Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “It’s Wilhelm, Jul!”

  “Jesus, dude!”

  “Wilhelm’s the Torch!”

  “Jesus, dude!”

  “Why didn’t we see it? Why didn’t we figure it out?”

  “We gotta go!”

  “No!” Stacy snatched the camera back.

  “But he might already know we’re here!” Stacy moved to the file cabinet, kicking a gas can. “The place could be wired! Or booby trapped!” He opened a drawer, rifling through files.

  One was marked MILL, another WAREHOUSE, a third HOSPITAL. Each held blueprints, a red checkmark at the top. Stacy leafed through more folders, shooting close-ups of all of them. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. COUNTY JAIL. HIGH SCHOOL. TRAILER PARK. “I knew it!”

  “What, Stacy?”

  “He killed Carson! There’s a file on the trailer park. A file on all of them! And they’re…” He paused, looking back over the tabs. “…in order!” He slammed the drawer, opening the one beneath it.

  “Come on, dude!”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “We might not have a minute!”

  Stacy pulled the first file from the stack. If the top drawer was in order, why not the bottom. After all, Wilhelm was the most anal person he’d ever met. He zoomed in on the tab—COURTHOUSE. “I know what he’s hitting next!”

  “Please, Stace—”

  “He’s going to hit the courthouse! The Dexter County Courthouse!” Shutting the drawer, he moved the gas can back in place.

  “But how—?”

  “We just struck oil, Jul! But as good as this evidence is, it’s all circumstantial. And it won’t be enough. Not with the power Wilhelm wields in this town.” He pushed his friend upstairs, Julius offering no resistance. “We need to catch him at the scene. Get a clear shot of Wilhelm torching the courthouse!” When they made it to the top, Stacy killed the camera. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find our way out of here.”

  “First smart thing you said all night!” Julius bolted, Stacy one step behind him. When they reached the car, both were out of breath, neither one having seen a cow.

  ***

  The town square was quiet, same as it was the night before. Stacy sipped coffee, handing Julius the camera. They’d been sitting outside Flip’s Deli for hours. So far, they’d seen three cats and a stumbling drunk. Not exactly headline material.

  “Think he’s onto us, Stace?”

  “No, he’s just waiting…” Stacy blew steam. “…for the right opportunity.”

  Stacy had missed his opportunity to talk to Roy Maghee. The investigator had flown to Atlanta for a two-week ‘Cause & Origin’ seminar and wasn’t taking phone calls.

  “This one won’t be easy. Not with his target in the middle of town.”

  “Easy or not, he better hurry.”

  Stacy understood—the cameraman was leaving in three days!

  They stared at the courthouse. It loomed like a castle on the moor. “Why do you think Wilhelm’s doin’ this?”

  “Same reason we thought Toole was doing it.” Stacy set his mug down, Julius checking the infrared. “Want to hear something funny? First week on the job, he gave me his ‘TV’s a Visual Medium’ speech, said ‘pictures are everything’, the ‘more graphic, the better’. At one point, he actually told me viewers go crazy ‘for fires’!” He shook his head. “Wish I’d listened.”

  “I got the same speech, dude.” A car rumbled past, pausing at the YIELD sign. “Hard to look at this thing, huh?” Stacy’s eyes moved from car to courthouse. “Knowin’ we gotta sit by and watch it burn.”

  “We’ve got no choice, Jul.”

  They sat in silence for a time, tracking shadows.

  “So…you packed and ready to go?”

  The cameraman shrugged. “Gotta pawn my furniture …but, yeah, I’m ready.”

  Stacy scanned the grounds. He and Julius had covered the Klan rally here, crossing paths with ‘Butch’ Stark for the first time. Stacy had come to Julius’ aid that day. Months later, he’d return the favor a million-fold.

  “Dude…” Julius stared at the viewfinder. “…was that car there before?”

  Stacy squinted. There were three vehicles across the way—a custom van, a work truck, and a black sedan. “Which one?”

  “The one on the left.” He zoomed in, studying the image. “Tinted windows, nice rims. Looks like a new Mercury…maybe a Lincoln.”

  “Wilhelm’s got a Lincoln!” Stacy seized the camera. It was a Lincoln, all right, but it was empty. And tired as he was, he couldn’t remember if it was there before or not.

  “Dude!” Julius pointed to something on the lawn. It looked like a shrub—except it was moving. “Gimme the camera!”

