Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  Julius did choke this time. “Toole?” he coughed. “What the—?”

  “Think about it, Jul.” He moved closer, thunder rumbling. “When was the first fire?” Julius couldn’t answer, still coughing up whiskey. “A month after Toole hired on. And how about this? There’ve been four fires since he got here.”

  “There’ve been four fires since I got here, but I don’t see you accusin’ me. Why would Toole set those fires?”

  Stacy looked him in the eye. “For ratings.”

  “You’re outta your—”

  “Am I?” He took the bottle and capped it. “Then I’ve got three questions. How come it always happens at night? How come we always get a call from Toole? And how come Channel 8’s always the first to arrive?”

  “’Cause we’re the only ones livin’ with scanners!”

  “That’s one explanation. Here’s another—suppose Toole calls before word ever hits the scanner?” Julius dismissed him. “It’s not that big a stretch, Jul. He’s hyped every story we’ve ever done. Faked interviews. Why couldn’t he start a few fires?”

  Rain began to fall, stinging their skin. “It doesn’t add up, Stace. Maghee says the Torch is after Wilhelm. Toole’s got no beef with him.”

  “Maybe Maghee’s wrong, at least on motive. Maybe the Torch isn’t doing this for revenge, but for greed—or power.” He paused, the rain falling harder. “Toole sure fits that profile, doesn’t he?”

  Julius didn’t know what to say. But he knew one thing—if they stayed out here much longer, they’d have to swim home. Heading for the car, he stopped under the oak. “You know what you’re sayin’, right? We got a man dead!” Stacy nodded, lightning flashing. “Right or wrong, you best keep your theories between us.”

  ***

  He pinned the Polaroid to the corkboard, the photo featuring Bill Stacy and Dan Rather, the keynote speaker at today’s OU graduation. Julius had taken it moments after commencement, the new camera his latest acquisition. Stacy grabbed a pen, applying the perfect caption—OPPOSITE ENDS OF THE TV NEWS PAY SCALE.

  “Oh, crap!” He lunged, yanking his script from the new fax machine. “I hate this damn thing. I could call in my scripts and clean the entire office in half the time it takes to send one page!”

  “Newest technology, dude.”

  “I liked the old technology.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Can you take my scripts, Amy?”

  “Why don’t you fax them?”

  “If you let me dictate, we’ll be done in three minutes.”

  “I don’t have three minutes.” She handed the phone to an intern. When the coed finished typing, it was five till six.

  “Mr. Toole wants to speak to you.”

  “Mr.—?”

  “Stacy. Larry Toole.” Why did he always introduce himself? “I need you and Julius at the Eagle Feather Motel, pronto.”

  Stacy pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been up since five, driving to Norman for the ceremony, then making stops in Moore, Shawnee, and Holdenville on the way back. “Can this wait till tomorrow, Larry?”

  “If it could wait till tomorrow, would we be talking tonight?” Stacy sighed, Julius pulling the last tape from the feed. “Take one of your personal vehicles and park outside room seven. Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just wait till someone comes out. And shoot them.”

  “But who are we shooting? You’ve gotta be—”

  “I don’t ‘gotta be’ anything. This is the lead at ten.”

  Toole hung up, Stacy turning to Julius. “Hope you’re not hungry.”

  The man yawned, reaching for his camera. “Where to, dude?”

  They drove in silence, crossing the railroad tracks and heading east. At the turn of the century, four families lived in Clarion. Today, the Quintoc County seat boasted a college, two glass factories, and a hearty pecan crop. And though the oil slump of the ’80s had taken its toll, city leaders were committed to downtown revitalization.

  The Eagle Feather Motel wasn’t part of the plan. The dilapidated inn was a hovel for the seedy and a burden for police. But the rent was cheap, twenty bucks a night or $7.50 an hour—YOUR CHOISE, the sign read.

  Julius parked the Subaru, fishing his camera from the backseat. He’d prepped it at the office. Now all they had to do was wait—for what, they had no idea! Stacy rolled down the window, a breeze delivering the scent of dumpsters.

  An hour passed.

  Two hours.

  Three.

  At 9:35, the door opened, a couple emerging. Julius leaped from the car, already rolling, Stacy flooding the subjects with light.

