Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “They were married a year when he lost his job. That’s when he started dealin’.” He turned to Stacy. “He was a drug pusher, Stace. Nothin’ glamorous. Just a smalltime hood in a smalltime neighborhood. But that’s how he supported his family. Worst part was he got my mother hooked on the shit. And pretty soon, that’s all they lived for. Us kids—there were three of us—we just got in the way.” He set his empty beer down and opened another.

  “I was three the first time he hit me. I wanted seconds at dinner. And my father, he was like a tickin’ time bomb. Me bein’ a kid, I didn’t know when to shut up.” He took a drink, adjusting his glasses. “He got angry, started talkin’ ’bout how I’d cost him—how we’d all cost him. Then he backhanded me, knocked me right outta my chair. I was so scared I didn’t even cry. But I can still remember how my cheek hurt, and how I felt…like I could never trust him again.” He looked down. “As I got older, he started usin’ cigars for punishment. That’s what the scars are from. Most of ’em anyway.”

  Stacy felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t believe what his friend had endured.

  “It was the drugs, man. I can’t remember a time when they weren’t high or tryin’ to get high. I mostly just stayed away…you know, down in the basement with Cousteau. That was my safe place. I woulda stayed down there forever if it weren’t for my brother and sister.” He swallowed hard. “They didn’t deserve what they got either.”

  Stacy was scared to ask, but he had to. “Why didn’t you tell someone, Julius? Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I did go to the police!” His voice trembled with anger, Stacy regretting the question. “When I was fourteen, he hit me in the mouth, closed-fist. Knocked me out cold. When I came to, I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled all the way to the police station. You know what they said?”

  Stacy shook his head.

  “‘Where’d you steal that bike, nigger?’” The words hung between them, foul and searing. “When I got home, he was waitin’. Grabbed me by the throat and hauled me into the kitchen. Started hittin’ me again.” For the first time, Stacy saw tears in his eyes, tears he was sure Julius hated more than the memories. “I couldn’t take any more, Stace. I grabbed a knife and sliced him ’cross the chest. When he looked down at the blood, it gave me a chance to run. I ain’t stopped runnin’ since.”

  Stacy stared in disbelief. “You’ve been on your own since you were fourteen?” Julius nodded. “But how did you survive? How did you finish school?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I lived with my grandmother for a while—she was the one gave me the camera when I was little. Far as school goes, I just lied, said I was still livin’ at home. Worked two or three jobs to get by.”

  “Didn’t your parents come looking for you?”

  He laughed, raising the bottle. “Pretty sure they were as glad to get rid of me as I was of them. Lookin’ back, the only guilt I got’s for my brother and…” His voice wavered. He drank to mask it.

  “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Jul.”

  “Maybe not. But I’ll always wonder if I did the right thing.”

  Stacy peeled the label off his bottle. “I always figured being abandoned by your father was the worst thing that could happen.” He let go, watching it float away in the darkness. “My dad left before I was two. Only thing I remember’s the smell of his skin. When he came home from work, he smelled like fish.” He shook his head. “That’s all I’ve got, Jul—that’s it. When I was older, the kids in the neighborhood would run out to greet their dads. I just walked inside. Alone.” He wondered how far to take this. “After a while, they started teasing me. Asking where my dad was. I’d tell them he was a pro ballplayer or some big general in the army. I never had the guts to tell the real story—that he’d left us, moved to Alaska, and died in a fishing accident.” He paused in thought. “Guess that’s why I never had friends. If I didn’t get close to anyone, I never had to tell the truth.” He turned, guilt stinging his eyes. “All these years, I’ve felt sorry for myself for not having a father. But now—after hearing what you went through—I have to tell you, Julius, I’m ashamed.”

  “Two different kinds of hurt, that’s all.”

  Stacy considered his words, the pair settling into silence.

  After several minutes, Julius hopped up on the beam, the river flowing fifty feet below. “I love the sound of water.”

  “Be careful, Jul.”

  He stepped forward, arms out. “Know how Cousteau got into divin’?” Stacy didn’t respond, paralyzed with worry. “Broke both his arms in a car accident, started swimmin’ for therapy. He and I got more in common than our initials.” He turned, walking the other way. “My father broke both my arms—one when I was six, the other when I was ten. I swam to get better, too. And to be free. Ain’t no one can catch you in the water!”