  Stacy hit RECORD, handing it off. “What is it, Jul?”

  The cameraman focused, watching the shape take form—it was a man, dressed in dungarees and a black turtleneck. He held a paper bag in one hand, a pole in the other. Julius zoomed on the face. Beneath a stocking cap, a large forehead protruded, casting shadows over the eyes and mustache. “It’s him, dude!”

  Stacy’s heart leaped in his chest. “Are you sure, Jul?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m sure!”

  “Zoom!” Stacy erupted. “Zoom!”

  “I’m already zoomed!” He braced his arm against the door. “And if you’d stop movin’, I might get some usable footage!” He followed Wilhelm up the walk, widening his shot to include the man’s gait—the more points of I.D., the better.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Looks like he’s casin’ the joint.” The man ducked under a willow, reaching in his pocket for the Kelly Tool. “He’s got somethin’, Stace.” He moved to a service door, slipping the blade between the lock and jam. Seconds later, he disappeared inside. “He’s in!” Julius started to power down, but Stacy stopped him.

  “Let it run, Jul! We need this in ‘real time’.” He widened his shot to include the building, their hearts hammering in stereo. A minute passed, five minutes, the wait unbearable. It felt like everything—the cats, the distant traffic, the whole damn world—was waiting with them.

  Then they smelled smoke.

  “Julius—?”

  “I got him, Stace!” He framed the arsonist as he ran for the Lincoln. When the car pulled away from the curb, Julius zoomed on the plate.

  “Did you get the license? Did you get it?”

  “Hell, yes, I got it! Clear as day!”

  “We did it, Jul!” Stacy gushed. “Are you sure you got his face?”

  “Like he was posin’ for a portrait, dude!” Julius started to giggle, as did Stacy. But the sound of exploding glass stopped them. The stately structure was already ablaze, every window spitting hellfire. As alarms sounded, they thought of all the records inside, the irreplaceable photos. They felt guilty for their giddiness.

  “Base to Mobil 6.” They looked at each other, frozen. Toole couldn’t know about the fire—not yet. “Come in, Mobil 6.”

  Stacy reached for the handset. “Mobil 6 here.”

  “Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling your house for half-an-hour!”

  “The…news car broke down, Larry. We’re on our way home now.”

  “Fuck home! I need you in Durl. They just busted a meth lab there.” He rattled off directions. “Now move your asses before Channel 2 scoops us!”

  “Ten-four.”

  Julius lowered the camera. “We can’t go chasin’ meth labbers, Stace! Not with the footage we’re sittin’ on.”

  Stacy peered into the fire, thinking. “Durl…that’s Quintoc County. Sheriff’s jurisdiction, not Clarion P.D.” He turned to his friend. “Bridges knows those guys. More important, he trusts them. We’ll shoot the bust, then hand the infrared footage over to them. Wilhelm’ll be in jail by dawn!”

  Julius grinned, flames dancing off his spectacles.

  It was over. Over!

  “Well, what the hell we waitin’ for?”

  ***

  The scene was eerily similar t
o the one Stacy covered in January. Sheriff’s cars and OBN vans lined the road, lights exposing a rickety old shack. “Mobil 6 to Base.”

  “Go ahead, Stacy.”

  “We’re here, Larry. Are you going to send the live truck?”

  “No, the Torch just struck again! Burned down the fucking courthouse! Can you believe it?” They could. “We’re going live as soon as Brannuck gets the truck up. Just package the meth bust and hold it for noon.”

  “Will do.” He replaced the handset. “He thinks that’s a big story. Wait till he sees what we’ve got!” The cameraman nodded. “You ready?”

  “Ready as ever, dude.”

  They left the Escort, meeting a throng of officers in the yard, the air thick with chemicals. “’Morning, gentlemen.” Jim Peters of the Oklahoma Bureau of Narcotics stepped forward, hand out. Stacy took it, recognizing the man from their last meeting. “Nice to see you again…uh…”

  The reporter hesitated, wondering if this was the last time he’d ever have to use his TV name. “Bill Stacy. Great 8 News.”

  “Yes, of course, Bill.” The man’s eyes shifted to Julius, the camera op grabbing a white balance from his shirt. “Shoot anything you want, boys. The people of Oklahoma need to know there are consequences for breaking the law, and that we at the Bureau are watching. This is the twelfth meth lab we’ve taken down this year.”