  The man tried to shield his face, his companion, a middle-aged woman in stiletto heels, mugging for the camera. “You bastards!” he screamed, leaping in a Cadillac. As Julius zoomed on the plate, the car squealed out of the lot, reporter and cameraman having no idea what they’d captured.

  Ten minutes later, they were back at the office, feeding it to Avalon. “Whatta you s’pose that was all about?”

  Stacy shrugged, powering up the monitor. As Mort Taylor mounted a Clydesdale, offering “huge savings on Mustangs”, Julius pulled up a chair for the news intro.

  “Scandal rocks a Texoma town.” A monitor rose over Toole’s shoulder, the graphic—TOWN DICK CAUGHT. “Clarion Assistant Police Chief Trey Allenbaugh found himself in a compromising position tonight.”

  Stacy looked to Julius, the director rolling video.

  “In this exclusive Great 8 footage, Allenbaugh’s seen in the company of a known prostitute.” The man repeated his shocked response for all Texoma to hear, then darted for the Cadillac, his license filling the screen. Below, a C.G. read VIDEO COURTESY CLARION BUREAU.

  “Dude, we’re dead!” The pair watched the rest of the story in horror, the video repeating itself three times. “The cops ain’t never gonna forget this!”

  Toole’s story was a Pearl Harbor attack on the Clarion Police force, Stacy and Julius his naïve kamikazes. And like World War II, there’d be huge payback for a story with more holes than Swiss cheese. For one, Toole failed to mention that he, not Allenbaugh, had hired the streetwalker, paying her to lure the off-duty cop back to the motel. Second, the hooker waited till after the sex act to reveal her profession, threatening to call the press if she wasn’t paid. The officer, who’d lost his wife to ALS a year earlier, complied as planned. But why the attack in the first place? The answer lied in another unreported fact—Trey Allenbaugh was a minority stockholder in KPXZ, one who’d taken a public stand against Channel 8 moving to Clarion.

  “Payback’s a bitch!” Toole would later boast.

  It sure was.

  “We’d like to recognize Clarion bureau chief Bill Stacy and videographer Julius Candelle for their contributions to this report. In other news…”

  As Julius stared at the monitor, Stacy fired his notepad at the wall.

  Chapter 11

  June 1988

  (NEWSWIRE): U.S. FARMERS SEEK DISASTER RELIEF FOR WORST DROUGHT IN 50 YEARS ... ‘WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION’ SAYS 5 MILLION PEOPLE HAVE AIDS ... NBA’S LAKERS WIN FIFTH TITLE IN 1980s

  They expected retribution. But not this swiftly.

  Stacy was interviewing a local farmer when Amy Chow radioed— “The police want to see you at one o’clock.” Before he could respond, she added, “And don’t think this gets you out of your crop damage piece. If nothing good happens”—and by ‘good’ she meant tragic— “it’ll be the lead at six.”

  Julius drove as if hauling nitroglycerin. “Don’t worry, Jul. It’s going to be fine.” But Stacy wasn’t convinced either. He’d written the same sentence three times.

  “I don’t like cops.”

  “We interview cops all the time.”

  “This ain’t no interview.”

  They pulled to a stop at the CLARION POLICE sign. Stacy swallowed, throat dry as the field they’d just left. “Stay cool, Julius. We were just following orders.”

  They walked up the path, the air smelling of
dead marigolds. As they reached the door, a man in a black Stetson greeted them. “Leonard Allenbaugh, Jr.,” he introduced himself. “I’m the chief of police—and Trey’s father.” Their guts rumbled in unison. “This is Sergeant Dumars. Detective Sanders. And Fire Chief Schnea.” Stacy recognized the man from the elementary school blaze. “Mr. Stacy, you come with us. Mr. Candelle…” He spoke the names as if they tasted like zinc. “…you go with them.”

  As the cops led Julius away, his expression was a condemned man’s. Stacy’s was no better—the blood had left his face, too.

  The chief escorted his guest to a tiny room. Inside were two chairs and a table. “Sit yer ass down,” he ordered, all pretense of etiquette gone.

