Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “Stop the vehicle!” a pursuing officer ordered. Stacy wondered why the cops—two Avalon Police units had just joined the chase—still bothered. Surely, they’d figured out his plan by now.

  Up ahead, satellite dishes loomed, each casting a shadow over the Great 8 sign. It suddenly dawned on him—he’d worked at Channel 8 for fifteen months, a ‘reporter’s average stay in a beginning market’. Smiling at the irony, he pulled into the lot, eighteen vehicles following. As expected, he found two Dexter County Sheriff’s cars waiting, along with three fire units and Billy Nemetz’s beat-up Mazda.

  Stacy rolled to a stop, staring at the impressive gathering. Roy Maghee was there, just back from Atlanta. So was Gary Schnea, Ross Barton, and Marv Bridges. They’d apparently all gotten his messages.

  He climbed out of the car.

  “Freeze, scumbag!” The cop who’d led the chase drew down on him, his fellow officers doing the same.

  Stacy raised his hands, sweeping his eyes through the crowd. Larry Toole had joined the fray. As had Katie, Chip, Thad….

  …and Dick Wilhelm.

  “I want this bastard arrested!” The angry G.M. separated himself from the mob, pumping a finger at his soon-to-be-ex-employee. But before he got his wish, another car screeched into the lot.

  Allenbaugh leaped from the driver’s seat, drawing a snub-nosed .38. “Hit the dirt!” he ordered, pushing his way through the crowd. “I said, hit the goddamn dirt!”

  Bridges stepped in front of him. “That’s far enough, chief.”

  The lawman stumbled, leering up at the deputy. “Outa my way, ‘Barney Fife’. I got me an arrest warrant, an’ there ain’t no way some two-bit local sheriff—”

  “Actually, I’m the undersheriff. And this here’s my backyard.” He pointed. “See that telephone pole?” The man turned. “It marks the end a’ Avalon city limits. Makes this station jurisdiction a’ the Dexter County Sheriff’s Department.” He looked to his friends from the local P.D. “Not Avalon Police.” He winked at his brothers from up north. “Not Quintoc County Sheriff’s.” He glared at the man in front of him. “And sure as hell not Clarion P.D.” He turned, walking to Stacy’s side. “If there’s gonna be an arrest made here today, it’s damn sure gonna be me who makes it!”

  Toole signaled Jerry Feinbloom. The nervous camera op stepped past the others and zoomed on his coworker, an engineer racing up with two hundred-foot cables—the news director had given instructions to go live the second they had a signal.

  Bridges turned. “Ya got somethin’ to say, Stacy…ya best say it.” He stepped aside, his fellow officers waiting, guns drawn.

  Stacy walked to the Celica and popped the trunk, a pair of troopers cocking their rifles. He pulled out the monitor, dented from ‘Butch’ Stark’s head but still operational.

  “Where did that come from?” Wilhelm clamored.

  Stacy carried it to the center of the crowd.

  “This man soiled my reputation!” Wilhelm screamed. “Arrest him, goddammit!”

  Stacy walked back to the car and grabbed the infrared.

  “What the…that’s not station property!”

  He set the camera next to the monitor, attaching cables. Task complete, he rose to his feet, staring at Bridges. “With all due respect, undersheriff…I’m through talking.”

  He reached down and hit PLAY.

  Allenbaugh was the first to approach, eyeing the monitor with laggard interest. Barton joined him. Then Maghee, Schnea, and Bridges. The other lawmen followed, as did Nemetz, all three news crews, and Toole.

  The video from Wilhelm’s underground shed aired first, complete with damning images and descriptive dialogue. Schnea and Maghee watched intently, Barton stroking his chin. Wilhelm stood on the nearby walk, too far away to see. “What are you waiting for? Lock him up, goddammit!”

  The tape transitioned to an exterior of the courthouse. A shadow moved through the frame, Julius zooming on Wilhelm’s face. The assemblage moved closer. As the shot widened, they all looked to the guilty G.M.

  “What the hell are you looking at?”

  Bridges stepped forward, cuffing Wilhelm’s wrists. “Ya got the right ta remain silent.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Arrestin’ ya for the Texomaland Torch fires.” He clutched Wilhelm’s arm, finishing the Mirandas as the man struggled for freedom.

