by Eric Wilson
Kenny hated to give in. If he were a real man, he wouldn’t let his voice get shaky like this. But what could he do? This woman, the same one who’d given him the note to deliver last week, had a syringe poked at the scruff of Gussy’s neck. Between strands of puppy fur, the silver needle glinted.
Oblivious, Gussy wriggled, but she was small and easily contained.
“We know you found it,” the woman told Kenny. “Now take us to it.”
“What’re you—”
“Don’t waste time. You know what I’m talking about, the thing from the train.”
“Promise you won’t do anything to Gussy?”
“Now isn’t that a darling name.” The woman’s thumb stroked Gussy’s neck.
“Gimme five minutes, and I’ll bring it straight back.”
“Nice try, kid. I have a daughter, so I’m more than aware of how your scheming minds work. See the liquid in this syringe? It’s a stimulant, designed to reawaken a larger animal after it’s been sedated. A lion maybe. Or a rhinoceros. Administered to little Gussy, it’d be like a drug overdose, quick and deadly, frying her little brain.”
“What do you want then?”
“I want you to take me to it, your stolen treasure. When it’s in my hands, you’ll get Gussy back.”
“That’s it?”
She nodded. “Is it close enough to walk?”
“Uh-uh. It’s actually … It’s a long walk from here. I didn’t want anyone finding it.”
The syringe pried at Gussy’s loose skin, lifting brown fur.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you. But can I ride my bike?”
“On foot is better, don’t you think? Let’s go. You lead the way.”
Kenny stared up from under the rim of his helmet. This morning he’d overfilled his cup with excitement. Now, without Clay around, Gussy’s survival seemed more important than some old wooden tube and a stone chess piece. What’d it matter if he handed them over?
“Fine, lady, have it your way. Just leave my dog alone.”
Kenny saw Clay’s car creep around the corner of Sixth and Holly. Yes! He had hoped Clay would track him down, but he couldn’t let Gussy’s captor catch on.
“Stay back,” he wanted to shout. “Don’t let her see you.”
He ambled across the grass, but his eyes roved the area. On the opposing corner, a white Taurus was pointed this direction, and a large man was getting out. With the blond woman a half step behind, Kenny walked in the direction of the easterly railroad. He’d string her along, then throw her off track.
If he could just figure a way to free Gussy from her grip.
“Kenny Preston.”
Spoken in an accent, his name reached across the park to him.
“Kenny.”
In midstep, he glanced back to find the man from the Taurus heading his way. Arms bulged under the dude’s jacket, and his neck spread down into his shoulders. His hand was a baseball mitt, dwarfing a silver cell phone. He was speeding up.
“You are Kenny Preston? I must speak with you.”
Kenny flinched. The blond woman turned, annoyed by the interruption, and she, too, gave a nervous blink. At Gussy’s neck, the needle pulled away a fraction.
Now! Be strong and courageous!
In a single motion, Kenny grabbed for his puppy with one hand and jabbed away the syringe with the other. The lady snapped around. In her haste her fingernails dug into Gussy’s underbelly, and the puppy yelped. Small teeth flashed as Gussy’s blunt head whipped around and clamped jaws into vulnerable flesh.
The woman cried out.
The syringe bounced off the curb, and Kenny saw a beaded strand of pale yellow liquid drape through the air. He heard Gussy’s teeth tear at the woman’s blouse. Another cry. His puppy landed on the sidewalk in a knot of legs and fur, gathered herself, and sped off across the street.
Kenny chased after her. A protective response. A mindless act.
From the corner of his eye, he noted a black shape, headlights, and spinning wheels. Brakes shrieked. He accelerated, felt the concussion of air as a Ford Mustang skidded sideways and ground along the curb. The door popped open. A black woman stepped out on high heels.
Appearing stunned, the blond woman was glaring at Kenny over the car roof. Farther back, the dude with bulging arms was jogging forward.
“Whatcha all doin’!” the Mustang’s driver yelled. “ ’Bout ran over you, you hear what I’m sayin’? Buncha crazy white folk tryin’ to get their selves killed.”
