by Matt Brolly
‘How did you manage to trap them?’ said Balfour, under his breath.
He sounded impressed but Lynch wasn’t so easily flattered.
‘Have you actually tried to stop them, or do you just let them do what they want?’ he replied, noticing the impatience in Balfour’ face.
‘Who are we speaking about here?’ said Balfour, playing dumb.
‘The same people who slaughtered all your colleagues at the compound.’
Balfour feigned distaste. ‘You’re talking about the Railway? I’ll come clean with you, Lynch. As you guessed at the compound, we did continue your work but at present that organization is not officially recognized. You can’t stop something that doesn’t exist, Lynch.’
‘You’ve seen for yourself that they exist, Balfour.’
Balfour’s reply was inaudible.
‘How is the rest of your investigation going?’ asked Lynch. He wanted Balfour to continue talking, to catch him in a lie or to divert his attention.
‘You’re a civilian now, Lynch, and it shows. I’m not going to share any information with you so drop it.’
‘It was my investigation all along.’
‘Was, Lynch. And that was a long time ago.’
Balfour was acting distracted, his answers short and impatient.
‘At least the Bureau acknowledges them now,’ he said, analyzing Balfour’s facial movements as he contemplated the statement.
‘Acknowledges them?’ Balfour replied, a slight twitch in his left eye.
‘The Railroad.’
Balfour shook his head, emitting a mirthless laugh. ‘Why do we always label these things? These pointless names. The Railroad? Jesus, it sounds like some children’s television show.’
The anger in the small cabin of the van was palpable. ‘It sounds like you’re defending them,’ said Lynch, Balfour’s face reddening.
‘I’m not defending them. I’m suggesting we treat the situation with some respect.’
‘Treat them with respect?’ asked Lynch. He was playing a dangerous game with Balfour but given his current situation he had nothing left to lose.
‘Maybe we should, Lynch. You ever notice the similarities? The behavioral traits? Let’s call them the Railroad, for simplicity sake. What did your research uncover? A secret organization with a structured hierarchy. Sound familiar?’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Balfour? You’re missing out the part where they abducted hundreds of people a year, the majority of which were children.’
‘Fuck, what do you think we do?’
‘You think the FBI disappears children from Railroad lines?’
‘Don’t be a dick, Lynch. The FBI, the CIA, whatever fucking agency. We kill innocent people all the time. I’ve killed people as an agent, so have you.’
‘Yes, people on the wrong side of the law.’
‘Our laws, yes. Let’s say for argument sake that the Railroad have a different set of laws, their own moral rules.’
Lynch sighed. Balfour was revealing his true self but that only made matters worse. ‘For one, you’re confusing morality and legality. Jesus, Balfour, when did they get to you?’
Balfour smiled, his eyes blank. ‘You don’t get it do you, Lynch?’ He turned his face to Lynch, his eyes small and dark. ‘They never got to me. I’ve always been one of them.’
Lynch closed his eyes before looking away from Balfour’s dark gaze. He’d suspected as much but it still came as a crushing surprise to hear the words from Balfour’s mouth. He focused on the road. It was light now, and he could see the faces of the drivers in the oncoming lane flashing before him, oblivious to his situation. Balfour had locked the door so he wouldn’t be able to jump out of the moving vehicle even if he could somehow maneuver his tied hands into position.
How deep did the infiltration go? If Balfour could evade detection then it was conceivable the whole Bureau was affected. ‘You were the leak then? You were responsible for those deaths at the compound?’
Balfour had relaxed. The unburdening of his position had clearly buoyed his spirits. ‘We couldn’t risk Razinski talking. He was a good soldier, but still. He had to make the sacrifice.’
‘And his family?’
‘Precautions.’
A wave of nausea came over Lynch. He thought about the three beers in the back of the van, wishing he had access to them. ‘Precautions? Can you hear yourself, Balfour? Those people were mutilated.’
Lynch understood he would probably do better speaking to himself but Balfour’s reply still shocked him.
