Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  Stacy looked over his shoulder. “Is that the same house?”

  He nodded. “With a few key improvements. My father added indoor plumbing!” He laughed. “You would’ve liked my father. He was a writer, too.”

  Stacy’s eyes widened. “But how—?”

  “Your mom and I exchanged letters, not often, but enough. I never lost track of you, Stacy.” He smiled, then went on. “Your grandfather wrote for a Polish-language newspaper, the Nowiny Texaskie, they called it. I’ve still got some copies. ’Course, my Polish isn’t—”

  “Wait a minute…” The puzzle was coming together. “…are you saying my grandfather was a reporter?”

  “Along with a farmer, builder, and pretty good fiddler. But writing was his first love. He even penned a novel, in Polish.” He paused. “He and your grandmother are buried up on that ridge, under the old oak.”

  Stacy looked to the horizon. He could smell the crops. Taste his own sweat. “Why do you say this place belongs to me?”

  “When your great-great-grandfather bought this land, he vowed it would stay in the Zwardowski name forever. And it will.” He climbed to his feet. “You know you’re the first member of the family to earn a degree? That’s what our forefathers came here for, a better life.” He offered a crooked smile. “You’re a Zwardowski, Stacy. We’re family. And that means what’s mine is yours. Forever.”

  Stacy stood, staring at a man who, before yesterday, was a complete stranger, yet now—unbelievably—was kin. But his uncle was right. They were family, regardless of the circumstances. And for now, that seemed like enough.

  ***

  He pushed the plate away, stuffed. Two rounds of pork sausage, corn on the cob, and watermelon would do that to a person. And now his uncle was serving cobbler.

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Just feed you is all. You’re too damn skinny.” He added ice cream and sat, Stacy digging in. “Just like your father. He never could pass up dessert!”

  Stacy wiped his mouth, looking back up. There was something he wanted to ask. “How did you know my mother died?”

  “Billy wrote me.” He glanced at the mantel. “When he sent that picture.”

  “How did he know?”

  “Your mother and father stayed in close contact. A lot closer than she and I did. They traded letters five or six times a year. Phone calls. He even—”

  “Wait a minute…they actually called one another?”

  “Lotsa times. And Billy sent money. Your mom didn’t always take it, but he sent it just the same. Gifts, too.”

  Stacy’s mind was reeling.

  “Speaking of gifts…” His uncle left the room. “I’ve hung onto this for years,” he shouted up the hall. “Never had any use for it.” He returned, carrying an Underwood No. 5—the exact twin of Stacy’s. “My father gave this to me when I was ten years old. Gave Billy one, too.” He set it down, Stacy eyeing the keys. They were all still intact. “He hoped we’d develop the same love of writing he had, but neither of us did. Guess it skipped a generation.” He smiled. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”

  Stacy’s chest ached, realizing for the first time the greatest gift he’d ever received—his beloved typewriter—had come not from his mother, but from his father. “I don’t…think I can accept this.”

  “Of course, you can. You’re the writer in the family. And you’re lucky. Some folks spend their whole lives trying to find that one thing that makes them feel whole.”

  Stacy stared at the Underwood, thinking about his life. He’d dreamed of being a reporter for as long as he could remember. But as he’d come to find out, dreams and reality were not the same thing.

  His uncle studied his face. Finally, “Your dad has a crease on his forehead. Right between his eyebrows. Gets real deep when something’s weighing on him. You have it, too.” Stacy looked up. “Billy would always tell me what was wrong—eventually. I’m hoping his son does the same.”

  Stacy swallowed. Something was wrong, all right—everything was wrong.

  But could he really expect his uncle to understand?

  “SEE,” his mother urged.

  “I’ve…uh…” He looked to the Underwood, then back to his uncle. “…seen some things…been a part of some things…that make it hard to go to work every day.” There was no judgment in Robert Zwardowski’s eyes, only concern. For the next hour, Stacy told him about Channel 8. About Toole and the Torch fires. His relationship with Katie. The Clarion Police. As he spoke, he felt the burden lighten. But the gnawing worry refused to go away. “I don’t know what to do, Uncle Robert.”

