Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  We were two stops from where she lived, from where she walked to and from the train stop Monday through Friday—and every other Saturday. If the train were on time, she’d already be waiting. But I had taken an earlier train, wanting to arrive before she did. And if I was early enough, I’d have time to watch her at the platform, to confirm my design. It was the train platform that had me concerned. My designs were nearly complete, but I was missing a critical component: how to perform the actual murder. My mind was as empty of ideas as a midmorning train. I spun Needle, wishing I could use her, but her chamber was empty. Nerd had cleaned my ring after Messenger, doing so without realizing he’d poured the last of our poison down the drain. There was no more to be had either. Shopping online by browsing the Deep Web markets had come to a stop. All the stores were closed, leaving us to come up with another plan on our own.

  My body lurched forward as the train car slowed to a stop to the sound of metal screeching and the pungent odor of brakes tickling my nose. New faces stepped onboard, bringing with them the smell of the wet air. I tucked my feet beneath my seat, hiding them from a stampede as some found a place to sit while others stood and propped themselves against ceiling-high poles. The train lurched once, sending us backward, then glided forward, picking up speed on the way to the next stop.

  A young woman sat across from me, studying a collection of ruffled papers. Her hands gripped the pages just enough to tell me she was nervous. But her attention wandered and strayed, much like mine, and she stared at the empty faces and the blur of passing rooftops. She found my eyes once but quickly looked away, bashful. A moment later I caught her looking again, her expression restless but searching for a friendly connection with someone, anyone. I gave her a slow smile, and without a word told her she’d be fine. Some of her shyness lifted with a grin, and she went back to studying her papers, pleased to have been noticed. I loved seeing the young faces—fresh out of school, away from the safe bubble of their parents’ homes. They were innocent and naive, ignorant of the dangers that lurked just a few seats away from them.

  “If they only knew,” I mumbled.

  A job interview. I thought. And in the city.

  From the elevated train, she’d likely take the subway east, toward the river, and then get lost once she emerged onto the streets. That was where the real challenge faced her: the people. The gray skies hadn’t opened up entirely, not yet, but they never stopped downtown’s onslaught of midday foot traffic. As if the young woman heard my thoughts, she began to fidget with her shoes. They looked new, and the heels were higher than what I would’ve picked out for a job interview. But that wasn’t the problem. She fidgeted with the straps because they were cutting into the back of her foot.

  I almost laughed then, thinking about gullibility, unworldliness. But then I thought of Michael and Snacks and how one day they’d be just like the young woman sitting across from me.

  Would they be prepared? But isn’t this how it’s supposed to be anyway? Parents raise children to join the world, all the while hoping to have instilled a sense of awareness about the dangers around them. Dangers like me.

  A broken voice called out through the train’s speaker, forcing me to focus on the task at hand. I heard the name of the upcoming stop and shifted in my seat, getting ready to study our mark: Lady Death. That’s what the newspapers called her, anyway—I just called her Lady. She’d been the giver and taker of life, playing God at a retirement community for the better part of a decade. It was technology that finally caught up to her. Nerd had laughed when he explained the case, laughed at what was had been considered “technology” for the time. Lady’s specialty was torturing the elderly—those with dementia—meaning she could do it again and again without anyone knowing.

  I remembered hearing the news report one morning while cleaning in the kitchen. A forensic scientist explained how varied the deaths were, how that might make it difficult to reach any conviction. Most of the victims died of heart failure thought to have been brought on by the excessive stresses of torture. There was one case that was different from the others, though: a man with the broken ribs and a lacerated spleen.

  “The body can present new bruising at necropsy . . . after death and autopsy,” the scientist exclaimed. “In the case of Mr. Jacobs, since his death was considered natural, he’d been prepared for burial before the injuries to his torso surfaced.” The forensic scientist went on to explain how Mr. Jacobs had been hit with enough force to produce an imprint on his skin. It appeared later like an inscription with the lettering reversed. The number nineteen and two words beginning with the letters “Ex” and “Ge” were identified. It wasn’t long before an orderly came forward. He’d been attending night school and immediately recognized the imprint.

  “Those books were my Google,” he’d told the news cameras with a quick wink. “And I ain’t never gonna forget volume nineteen. I’d just passed that class with a B.” And when the orderly finished talking, the detective next to him held up the murder weapon. Volume 19: Excretion Geometry.

  “So why is she free?” I’d asked Nerd. He shook his head, and I suspected the victim’s families had done the same upon hearing the news about her release.

  “Good behavior and time served,” he’d guessed.

  The world won’t miss her.

  And while the world wouldn’t miss Lady, Nerd was adamant about our taking on the case.

  The first contract posts showed up within a day of her release. Glaring red, Nerd’s software pushed the case to the top of the list. It was still a short list, and my eyes were drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

  The railcar leaned as it turned into a curve, then straightened. I watched as the young girl’s body swayed with the turn. She fidgeted some more, anxious to get to wherever it was she was going, anxious to start what she’d been preparing for. I wasn’t going to kill Lady today. While I’d filled our office whiteboard with every train stop and every route she traveled, I still needed to lock down my design.