  “You need to get down, Julius.”

  “Relax, dude. Livin’ on the edge makes life worth livin’. And long as I’m here, I’m gonna live mine to the fullest, just like my man, Jacques. Besides…” He leaped and spun, landing on the beam with a wobble. “…ain’t got much to lose, do I?”

  The circus act wasn’t exactly out of character. Stacy had seen Julius perform all kinds of crazy stunts, most with a camera. Since arriving in December, he’d risked his life shooting fires, near-riots, and an F-5 tornado. But this was too much.

  Stacy grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. He’d already lost a mother this year. He wasn’t about to lose a friend.

  As they left the bridge, Julius glanced over his shoulder. “Ever think ’bout what Shefler did out here?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Whatta you s’pose made him do it?”

  “I don’t know. People do bad things sometimes.”

  “People like Toole?”

  A burst of wind sent the oak limbs rubbing together. “Toole’s the Torch, Jul. I’m ninety-nine percent sure. And when we’re through, I’ll be a hundred percent.”

  “We’re through?”

  Stacy nodded. “I’m going to need your help.”

  “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”

  As they turned for the car, a whistle blew, the sound of a train chugging beneath the stars.

  Chapter 12

  July 1988

  (NEWSWIRE): BANKS RAISE PRIME LENDING RATE FROM 9 TO 9.5 PERCENT ... OLIVER NORTH ORDERED TO STAND TRIAL IN IRAN-CONTRA SCANDAL ... 166 OIL WORKERS DIE WHEN PLATFORM EXPLODES IN NORTH SEA

  “He knows we’re coming, right?”

  Chip took another hit of his joint. “’Course, he knows.”

  “Good.” Stacy made his way to the porch, Julius skulking in the shadows.

  “Toole’s got the NBA Finals on tape.” Chip flicked the roach away. “I just told ’im we wanted to watch ’em, is all.” Seeing doubt in their eyes, he added, “I think that’s what I told ’im,” then cracked up, ringing the bell.

  As the chimes sounded, Stacy and Julius looked at each other, Toole easing the door back. “What are you doing here?”

  Stacy leered at Chip. “Sorry, Lar.” He pushed his way inside. “Guess I forgot to mention we’s comin’ by to watch the game.”

  “What game?”

  “Game seven of the Finals,” Stacy answered, Toole’s eyes settling on the Clarion duo. “We had to work that night…so we…didn’t see how it ended.”

  God, he was a bad actor!

  “Hey, Larry,” Chip hollered from the kitchen. “Got any nachos?”

  Toole held his stare on the men at the door. After what seemed like hours, he motioned them inside. Julius took refuge on the overstuffed couch, Stacy sitting next to him. “Nice place.” It was more than nice—the room resembled a magazine shoot.

  “Whatta ya expect on a news director’s salary?” Chip yelled, foraging a bag of chips. “I’d have me a leather sofa and some sexy paintin’s, too, if I’s pullin’ down fifty G’s a year.”

  “It’s not what you make, Chip. It’s what you do with
it.” Toole walked to the TV and fired up the tape player, Kareem dropping a sky-hook over Bill Lambier. “Can I get you something, Julius?” The quiet cameraman shook his head. “How about you, Stacy?”

  “No thanks.” The reporter glanced at the pack of KOOLs on the table, ‘Magic’ firing a no-look pass to Kurt Rambis.

  “Laker fans?” Stacy and Julius nodded, Toole lighting a cigarette. “Fifty bucks says they win it all.”

  Stacy attempted a smile, Julius staring at the wall. “How’d ya program that damn VCR in the first place?” Chip asked, tromping back into the room. “Every time I tape a stockcar race, I end up with six hours a’ Who’s the Boss!” He bummed a cigarette. “Don’t get me wrong, I like that Tony Danzer, but it’d sure be nice if I could record all m’shows on one tape an’ speed through the commercials!”

  “Those commercials pay your salary, Chip.”

  “In that case, somebody better sell more of ’em!” He cracked up again, searching the room for support. None came. “Got any beer, Larry?”

  “I would’ve thought my uninvited guests would bring their own.” Chip shrugged, walking back to the kitchen.