  “Take your hands off me!” Six cops moved in, making sure it was a struggle he didn’t win. “Do you know who you’re dealing with?” They forced him down the sidewalk, hands soiling his expensive suit. “My family built Texoma!”

  Stacy watched in silence, as did the rest of the Channel 8 crew.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Toole screamed. Jerry winced, having lowered the camera. “Roll on this. Roll on this!”

  The image of Wilhelm being thrown in a sheriff’s car and hauled off to jail went out live to three-hundred-thousand viewers.

  It seemed like the perfect ending—but it wasn’t.

  “This’s all been real dramatic.” Stacy turned to see Allenbaugh slither forward, gun in one hand, slip of paper in the other. “But I still got me a warrant for this man’s arrest!”

  Bridges pushed through the crowd. “I thought I told ya—”

  “I know what ya told me, undersheriff. But a warrant’s a warrant. And this here paper don’t say nothin’ ’bout grandstand maneuvers, hidden cameras, or incriminatin’ films. All it says is I got the right to take ’im in!” He looked over his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Barton?”

  The D.A. fingered his mustache, Stacy cutting his eyes to Bridges. For the first time all day, the undersheriff looked unsure. Ross Barton strolled over the asphalt, eyes down. “I’d say the chief’s right.” He looked up, making eye contact with Stacy, the reporter imagining his stay in Allenbaugh’s jail. “In nearly all cases…but not this one.” Stacy exhaled. “Although I don’t necessarily agree with Bill Stacy’s methods, he did something no lawman in Texomaland…” He turned to Allenbaugh. “…and that includes you, chief, was able to do.” He paused, letting the ‘jury’ digest his statement, then turned for the car. As he opened the door, he looked back. “The D.A.’s office will not seek prosecution of Mr. Stacy in this case.”

  “Goddammit, Ross!” Allenbaugh stormed over. “If we can’t arrest ’im fer the fires, how ’bout fer indecent exposure? Evadin’ arrest? Reckless endangerment, fer Christ’s sake? He led my men on a wild damn goose chase all over the state!”

  “To repeat…” He waited for Jerry to zoom. “…the D.A.’s office will not seek prosecution of Mr. Stacy in this case. Or any other case.”

  A few people in the crowd cheered. Allenbaugh looked like he’d swallowed a gerbil. After a loathsome pause, he leered at Stacy, his expression, which vaguely resembled ‘Butch’ Stark’s, saying, ‘We better never cross paths again!’

  Stacy could guarantee it. That chapter of his life was over.

  As Barton drove off, the chief climbed in his car and followed. Ten minutes later, they were all gone—police, troopers, deputies, media. Only Stacy’s coworkers remained. He walked to the Celica and pulled out his gear. The Ikegami 730. The 3/4” deck. The tripod, batteries, and mic. He piled everything up on the sidewalk, then turned to his boss. “Consider this my resignation, Larry.”

  Toole stepped forward, Katie peering over his shoulder. “Hold on a minute, Stacy.” The man offered a wicked smile. “You don’t have to leave. The board’ll have a new G.M. in place tomorrow. We won’t even skip a beat!” He glanced at his employees, then back at Stacy. “I wasn’t sure, but after what I saw today, I think you still have the makings of a star reporter. In fact, I’ve never met anyone with the balls to do what you did—no pun intended.” He laughed. Stacy didn’t. “You’re the hottest thing to hit Texoma since the Torch himself. You’re on fire, kid! People’ll be talking about you from Dallas to Oklahoma City! You’re going to be more famous than I am!” He leaned in. “And that means we’ve g
otta strike while the iron’s hot! We can ride this thing, you and me. Ride it all the way to the top. I’m talking Good Morning, America! 60 Minutes! The Tonight Show, for God’s sake! There’s no telling how far we could take this.” He put his hand on Stacy’s shoulder. “What do you say, kiddo?”

  Stacy stared at the man, then looked past him. His coworkers waited for a reply, Thad frowning, Chip sparking another joint. Katie peered through the smoke, eyes unreadable. He looked at her for a moment, then back at his boss, considering a million responses. He chose the simplest. “No thanks.”

  As he turned for the car, Toole shadowed him. “You’re making a mistake, Stacy! Opportunities like this don’t come along every day!” Toole grabbed his arm as he reached for the door. “If you walk away from here, you’ll never work in this business again! I’ll make sure of it.”