‘No one is denying a certain amount of pleasure was taken. Our members have certain…tastes.’ Balfour elongated the word ‘tastes’ relishing Lynch’s discomfort.
‘What the hell are you people?’
‘It’s a good question, Lynch. More apt than you can imagine.’ Balfour took a sharp turn to the right down a hidden entrance. Breathing hard with the exertion, he mouthed, ‘remember, Lynch, we’re not so different to you. We may even be the same.’
19
After parking, Balfour dragged Lynch from the van. They were outside an abandoned building, possibly an old factory, in a secluded area surrounded by a copse of trees. Balfour led him into the metallic structure. The heat inside was cloying, tempered with the smells of slaughtered animals and excrement. Balfour pushed him through a set of doors into a second room, Lynch trying his best not to struggle at what he saw.
Lynch had seen torture rooms before. Some had a sickening clinical feel, all neat lines and pristine surfaces like an operating theatre. Others were like this.
Although his pulse must have been in the high nineties, Lynch didn’t struggle. Balfour had a weapon and he was cuffed; he would have to wait for an opportunity.
‘Sit,’ said Balfour, pointing to one of six metallic chairs screwed into the linoleum-covered floor.
As Lynch crouched down onto the seat, Balfour tied his cuffed hands to the back of the chair.
‘Never hurts to take precautions,’ said Balfour, echoing his earlier words. ‘Here,’ he said, spraying a jet of water into Lynch’s face.
Lynch hid his desperation as precious drops of water dripped into his mouth.
‘I hope you don’t mind waiting, Samuel. Back shortly.’
Balfour skipped out of the building, leaving Lynch in the stifling heat. Sunlight pierced the gaps in the metal walls, Lynch turning his eyes away from the row of rusted tools nailed onto one of the walls.
Despite everything he’d known of the man before, Balfour coming out as one of the Railroad was a shock. It would have taken an extraordinary amount of planning and patience to hide such an allegiance from the Bureau, and as far as Lynch could recall Balfour had been an FBI agent for close to fifteen years following a period in the US marines.
There had been no official handover. Following Daniel’s disappearance, Lynch’s role at the FBI was gradually side lined; his superiors reaching the conclusion that he was obsessed with the Railroad. One day it was his project, the next his files were handed to Balfour and his access rescinded. Balfour never once spoke to him about the matter and now he fully understood why.
‘You’ve met Mr Ojeda here before,’ said Balfour, leading the second of the two attackers into the room. The man was still handcuffed, a gag stuffed into his mouth preventing him speaking. Balfour led him to the chair next to Lynch and cuffed him in identical fashion. Not once did the man struggle.
Lynch tried his best to hide his confusion as Balfour wiped a loose strand of hair away from the man, a manic smile carved into his face. ‘Mr Ojeda has been a bit of a bad boy. You didn’t follow instructions properly did you, Marcus?’ said Balfour, in a child-like voice. He stood in front of Ojeda shaking his head, the smile fading, and slapped the man across the side of his face with the back of his hand.
‘What the hell is going on, Balfour?’ said Lynch.
The manic smile returned. ‘A number of lessons, Samuel. Be a good boy and stay patient. All will be reveale
d.’
Balfour left the room, returning five minutes later with the second assailant. The larger man had returned from his enforced slumber. He staggered across the room, his arms cuffed behind him, Balfour guiding him like a blind man. Still smiling, he cuffed the man to the chair on Lynch’s left.
‘Your Good Thief, Lynch. Care to forgive him?’ said Balfour, clearly pleased with his religious analogy.
‘Enough of the games, Balfour. Tell me what’s going on.’
Balfour crouched down opposite him. ‘It’s like this, Samuel. Mr Morgan here has also been a bad boy. Haven’t you, Brendon?’
The big man struggled against his binds before giving in and slumping back into his chair.
‘What are they supposed to have done?’
‘Why the concern, Samuel? I thought you’d like these two brought to justice?’
Although he cared little about the fates of the two men who’d followed him, Lynch had no appetite to see the men killed in front of him. ‘There’s no justice to this, Balfour, as you well know.’