Kenny had seen enough. Or not enough.
Gussy was gone.
He took off, his mind loaded with questions and options and a list of changing priorities. His mother had been drilling into his head that he had to choose what things were most important and deal with them in that order. But how could he prioritize his own safety, his puppy’s whereabouts, and the growing number of people who seemed drawn by his secret that lay hidden in the drainage pipe?
His feet slapped the road. He cut down an alley, eyes probing the darkness, every gap and doorway, for his pet. Maybe Gussy was safer somewhere else.
Just stay hidden, little girl. I’ll come back for you.
He veered right, back toward the tracks. Shouts chased him along.
Jesus, where do I go? I’m freakin’ here!
Behind him another car was coming. He leaned into the storefronts, avoiding the curb and any likelihood of being run over.
Briefly he was out in the open, thudding up the berm to the railroad. Far away the nightly high-speed train whistled. At his back a car horn blared.
Kenny went into high gear, determined to outdistance and outmaneuver his enemies. The spymaster recognized this was no ordinary danger. Vital supplies lay hidden, threatened by Nazi infiltrators and turncoats. His tennis shoes loosened as they ate through weeds and chunks of cracked asphalt. He had reached the tall weeds at the ditch’s edge. His laces were coming undone—not that it mattered. This was it. The spymaster was back at the safe house.
The drainpipe was a dark cavern, waiting to hide him. The grass flattened ahead of his flying feet, but his shoes lost their purchase. He landed, bumped down the incline on his backside. Throwing himself forward, he crawled into the pipe, and his helmet bumped the metal. Stones chewed at his knees. He pulled himself deeper into the darkness.
The pipe shivered with the weight of a car overhead. Dirt and dust trickled down. Kenny held his breath. Who was up above?
Never mind, Spymaster. Get the treasure. Lives’re depending on you.
Yet this was no childhood game. This was different. What if he did have enemies intent on his destruction? Didn’t the Bible warn that Satan was “looking for some victim to devour”? Earlier, had that Rottweiler been turned loose on purpose?
You’re my protection, Lord. Isn’t that right? My high tower.
The tower … Hey, he realized, that might work.
He could race back to the JC water tower, spy down on his enemies, and stay out of sight. Looking for a kid, they’d never think to look up. Yeah, he liked it. He could run in a crouch down the ditch for part of the distance, then hop back over the tracks. He’d do it at the last second, letting the passing train cut off any pursuers.
“Kenny, you down there? Hurry, they’re headed this way.”
“Clay?”
“It’s me. Come on out.”
Clay, from the seat of his car, had watched the whirl of events.
Narrowly missing Kenny and his dog, the black Mustang had slid to a stop—a perfect chance for Kenny to get away. And out jumped Shanique. It had been years since he’d seen Mylisha’s sister, but her long legs and flirty fashion were still the same.
He knew the other woman as well. Even as Kenny took off running, Henna tried to move past Shanique and found herself face to face with a fit and street-toughened woman. They were like two old foes. Their voices escalated.
He did not know the man in the European-style jacket.
Clay had an inkling where Kenny might be head
ed. With the prominence of Engine 418 in these strange dealings, Kenny would be worried about the object he’d found on board. He’d rejected Clay’s suggestion of turning it in to the Junction City Historical Society, said he wanted to investigate it himself first. Clay, once an adventurous boy himself, had given grudging approval.
The drainpipe. That’s where the kid was going.
So as not to attract attention, Clay fought his urge to punch the gas pedal through the floorboards, chose instead to roll along Sixth Street, a law-abiding citizen.
The streetlights painted the road in yellow green hues. The high-speed train’s distant cry was the one harsh note in the town’s nightly orchestra of life.
Sure enough, Clay spotted young Kenny sprinting along the sidewalk and over the tracks. The kid has some wheels on him, that’s for sure.
Clay cruised over the humped pavement, sped down after his charge. He braked to a halt atop the drainpipe. The ditch bristled with crackling weeds and tossed Dari Mart cups. An abandoned shopping cart lay rusting on its side.