  Stacy shook his head, feeling almost sorry for the man. Wrenching his arm free, he climbed in the car.

  “You’re blowing it, Stacy! Do you hear me?” He started the engine. “You’re pissing away the best chance you’ll ever have to be somebody!” He stared at Toole through the open window.

  “I am somebody, Larry. I’m Stacy Zwardowski.”

  Dropping the shifter in gear, he punched it out of the lot, raising a cloud of dust behind him. As he disappeared up Main, his ex-coworkers filed back in the building. All but Katie, that is. For several minutes, she stood there. Watching. Waiting.

  When he didn’t return, she smoothed her hair and walked inside.

  ***

  “Well, if it ain’t the naked hero!” Marv Bridges and Roy Maghee made their way down the library steps, Stacy waiting on the sidewalk.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” The ex-reporter smiled, seeing his friends for the first time in a week. He’d been busy. While Bridges’ cousin, Theo, stood guard outside the house, Stacy had cleaned, packed his things, and tuned up the Celica. It took some doing, but Clarion was finally a memory.

  “Gentlemen?” Bridges looked to his fellow lawman. “Who’s he talkin’ ta?” The undersheriff cackled, Maghee thumbing through a book.

  “Wouldn’t have taken you for a Judith Krantz fan, Roy.”

  The man stared at the emasculate cover. “Checked it out for the wife. Got us an anniversary coming up. Figured since I was here—”

  “—an’ too damn cheap to buy ’er a copy!” Bridges reached in his pocket for a Winston, offering one to his friend.

  Maghee shook his head. “Another gift for the wife. Told her I’d quit if she cut up her credit cards.” He watched longingly as the undersheriff struck a match. “Damned if I thought she’d go through with it.”

  Bridges blew smoke, then turned to Stacy. “Thanks for meetin’ us here. Couldn’t let ya go without askin’ ya somethin’.” He leaned against a pillar, crossing his arms. “How’d ya do it? Figger it all out, I mean?”

  “I didn’t…not intentionally anyway. Julius and I…” He hesitated—the mere mention of his name still hurt. It would for a long time. “We stumbled onto the shed. Just a couple drunks out looking for trouble. Truth be told…” He looked at Maghee. “…I thought it was Toole. Would’ve bet my life on it. Guess my reporter’s instincts weren’t as sharp as I thought they were.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Maghee tucked the book under his arm. “Larry Toole was an excellent suspect. Fit the profile to a tee. Cunning. Attention-seeking. We looked at him long and hard.” As a young couple passed, he lowered his voice. “ATF installed a tracking device on his car. Put his house under surveillance. Even tapped his phone. ’Course, you didn’t hear that from me. We checked out every tip you gave us, Stacy. The gas in his garage? Turns out he was cheaper than I am. Didn’t like paying the high price of fuel on Lake Texoma, so he stockpiled it for the boat.”

  “We never saw a boat.”

  “Time you were there, it was in for service.”

  “But what about the late-night phone calls? And the hours he kept? We watched him for weeks, Roy. He never slept a wink.”

  “When we tapped his line, we found out he was getting calls from your G.M. right before he got on the phone with you. That’s what got us thinking about Wilhelm. That and the fact that Toole never left his house on the nights of the fires.”

  “He was too busy,” Bridges jumped in. “Snortin’ cocaine. Man’s got a helluva drug habit, Stacy. Ain’t no one could sleep with ’at much powder up his snout.”

  Stacy looked from one to the other. “Unbelievable.”

  “What’s unbelievable is how we were able to connect the two.”

  “Toole and Wilhelm?”

  Maghee nodded, glancing at Bridges. “Looks like that fire you told us about, the one that killed Toole’s wife, was no accident. Wilhelm set it.” Stacy’s face went flush. “Seems she wanted to move closer to her parents back east. Wilhelm wasn’t ready to lose his ace reporter, so he torched the place with her inside.” Smoke curled from Bridges’ cigarette. “We can’t exactly prove that yet. But we’re working on it.”

  Stacy felt sick to his stomach. “What about the dorm fire?”

  “Looks like just a coincidence. Guess he deserved the ‘Valor Award’.”

  “Maybe then…” He thought of all the sordid things his boss had done, the things he’d asked his employees to do. “…but never since.”

