Train Ride

By Ann Davie

The dark figure crouched low to the moonlit ground, heart pounding, hidden in the shadows of the juniper bushes lining the railroad tracks.  His lungs ached for oxygen, but he dared not breathe too deeply or too loudly.

  A shout tore through the still night air.  "Russell!  You can't run forever, boy!  Give it up!  You're surrounded!"

McAllister's voice!  James Russell looked around in the dark. Swinging flashlights approached from every direction.  He was trapped, all right -- caught like a firefly in a jar.  He felt the earth tremble beneath his knees.

A strong white beam of light suddenly appeared in the distance. Nearly overwhelming Russell's astonished senses, the light glared brighter, the vibration of the earth grew stronger, the noise became thunderous as a locomotive lumbered around a curve and roared past the spot where he lay.

He jumped to his feet and ran alongside the train.

"There he is!" someone shouted.

"Stop him!" cried McAllister's voice.  A shot rang out, then another.

Car after car passed Russell's outstretched hands, eluding his grasp as the locomotive gained speed on the straight stretch of track.  With his churning legs feeling like rubber, his chest on fire, he made one final, desperate lunge for the last car in the train.  The dark shadow of the open boxcar door was his only salvation and he’d be damned if he were going to miss it.

His palms smacked the cold steel floor, desperate to find something to grasp.  Gunshot cracked dangerously close through the parting brush, and as the train picked up speed, his legs felt as if they were being pulled from the train car.  He lifted his right leg up onto the car floor when the train passed over a crossing, jolting the car suddenly.  His grip slipped; Russell was helpless to stop himself from falling down to the coarse rock piled along the rails.  He closed his eyes, desperate to find some hidden reserve of strength.

The sound came hidden in the thump-kachump of the train wheels.  He strained to hear the message lost in the deafening roar.  It was there, no doubt, like a hoarse whisper.  And then he felt the hot grasp around his wrist.  Startled, Russell drew back and dropped down over the edge of the boxcar platform.  The hand held fast and pulled until Russell was able to scramble through the doorway.  He rolled inside, surprised by the relative silence in the cold darkness.  The noise was cut to a rumbling vibration more felt than heard.

The figure of Russell’s savior, large and lumbering, stood in the open doorway, his solid frame hardly registering the train’s motion or the rush of air coming in as the train gained speed.  With little effort, he slid the car door partially closed, allowing a foot wide column of moonlight to enter.  As he turned toward Russell, the blue light passed over his heavy features.  His woolen coat, frayed at the collar, was worn more like a shirt and tightly buttoned to the top.

“Didn’t you hear me yelling at you to give me your hand?”  The beefy baritone echoed in the empty car.

Still breathing hard, chest aching from where the boxcar platform scrapped along his front, Russell wheezed out a reply, “I heard something, couldn’t tell what was being said.  I just wasn’t expecting…”  He was at a loss for words, a feeling utterly foreign to him.

“Yeah, well, I could say the same.  What the hell kind of trouble you in where you have to run away from gunshot?” The angry demand for an explanation caught Russell off guard.

“Wait.  This is all too much at the moment.  Let me at least catch my breath.”  Russell wasn’t sure if it might have been safer to drop from the speeding train when he had the chance.  The man walked towards Russell, his gait adept at coping with the rocking motion of the train.  He stooped down and opened a satchel, drawing out an old plastic bottle.  He thrust it towards Russell.  To decline would have been immeasurably wrong.

“Thanks.”  Russell unscrewed the top and poured the liquid into his mouth, splashing his chin and neck in the process.

“Don’t have no diseases, it’s safe.  Got it out of a tap, too.  So don’t worry.”  His words were hardly soothing.

Russell took another swig, this time drawing on the bottle.

“Watch out for backwash.  Just ‘cause I don’t have no germs, don’t mean you don’t.”

“Thanks again.  For the drink and for saving me.  I would have been a bloody mess if I landed on those rocks.”  Russell’s eyes now accustomed to the dim light, found the car wall.  He clambered up onto his feet and made his way to the wall to the right of the open door.

“Haven’t answered me.  What kind of trouble you in?  I don’t want to be a part of anybody else’s mess unless I know what kind of mess it is.”  The man walked to the other side of the doorway, his black eyes lit with a cold fire in the moonlight.