  “Can I use your restroom?” Stacy stood, Toole eyeing him.

  “First door on your left.”

  He excused himself, moving into the hall. Sure he wasn’t followed, he ducked into the bedroom. A light burned on the nightstand, the room hotel neat. He peeked under the bed—nothing, not even lint. He opened the armoire—twenty suits, arranged by color. He attacked the dresser—T-shirts, socks, underwear, all folded to perfection. He knew Toole was anal, but this was ridiculous. Dick Wilhelm would be proud!

  Stacy hoped to find something—anything—to link Toole to the fires. But the room was bare. Disappointed, he turned to go, spotting a photo on the shelf. Two minutes had passed since he left the living room. Could he afford one more? He picked it up.

  “I see you’ve met my wife.”

  The frame nearly slipped from his hands. “Sorry…” He turned to see Toole in the doorway. “…I must’ve …taken a wrong turn.” Stacy replaced the frame. “You’re married?”

  “Was married.” His eyes clung to the photo. “She died in August of ’77. Three months after we said our vows.”

  Stacy looked for signs of deceit. There weren’t any. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He looked up. “I miss her every day.”

  An awkward moment passed, Stacy hesitating, then exiting the room. “I hope you don’t mind me asking…but how did your wife die?”

  “It was an accident.” Stacy waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

  Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door and stared at the mirror. Could the accident have been a fire?

  By the time Stacy returned to the party, Chip had downed three Becks and eaten everything in the pantry. Julius looked miniature on the massive couch, doing his best to nurse a single beer. As the first half ended, Stacy found an excuse to leave.

  “Thanks for stopping by—I think.”

  As the door slammed, Stacy and Julius stared at Chip, the man producing a beer. “Got me a frostie to go!” he giggled, tossing the cap in the flowerbed.

  “Jesus, Chip!” Stacy stormed away, Julius following.

  “Dude had no idea we were comin’!”

  “You guys worry too much.” Chip sparked another joint as he caught up at the curb. “Ya’ll hear that?” Stacy and Julius looked around. “That’s the sound a’ twenty-four Coors callin’ our names. Got me a case on ice in the trunk!”

  Stacy shook his head. “We’ve got a long drive.”

  “Yeah,” Julius added. “And we’d like to do it sober.”

  “Since when?” He had a point. After a deep guzzle, he hopped in his ’69 Chevelle. “Next time we get together, let’s do it without the boss!”

  “Drive careful, Chip.”

  “I’m always careful!” He raised the joint to his lips and roared away.

  Stacy turned to his co-conspirator. “You ready?”

  “Ready to get this over with.” They moved up the sidewalk, then darted up the drive, disappearing behind a hedge. Kneeling in the shadows, Julius whispered, “What makes you think we’re gonna find somethin’ in his garage?”

  “Reporter’s hunch. Now stay low.” They duck-walked across the yard, slipping through an unlocked door. “We’re in.”

  “No shit!”

  “Shhhhhh.” It was pitch black inside and smelled of fertilizer, Stacy powering up a flashlight. In the corner, he saw a stack of flowerpots, on the ground beside them, two bags of planting mix. He moved the light, revealing a case of Pennzoil.

  “What the hell are we lookin’ for?”

  Stacy swept the beam over a folded tarp, a box of tools—and something that chilled his blood. “That, Julius!” He aimed the flashlight at a pyramid of gasoline—ten cans total. “We just found the smoking gun!”

  The cameraman looked to his ‘partner in crime’, then back at the cans. “Gas in a dude’s garage ain’t no smokin’ gun. People gotta mow their lawns, don’t they?”

  “Maybe. But ten containers?” He moved the light to the far corner, where it came to rest on a manual mower. “And when’s the last time he needed gas for that?”

  Julius tried to respond, but a noise outside stopped him. “Shit, dude!” They ducked in unison, extinguishing the light. “Let’s get outta here!”

  ***

  He sat at his desk, waiting for the day’s assignments. Toole always called by nine. And there was nothing Stacy dreaded more.

  “Mail call.” Julius entered the room, carrying a stack of letters. “See if our checks came.”