‘I don’t know what he sees in you, Lynch, I truly don’t.’
‘Stop talking in fucking riddles, Balfour.’
‘I’ve said too much. Let me put it this way. We see justice in slightly different terms, Samuel. Take Mr Ojeda, here. He has a penchant for, how can I say this delicately, young flesh. Don’t you, Marcus? Not to my tastes, but we don’t discriminate. If anything we facilitate, but with such privilege comes great responsibility. Doesn’t it, Marcus?’ said Balfour, repeating his question with a snarl.
‘Mr Ojeda and Mr Morgan here had one simple job. They were to follow you undetected. Seemingly, they messed this simple task up resulting in this unholy mess.’
‘Why were they sent to follow me, Balfour? Who is the person who sees something in me?’
‘All part of the plan, Samuel. Though this,’ Balfour threw his hands out towards the wall decorated with tools. ‘Well, this is a little extra. A little early education. For you at least. For Mr Ojeda and Mr Morgan, the lesson has taken too long to learn.’
Lynch struggled against his cuffs, much to Balfour’s amusement. ‘You’re going to kill them for a simple mistake.’
Balfour snorted. ‘Oh, I’m going to do a bit more than that.’
Lynch tried his best to tune out what was happening. He closed his eyes and thought of happier times. He accessed the precious memories of Daniel he’d worked so hard to store. He pictured Daniel in the back yard throwing a ball around, times on the beach, Daniel playing with Sally in the sea. He concentrated on the sights and sounds, even recollecting the smell of the fresh cut grass, the salt of the water, whilst next to him Mr Ojeda and Mr Morgan thrashed in their seats as Balfour made one cut after another on their bodies.
‘You see, Samuel, my tastes are a little more sophisticated than Mr Ojeda’s,’ said Balfour, his words floating towards him invading his memories.
‘I won’t even tell you what Mr Morgan is into. Takes all sorts, I guess. Acceptance, Samuel, that’s what it’s about. Even you could be accepted. You and I have similar tastes, after all.’
The last statement ripped Lynch from his reverie. He blinked his eyes open, dismayed by the redness on Balfour’s torso. He turned first to Ojeda then Morgan, lowering his eyes when he realized they were both still alive. ‘Nothing about you and me is similar, Balfour.’
Balfour took an elongated knife from the wall and held it to Ojeda’s arm. The man was shaking, his eyes closed. ‘What if I told you Mr Ojeda and Mr Morgan were responsible for little Daniel’s disappearance?’ said Balfour, moving the knife swiftly up the back of Ojeda’s arm removing a layer of skin like a potato peeler. ‘What then, Samuel? What if I told you they had taken him, what they had done to him? Would you be so forgiving then?’
Pain rushed through Lynch’s chest. He tried to hold onto the positive memories of his son, the vacations, the simple days of lounging around reading books, playing bizarre games with toys scattered across the floor, but all he could think of now was the period following Daniel’s disappearance. As Balfour suggested, he had little compassion for Daniel’s abductors and if the two unfortunate souls either side of him were to blame then he had imagined punishments far worse.
What did it matter now? Even if it was them it wouldn’t bring Daniel back, wouldn’t eradicate the years lived without him, the torture he’d suffered along with Sally of not knowing. And it was apparent he would be the next act in Balfour’s sick little game. He didn’t want to surrender but couldn’t see a way out save for some last minute rescue from parties unknown. The kind of rescue that only occurred on television.
‘Did they take him?’ he asked, mustering all his remaining strength.
Balfour stopped working. Lynch tried not to look at the skinless forearm of Ojeda, as his former colleague waved his knife in the air as he contemplated the question. ‘These two?’ he said, incredulous. ‘No, these are not our prime operatives. If they were, they wouldn’t be sitting next to you now.’
‘I saw the tattoos, they’re part of your organization.’
Balfour shook his head. ‘All this time and you still know so little. Fuck it,’ he said, and with ferocious effort jabbed his knife into Ojeda’s throat. ‘He’d had enough,’ he continued, as Ojeda made his last few desperate movements of life.