“It’s kind of a long story and I won’t bother you with the details.  I’ll jump off at the next chance and leave you in peace.”  Russell thought he’d appreciate the reasonable approach, but was mistaken.

“What kind of fool do you think I am?  You could be a killer.  I just helped you escape.  Guess that’s aiding and abetting now, isn’t it?  You’d better tell me what you’re running away from.”  The man slid down the wall, crouching down to strike a match.  The flame quickly doused by the wind rushing through the door.  “Besides, we won’t slow down until we hit the southern side of Louisville – another three hours at least.  Might as well tell me.”

“Right.  O.K.”  Russell paused, wondering whether to tell the truth or make something up.  He wasn’t in the mood to be creative, and the only reason this guy would be in some empty boxcar would have to be because he was either in similar circumstances or had dropped out of society.  Either way, it wouldn’t matter if he told the truth.  “Well, it all went wrong about two years ago.  First, what’s your name?”

“Jones.”

“That your first or last name?”

“It’ll be the last name I’ll ever have, so I guess it’s my last.  Just call me Jones.”

“O.K. Jones.  You can call me Russell.  That’s my last name.  First name is James.  But I can’t stand the name Jim, and that’s what everyone calls you when you’re named James.  So I just prefer to be called Russell.  But a lot of people think Russell is my first name.  It is the kind of name that could be either…”

“What the hell are you rambling on about?” Russell was cut off abruptly.  “Didn’t I ask you about what kind of trouble you’re in?  Did I ask you about your name?  No.  So just shut up about the name business and get on with it.”

Russell sat down, the cold floor only made his aching legs feel worse, but it was better than standing.  He paused briefly before beginning softly.  “As I said, it all went wrong about two years ago.  Back then, I had to leave Louisville, my partner shafted me, left with a whole stash of loot and took off without leaving a trace.  So there I was, liable for thousands of dollars, all these clients we’d done work for who had paid us in advance, and I couldn’t cope.  So I did the Chapter Eleven thing – nice and quick – but had to find me another job.

“No one was going to hire a disreputable accountant around town, so I had to take what I could get.  I find a guy out here, from Kellyville, needs an accountant for these two new factories he’s just started up.  He don’t ask questions, and a friend of mine put in a good word for me.  He knew him from a few years back.

“First time I laid eyes on Henry McAllister, I knew I should have just turned around and walked away.  You think I could have another drink?”  Russell eased back, his head thumping softly against the wall.  He didn’t think this was so bad after all.  He was alive, wasn’t he?  That was the main thing.

“Don’t take too much.  That’s gotta last until morning.”  Jones chucked the bottle towards Russell.  It slipped out of his grasp and was about to slide out the door when Jones stopped it with a mud-caked boot.  “I don’t think I can trust you.  Hold on to the damned thing then just put it next to you.”

Russell took a swig and put it down.

“Henry McAllister looked like he had just stepped out of a twenty year stint in the Marines.  No offense to the Marines, I’m sure there are some descent fellas there.  But Henry wasn’t one of them, had all the bad parts and none of the good – damned short hair, face red from always being pissed off, veins bulging in his neck, and a rough voice that came from yelling too much.  And there he was, this was the guy who was supposed to be my new meal ticket, get me back on my feet again, second chance and all that.  I was hoping for someone who could cut me some slack, what with getting through that BS in Loisville.”  Russell took one more swig and passed the bottle to Jones.  “That’ll do me.  Thanks.”

“So he was the one you were running away from just now, right, Jim?  Huh, Jimboy?”  Jones took another match and drew it slowly against the rough floor, as if to see how little friction was really needed to start the thing.  Again, it blew out after a brief burst of light.

“Yeah, he’s the one.  Him and all his buddies – you know the kind.  Gun racks, camouflage, dead animals on the walls and loads of cash stowed away.  More money than sense, as they say.”

“So what’d you do to him?  Rip him off?”  The next match sent sparks skittering in its trail before leaving the scent of sulfur dead in the air.

