Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “Here, dude.” Julius grabbed it, running a pick down the seal. “Hearts and Bones?” He stared at the cover, Paul Simon posing in front of a newsstand.

  Stacy snatched it away, moving to the stereo. “There’s a song on here we need to listen to.” He loaded the disc and hit PLAY.

  “Oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh. Oooh-oooh-oooh.

  Train in the Distance.”

  “That the song dude played in the bar?”

  Stacy nodded.

  “What is the point of this story?

  What information pertains?”

  Julius grabbed his guitar and began to strum, Stacy straining to hear.

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

  Everybody thinks it’s true.”

  When the music faded, Stacy stared. “What do you think?”

  “Good tune.”

  “I’m not asking for your musical opinion.” He hit the EJECT button. “Carson said it was a metaphor. For ‘finding the truth, no matter the cost’.”

  “Dude said lotsa things.”

  “And they’re starting to ring true, aren’t they?” He moved to the window, peering out on the tracks.

  “Trevor Carson was crazy, Stace. His own neighbors said so. Ain’t nobody knows what those lyrics mean but Paul Simon. And I doubt dude had any conversations with him. It’s just a song, man.”

  Stacy turned, the light of a passing cruiser painting him in silhouette. “What if it’s more than that?” He thought of the newspaper his grandfather wrote for. Of the words his uncle translated. “What if the train is truth? The thing we all lose sight of. Or worse yet ignore.” His eyes widened in sudden realization. “Jesus, Jul, I haven’t seen one train since I started working at Channel 8. Not one. And we live a hundred feet from the tracks!”

  “Come on, dude. We’ve seen lotsa trains. You just ain’t been lookin’.”

  “Maybe…” He stared at the CD, eyes burning. “…but the longer I keep writing these stories…keep feeding people trash.…” He looked up, eyes full of resolve. “We have to tell the truth, Julius— ‘no matter the cost’. And it starts with Larry Toole!”

  “Okay, Stace…” He set his guitar down. “…but you’ve been lookin’ for the truth on Toole for six months. And what have you got to show for it? A fire he reported in college. Some gas in his garage. Add it up and, yeah, it’s somethin’. But it ain’t enough. You need proof, dude. Real proof.”

  Stacy moved to the door, another police car cruising by. As light hit him again, he turned. “That’s just what we’re going to get.”

  ***

  “Might as well get comfortable.” Stacy killed the engine.

  “Tell me again why I agreed to this.”

  “Because it’s going to work, Jul. That thing good to go?”

  Julius raised the infrared. “Charged and ready.”

  “Good.” Stacy hunkered down, staring through the windshield. “Now we wait.”

  Toole’s house was the third on the left. From their oak-veiled vantage point, they could see his door, window, and driveway. If he decided to leave, they’d be on his tail in seconds.

  “Dude, we could be sittin’ here forever!”

  “Not forever, Julius. Just till he makes his next move. And if my instincts are right, it won’t be long.”

  “We’ve done some crazy things, but this here’s the craziest.”

  “You mean the smartest! We’re going to catch the Torch in the act, with video of him driving to the scene and setting the place on fire. You wanted proof. You got it!”

  “Sounds too easy.”

  “It is easy. We’ve just got to stake him out every night.”

  “Every night?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  The camera op had heard enough. “If you mean it’s the only way to get ourselves fired ’cause we’re too tired to work, I agree. The only way to show people we’re as crazy as Carson, you’re right. I don’t get it, dude! Why is this so important to you? Why are you so obsessed with the Torch that you’re willin’ to risk everything?”

  Stacy was surprised by the outburst, but not the question. Julius had asked before. But providing the answer wouldn’t be easy. He unhooked his seatbelt and stared at the darkness. There were pitfalls out there—huge pitfalls.

  But he owed his friend an explanation.