Balfour took off his blood-soaked shirt and turned his back on Lynch. ‘This is what you should have been looking for,’ he said, revealing a back decorated in blue and green tinged scars. Hundreds of tracks lined Balfour’ back. It was like looking at a distorted railroad map, something a child would draw. Balfour swiveled back to him, his eyes closed as he savored the scene he’d created.
‘What’s the difference?’ said Lynch.
‘The difference lies in who made the incisions.’
‘The Controller,’ said Lynch, thinking back to what Balfour had said – I don’t know what he sees in you.
‘I’ve said too much, now if you don’t mind I need to return to my work.’ Balfour darted towards him, stopping at the last second before digging his knife into Morgan’s forearm.
Lynch fought back the nausea as Balfour treated Morgan to a repeat performance. He closed his eyes once more and searched for the positive memories. His mind wanted to dwell on what Balfour had told him. It questioned how Balfour had survived in the FBI with such marks on him. How had no one ever seen them? How had he survived medicals without it showing on his file? It suggested a level of collusion that was truly terrifying. The thought taunted Lynch, made him feel his whole life had been a waste. Fear and anger surged through him as he thrashed in his chair, summoning every last amount of strength as he pulled at the cuffs, the hard metal slicing his skin and sending shockwaves of pain through his body as he continued pushing, trying for the impossible.
‘It’s over now,’ came a voice.
Lynch struggled for a few more seconds before stopping and opening his eyes.
Balfour stood over him. In his peripheral vision, Lynch saw the subhuman form of Morgan who seemed to be completely without skin. ‘It’s over,’ repeated Balfour, his voice somehow soothing.
Lynch stared straight ahead as Balfour walked over to a bag and bent down to retrieve something from within. Lynch studied the crisscross scars on the man’s back, now coated with a film of red, as if there was still time to glean something important from the patterns.
Lynch took in a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of blood, vomit, piss and excrement filling the room. He began to shake, hated himself for doing so, as Balfour edged towards him, a syringe in his hand.
‘It will all be over soon,’ said Balfour, cooing like a mother placating a child as he stuck the needle into Lynch’s neck.
The needle was painless. Lynch closed his eyes and pictured Daniel as a baby, lying on his back, tiny arms and legs dancing in the air.
The last thing he felt was the warmth of his tears as they ran down his face into his open mouth.
20<
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Rose slept fitfully, having regretted allowing Lynch to leave the second he’d shut the door. There’d been an awkward moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her. In the end their farewell was tentative and despite her regret she concluded it had been for the best.
The situation was far from perfect and if Miller or Roberts found out she was still in contact with Lynch it could mean her job. But there was no way to bring Lynch in without force and she would rather have him on her side at the moment.
It was five am and she’d been awake for an hour. She considered calling Abigail. Their last conversation had been strained and being on bad terms with her sister always put her on edge. But Abigail would need time and a call now would only serve to escalate the tension between them. Deciding to give it another day, she poured some coffee and went through her notes.
Balfour was her main focus. She glanced through the agent’s records. Nothing in his reports from the time he’d joined the FBI fifteen years ago after an illustrious career in the Marines hinted at any link with an outside organization. It was unthinkable that he could have duped so many people for so long.
She ploughed through the details of every case he’d worked on at the Bureau searching for an embryo of a clue, a link with the Railroad, but if something was there it wasn’t obvious. The first mention of the Railroad came six years ago when Balfour took over from Lynch. Prior to that, Balfour had headed a task force over in Dallas looking into a drug ring running over three states.
From what Rose could ascertain, the move from Dallas to San Antonio had been something of a downgrade, a sidestep at best. In Dallas, Balfour headed a huge spiraling team covering the three states whereas Lynch’s investigation into the Railroad organization was little more than a one-man job. It could be considered as the first red signal. Why would Balfour move from such an important position to something so unrecognized? The obvious explanation was that he was a member of the Railroad and had infiltrated the FBI to protect his organization, but the very thought seemed absurd.