“Well, sort of.  You know, you could be on the run yourself.  What assurances do I have that I’m not being roped in with your trouble?”  Russell never shirked away from an awkward moment.  He’d often found that once past those speechless times, the other person would start feeling a bit too comfortable and say more than they should.  Usually to Russell’s benefit.  McAllister was like that.  Once Russell got past the over starched attitude, he’d discovered someone who really only ever wanted a sympathetic ear to bend.

“Now you think you’re being smart.  Hey, Jim?  Thinking that now you’re talking, I’ll do the same.  Well, uh-uh…sorry to rain on your parade, but I don’t have to tell you a god damned thing. Slim Jim.”

“You’re right. You don’t have to tell me anything, I was just thinking that there ain’t no way my story is going to take three hours to tell.  And I don’t think either one of us is likely to fall asleep.”  Russell let a smile creep over his thin lips, curling the corner up slightly.

Jones coughed out a laugh, as if he’d been caught holding his breath but couldn’t last.  “Whoo…you’re right, Jimmy.  I am not going to fall asleep with you so shifty and strung out.  And you’re smart to stay awake yourself.  O.K.  You win.  Hold on first, something stronger’s needed.”

Jones pulled himself up and walked over to his bag, pulling it back to the doorway.  The train had eased into a steady pace, slowing every now and then to take a bend in the tracks.  Even with the train banking steeply, Jones seemed at ease like a sailor with sturdy sea legs.  He brought out a bundle, wrapped in a towel.  Russell tensed slightly, not knowing what the contents might be.  Jones rolled out a bottle of Grants Single Malt.

“Well, hell that’s a surprise.”  Russell, prone to speaking his mind, choked on his last word, realizing that he was probably better off keeping his mouth shut.

“What you mean?  Don’t you think I know a good drop?  Just cause I’m in this boxcar don’t mean I don’t have the where with all to buy me a bottle of this stuff.  Developed a taste for it when I was in France twenty years ago.  Always buy me a bottle on special occasions.”

“I didn’t mean that.  Just…”  Russell stopped.

“Never mind.  Here have a swig.  And even if you do have some rare disease, this will kill it anyway.”  Jones passed the bottle, about two-thirds full.  The fiery liquid burned his throat and sent his head reeling.

“That’ll do.  Don’t think I’m in any shape to have much more.”  He passed the bottle back to Jones who downed a healthy gulp.

“Ah…That’s better.  Anyways, you wanted to know why I’m riding in this train with you.  Well, let’s just say it always comes down to a woman.  You know how that is, Jim.”  Jones let loose a sneering laugh.

“Yeah, well as it happens I do know how that is.”  The cool night air came in buffeting gusts through the doorway.  Russell felt his body sway with the forces around him.  He’d give anything for a shower and a bed.

“I thought so.  Minute I heard your voice, I knew you had to be a fellow lady’s man.  You dog, you.  Now you’re in the dog house with me.  Tell me bout the last one.  It’s been months since I had me anyone.”  Jones took another pull.

“Joyce McAllister, Henry’s little woman.  And what a bundle of fire she was.”

“Ha!  No wonder you’re running.  Mee eee eee and Mrs. Mrs. Jones….we gotta thaaang goin’ on…”  Jones downed another gulp and almost spit it out with a laugh.

“Yeah, very clever…” Russell felt his thoughts drift off, his head buzzing.  He tried desperately to rope in his mind.  “Just like that actually.  Almost from the start, when I met her at that first dinner when Henry had me down for an interview.  Mmmm.  Packed into this tight dress, hips swaying as she walked.  She was made for only one thing.  And damn if she wasn’t good at it, too.”

What was Henry doing with a woman like that?  What was she doing with him?  That was a better question.  Russell could never figure it out.  He was sure that he hadn’t been the first, or was likely to be the last.  It all came too easily, now that he looked back.  She hooked him good.  It was all too easy and he should have known better.

“Shit.  What were you thinking?  If this McAllister was a hot head like you said, what made you think it was a good idea to go messin’ with his wife?”  Another match scratched the car floor.  This time Jones cupped his hand around it and spat some whiskey in a fine mist.  Blue flames sprayed briefly.

“I don’t know.  Couldn’t help it.  Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself.”