  It was the first time he’d called him that, his uncle fighting a smile.

  “The passion I had when I took this job is gone. I still love to write…to report even.” He thought of Wilhelm’s speech. “But ‘the news business is changing’…into something I don’t recognize. What we do isn’t journalism. It’s rhetoric on good days, out-and-out lying on bad. And worst of all, if my suspicions are right…” His voice trailed off, replaced by a howling dog.

  His uncle walked to the desk, the other dog joining in—perhaps they’d finally cornered the fox. “My father wasn’t much for advice, but he always got his point across.” He opened a drawer, fishing out a newspaper. “This is the paper he wrote for. Read the words at the top.”

  Stacy stared at the fading text, all in Polish. He cleared his throat. “Powiedziec Prawde,” he read, struggling with the pronunciations. “Zawsze.”

  His uncle smiled as if hearing music. “I’ll translate it for you.” He looked to the picture of his brother. To the fiddle his father played. To his great-grandfather’s wooden shoes, the first in the family to touch U.S. soil. He turned to his nephew, a look of steel in his eyes. “It means, Tell the Truth.”

  If Stacy didn’t know better, he’d swear the dogs quit howling.

  And the earth froze on its axis.

  “Always,” the man added.

  ***

  The drive back to Clarion took hours. Along the way, Stacy’s mind played scenes from the trip. So much had changed. When he drove to Panna Maria, he had no one. Now he had an uncle, a rich family history—and a father.

  “You better write,” Robert Zwardowski warned as he waved goodbye.

  “You better hook up your phone,” Stacy hollered from the road.

  As he sailed up the interstate, he looked repeatedly at the newspaper, hearing his uncle’s voice again and again— “Tell the Truth. Always.”

  It was 1:00 a.m. when he rolled to the curb. He glanced at Long John Silver’s, the place closed. So much for grabbing a bite before bed. Juggling his things, he made his way to the house, noticing a sign in the neighbor’s yard—FOR SALE.

  Hallelujah! No more ‘Redneck Earl’!

  Clutching the Underwood, he pushed his way inside. The room was dark, the scanner humming softly in the corner. It was strange to be back here, to the place he’d called home for four months. But this wasn’t home. The Zwardowskis had a home in Texas. A place of stability. Of permanence.

  He closed the door and dropped his things. As he reached for the lamp, a knock came behind him. At this hour, it could only be one person, Julius’ friend with another contraband delivery. Stacy hit the porch light—it still didn’t work. When he cracked the door, a slump-shouldered man stared back, face in shadow. “Sorry ta bother ya. Truck died in the lot next door.” His voice seemed vaguely familiar. “Wonder if I could make a phone call.”

  It was an odd request, but Stacy nodded anyway, turning for the phone. A violent pain shot through his head. He grabbed the chair on his way down, the room spinning like a carousel.

  The man wielded the club again. “Ya stupid sum-bitch!” That voice. Where did he know it from? “I told ya we wasn’t done, you an’ me!”

  Stacy stared at his attacker, blood marring his vision. “Please…”

  “Beg all ya want, ya pile a’ shit!” He cracked Stacy’s outstretched hand, the pain mind-numbin
g. “Ain’t nobody here ta help ya!” He hit him again, Stacy fighting to stay conscious. “Thought ya could make fools of us, huh?” He laughed, a disgusting little hog snort. “Oughta be more careful who ya go movin’ next door ta. Like I said, we got brothers all over Texoma!”

  It all fell into place. The voice. The elfin stature. ‘Butch’ Stark of the Ku Klux Klan. He laughed again, grabbing Stacy by the shirt and dragging him across the room.

  “Never used m’nigger-knocker on a white man before!” He delivered another blow, kicking Julius’ door open. “Guess it works on Polacks, too!”

  Stacy wanted to fight back, but his limbs were unresponsive. Laughing like a sick clown, Stark hauled him into the room, hitting the light switch.

  “I want ya lookin’ at me when I gut ya!” Stacy focused on the razor in his hand, the world spiraling out of control. “I’m gonna enjoy this, ya nigger-lovin’ bastard!”