He jumped out and crouched above the pipe’s opening. He yelled through cupped hands, received a response of relief. Behind him a car was approaching.
“It’s me,” he assured. “Come on out.”
Items clattered in the hollow space, then Kenny’s head poked into view. He had the wooden tube clutched in his hand. “They want this. That’s what they’re after. I don’t get it. What’s so amazing about some old chess king?”
“You could wait and ask them.” Clay jabbed a thumb down the street.
Kenny’s eyes widened at the approaching Taurus. In his pupils the railway lights sprang to life, warning of the fast approaching train. Bells rang, and the painted crossing arm made a jerky descent.
The Taurus swerved around it.
“Get in the car, Kenny. We’ll lose ’em.”
“In this old beater?”
“Hurry!” Clay offered a hand to pull Kenny up and over the drainpipe’s lip.
Instead, Kenny pushed forward the carved oak object, and Clay’s hand clamped around it, brushing the kid’s skin. The confirmation of today’s date stamped down into his palm, shooting messages to his brain that he refused to acknowledge.
“You take it,” Kenny said. “They’ll think I have it.”
“What?”
“Go. I’ll meet up with you later. Put it somewhere safe.”
“Nope, we’re not going with that plan.” Clay threw a glance back. Behind the windshield of the Taurus, the husky man from the park jounced as his tires clattered over the tracks. “Come on, get in the car.”
Kenny took off along the drainage ditch, his helmet bobbing and weaving.
“Kenny! Get back here!”
The kid slithered through curtains of dry grass, loose white laces trailing, arms pumping, feet threading between obstacles of debris and stone. Clay started to hop down after him, then second-guessed the idea. If he pursued Kenny, the man with the European jacket would do the same. They’d be in a footrace.
Clay hitched his legs back onto the pavement, slung himself into the Duster. He jammed the wooden tube into his front pocket, crunched down on the accelerator, felt the car respond and shove him back in the cushioned seat. In the rearview mirror, he waited for the Taurus to pursue him, but instead it slammed to a halt at the drainpipe.
Had the man seen Kenny? Seen his escape?
Clay ran his eyes back along the ditch. Through the thickening darkness, he could make out the kid’s head above the weeds.
“No, no-o, no-o-o!”
He tapped his brakes, spun the wheel, yanked on the emergency brake. The Duster slid, wobbled, and rocked, then squealed around so that it faced the way he had come. He pressed the gas, but the engine had cut out. He fired the ignition, sped back toward the Taurus. He’d ram the thing off the road if he had to, but he could not let that man reach Kenny.
The train was screaming now in warning. Lights blinked. Klaxons jangled.
Clay saw the man drop into the ditch, and his heart punched into his throat. He threw his car into Park, clawed his six-foot-three-inch body from the seat, clipped his head on the frame.
“Dang it!”
He vaulted after the man. Landed hard on the rocks—twisting. A pain shot through his ankle—burning. He ran on. No time for delays.
Kenny Preston. He’s all that matters now.
Ahead, the husky man’s elbows churned. In the darkness he was no more than a bisected torso and head floating over the weeds. Why did he want Kenny?
Far ahead, the boy was climbing from the ditch, feet kicking up gravel. He crested the embankment. Disappeared for a few seconds behind a concrete bunker of some sort, then shot into view near the tracks.
The train’s whistle was the diving shriek of a thousand birds of prey.
Kenny was the hunted.
The kid hesitated at the railway ties that were thick as his waist, then stepped over the first track. What was he doing? This was no time for fooling around.
“Kenny! Get off there! Run!”
Clay wasn’t sure if his voice was heard over the blaring dissonance. Did Kenny even see him down here? Was he aware of his other pursuer? The kid remained frozen on the tracks, his face turned into the night train’s blinding light.
7.1.1.0.4 …
The digits carved and burned along Clay’s nerves.
“Don’t mess around, Kenny! Go!”
The train powered onward, painting Kenny’s face in an unnatural light so that it appeared to be floating in place, preternaturally pale, blurred at the edges. His hair lay limp over his head. His eyes were mesmerized orbs absorbing the glare.