  Stacy rifled through the pile. Ad. Catalog. Voter pamphlet. “Here you go, Jul. One for you…” He handed Julius an envelope. “…and one for me. Three days late, just like clockwork.”

  “Thought we were s’posed to get a raise when the ratin’s went up.”

  “So did I.” The phone rang, Stacy bracing himself. “Clarion bureau.”

  “Hi, Bill. Rrrrrich Martin.”

  “Oh, hey, Rich.” He looked at Julius and shrugged. “What’s up?”

  “Just handing out the assignments.”

  “Where’s Toole?”

  “Off this morning. He and Katie are the grand marshals at our Independence Day parade. They get to ride in a covered wagon and everything! Jerry’s shooting the—”

  “Jerry? Who’s Jerry?”

  “Jerry Feinbloom. The guy who took Bub’s place.”

  “Bub DeSpain left?”

  “Got a job in Wichita. He ate an entire pepperoni pizza at the going-away party!”

  Bub wasn’t the first employee to leave since Stacy and Julius moved to Clarion. Jennifer Riggs had fled to Albuquerque. Mike Bartell took a job in Shreveport. And Randy Tanner left to start his own production company. Small market news wasn’t exactly a hub of employee stability. “Who’s doing the newscast?”

  “Reg, but we’re cutting away live to Katie and Larry downtown. They’re gonna be dressed in turn-of-the-century garb. Katie’s wearing an old-fashioned bonnet, Larry a false mustache!”

  “Sounds great, Rich.” Stacy wasn’t listening. He was seizing opportunity. “And don’t worry about the assignments. We’ve already got something planned.” He glanced at Julius. “We’ll be covering the Fourth of July Picnic in Coalgate.”

  “Gee, I—”

  “Trust me, it’s a huge event. There’ll be dignitaries, politicians. Word has it, the governor might even stop by.” He was lying, but he’d learned from the master. “We’ll cover the picnic as the main story. Throw something together on small-town economic growth. Maybe even get a bite or two on the legislature.”

  “But Larry said—”

  Stacy hung up, turning to Julius.

  “We’re goin’ to see Russell Longdale, ain’t we?”

  The reporter smiled, returning his attention to the mail—another ad, a special offer, and a plain white envelope addressed to BILL STA
CY, BUREAU CHIEF. He tore open the seal, a sheet of yellow paper inside. A Herald article on the hospital fire was taped to the top, the headline—Texomaland Torch Strikes Again. Below were four words, the mismatched letters cut from a magazine—DON’T BE A HERO.

  ***

  He couldn’t go to the cops. Nor could he tell his boss. In the end, he showed the letter to Julius and stuffed it in a drawer.

  “Just get me some B-roll. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  Julius nodded, shooting a three-legged race, then turning his lens on a pie-eating contest, the winner buried chin-deep in rhubarb.

  Stacy hurried up the walk, the air ripe with cooking burgers. The fire station was empty, both engines moved to the bandstand for locals to admire. Stopping at the rollup door, he checked his Steno—Meet Longdale, 10:30. He looked left, right, the street deserted. Maybe the ex-prosecutor had changed his mind. Stacy could tell from their brief phone conversation that he hated news people.

  But who could blame him?

  The town clock chimed half-past-the-hour, Stacy checking his watch—10:30 on the nose. As he looked up, he saw a man in a straw hat round the corner, cigarette burned to the filter. “Mr. Longdale?”

  He nodded, coming to a stop several feet away. “Wasn’t sure I was coming.” He dropped the butt. “But if Marv Bridges gave you my name, he must think highly of you.”

  “Yes, sir. And I of him.” They stared at one another, the heart of the celebration beating several blocks away. “I appreciate you meeting me.”

  He nodded again, opening a fresh pack. In the distance, a high school band butchered Lee Greenwood’s Proud To Be An American.

  “What can you tell me about Larry Toole?”

  He struck a match, eyes burning like a smelter. “What do you want to know?”

  “I’m trying to find out what he was like as a kid. In particular, if he had any run-ins with the law.”

  The man took a prolonged drag, leaning against the wall. “I assume this is off the record?” Stacy assured him. “Toole had plenty of run-ins with the law. Every juvenile offense you can imagine, he and his derelict friends. Trespassing. Drugs. Vandalism.”