  As the man raised the blade, Julius leaped into view, bringing something big and orange down on his head. The accompanying thud was that of a pumpkin hitting concrete, Stark’s eyes lolling as he slumped to the floor.

  “Dude, are you all right?”

  Stacy blinked, the room still spinning. “Where were…?”

  “In the closet!” Julius helped him up, grabbing a towel to slow the bleeding. “I heard all the ruckus. Figured it was the cops comin’ to bust us. So I hid.”

  Stacy sat on the bed. “But how…I mean…what did you hit him with?”

  The cameraman smiled, holding a monitor wrapped in orange canvas. “My latest acquisition. Holds a charge up to four hours. Sweet, huh?”

  Stacy nodded, still dizzy.

  Julius glanced at the man on the floor. “Guess we should call 911.”

  “No…” Stacy pressed the towel to his head. “…that’ll bring Clarion P.D.” He pointed. “There’s a card on the dresser in my room, with Marv Bridges’ phone number. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m on it, dude.” As he turned, they heard Stark moan, the Klansman showing signs of life. Julius grabbed the monitor and clocked him again—no signs of life now. “Hey, Stace…” He checked his new gear for damage. “…you hungry? I got some pizza in the fridge.”

  Chapter 14

  September 1988

  (NEWSWIRE): V.P. BUSH SHOCKS TV AUDIENCE BY CALLING SEPTEMBER 7TH PEARL HARBOR DAY ... FIRES CLAIM 4 MILLION ACRES OF U.S. FOREST ... ON SUCCESS OF MOVIE, ‘BROADCAST NEWS’, ‘MURPHY BROWN’ PREMIERES ON CBS

  It took thirty stitches to close the wounds. Stacy missed another three weeks of work, the first spent at Clarion Memorial, the next two at home. But his recovery, though slow and painful, gave him time to think. And plan.

  There’d be no more rebellion at Channel 8. No disagreements with his boss. No insubordination of any kind. Not till he was ready.

  “You did good today, dude.”

  Stacy’s eyes moved from the darkness to the man behind the wheel. He never would’ve made it without Julius. Not only had the cameraman saved his life, he’d cooked his meals and swapped his bandages. He was a true friend. And so was Marv Bridges. When he got the call, the cagy undersheriff sent his cousin, Theo, a Quintoc County bailiff, to the house. The lawman called an ambulance, then dealt with Clarion P.D. himself. By morning, D.A. Ross Barton had charged the still-dizzy Klansman with attempted murder. Unable to post bond, Stark was moved to solitary confinement—apparently, he and his black cellmates weren’t getting along.

  “Mobil 1 to Mobil 6.”

  Stacy jerked to the voice. “Mobil 1?” Julius shrugged, his partner grabbing the handset. “Where are you, Larry?”

  After a pause, “I’m taking care of a little business. But I wanted to tell you what a fine job you did today. I’ve seen a major change in you.”

  “Thanks, Larry.” Stacy glanced at Julius. “The time off really helped.”

  “Glad to hear. You don’t know how good it is to have you back on set. Healthy. Happy. The same old Bill Stacy.”

  “Thanks.” He stared off into the night. “And thanks for talking to Thad for me. I’m glad we could finally bury the hatchet.”

  With the microwave down again, Stacy had been driving to Avalon every day, pushing the restraining order to its limits. After some closed-door negotiations—Stacy assumed cash was involved—Thad agreed to lift it. Since then, the reporter had filed his stories and appeared on set without incident, a model employee.

  “That’s what team leaders do. And that’s why the Great 8 News Team is number one.” Stacy nodded, having heard the news while he was out. KEGT had taken July Sweeps, finishing atop the heap for the first time in station history. “That reminds me, did you two get your bonuses?”

  Stacy pictured his check. His name on top. Wilhelm’s below. Blood money.

  “Not yet.”

  “Didn’t know how long you’d be out, so we mailed them to your house. You can expect more perks like this in the future.” He paused again. “As long as you keep doing the right thing.”

  “Count on it, Larry. Mobil 6 out.” He killed the two-way, easing back in his seat.

  “Don’t sound like the ‘same Bill Stacy’ to me.”