  “When I was little…I got picked on, Jul.” He saw doubt in the man’s eyes. “I wasn’t always six-three. As a kid, I was the smallest one in class…and more often than not, the whitest.” They traded stares. “We moved all the time, from one rental house to the next. I was always the ‘new kid’, moving into neighborhoods where everyone knew each other. And you know how kids are. If they already have friends, they don’t want another, especially when it’s a short white kid who’s painfully shy. It made me an easy target, and without a father…” He paused. The phrase still hurt, despite his newfound knowledge that it wasn’t true. “…there was no one around to help me protect myself.”

  He looked away, Julius waiting for him to go on.

  “Worst place we ever lived was a little two-story on 78th. My mom and I lived downstairs. The landlady lived upstairs. Only time we ever spoke was when the rent was due, and believe me, the conversations weren’t friendly. Anyway, there was this older kid—a black kid—named Dexter Monroe.” Stacy paused again. He hadn’t said the name in years, but it still produced the same results—sweaty palms, burning gut. “He liked to call me names, steal my books, hit me whenever he got the chance…he and his friends. I was the only white kid on the block. And he made sure I knew it.”

  Julius nodded, still listening.

  “I don’t blame them for what they did. Not anymore. They were just kids doing what kids do, lashing out at whoever’s different.”

  “Don’t make it right.”

  “No…but as you’re about to hear, I’m in no position to judge.” Stacy had never told this story before, at least not in its entirety.

  “I heard one day that Dexter and his friends were looking to jump me. I spent two weeks tiptoeing around, hiding out in the house.” He remembered the feeling of being trapped. “I was going crazy, Jul. So when my mother left for the store, I figured I could sneak out without anyone seeing me. I was wrong.”

  “How bad they get you, Stace?”

  “Pretty bad. There were five of them. And they’d been saving it up for a long time. Not sure what would’ve happened if she hadn’t come home.” He paused to think. “Maybe it would’ve been better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When she pulled Dexter off me, she ripped his shirt.” He looked his friend in the eye. “His back was like yours, Julius—scars, welts. What he was going through at home was far worse than what he was putting me through.”

  “Ain’t no excuse.”

  “Maybe not. But it changed the way I looked at him. Just how much, I was about to learn.” He paused for a breath. “That night, I couldn’t sleep. My body ached with all the blows I’d taken, but more than anything else, I couldn’t shake the image. That poor kid, I kept thinking. There had to be something we could do, some way to help.” Despite the heat, he shivered. “That’s when I smelled smoke. I thought I was imagining it at first, but it got stronger…and then I saw it, curling into the room.”

  His mouth went dry. He licked his lips to continue. “I ran to the door, but there were already flames behind it. My only hope was the window. When I got there, I saw him, standing across the street with a gas can in his hand. Smiling and crying at the same time. I’ve never seen anyone more tortured, more at war with himself than that boy, that night. It made me go weak in the knees.” It still did. “When he saw me looking at him, he turned and ran. It was the last time I ever saw him.”

  Julius shifted in his seat. “How’d you and your mother get out?”

  “I crawled out the window and helped her out hers. We screamed for the woman upstairs, even tried to find a ladder…but it was no use. The
fire devoured everything in its path.”

  “Jesus, dude.”

  “We sat on the curb…nothing but the clothes on our back and the few things we’d stored in a garage nearby …watching the firemen. When the sun came up, they pulled the body out. It was just a bag with a zipper, but I knew what it was…knew what it meant.”

  “Ever tell anyone what you saw?”

  A tear slid down Stacy’s cheek. “I never did. I couldn’t hurt that boy any more than he was already hurt…couldn’t do what I know I should’ve. But somebody died, Julius …somebody’s mother…somebody’s grandmother. And I did nothing!” He wiped the tears from his face. “I’ve had to live with that my entire life.”

  They stared into the night, Julius breaking the silence. “Right or wrong…ain’t nothin’ you can do ’bout it now.”

  “A few months ago, I would’ve agreed.” His eyes moved to Toole’s house. “But now I think maybe there is.”

  ***

  Two weeks of surveillance passed without incident, Stacy and Julius surviving on Jolt Cola. Their efforts had yielded just one opportunity with the infrared. Toole left his house one night to buy a copy of the Enquirer. Still, the stakeouts weren’t totally fruitless. Stacy had proven once and for all that Larry and Katie were sleeping together.