  “You were right on motive, too. At least partially. Wilhelm did set those fires for ratings. It was a formula he’d tested in other markets—Lubbock, Odessa, Corpus Christi. ATF’s got records of Torch-like crimes in all three cities, all while Wilhelm was acting as general manager.”

  “But I don’t get it…” Stacy thought of Wilhelm & Son. “…why would he torch his own family’s buildings?”

  “That’s where it gets complicated. Our criminal psychologist believes he had two motives in the Texoma fires—greed and revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “You know about the wills, right?” Stacy nodded, remembering what Katie and Bub told him. “When his father and grandfather left their money to charity, Wilhelm felt slighted. So he decided to exact his own payment. And what better way—at least in his twisted mind—than to destroy everything his father and grandfather created.”

  “And fill his own pockets in the process,” Bridges added.

  Stacy stared at the library. The structure was a masterpiece of twentieth-century architecture—columns, scrolls, ornaments. If not for a failed fuse, he’d be staring at a vacant lot. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  Maghee fished for a cigarette, stopping himself. “Too early to tell. His lawyers are weighing the evidence right now, evidence we feel pretty strongly about. Not only do we have your videotape, we’ve got his prints on the timing device and threatening letters. My guess is, we’ll see a plea to avoid the death penalty.”

  Stacy thought about Trevor Carson, of the horrible death sentence he’d received. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “That’s the system.” Maghee glanced at a passing FTD van. “Think maybe I’ll go pick up some flowers. You two got me thinking this book isn’t enough.” He extended a hand, Stacy taking it. “Keep in touch.”

  “Will do, Roy.” He walked away, leaving Stacy and Bridges alone.

  The undersheriff dropped his cigarette, looking down as he stepped on the butt. “Stacy…there’s somethin’…” He looked up, clearing his throat. “I had me a son once.” Stacy’s eyes widened. “Jake was his name. Football player. A student. An’ the best friend I ever had…other than the wife, a’ course.” He tried to smile but the effort fell short. “He…uh…passed away, see? An’ there ain’t been a minute since…that I don’t think about ’im …miss ’im…wish I could do things over.” They stared at one another, the noise of the street fading away. “This may come as a shock…but you look like ’im. A lot like ’im, in fact. Even sound a little like ’im—minus the accent.”

  Stacy nodded—so that’s why Bridges was always looking out for him.

  “When I first saw ya on TV,
I figgered God was either playin’ a cruel joke…or givin’ me a second chance…ya know, an opportunity ta right some wrongs.” His eyes narrowed. “But now I know that wasn’t the case. You ain’t Jake, Stacy. I didn’t realize that—really realize it—till that day at Pearl’s, when ya spread that napkin in your lap.” He chuckled. “In all m’years a’ fatherin’, I never could get Jake ta use a napkin. ‘Why should I,’ he used ta tell me, ‘when I got two perfectly good sleeves?’” They traded smiles. “Anyhow, I’m tellin’ ya this, ’cause I think ya were sent here for a reason. Ta make me realize Jake ain’t never comin’ back. An’ ta make me see that that’s okay. I still got me a lot ta do in life. An’ someone damn special ta do it with.” He swallowed hard, eyes moist but full of hope.

  Stacy held out his hand. “Thanks for everything, Marv.”

  Bridges took it, the pair shaking for a long time. Finally, “I best be goin’, too.” The undersheriff looked up the street. “Me an’ the wife’re gonna clean out Jake’s room …take some stuff over to Goodwill. Then I reckon I’ll start on that gazebo.” He smiled, a sad but reposeful smile, Stacy returning it. As they moved up the sidewalk, Bridges turned. “I b’lieve Jake woulda liked you.”

  Stacy nodded, eyes glistening. “I believe my mom would’ve liked you, Marv.”

  They shook hands again, much being left unsaid.

  “Make sure ya write.” Stacy promised, Bridges watching a gaggle of geese fly by. “So, where ya headin’ anyhow?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  It was a lie. For the first time ever, Stacy knew exactly where he was going.

  ***

  “I will…I promise.” He leaned against the payphone, staring at the Safeway sign. “Love you, too, Uncle Robert.”

  A gust of wind shook the plexiglass. He zipped his jacket and headed inside. Safeway had purchased the Super-K Market six months ago, the previous owners unable put the mass shooting behind them. The corporate giant hoped a new name and shiny makeover would help people forget. It seemed to be working.