“You got shafted so you thought you had the right to go and shaft, if you’ll pardon the pun, someone else.  Right, Slim Jim?  Didn’t you?”  Agitation pushed its way through Jones’ controlled voice.

“No, wasn’t like that.  She hunted me.  She was the one who went on the attack, really.  I was stupid, I’ll give you that, but she was the manipulator.  The thing was…she never told me Henry was sterile.”

“O.K.  I get you.  And you popped her and now she’s gonna pop, huh?”

“Not quite.  Had a nice quiet abortion, didn’t she?  Didn’t tell me though.  But doctors talk and the news made it back to Henry.  Guess who told me?  He did.  Right before he pulled a gun on me.”

“Shit.  Oh man.  I’m surprised you made it this far.”

“No kidding.  Good thing for me, Henry has bad timing and a trick knee.  I made it to my car, but he’d planned for that, hadn’t he?  Bunch of his gun buddies in their big ol’ four wheel drives tried to stop me.  Shot out my tires.  Then I ran.  And here I am.  Now you know all there is to know.”  Russell thought Jones wouldn’t be in any shape to argue and stopped the story there.

“So what about you?  Was there a ‘Mrs. Jones’ in your life?”  His clever tongue inspired confidence, making Russell think he could push just a little further.

“Oh, yeah.  Sure was.”  Jones stood up, the first hint of unsteadiness crept in his actions as he stumbled briefly.  Russell saw the bottle was now almost drained.  “Meeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and Mrs…..Mrs. Jo oo oooooooones…Mrs. Jones…We gotta thaaang goin’ onnnnnnn….”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened.  She was a two-faced bitch who couldn’t keep her panties on.”  Jones tipped the bottle on end, letting the last pour into his mouth.  He looked over to Russell.  “Sorry, man.  Did you want any more?  That was the last.  Oh, shit where were my manners!”  Jones started to shake, laughter coming out in coughs and sputters.

“No.  Don’t worry.  Can’t handle that stuff on an empty stomach anyway.  So what are you celebrating?”

“Let’s just say I’m running away to join the circus.”

Funny, Russell thought, that’s just the way Joyce said it, when she took things one step further.  “We’ll be able to run away, like we were joining the circus, fly off anywhere.  Just think.”  Russell did more than just think.  He stole.  He believed Joyce when she said she had it all figured out – when to leave, how much to take, where the money should be hid away.  And now all Russell had to show for it was one lousy bankbook with twelve thousand dollars.  Joyce had the ticket – that’s right, singular –accounts stuffed with a couple hundred grand, but of course, in her name only.  And now she was gone.  Russell thanked his suspicious nature for at least putting a little aside, but he hardly felt fortunate.

“Wish I had some place like that to run away to.”

“You haven’t earned the right to run away.  You haven’t put up with the pain and pressure yet.  I bet the partner that ran out on you had been the poor bastard to put up with it all.”  Jones was fired up now.  He threw the empty bottle to the far end of the car.  “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care…we have a thaaaanng goin on…”  Jones now stomped around the car, his boots rattling the floor.

Russell wished he were drunk now.  If anything, at least, it would mean Jones wouldn’t be so volatile if he’d had less to drink.  Russell huddled, holding his knees.  He closed his eyes, the steady swaying of the train lulled him into a half-sleep.  He woke with a start, the air pressure changing drastically upon entering a tunnel.  As the deafening echo swept down the tunnel, the blackness churned with the dank smell of earth.  Russell became aware that Jones had moved closer.  He could feel his nervous energy towering above him.

“Meeee eeee eeee and Mrs. Mrs. Jones…we HAD a thaaaanng goin on…Unfaithful bitch.  And here you are, just like the bastard who was fucking her right under my nose.  Don’t you fuckwits know any better?  Can’t you find your own woman?  No.  You get too much of a kick making an ass out of someone else, right, Jimmy?

Jones’ sick-sweet breath was in front of Russell, he must have been on his hands and knees.

“Come on, Jones.  Just chill out, O.K.?”  Russell was lost with fatigue, his will to keep up his front up completely shattered and now replaced with simple agitation.