  “Are you comfortable?” the fire chief asked. “Can I get you something to drink?” Apparently Schnea would be playing the role of ‘good cop’ today.

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “We’ll ask the fuckin’ questions!” Allenbaugh threw his hat on the table, a crease marking the equator of his brow.

  Schnea shot him a cautionary glance. “Would you like an attorney present?”

  “An attorney?” Stacy looked from chief to chief. “Why would—?”

  “Not saying you do or don’t. But we’re required to ask.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Where were ya the night a’ April 30th?” Allenbaugh charged.

  Stacy stiffened. “I’m not…sure. That was more than a month ago.”

  “Maybe this’ll jog your memory.” The chief leaned in. “Will Rogers Elementary burned down that night.”

  “Will Rogers?” Stacy was taken aback. “You’re not suggesting—?”

  “We ain’t suggestin’ nothin’. Just answer the damn question!”

  Stacy’s mind spun like a top. He’d prepared himself for several scenarios—but not this one. “We were at the scene…” The man grinned like a jackal. “…with the other news crews!”

  “An’ I bet Channel 8 beat ’em all there, didn’t they?” He moved forward, gun anchored to an arthritic hip. “Where were ya before the fire?”

  Stacy thought hard, an image surfacing—Jim from Wild Kingdom, battling a giant snake. “We were working. At the new office.”

  “Just you and Candelle?”

  “No…Don Brannuck was there…our engineer. He was with us the entire night.”

  Allenbaugh glared at Schnea, the man getting up and leaving. Stacy suddenly felt vulnerable, like being in the alley with Dexter Monroe, the bully from 78th Street.

  “Maybe it’s just me…” The chief moved closer, breath stinking of Lucky Strikes. “…but I find it real interestin’ we get us a suspicious fire, right after you fucks from Channel 8 roll into town.”

  “Sir,” Stacy rasped, “I can assure you, we had nothing to do with that fire.”

  “Maybe not.” He held his ground. “But I’m gonna do everythin’ in my power to dig up some evidence. An’ when I do, you and your little nigger friend are goin’ down.” He offered a repellant smile. “Tit for tat.”

  Stacy stared in disbelief. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Call it what ya want.”

  Stacy stood, anger replacing fear. “Am I a suspect in this case?”

  Allenbaugh reached for his Stetson. “You’re a ‘person of interest’—for now.”

  “Well, then—for now—we’re through talking.”

  The man slithered to the door. “Ya best ’member somethin’, boy. I got lotsa eyes in this town.”

  ***

  Roy Maghee lit a cigarette, poring over the ‘Torch’ files. His unflagging attention to detail is what separated him from ordinary investigators. And he knew from experience that one little ‘crumb’ could reveal the whole ‘cake’. The phone rang. “Maghee.”

  “’Morning, sir, it’s Bill Stacy.”

  “How are you, Bill?”

  “Not bad. Considering the Clarion P.D. just interrogated me.”

  Maghee flicked ash. He’d heard about the incident, having already talked to Gary Schnea. But he wanted the reporter’s account. “What happened?”

  Stacy recounted the story, filling in details from the Trey Allenbaugh scandal.

  Maghee took a drag. “I wouldn’t worry. Schnea’s a good man”

  “Schnea’s not the one I’m worried about.”

  “You’re innocent, Bill. And contrary to popular belief, we in the law enforcement community aren’t out to convict innocent people.”

  There was a long pause. “We’ve had four fires, right?”

  Maghee paused himself. “That’s right.”

  “All non-accidental? All Wilhelm buildings?”

  “Correct.” He sparked a new cigarette with the old, snuffing out the butt.

  “And you still believe the person doing this is out to get Wilhelm?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, what if you’re wrong? I mean, there’s no shortage of Wilhelm buildings, right?” Maghee’s eyes moved from the ashtray to the photo on his desk—he and his wife on South Padre Island. “What if a fifth fire destroyed a non-Wilhelm building? Would that force you to rethink things?”

