story?

  What information pertains?”

  Julius turned away, ready to end this conversation— ‘Trevor Carson, Attorney at Law’ was giving him the creeps. “Whatta we got tomorrow, Stace?”

  “I believe this song is a metaphor,” the man continued. “For finding the truth, no matter the cost.”

  “What does that mean?” Stacy asked.

  Before he could answer, Julius stood. “Let’s get outta here, dude.”

  “But the next round’s yours.”

  “I’ll buy you a case if we can go now!”

  As they moved for the door, the man sang two more verses, substituting his own lyrics for Simon’s.

  “Two disappointed believers.

  Two people playing the game.

  Fires raging across Texoma.

  What’s the arsonist’s name?”

  Stacy and Julius turned in unison. The strumming sage no longer faced them, his cig glowing red in the pegbox.

  “From time to time, he tips his hand.

  I’d look within if I were you.

  Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance.

  Everybody thinks it’s true.”

  ***

  “I’m looking for an Underwood No. 5.”

  “Underwood?” The clerk scratched his head. “I knew me a Cecil Underwood once. Had one a’ them port wine birthmarks. An’ bowlegged as—”

  “Thanks,” Stacy cut him off. As the door slammed behind him, he looked up the street. The nursing home was a few blocks away—he still had ten minutes before his interview with the owner.