The train pulled out of the tunnel sending a shaft of light over Jones’ left shoulder.  They were approaching the outer suburbs of Louisville.  As they passed the street lamps, the light strobed over Jones’ thick features, a wild anger twisting his brow and filling his hollow eyes.

“You want ME to chill out?  Me?  You’re the one being chased, not me.  I ain’t got nothing to worry about.  Now you, you’re a sorry son of a bitch.  Think you can slide around on your belly like the snake you are, getting what you want just by taking it.”

Russell listened, he could hear the brakes screeching ahead, the train was slowing down.  He was sure if he just bided his time, not saying a word, he’d find the moment to jump and leave this psycho alone to his delusions.

“What’s the matter Jimmy?  You’re man enough to fuck someone else’s wife, but not man enough to stand up for yourself?  And here I trusted you.  With my life, with my family.  Ten years of working side by side, living in my own house when you needed it.  And pay for that respect by fucking my wife.

“Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care…Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care…”

Russell was sweating now, hoping Jones would cool off and realize he was dreaming.

“But I showed her.  And now I’m going to show you.”  Jones whispered the threat, in a thick mix of whiskey and paranoia.

“Listen man, I’m going to leave, you don’t ever have to think about me again.”  Russell edged toward the open door, pushing it with his foot.  Looking down to the passing rails below, he knew it was going to hurt, but not as much as staying would.

“You’re right.  I won’t.”  Jones pulled Russell up by his collar.  “I saved you, I can kill you.  I’ve done it before, now you’re next.  I can’t be touched.”

Jones slammed the door shut.  The last light cut short with a clanging echo.  Russell knew his running was over.  Anyone near the tracks, standing a few feet away in the weak light of early morning, would have been forgiven for thinking a voice was singing in time with the train’s rhythm and a man’s screams shrieking with the braking wheels.

Henry McAllister sat behind the large desk in the office that overlooked the factory floor.  The hum of machinery helped to soothe his mind, bringing it back to what he knew, what he could deal with, and away from his failures.

Joyce was on her way back.  Apparently, even in Belize a shade under three hundred thousand would only go so far.  He didn’t know what he’d do when she arrived tomorrow.  Probably take her back, again.  At least that eel Russell was out of his hair.  And if he had to admit it, he was glad it wasn’t by one of his bullets.

The plan had been to scare the shit out of him, and they’d succeeded admirably.  McAllister allowed a sneer to pull the deep furrows along the side of his mouth, the closest he could get to a smile.  He was yanked from his reverie by a hulking figure carrying a tattered sack over his shoulder.  He’d managed to get past Grace and that bothered McAllister more than having to talk to the stranger.

“Can I help you, Mr. Uh…?”

“Jones.  Just Jones.”

“O.K. Jones.  What can I do for you?  If you’re looking for a job, you can check with the shop foreman, he’d know what positions might be up in the future.”

“No, Sir.  I’m here to see you.  Personal business.”

“Really?  How’s that?”  McAllister’s skepticism was poorly concealed.

“Well, sell, I wanted to tell you that you don’t have to worry about Jim, er James, as I believe he prefers to be called, bothering you anymore.  I know he won’t be bothering me and my family any longer.”

“What do you mean?  Where is that son of a bitch?  Tell me and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Like I said Mr. McAllister, you need not worry about him.”  Jones tossed a wallet onto the desk.

“What’s this?”  McAllister opened it, finding the smug face of Russell looking back at him.  “You could have stolen this.  What’s the deal?”

“If I stole it, how would I know you’d to know he’s of the picture?”  Jones knew how to handle these types.

“O.K.  I’ll give you that.  Maybe he got drunk.  Told you a line and you rolled him.”

“Mr. McAllister.  I’m doing you a favor, I’d think you’d be more appreciative.”  Jones became angered.  It was typical that tight asses like this always thought he resorted to violence to solve everything.

“Well, a wallet is hardly going to make me believe that he’s, as you say, out of the picture.”

“I’ve got one other thing.”  Jones took out a hand towel, a tightly rolled.

McAllister could see spots of blood, dark and now dried, had seeped through.

“Maybe your wife might be able to recognize this, then.”  Jones dropped the bundle on the desk.

McAllister felt the blood drain from his head.  He knew the only thing to do was to thank Jones and hope he’d leave.