by R. T. Ray
“That would be most kind,” Matuszak replied, raising the glass to his lips and forcing himself to take another drink. He sat the drink aside. “Now back to my investigation, there is just one more question. What do you think happened to the train?”
“The train,” Donnley stopped, appearing to turn the words over in his mind. He sat the tray down, took the lime wedge, and slowly squeezed its contents into the club soda. Then, settling himself once more in the large chair leaned back. He reflected on the question a few moments more before he answered.
“That's the most intriguing piece of the puzzle,” he began. “You realize, of course, we'll probably never really know the train’s true fate. Maybe that's as it should be.”
He paused, reaching for the second lime wedge. Again he squeezed the fruit’s contents into the drink. He sampled it. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Matuszak.
“By that I mean perhaps it was not meant for man to know the outcome of every mystery,” he continued. “There should be some questions in life better left unanswered. An element of the unknown, shall we say, in our otherwise drab everyday existence. More importantly delving into the unknown always carries an element of risk. Don't you agree?”
Forcing himself to drink the last of the sherry, Matuszak returned the empty glass to the tray. Carries an element of risk? What in the hell is he talking about?
“Perhaps,” Matuszak replied, dismissing the remark as so much gibberish. “I take it then you have no theory on what happened to the train?”
“No. However with so much time having elapsed, I'm afraid we'll never know its fate.”
Concluding that the conversation was leading nowhere, Matuszak rose to leave. Donnley, no longer the judge, instantly changed roles and became the gracious host. Walking Matuszak to the door, he shook his hand and thanked him for coming.
“I wish you luck in your investigation, Agent Matuszak,” he said. “Have a nice day.”
After Matuszak’s departure Donnley leaned against one of the office’s massive oak doors, the beginnings of a sadistic grin forming on his thin, pale lips. Have a nice day, he thought. God, how I hate that stupid, childish cliche The smile deepened. However in this case, he derived a certain sense of enjoyment in using the worn-out phrase. He slipped his hand into the right jacket pocket and felt the reassuring outline of the empty vial. Have a nice day indeed. If all goes well, it will be Matuszak's last.
In the reception area, Matuszak was rewarded with the refreshing sight of Judith Carberry. She stood in the reception area, conferring with another staff member. Sensing his approach, she looked up, instantly a smile formed on her lips. Excusing herself she went to greet him.
“Nice to see you again, Agent Matuszak,” she said. “Sorry I couldn't be here to greet you personally. How did the meeting go with old so-and-so?”
“Not too good,” he managed, striving to keep his mind on the conversation. “I'm afraid he's not a very likable person.”
She laughed, a soft, throaty laugh. “And you've caught him in one of his better days.”
The closeness of her body and the lingering fragrance of her perfume formed an irresistible combination. Donnley and his sour disposition faded from his thoughts.
“I would like to apologize,” he said, “for not being able to keep your invitation after the concert. Something unexpectedly came up and I was unable to make it.”
“You have a way of understating things,” she said. “Kelsey and I were wondering what happened. Of course, everyone saw the newscast later. You were the talk of the party that night.”
“If all is forgiven, perhaps you could give me a rain check.”
“Certainly.” She smiled. “Only next time we'll take you with us and keep you out of harm's way.”
“I would enjoy that,” he said, surprised at his boldness.
They continued to talk for some time, oblivious to the little, stolen glances from the rest of the office staff. What about, and how long they talked, escaped him. He only knew it had ended all too quickly and Judith was being called away, summoned to Senator Ewald's office.
Before she turned to leave, Matuszak asked. “Any news on the senator's father? You haven't forgotten me, have you? The meeting, I did promise the senator I would see his father.”
“No, Agent Matuszak, I haven't forgotten you,” she said.
Judith could feel the warmth, as the blood rushed to her cheeks turning them a healthy pink. Like a silly, adolescent schoolgirl, she thought, embarrassed at her actions. Still, she hoped he would take notice.
“The senator's father has suffered a minor relapse, but I'll call the moment he's better,” she promised.
“Good, I'll look forward to your call.”
Saying goodbye, Matuszak pushed the reception's glass door open. As the door slowly swung closed, he heard a young voice, full of giggles say, “Judy, is that the one?”
A still blushing Judith Carberry answered, “Yes!”
24
Matuszak navigated the Federal Building's maze of corridors, heading for the elevators. It was now four p.m.. With the exception of seeing Judith, the afternoon had been a complete waste of time. He was more convinced Donnley was somehow involved in the train's disappearance, just how, he didn’t know. What was needed was proof. And somewhere along the line it would be nice if he could come up with a plausible motive for the train’s disappearance.