  “How long’ve they been in there this time?”

  Julius shrugged, surprisingly quiet tonight. Stacy assumed he was tired.

  “Sure don’t try to hide it, do they?”

  “Doubt they know their coworkers are out here with a camera.”

  “You’d think they’d be a little more discreet, that’s all.”

  “What difference does it make?” Julius barked. “So your old lady’s screwin’ the boss. Welcome to TV news!”

  Stacy set the camera down. “Okay, what’s eating you?”

  “This is a crapshoot, Stace! You don’t know who the Torch is. Nobody knows!” He removed his glasses, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Look…I understand why you’re doin’ this, even admire you for it. But if you ask me, Toole ain’t even the best suspect.”

  “He’s the only suspect!”

  “You’re forgettin’ Maghee’s theory, dude. ’Bout the other Channel 8 employees. Twitchell, Meeks, that Raul freak I shot poundin’ his pud in the park.” Stacy tried to respond, but Julius kept talking. “Maghee said the Torch was out for revenge. What if it’s someone tryin’ to frame Toole? Like that ex-con from Coalgate?”

  “Russell Longdale?”

  “Why not? Dude spent time in the joint ’cause a’ what Toole did.” He slipped his glasses back on. “And if it ain’t him, how ’bout Carson. He sure had reason to frame someone at Channel 8. S’pose he set them fires, then off’d himself accidentally, just like Schnea said. Think about it, dude, there ain’t been one fire since he checked out!”

  “You don’t believe that, Jul.”

  “I’m just sayin’ the Torch could be someone else!”

  “The Torch is Larry Toole!”

  Julius frowned. “When you get an idea in your head, there ain’t no pryin’ it out.”

  Stacy smiled—his uncle had described William Zwardowski that way. “So are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to ‘pry it out’ of you?”

  Julius hesitated, then pulled a letter from his pocket.

  Stacy stared at the Cousteau Society stationery. “Is this what I think it is?” Julius nodded, his upper lip twitching. They were offering him a job on the Alcyone, an ocean-going vessel with Cousteau’s latest invention, ‘Turbosails’, designed to replace fuel. Julius was to join the crew in France for a yearlong documentary shoot, Cousteau signing the letter himself. “This is incredible, Jul. It’s everything you ever—”

  “I gotta leave in a week-and-a-half.”

  Stacy froze as the realization struck him. That’s why Julius was acting so strange. He’d been sitting on this for days, not knowing how to bring it up. He was leaving, for God’s sake! The thought was more than Stacy could bear, but he faked a smile. “It’s all right, Jul. Hell, it’s better than all right. It’s fantastic!” Deep down, he meant it. “And don’t worry about me. When Toole screws up, I’ll be out of here, too. I might even hop the Atlantic and come visit. They have to give you shore leave, don’t they?”

  Julius grinned, clearly relieved. “Thanks, Stace.” He stuffed the letter back in his pocket, then looked to the house. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “How come you came over that night, back when we lived in Avalon?”

  Stacy thought for a moment. “It wasn’t easy, Jul. With what happened to me as a kid, I had some preconceived notions about black people. Notions I’m not proud of.”

  “I wasn’t exactly keen on white folks either, dude.”

  Stacy smiled, the cameraman returning it. “If you want to know the truth, it came down to this. At the time, I thought you needed a friend.” He studied the man in the passenger seat. “But now I know, it was the other way around.”

  ***

  How they ended up at Wilhelm’s ranch was a bit of a mystery, but beer was involved, as was Jim Beam. Stacy had insisted on cutting the stakeout short. After all, Toole wasn’t going anywhere—not with Katie on top of him.

  “I thought spyin’ on Toole was the craziest thing we ever did!”

  Stacy giggled, passing the bottle. “I can’t let you go to France till we finish what we started six months ago—find a cow and tip iss ass over!” He powered up the infrared. “And we’re gonna catch it all on video…for posterity!”

  The pair laughed like winos, sharing the hooch as they crossed a moonlit field. Both reporter and cameraman needed a night to blow off steam. And cow tipping seemed like the answer.