  As Julius headed off, Stacy opened his Steno, mind elsewhere. They’d solved the Torch crimes and were about to hand the evidence over to authorities. Evidence that would send Dick Wilhelm to prison—or worse. After all, two people were dead. And the G.M. was solely responsible. It was almost too fantastic to believe!

  “We received a tip last night. A local farmer…”

  Stacy looked past him, keeping an eye on Julius. He’d meant to tell his friend to be careful, remembering what Bridges said about lab dangers. But Peters wouldn’t stop talking. Julius was fifty feet away now, shooting through a split-rail fence.

  “…that’s when we moved in.”

  Stacy nodded, watching an officer separate glassware. “What did you…discover at the scene?”

  “The usual. Listening devices, bear traps…” Stacy saw Julius near the porch, shooting a mountain of cans—chili, Spaghettios, refried beans. Not too close, Jul. “…no electricity or running water…” Stacy’s mind strayed back to the courthouse, the images forever burned in his memory—the flames, the smoke, the Lincoln pulling away. “…of course, we’re experts in this field.”

  Stacy forced himself to focus. “Can you tell me about the suspects?”

  “We arrested four—”

  “Julius!” He excused himself, bolting across the yard. “What are you doing?”

  An agent was helping him into a HAZMAT suit. “What’s it look like I’m doin’?”

  “Exteriors only, Jul.”

  “Relax, dude.” He flashed a radiant smile. “Ain’t never got to wear one a’ these. And this might be my last chance.”

  “We don’t need to take chances.” He lowered his voice. “Remember what we’ve got in the car.”

  “How could I forget, dude? But I’m still gettin’ paid to get the best footage.” He zipped his suit. “And right now, the best footage is in there!”

  “Jul—”

  “It’s okay, Stace.” He shouldered the Sony. “I live for this shit!” As the agent shoved a mask over his head, Julius winked through the plastic window. A moment later, he was gone.

  Stacy’s gut churned as he rejoined Peters.

  “Where was I?” the man asked.

  The reporter glanced at his notes. “The suspects?”

  “Oh, yes. Four males. All wanted…” Stacy stared at the front door, hoping his partner was showing caution. Just shoot the minimum! “…Nolan Simms of Sapulpa…” Two agents made their way outside, carrying a vat of sludge. “…‘Turk’ Winterbrook of Tahlequah…” An officer paused near the window, adjusting his breathing apparatus. “…Cesar Jimenez of Weleetka…” Stacy glanced at his watch. Come on, Jul! “…and Percy McCarroll of Roff. All four were taken…”

  There was movement on the porch, someone in a yellow suit backing through the doorway. Stacy held his breath. As the man turned, he offered a little wave, his lens reflecting the first light of dawn. Relief washed over the reporter, but as he raised his hand to respond, a brilliant flash came, followed by a sonic boom.

  The explosion knocked Stacy to the ground, the world turning white around him.

  “Julius!” he screamed, but the roar of the fire swallowed it. He staggered to his feet, horrified by the scene before him. The shack was gone, replaced by a wall of green-orange flames, smoke rising to the heavens.

  As officers fled, some on fire, others purging their lungs, someone grabbed his arm. Stacy wheeled, hoping against hope it was Julius. He’d survived everything, hadn’t he? The tornado. The abuse from his parents. The—

  “We gotta get outta here!” Stacy focused on the face, begging it to be Julius’. But the man clutching his arm was Jim Peters, face black with soot.

  “No!” Stacy broke free, storming the burning ruins. “Julius!” He peered into the flames, smoke stealing his breath. “Juliuuuus!” He had to be okay—had to! The fire thundered like an oncoming train. “Juuuliuuuuuuuus!”

  Two powerful hands grabbed him, a fireman dragging him to safety. The blaze had reached its apex, launching green pinwheels fifty feet in the air. Stacy watched in horror, tears drying as fast as they spilled.

  He’d swear later, the fire had a face. With wicked eyes and an ugly mouth that offered no explanation—and no apology—for taking his friend.

