“Let’s get a blanket and cover him,” the Amtrak employee said. “Before people start freaking out.”
“It’s about fucking time.” Billy watched the people below drape the inert body with a blanket. He scanned the wreck site again, looking for more fatalities, and was disappointed to see most of the victims moving about without aid. Billy hoped they were perhaps leaving the more mangled bodies on the train until help arrived. He was glad Ray seemed uninterested and didn’t want to use the binoculars, as he could not tear himself away from the wonderfully tragic tableau he had created.
He watched as another victim was eased out of a sleeper car, and was disappointed when, upon scanning the body, he found no monstrously gaping wounds. The cat he’d disemboweled when he was thirteen came to mind. The pathetic creature had screeched hideously as it staggered around unraveling its own intestines. That’s what Billy wanted to see. Something as cool as that. But victim after victim left him unfulfilled. Most of the injuries appeared to be minor.
The sound that distracted him was faint at first. Billy listened intently and soon recognized the thwump thwump thwump of helicopter rotors. He rolled over on his back, the dark night sky pushing him into the black basalt stones.
“Come on, Ray. We gotta leave.” Billy preferred to stay and watch the show below, but he didn’t want to get caught. He yanked Ray up by his collar and saw the boy was still crying. “You fucking pussy!” He spat the words in disgust. He would have to do something about Ray.
The blue Chevy, packed full with Buck’s belongings, and a few empty beer cans scattered around the cold fire ring were all that remained of the boys’ presence at the cave. Ramm checked the car doors. They were locked.
He heard the choppers. He would have to be quick. He slipped silently up the mountain and untied the horse. After knotting the reins on her neck, he slapped the Appaloosa on the rump and sent her galloping into the darkness.
Ramm crouched behind a basalt boulder, one that afforded an unimpeded view of the area in which he’d be working. He’d seen the boys bolt up the hill. He knew they’d be back soon.
AFTER
24
JACK COOPER’S CELLPHONE sounded. He rolled over and grabbed the phone from the bedside table, an original old Shaker piece he’d painstakingly refinished to remove water rings and cigarette burns left by idiots who didn’t appreciate fine craftsmanship. The illuminated phone face informed him the time was one thirty-five a.m.
“Oh, please! Leave me alone, Buddy. I am not on call tonight.”
“Coop!”
“Come on. I know I owe you for that little prank, but—”
“No joke, Coop. I need everyone. A train’s derailed near Hyder.”
“Shit! I’m sorry. When I saw the message, I just thought you were yankin’ my chain.”
“Yea, fine. Get your ass out there.”
“Hold on. Let me get a pen.” Cooper jotted down the location.
“How long ‘til you can get there?” Buddy asked.
“About thirty minutes.”
“Haul ass. They need help coordinating evacuation of the injured.”
“Are there a lot of them?” Cooper yawned, and pulled on his pants, while cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear.
“They’re saying it looks like a war zone out there.”
“You mean it was a passenger train? Geez, Buddy. I was picturing a lot of dumped freight.”
“It’s Sunday night, dearie. Well, Monday morning actually.”
“Oh my God! The Sunset Limited?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Shit!”
“And here’s some more shit for you, my friend. You’ll be taking charge of dealing with the media. The horde is no doubt preparing to descend, even as we speak.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Cooper, whose old adobe home stood on five wild desert acres ten miles west of Gila Bend, headed north on Painted Rock Damsite Road, passing the cultivated fields of Dendora Ranch, then the almost invisible track that led to the Rowley Mine site. He turned east just before the dam at the Gila River, then, after taking numerous unnamed switchbacks, found himself heading west paralleling the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks.
Cooper spotted the helicopters—some coming, some going—their lights cutting through the clear desert night. Despite the vast number of aircraft moving in and out, he was still stunned by the enormity of the devastation when he finally arrived at the wreck site. Almost a dozen other police vehicles were already on the scene.