  “I’m getting close,” I said to nobody. “I’m getting so close, I can feel it.” And I could too. From the pit of my stomach, the urge to finish nagged at me like the fickleness of an artist’s last brushstroke. I’d see my masterpiece complete soon enough. When it was ready. I only needed to take this trip and to have Nerd finish hacking the rail system’s computers.

  I glanced at my burner phone again. I was anxious too. By now he should have had some news to share. I hoped to see a text message from him telling me that Becky’s eyes had infiltrated the railway world I’d stepped into. The phone’s screen showed me nothing but the glossy silhouette of my reflection, however. Another static eruption came from the broken speaker, calling out the upcoming Arch Street stop. I had fifteen minutes before Lady was due to arrive.

  “Good luck to you today,” I told the young woman across from me. I fished out a set of Band-Aids from my bag—a motherly preparation—and handed them to her. “In case your new shoes cut in.”

  She lifted her hand hesitantly, but then took a few of the bandages, thanking me with a look of surprise on her face.

  Someday, it will be Michael and Snacks sitting alone on the train and preparing for their first job interviews.

  I stepped onto the platform and was immediately met by hot air blowing up from beneath the train car. I waited a minute as bodies came in a flush of hurriedness, swarming as one, like blackbirds in flight. I only had to stand there and let it happen, to let the human cloud envelop me and then spit me out. The other passengers made their hurried way to the platform’s exits.

  The train bucked and bumped and huffed with a metal chirp, resisting against its own massive size, but then it eased away from the platform. I followed it with my eyes and, within minutes, I was almost completely alone. And in the quiet, I heard the platform speak to me. A discarded newspaper tumbled over the concrete. A bird’s wings batted the air. The train’s flanged wheels went click-clack against the rail’s slender tracks. I heard these things and
knew at once that Lady listened to them too, keyed in on them like a hunter staying alert of all that is going on around her.

  I made my way to the platform’s steps, where I expected to find her approaching. The stairs wound downward, around and around, until they ended at the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell how high the elevated platform was, but peering down through the fencing made my stomach lift into my throat. Heights had never been my thing.

  I scanned the streets, looking for Lady, but only found a man and his dog. They stopped at a planted tree where the dog sniffed and went about doing what dogs do. The man looked around guiltily, searching to see if anyone had seen him. He never knew I saw what he’d left behind. People never look up. But I do. I backed away from the edge of the platform and glanced into the high corners, where the top of the fence met the station’s pitched roof. A dozen eyes stared back at me, watching my every move. While the subway had rats, the rail’s elevated platforms carried pigeons. As if they could read my thoughts, a few suddenly took flight, darting from one truss to the next. A team of smooth, iridescent heads bobbed up and down as they walked along the riveted beams, cooing and pecking the air.

  But there were other eyes too. More concerning eyes. I found life in the form of red, blinking lights sitting atop the square faces of the platform’s security cameras.

  Is there someone on the other end? Are they watching me?

  I couldn’t take the chance. I needed Nerd to tell me. Without a hack into the rail system’s computers, I couldn’t finish my design.

  My best opportunity for killing my mark involved the platform, but until the cameras were gone, I was stuck. A new sound came then, the sound of gravelly footsteps. It was Lady.

  How had I missed her? She must have approached from the other staircase.

  A hulking woman, she was unmistakable. If not for her clothes, I would have thought her to be a man. I faded into a shadow beneath the camera and watched. She walked past me, never looking over, never lifting her head. She wore thick heels, her red toenails peering from beneath blue, pleated slacks and peering downward. And despite the hot weather, she had her hood up, hiding her face, hiding who she was.

  She moved with the lumber of a large person—a clop and the stony sound of pebbles crushing beneath her heels. Like a steed walking in a parade. She’d tempt fate in a minute, step to the edge of the platform, place herself within an inch of death. I wanted to see her do it. On this day, she’d arrived in time for the rush of an express train. City–bound and racing by without a stop, she only wanted to stand near the express train, to give it an airy kiss and let it brush her lips as it flew by her face like a bullet.

  Lady placed a foot onto the warning stripe, sending my heart into my throat with anticipation. She toed the platform, picking her spot among the dingy, yellow, tactile domes. My phone told me we had another minute before the express train would streak by. Beyond the yellow warning area, there was a narrow stretch of white, like first-aid tape, that disappeared when the train arrived. She crept forward, her toes dangerously close to the white edge.

  Thirty seconds.

  A faraway metal squeal called like a distant bird and she stepped beyond the warning track. We were alone. If not for the cameras, I’d know what to do next.

  Twenty seconds.

  I could finish this case with one push. Lady stepped onto the narrow white line, impatiently tapping her toes.

  Ten seconds.

  The train sounded its whistle, waking up the platform. The pigeons took flight, leaving the safety of the trusses with a flurry of dusty air and loose feathers.

  Five seconds.

  She moved again. She was too close. Maybe she’d had enough. Maybe the guilt of her sins had shown her a path leading right to the edge of this platform. I was stuck in my own position—excited fascination tingled deep inside me as the train bore down on us. My eyes were fixed on her leaning form.

  I sunk deeper into the shadow, clearing myself from the video camera’s peripheral vision.