  “This time, we’re going nowhere near the house!” Stacy pointed to the shadowy woods. “Thass where we’re headed! You see anything on four feet, knock it down!”

  “Dude…” They started laughing again. “…we get in those woods, I won’t be able to see four feet in front a’ me!”

  “Sounds like good video to me!”

  Still laughing, they shared one last drink.

  “And remember, Jul—”

  Before Stacy could finish, the man took off, his drunken partner scrambling to catch up. As they reached the woods, the sky darkened, Julius running like a blind man. Stacy followed, eyes moving from black landscape to green viewfinder.

  “Shit, dude!” Julius caromed off a tree, Stacy laughing so hard he nearly dropped the camera. “I told you this was crazy!”

  “Keep going, Jul!” They made their way down a culvert—no cows—then up an embankment—still no cows.

  Julius tripped, Stacy howling as he struggled to keep him in frame. NIGHTTIME FUN—Volume 3 was off to a great start! Before Julius left for Europe, Stacy would have to burn a copy.

  “Cows beware! Julius Candelle is coming!”

  The man scurried uphill, then roared down the other side.

  As Stacy reached the crest, he heard a thud, then silence. “Julius?” He panned left to right. No sign of his friend.

  “Down here, dude.”

  Stacy peered through the lens, seeing nothing but dense forest and heavy bramble. “Where are you?” They’d traveled half-a-mile, the trees growing thicker with every step. If there were any cows here, they were silent, the air ripe with rot.

  “I’m stuck in a damn hole!”

  Stacy tilted, seeing Julius’ head covered in leaves. “Hold on,” he snickered, zooming in for a closeup. Julius looked disgusted but unhurt. “You okay?”

  “I think so.” He fixed his glasses. “Help me outta here.”

  Stacy reached for his arm, stopping as he saw something in the viewfinder. Julius was in a hole, all right, but it was manmade. “Jul, can you see?”

  “If I could see, would I be stuck in a fox nest?”

  Stacy dropped to a knee. “This isn’t a fox nest, Julius. Feel the edges.” The man reached out and touched the boards, the hole a perfect square.

 
; “What the—?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t put here by accident.” Stacy leaned down, aiming the infrared—Julius was standing on a set of stairs. “There’s something down there, Jul.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He struggled to move. “Then get me off it!”

  “Will you relax!”

  “Relax, my ass! You ain’t the one stuck in a hole!”

  Stacy zoomed past his feet, studying the hard-packed floor. “I’m going in.”

  “You’re doin’ what?”

  The reporter muscled his friend out, then moved into the vacant space.

  “Hold on, dude! You got no idea what’s down there!”

  “That’s why I’m going in.” He widened his shot.

  “Think about it, Stace. If Wilhelm built this thing in the middle of nowhere, he don’t want nobody in it!”

  “And that’s supposed to keep me out?”

  Julius sighed, peering into the darkness. “Stacy?” He heard footsteps below. “Dammit, dude!” Swinging his legs back in the hole, he inched his way down. “Where the—?” He slammed into his friend’s back, the effects of alcohol long gone for both.

  Stacy moved forward, staring at the viewfinder. “It’s some kind of equipment shed.” He panned slowly. There was a wooden bench. A shelving unit. A two-drawer file cabinet. He ducked to clear the six-foot ceiling, Julius bumping his head.

  “Ouch…gimme that thing!”

  “Hold on.” Stacy zoomed on a shelf to see paper bags, packing peanuts, a jar of paste. He checked to make sure he was still rolling—he was. The next shelf held a pry bar, some Styrofoam cups, and a roll of Saran Wrap. He swept the camera over a long thin pole, then focused on the bench. A pair of glasses fitted with miniature lights sat on a legal pad. Next to the pad were scissors, a pack of KOOLs, and a People Magazine, its pages littered with missing letters. “My God!”

  “What, Stacy? What?”

  He passed the infrared, Julius seizing it like a life preserver. As the cameraman zoomed, his heart began to drum. “Jesus, dude!”