As he jumped out of his four-wheel-drive Blazer, Cooper noticed far too few medical personnel had arrived. He knew many would be en route, but the site was remote, direct access limited. He and the other first responders performed triage, separating the seriously injured from the rest of the victims. He noted that many of the passengers were elderly and that relatively few appeared to be seriously hurt. The fact that many had been sleeping when the train derailed had protected them, to a certain extent. They hadn’t seen the disaster coming, had not tensed at the moment of impact, much like a drunk driver is relaxed at the wheel, and so frequently walks away from an accident unharmed.
A line of ambulances appeared in the distance, a convoy with signal lights whirling, casting an eerie glow.
“Here’s a man who can help you, miss.” Cooper passed a frightened older teen over to the ministrations of a Yuma County paramedic.
“Let’s check that arm,” the medic said cheerfully, as he reached for the afflicted appendage the girl cradled tightly to her chest. He nodded at Cooper, indicating the deputy was free to move on.
25
THE BOYS, BREATHING IN GASPS, scrambled up the dirt track and headed for the Chevy. Billy reached into his pocket, grabbed the key, and unlocked the driver-side door. Ray fidgeted, scanning the area as he waited for Billy to let him in. Hopped up on the carnage he’d witnessed, a sudden urge to kill seized Billy, a teasing sensation that promised a kind of release.
The gun was hidden under the front seat, but the sound of a shot might draw attention to them. Billy paused and looked at Ray. He had a knife, but then what would he do with the body? The car was packed with all the stuff he’d stolen from Buck. There’d surely be blood all over the car if he had to shove the little pussy inside. Billy finally decided he’d have to take care of Ray later. He’d savor the thought, a little something to look forward to.
The figure stepped silently out of the darkness and, without a wasted motion, grabbed Ray, one arm strapped across the boy’s thin chest, the other hand holding tightly to his head. With one smooth jerk, he snapped the boy’s neck.
Horrified, Billy was unable to move. Ray’s motionless body slipped silently to the ground. Despite the face paint, he knew the man. He willed his legs to move, but they remained frozen, as if in a nightmare when there is no escaping the monster. In an instant, the man was behind him. Billy glanced right, then left, looking for a way out.
The man waited patiently for Billy to make a move. The boy yanked open the car door, rusted hinges creaked. In an instant, a large, gloved hand closed tightly over Billy’s mouth. The blade slipped from its black leather sheath. Billy fought and kicked, but he was no match for the professional whose hand wrapped around his face like cold steel. The big man held the knife before the boy, taunting. The blade glinted in the silvery desert moonlight.
Billy’s eyes widened in horror.
Helicopters appeared from behind the mountains, their rotors singing in staccato rhythm. Noise didn’t matter now. The man shifted the boy, sinking his knee into Billy’s spine. He wrapped one arm across the boy’s chest and laid the flat edge of the chilled metal blade against Billy’s throat.
The boy screamed.
Starting just below the left ear at the edge of the jaw, the man made a deep slice into Billy’s jugular, and then slowly dragged the blade across the dying boy’s throat.
With helicopters moving in fast, Ramm had no time to waste. He was banking on the probability that
the police teams would be concentrating their efforts on the wreck below. He wiped the knife clean on the shoulder of Billy’s shirt, sheathed the blade and, careful not to get any blood on himself, lifted the tail of the boy’s flannel shirt, wrapping the material tightly around the gaping neck wound. Ramm opened the car door, hoisted the body into the middle of the front seat, and reached over to unlock the passenger-side door. Then he stepped around the car to Ray’s prostrate form. Luckily, Ray was small, so he was able to stuff the boy into the front seat along with Billy.
The helicopters were flying in low now, their mechanical hum like the song of giant insects. Ramm cringed as the ubiquitous Vietnam music played around him, sound that had mutated into a field vet’s lullaby, a chorus he knew to be the ultimate white noise. He thought of Kelly, shook his head, composed himself, and concentrated on the task at hand.
The keys. The boy had been holding them. Ramm checked the body and found nothing. He looked under the seat, in the ignition, then, outside the car on the ground. He found the keys dropped by the left front tire.