  One second.

  The train barreled into view. My chest exploded with a rapid thump as she moved still nearer to the edge. She was going to get killed. I was sure of it. I couldn’t blink. Her body was going to get sucked underneath the metal monster. Consumed. The whistle screamed a warning. I shrunk back at the piercing sound, but she didn’t flinch. She tilted her head and pursed her lips. Then the huge train was on top of her, blowing back the skin on her face and throwing her hood off her head. Her feet disappeared along with the white line, but she stayed planted. She reached up then, stretching out her arms, her fingers splayed, teasing the metal skin with a light touch. As I watched, I began to understand what she was doing.

  She needs to feel alive.

  Her heinous acts. Her crimes. Those had made her feel alive. And they’d been taken away from her. She was dead without them.

  The train disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, slipping out of view, the metal carriage chasing the sound of a blaring whistle. Lady slowly moved back from the edge, dropped her chin and raised her hood to place it back on her head. She wiped her mouth like a lover after an awkward kiss. When she glanced at her hands, I saw a bright spot of red and realized she’d been too close, that she’d cut her mouth on the steel belly—the express train had bitten back.

  Without murder to commit, Lady needed to find another way to feel alive. She was going to continue her dare, continue to get closer, continue to tease life by tempting death.

  I had my plan.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  DUST. THE TRAIN PLATFORM was dry and quiet. I’d climbed the three sets of stairs, softly counting each one—just as I knew Lady would do in a short while. Thirty-two steps lifted me high enough above the city street to push my belly into my throat if I dared a look below. The climb left me winded, with my heart pounding in my chest and the back of my neck damp with sweat. I’d be ready, though, when the time was here. I was always ready. And that day there was no place else I wanted to be.

  A breeze spun up a short dirt devil, carrying a loose piece of paper that had been lost by a school student. I saw a test grade before the paper rolled up: a bold letter B circled in red, with a smiley just beneath it.

  Good job.

  The spinning dust stayed alive until it hit the platform’s tactile warning strip, the yellow bumps catching and diffusing the wind’s energy. Another flip—a drafty flutter—and the test paper dropped out of the air, fell over the edge, and onto the tracks.

  “That’s about right,” I said, imagining my mark doing the same in the moment of her murder. I calmed myself, preparing with deep breaths to slow my pulse. A train rumbled, traveling the thick rails like electricity and shaking the platform. I felt the vibrations in the soles of my shoes, and my heart raced again. But it wasn’t because of the steps this time. I was eager and on edge—this was going to be risky. One mistake and I could end up dead.

  “Not long now.” The oncoming train was the local commuter line—the 5:30. It wasn’t the city express line. Not yet.

  A push. That’s all I had planned for Lady. I laughed at the thought. After all of the whiteboard designs and Nerd’s security camera hacking, all the scrutiny around train schedules and passenger volumes, and even the details about what shoes to wear, today’s case would conclude with a simple push.

  My plan was to approach Lady from behind as she inched toward the platform’s warning strip. I wouldn’t touch her then, though. No, I’d wait until she was at her most vulnerable, when I knew she couldn’t defend herself or recover her balance. It was her hands I wanted to see. I’d use them as my cue. When she raised her arms and leaned into the passing train, I’d shove her from the platform. The express line moved like the turbulent overflow of a rushing river—she’d get sucked under the metallic torrent and carried away.

  A sudden tumble of air wafted down from above as a dozen pigeons dropped from a truss. Thick, riveted iron stood upright, supporting the platform’s pitched roof—its car-size ends w
ere seamed with heavy welds that helped it bridge the east and west platforms. My father once told me about how birds have a favorite spot. A tree branch, a fence post, or a roof’s peak—they always went back to it to roost.

  “I think their favorite places are on those beams,” I mumbled. I glanced over at one of the cameras, a suspended gray box with wires sprouting behind it. The jumbled cables managed to weave a somewhat straight path, I noticed, snaking upward before disappearing into the ceiling. I dared a look into its dark glassy eye, and saw the reflection of the platform behind me, the round lens capturing everything. I was safe standing beneath it, I knew, outside of its view. I checked each of the cameras on the platform, searching for their pulses—a red, pin-size light blinking above each eye—telling me they were alive and recording. Nerd had already gained control of them, scheduled their power to shut down at exactly one minute before the express line arrived. There’d be no recording of me, or Lady’s murder. I only needed to stay outside of their view until then.

  Impatient and becoming restless, I shuffled my foot over the platform and swept dust into the air. The cloud paled and disappeared. I never liked it to be too quiet. Certainly not this quiet. I felt fidgety and didn’t know what to do with myself. I went over the plans in my head, retracing what I’d drawn on the whiteboard. Lady would arrive on the south entrance steps. From there, she’d walk across the platform and peer over the north side’s concrete wall before turning west to face the train tracks. That’s when I’d get into position. Her timing was impeccably predictable. Once her turn to the west was complete, she’d take long steps toward the rails as the express train approached the platform. Seventeen paces—I’d counted those too. It was always seventeen paces, I wondered if she’d marked a spot on the platform like an actress marking the centerline of a stage during rehearsals.