  “Just laying low, Julius.” That’s exactly what he was doing—a dog waiting for the fox. “How many fires while I was out?”

  “Just one. Old Avalon High.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “We been through this.” They’d been through it, all right. In addition, Stacy had talked to Maghee. Made a trip to the site. And pulled footage from Channel 8’s vault.

  “First crew on scene?” Julius nodded, Stacy thinking. “That was almost a month ago, Jul. We’re due for another. Winning the ratings is only going to make things worse. Toole doesn’t want to lose his edge.”

  The cameraman sighed, turning up the radio. As Tracy Chapman sang Fast Car, he stomped on the gas, making it home in record time.

  “See if our checks came, dude.” Julius tossed Stacy the mail.

  The reporter leafed through it, stopping at a plain white envelope. “Uh-oh.”

  Julius froze on his way to the scanner.

  Stacy ripped the seal, pulling out a sheet of yellow paper. At the top was a photo from the Gazette—the dead janitor being wheeled from the elementary school blaze. Below was a row of pasted letters—BACK OFF OR YOU’RE NEXT.

  “Jesus, dude…he knows where we live!”

  “Of course, he knows where we live. It’s Toole, Julius! And we can’t afford to wait around for his next move anymore.”

  “What the hell are we s’posed to do?”

  The phone rang, both men jumping. It rang again. “Go ahead, Jul.”

  He lifted the receiver, Stacy studying his face. “Uh-huh…” His eyes narrowed. His upper lip twitched. “…okay…got it.” He hung up, hands shaking.

  “Julius—?”

  “It was him, dude…callin’ from a payphone.” Stacy was shaking, too. “Said he heard on the scanner…fire…at the trailer park south a’ town.”

  ***

  By the time they arrived, the blaze was contained. But unit twelve was a total loss, firefighters avoiding greater tragedy by dousing adjacent trailers.

  As Julius skirted the caution tape, Stacy scribbled text. Single unit. Two engines respond. Police cordon off scene. “Hey, Jul, not too close.”

  The cameraman ignored him, rolling as he stepped through smoke.

  “Fuckin’ tape’s there fer a reason!”

  Stacy turned, meeting the baneful eye of Leonard Allenbaugh.

  “You news folk”—he pronounced the words like ‘pustules’ or ‘lesions’— “think you’re above the law!” He glanced at the KPXZ news van, the cameraman assembling his gear. KYTF had yet to arrive. “Sure seems funny, Channel 8 always showin’ up first. Almos’ like ya know what’s comin’.” He spat tobacco, turning away. “Tell yer little sidekick he better watch it. Then again, maybe he’ll get hisself killed, an’ I’ll only have ta arrest one a’ ya!”

  A hal
f-hour passed, Julius taking unnecessary risks, Stacy worrying.

  “Evening, Bill.”

  Stacy turned to see Gary Schnea in full turnout gear. Although he and his crew had extinguished the flames, smoke still billowed. “Looks like you’ve got this one under control.”

  “We do now. But it was pretty intense for a trailer fire.”

  “Any reason to think it’s the work of the Torch?”

  “I don’t think so. The other buildings were old and much larger by comparison.” He stared at the smoking trailer. “We see this sorta thing all the time. Guy gets drunk. Falls asleep with a lit cigarette. Next thing you know, he’s shaking hands with St. Peter.”

  “Is that what happened here?”

  “Looks like it. Neighbors say the guy’s a real nut. No family. No job. Smokes like a chimney and stays drunk most of the time. My guess is, we’ll find the body right where we expect to.”

  Julius slipped back under the tape. “The neighbors give you a name?”

  “Not sure we—”

  “Chief,” his walkie-talkie crackled, “that’s a ten-four on victim and location.”

  “Roger.” The man lit a cigarette. “Coroner’ll have to confirm this, of course, but we’re assuming it’s the owner. White male. Forty-six years old. Name on the park records…” He paused to blow smoke. “…is Trevor Carson.”

  Stacy and Julius locked eyes, guts smoldering like the charred tin in front of them.

  ***

  The door flew open, Stacy rushing in. “How the hell do you open these things?” He grappled with a new CD. “Cellophane, cardboard, and now this damn—”