Ramm wasted no motion moving to the fire ring. He gathered up empty cans and every tiny scrap of paper that might show someone had recently camped in the spot. Breaking a bushy branch from the far side of a mesquite tree—a clean snap at a spot inside and high on the trunk facing away from the campsite—he swished the leaves gently across the ground inside the shallow cave and the area outside by the fire ring, erasing any evidence of human occupation. He backed his way to the car, wiping out his own boot prints as he went. Standing on the inside of the doorframe, he scanned the area one last time. Then he tossed the branch over the side of the mountain.
Ramm drove slowly, not wanting to draw attention to the blue Chevy, and turned away from the site of the wreckage when the road veered northwest. The car was leaving tracks in the dry dirt, but he figured no one would be looking along this road if no evidence was found by the cave. Ramm turned south onto a barely visible earthen track.
He would soon cross Hyder Road, an area more populated than the land he’d passed through. He hoped the army of police helicopters wasn’t already scouring the area, and that, at the moment, they had their hands full with the victims.
Twenty-minutes later, Ramm pulled the car to the edge of one of the Rowley Mine’s minor shafts. Unlike the main vent, this one had been drilled straight into the earth. Originally, according to the paperwork from the Arizona Board of Mines and Minerals, the shaft was a 280-foot dead drop, though water and backfill now clogged the lower 160 feet. Still, the shaft suited Ramm’s purpose.
He shifted into neutral, shut down the engine, and got out. Ramm eased the vehicle to the edge of the shaft and closed the door. Just a small push and the car bearing the bodies of Billy and Ray edged over the precipice. For a moment, the blue Chevy hung there, front tires suspended. Then the undercarriage scraped and scratched at the stone, and slid into the darkness, banging several times on the bedrock on the way down.
Ramm heard the car slap into the water. He waited, listening as air bubbled from the Chevy. When all was quiet in the inky hole, he checked the ground for evidence. Finding none, Ramm took off for home.
26
AT SEVEN A.M., the ringing phone pierced Kate Butler’s brain and forced the pleasant dream to evaporate. She groped for the offensive device, her mind still gauzy with sleep, the few lingering threads of the fantasy slipping away. Kate loved to dream. She especially enjoyed when her subconscious reminded her that she was, in fact, dreaming. Then she could do anything, be anything she wanted.
The phone rang again, reminding Kate that anyone who called before nine a.m. was ill raised and downright rude. She would never be a morning person, had given up trying, but the call might be work, and she needed the money. She took a deep breath, grabbed the phone, and produced the actress.
“Good morning.” She utilized the deep, throaty quality of her voice that had often been, not unkindly, compared to that of a phone-sex worker. Her tongue felt sticky. That last glass of wine might have been redundant.
“Kate, it’s Jim.”
She liked the Channel 10 assignment editor. His calls meant work.
“Hey!” She tossed off the down comforter, and swung her legs out of bed. “What can I do for you, Jim?”
“We’re in a real bind. Can you come in?”
“Let me get my book to check my schedule,” she said, knowing full well her calendar was wide open.
“Pete’s out of town on his honeymoon.”
Trophy bride number three, she mused.
“Sandy’s got some kind of bug. And Jan’s in the hospital.”
“Dropping another little anchor person, is she?”
“Twins.”
Kate groaned.
“We really need some help … today.”
Kate took the phone from her ear and dropped her hand to her lap. Yes, she needed the money, but this fill-in work was seriously wounding her considerable pride. She sighed and mustered up an enthusiastic voice. “I’m yours, Jim,” she answered, no hint of defeat in her voice. “Whadyagot?”
“There was a train wreck out near Hyder?”
“Hyder? Where the hell’s Hyder?” Was there still a place in Arizona she had not been sent to cover a story? Kate jotted down the best route as Jim recited the directions.
“I’ll e-mail over all the information we’ve got. Give me about five minutes. Craig’s already on his way out there in the live truck. And dress down. It’s open desert.”
“Gee, Jim. I was planning on the blue silk Donna Karan dress and some matching four-inch spikes.”