The high-speed train had killed others here in JC and in Harrisburg. Most victims were homeless or inebriated; on occasion, fools tried to beat the train across, toying with tons of hurtling metal and steel. During high school Clay had lost a pair of classmates to such an event. Their funerals were closed-casket ordeals.
“Kennny! Kennnny!”
He yelled the name until he was hoarse. He understood the kid’s strategy—trying to lose his pursuer, staying on the tracks until the last moment—but this had reached the point of insanity. The ground shook with the train’s sheer weight and velocity. The crossing lights threw shifting shades of color across rock, grass, and pavement.
Was Kenny finally moving? The husky man’s nearing shape seemed to stir activity, but Kenny remained in the train’s path.
An image of those trailing white laces crossed Clay’s mind. Was the kid stuck?
Clay clambered onward. Tears streaked his cheeks. Or maybe it was the rushing wind causing him to tear up, maybe high pollen count. His shoes stumbled over garbage and pebbles. The distance was too great. He was useless.
A final glance provided images that would never go away …
Hollowed by dread, Kenny’s eyes turned dark.
Ghostlike, his mouth gaped wide.
The train, unable to stop, blasted through the space where the boy stood as though he was nothing more than air. There was no cry of anguish. No sign of tattered clothes or torn limbs. Nothing. In a moment that came and went, the metal swallowed every last bit of evidence of a child named Kenny Preston.
22
Skin to Skin
Asgoth reveled in the moment.
The kid had played right into his hands, racing through the ditch, dragging Clay Ryker in his wake. On the railroad ties, Asgoth had sprung his trap—with a finishing touch from Mr. Monde.
Now from the other side of the tracks, through the moving frame of the train’s rushing wheels, he observed the gray white pallor that permeated Clay’s face, as though a bucket of paint had been dumped into his skull. He saw eyes of horror blink with tears, saw trembling arms tighten in a self-preserving embrace.
See now, Mr. Ryker. It’d be so much easier to do as I suggest …
Sacrifice yourself so others might live.
“You are appalling,” Monde said.
“Why, t
hank you.”
Asgoth wished the Consortium’s other members were present, but with Monde as his partner and witness, they would receive a full report. How could they deny his influence in this town? He was on a roll.
He’d made one mistake, though, which he hoped would go undetected.
“You’re certain it’ll work, A.G.?”
“What? Now you’re questioning my abilities? Look. Clay is devastated.”
Once again Clay stood at a calamitous scene, unaware of all that was involved. In some cases ignorance was bliss. In Clay’s case it was torture.
“Truthfully,” Monde said to A.G., “that ranks as the most horrific scene in which I’ve seen you play a part.”
They stood in darkness, pressed against a factory’s corrugated siding. The heat of the day still resided in the metal, comforting, familiar. Storm clouds continued to coil and rumble, as though this summer night was developing a case of indigestion.
On the tracks the night train had finished its transit through town. Searching in its wake, the large man who’d pursued Kenny picked at stones and dirt, ran his eyes along the street.
“Are you aware,” Monde asked, “of this man’s identity?”
“The one from the Brotherhood?”
“Dmitri Derevenko, a fourth generation acolyte. He arrived earlier today. Or didn’t you see him?”
“He’s come for one thing, hasn’t he?” Asgoth said.
Mr. Monde nodded. “But after your repulsive display, he’ll fear the object is gone forever. Torn from the heart of one train. Cut off by the passage of another.”
Clay’s legs were sodden tree stumps that he dragged back through the ditch. Breathing heavily, he reached his car—his parents’ car, technically. Ha. See, this just proved it. The junkyard car served as evidence that his life was a pathetic joke. “Ha!” he said aloud.
He brushed dirt and weeds from his pants, smirked at the husky guy who was pacing the railway on a hunt for things he would not find. The man was in obvious denial. Well, there was no denying what had taken place up there.
Clay’s quivering fingers snatched the keys from the ignition, shoved them into his pocket—next to the oak tube. Was this the object of the man’s search? Was it worth driving a helpless kid into the path of a train?