  Chapter 15

  October 1988

  (NEWSWIRE): SPACE SHUTTLE ‘DISCOVERY’ COMPLETES FIRST MISSION AFTER ‘CHALLENGER’ EXPLOSION ... ‘SHROUD OF TURIN’, THOUGHT TO HAVE COVERED CHRIST, FOUND TO BE FRAUD ... KIRK GIBSON’S WORLD SERIES HOMER CARRIES DODGERS PAST A’s

  The graveside service was the saddest thing he’d ever witnessed. A bargain-basement casket. Twelve empty chairs. And a single wreath, the same model Wilhelm sent for Helen Zwardowski—Avalon Floral was a long-time sponsor. Stacy was the lone representative from Channel 8. “It’ll be easier that way,” Toole said.

  Easier for who? It was the hardest day of Stacy’s life.

  He shook hands with the pastor, the funeral home providing his services for an extra hundred bucks. Stacy felt compelled to pay it in case someone else showed up. No one did. No one from the Oklahoma Bureau of Narcotics. No one from the Quintoc County Sheriff’s Office. No one from Julius’ family.

  Stacy had called James Candelle personally. The man listened, asked if there was money left after expenses, and promised to attend his son’s funeral. He didn’t. Neither did Roy Maghee and Marv Bridges. Stacy was sure they would have, but Maghee was still in Georgia, and Bridges had driven to Branson, Missouri with his wife.

  “Remember, son…” The clergyman glanced at his watch. “… ‘the Lord is near the discouraged, and saves those who’ve lost all hope.’ Psalms 34:18.”

  “Okay.” It was the only response Stacy could muster.

  After an awkward hug, the man walked off, Stacy’s eyes glued to the grave site. The coffin had been lowered at the end of the service. Workers would return in an hour to cover it with dirt. He stood there, shivering, not knowing what to do next.

  What could he do?

  His best friend was gone.

  After a beat, he stepped forward, clutching a bag to his chest. “I’m…sorry, Jul.” He knelt, staring at the particle board coffin. “If I hadn’t dragged you into this, hadn’t been so stubborn, maybe you’d…” He choked on his words, bowing his head and crying. It wasn’t the first time. He’d spent the last three days in a tear-filled stupor, blaming himself, playing the ‘what if’ game. He’d found no answers.

  “You deserved better, Julius.” He looked up, wind stirring the overhead leaves. “A better life.” His eyes moved to the empty seats. “A better send-off.”
He looked back to the casket. “A better friend.”

  Another wave of sorrow struck—it came in unseen torrents, racking his body and strangling his heart. As the tears flowed, he shook his head in disgust. What had Julius died for? A story. An insignificant piece of data stuffed between fire and rape on the evening news. In the grand scheme of things, who would remember it?

  Who would remember Julius Candelle?

  Stacy would. Forever.

  He reached in the bag for the Strong Persuader album. Robert Cray looked up at him, grinning, full of life. Stacy wanted to remember Julius that way. He dropped it in the grave, then pulled out the 8 X 10 of Jacques Cousteau. The black-and-white photo was Julius’ most prized possession. It seemed fitting that he take it with him.

  Stacy held onto it for as long as he could. But as the wind picked up, the picture slipped from his hand, drifting like a feather to the coffin below. “Peace, Jul.”

  ***

  The light on the answering machine flashed, a beacon in the fog. Stacy stared at it. Did he really want to hear the messages? Shaking his head, he turned for the bedroom, but something stopped him—Julius’ guitar. He pictured his friend playing it, the image more real than he wanted to admit. As the Jul of his mind finished a riff, he looked up and smiled— “You need to listen, dude.”

  Stacy turned to the machine. After a breath, he walked over and hit PLAY.

  Beep. “Stacy. Larry Toole. I know how close you and Julius were, so take as much time as you need. When you come back, I’ll have a replacement—”

  Replacement? Stacy hammered the ERASE button, another beep sounding. “Oh, sweetie…” He knew the voice, as did most of Texomaland. He killed Katie’s message without listening.

  Beep. “Just got back ta the office and heard the news.” There was a long pause. When Bridges continued, his voice wavered. “I’m sorry, son. Julius was a good fella. A good friend.” Tears welled in Stacy’s eyes. “I know you’re hurtin’, but there’s somethin’ ya need ta know. We just got word from Clarion P.D. They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest. Three counts a’ arson in connection with the Torch fires.” Stacy’s jaw dropped. “Allenbaugh says he can place ya at the scene a’ the last fire. Says he’s got surveillance photos ta prove it. Now I don’t know what that bastard was doin’ outside my courthouse, but I do know one thing. You ain’t guilty! So if you’re fixin’ to do somethin’—anythin’—ya best do it quick!”