“Okay, Sandy,” he answered, sarcastically comparing Kate to the station’s current anchor queen. “Just hurry. The competition’s already on the road.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kate hung up and padded to the bathroom wearing nothing but an extra-large Arizona Cardinals T-shirt, the week’s-worth of clothes she stepped over a testament to her general lack of housekeeping skills. She splashed cold water on her face and looked in the mirror.
The reflection was not necessarily a bad one; still a forty-two-year-old was looking back. Her thick auburn hair was much darker than in her youth. Kate’s mother, who bemoaned the fading of her daughter’s once vibrant red hair, had casually produced a gift-wrapped bottle of Clairol on her daughter’s thirty-fifth birthday, but Kate declined. Unlike most of her peers, she had yet to have even a hint of gray.
Her eyes, often said to be her best feature, were blue-green with dark brows and lashes. It was true that her nose was a little thick in the middle, the result of a childhood crash on a Jungle Gym, and her front teeth were a bit crooked and fine lines now etched the corners of her eyes and mouth. Still, the overall effect was pleasing. Kate’s body was strong and sturdy despite myriad broken bones from various misadventures over the years. Certainly not the Barbie-type, Kate saw herself from the neck down as the model Botticelli envisioned when he painted The Birth of Venus.
Despite the imperfections she saw in the mirror, Kate was an attractive woman. Men were still sometimes captivated by her combination of looks, pluck, and brains. But this was not enough to keep her employed. Every female who plied her trade in front of a television camera had a shelf life stamped firmly on her face. Kate’s had expired.
She showered, let her hair air dry, and dabbed on some make-up. She’d bring the kit and paint herself to TV standards when she got to the scene.
Kate filled a padded bottle with iced tea and ignored the dirty dishes piled in the sink. She gathered two frozen bagels, a pound bag of Oreos, and four quarts of bottled water and dropped the provisions into her backpack with her phone, voice recorder, and writing supplies. Then she downed a thick pecan chocolate chip cookie, swung the backpack over one shoulder, and headed to her truck.
The black Ford Ranger with a silver toolbox in the bed was parked in front of her East Phoenix house, a ranch-style, block home typical of the 1950s. She dumped everything in a jumble on the front pas
senger seat.
“Shit!” Kate went back into the house and rummaged through the mess that was her desk. Finally, she located an earpiece attached to a clear plastic spiral tube that was anchored to a clip. She coiled the long IFB cord, then headed back out to the truck.
“Coop! Hey! Jack Cooper!”
Cooper whirled around to pinpoint the origin of the voice. “Ben! How’s Lake Patrol?”
“Works for me,” Ben Dryden led Cooper to a still, sheet-covered form.
“I can’t understand how you can dive for dead bodies. Especially ones that have been down there a while in those murky lakes.” Cooper shuddered.
“You get used to it.” Dryden grinned, green eyes blazing in a permanently sunburned, freckled face. “I assume it won’t gross you out too much to help me with this one. Only fatality I’ve seen so far. Worked for Amtrak. We didn’t find him ‘til a moment ago. Seems somebody covered him and moved him out of the way. I just about tripped over him.”
“Stay here, Ben. I’ll go and get some help.”
Of the 248 passengers on the Sunset Limited, about one hundred were injured. When the first light of dawn eased into the lower Gila River Valley, most of the victims, as well as Mitchell Bates—the single fatality—had been transported to area hospitals. The majority of those who had been badly hurt arrived at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix, their bodies covered with fine desert dust.
A short time after the body of Mitchell Bates had been removed, Cooper pointed toward a helicopter attempting to land. “Here they come!”
“Shit! I’m sure it’s friggin’ Franklin.” Dryden squinted into sun that was just edging over the horizon. “How does he always get here before everybody else?”
Cooper watched the Channel 3 reporter motion to the pilot to set the chopper down.
“Who the fuck is that?”
Cooper turned and saw an FBI agent staring at the helicopter.
A Light in the Desert Page 9