  The investigator leaned back, smoke filling the room. Could he trust Bill Stacy? Reporters had lied to him more times than he could count. “Of course, we’ll keep that confidential,” they assured him. “This is all off the record.” That’s why friends were dumfounded when he married Tanya Sheldon, the pretty young anchor from Channel 8. She’d moved to Avalon from Ft. Lauderdale in the mid ’70s, looking for experience and a chance to move on. What she found was Roy Maghee, a handsome young firefighter with poor communication skills and a chip on his shoulder. She hated interviewing the man, his sound bites shorter than a list of Oklahoma Presidents. But she couldn’t deny the way he made her feel. He felt the same, though no one could’ve guessed it. That’s why she fell out of her chair when he arrived on set, diamond ring in hand, the night she announced her departure for Sioux City. It wasn’t easy, opening himself up like that. But he had no choice. He loved her. And twelve years later, he continued to wonder what might’ve happened if he didn’t take that chance.

  “Is this line safe?”

  “I assume so. I’m calling from home.”

  Maghee lowered his voice. “We’ve already had a fifth fire, Bill. Or at least a fifth attempt.”

  “What do you—?”

  “When we conduct an arson investigation, we keep certain details from the public, details only we and the arsonist know.” He tapped his cigarette against the desk. “You’ve already helped me by providing a list of suspects. Now I’m going to help you. But if you broadcast this information, we’ll never speak again.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Two weeks ago, a night watchman at the Avalon Library called. He’d found something in the attic, a cup full of foam peanuts with a cigarette inside. Fortunately, the thing burned itself out before it had a chance to ignite the gas beneath it.” Maghee took another hit. “We found holes in the walls and ceiling, too. Ventilation holes, probably punched with a pike pole.”

  “Do you think all the fires were started this way?”

  “We have evidence to suggest that.”

  “Can you tell me what brand of cigarette you found?”

  The question caught Maghee off guard. He’d planned to keep that info to himself, along with the fact they’d discovered a still-unidentified print on the filter. “I’m not—”

  “Please, sir. It’s important.”

  He looked to the pack of Marlboros on his desk. If the reporter burned him, the investigation would be seriously compromised. He shifted his gaze to the photo. “It was a KOOL.”

  After a beat, Stacy responded, his voice clear and decisive. “I want to add another name to the list. Larry Toole.”

  ***

  Julius reached in his pocket—two quarters and a wad of lint. “Dude, can you spot me today?” Stacy glanced up from his notes. “For the dogs.”

  He
looked past Julius to the girl holding the tray. “You’re Bill Stacy, huh?” Sort of. He paid her for the Coneys and watched her skate off.

  Eating in the car was the new norm, the pair having little time for anything else. Stacy couldn’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal. Or rewrote a story on the Underwood. Or sent out demo tapes. Work had consumed his life. Work and his obsession with the Texomaland Torch.

  “Base to Mobil 6.” They stared at the radio. What more could Toole want today? He’d already assigned a package on the AIDS scare in Texoma—not that there was one—another on drought losses for local farmers—talk about beating a dead horse—and a VO/SOT on drug seizures at Clarion High—not exactly a news flash.

  “I’m starting to hate this damn radio as much as the scanner!” Stacy grabbed the handset. “Mobil 6 here.”

  “Stacy. Larry Toole. Where are you?”

  “We’re at the Sonic Drive-In in Clarion.” He took a bite.

  “A boat just exploded on Konawa Lake. It’ll go nicely with the oilrig disaster we’re covering in Bonham.” Stacy shoved the dog back in its bag. “Call me when you get there.”

  The drive took minutes—they even beat some of the rescue workers. As Julius rolled to a stop, Stacy scribbled notes. Small vessel listing in the waves. Hundred yards offshore. Bow engulfed in flames. He glanced at Julius who was already shooting, then remembered Toole’s instructions. “Mobil 6 to Base.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “It’s bad, Larry.” A Lake Patrol unit advanced on the craft, wind bringing the smell of burning gas to shore. Stacy could see two victims in the water, not sure if either was still alive. “It looks like…” A fire truck roared to a stop a few feet away, the men jumping down and splashing into the lake. “…at least two people are hurt.” Lake Patrol officers plucked one from the whitecaps, then circled for the other, firefighters forming a human chain. “But there could be more. We’ve got a rescue boat involved and a handful of firemen in the lake.”