The elevator doors parted. He entered, selected the button marked garage level and felt a slight sense of nausea as the elevator began its descent. He dismissed the queasiness, attributing it to the elevator's rapid descent from the thirtieth floor to the building's subbasement. Passing the eighteenth floor, he felt his pulse increased and he lost his equilibrium. He reached out, grabbed the elevator’s handrail to steady himself. Within moments thin beads of sweat glistened on his brow. Alone, huddled in the corner of the elevator, he waited hoping the dizziness would quickly pass.
It didn't.
Approaching the end of its travel the elevator slowed, just as the horrible throbbing in his skull began. His mind spun wildly out of control. The nausea swirled and the terrible throbbing increased.
The pain blurred vision and the nausea swirling in his gut were reminiscent of his past encounters with migraines. They came, not as a stranger to him, but as dreaded enemies he had often battled with. But that was in the distant past. Surely they can’t be returning, not now.
“No. Can't be,” he moaned, slumping against the wall of the elevator, but in his confused state he had no other explanation.
The elevator’s doors parted revealing a huge sea of autos. He staggered out onto the garage. His eyes searched the line of cars, hoping for a glimpse of the battle-scarred Escort. Like books lining a library shelf, the rows of cars continued in both directions, as far as his pain-swollen eyes could see. He set off, following the line of cars until it turned and disappeared into the next level. There was no sign of the Escort.
“Think, Matuszak, think,” he swore. “Dammit! It’s got to be somewhere, think, where did you park it?”
It was useless, his mind was blank. Hell, in his condition, he wasn't even sure what level he had parked on. He wandered aimlessly among the rows of autos in a futile attempt to locate the Escort. In his dazed, confused state, each row seemed a duplicate of the last. Frustration set in. He turned and staggered back in the direction of the elevator.
Nearing his starting point, he spotted the familiar shape of the Escort, sitting between a pair of low-slung imports. The battered, faded gray hulk had been parked within plain sight of the elevator all along.
Cursing his stupidity, he staggered to the driver's door, relieved at last to have found the car.
It took several, fumbling attempts before he succeeded in inserting the key and unlocking the Escort’s door. He cranked the windows down releasing the stale, pent-up air from the Escort's interior. Exhausted from this simple task, he slumped against the outside of the car, waiting for the heat
to dissipate and his mind to clear.
Accepting the migraine's return, he opted to take the shortest route home. He would pop several tablets of whatever was in the medicine cabinet, retreat to a darkened room and wait until the damn thing ran its course.
Starting the engine, he yanked the gearshift into drive and pointed the Escort’s nose toward the exit.
* * *
Even before it left the drawing board the Jones Falls Expressway, a narrow, antiquated ribbon of concrete, was hopelessly outdated. Its meandering path followed the Jones Falls, snaking from the northern stretches of Baltimore County southward, eventually emptying into Baltimore's congested, midtown traffic.
There were no median strips, and, with few exceptions no shoulder areas to pull off. Wedged into a tightly packed, narrow corridor between the Jones Falls and blocks of low rise housing, there were only the jersey walls or an occasional guardrail to separate opposing traffic.
The slightest shower turned its winding, oil-soaked surface into a motorist's nightmare. Today proved no exception as the first heavy drops of rain splattered against the Escort's dirt smeared windshield. Brilliant flashes of lighting performed their lethal dance across the blackening skyline followed by the sharp crashing crescendo of thunder.
Gently, trying to coach every ounce of speed from the Escort's tired engine, Matuszak accelerated up the spiraling concrete slab that served as the JFX's on ramp. The full might of the thunderstorm broke just as the Escort crested the ramp and merged into the stream of rush hour traffic.
He backed off the accelerator, ending the engine’s protest and eased behind an oil truck. Safely tucked away behind the lumbering giant, he loosened his tie. The migraine seemed to be relenting. The violent pounding in his head had begun to subside, replaced by a vague, almost pleasant, euphoric-like sensation. Perhaps the worst was over, maybe he had escaped after all.
As the pain subsided Matuszak relaxed. In doing so he failed to notice the Escort as it began a slow, lazy drift that was taking it into the next lane.
Honk! Honk!
The shrill blast of the horn filled the air. Its harsh trumpeting jerked him out of his daydream and back into reality. Yet, despite the near collision, he was unconcerned. Slowly in an indifferent, almost cavalier manner, he corrected the Escort's wandering.
Heads up, old buddy, he chided himself. Better start paying attention to your driving.
He giggled. The thought of talking to himself seemed somehow amusing. Smiling, he waved to the driver in the next lane. He watched the other car, a late model Pontiac, inch past, its driver angrily shaking his fist. I ought to wave back, he thought, or maybe I'll give the guy the finger. He giggled again. That would really tee him off. But before he could make a decision, the image of the Pontiac started to fade. Matuszak blinked in astonishment. His eyes hadn't deceived him; the car had disappeared.
But it wasn't merely the Pontiac.
Road signs, the jersey wall, even bits of landscape, everywhere he looked things were swirling crazily about, turning like a slowly spinning eddy. Yet, other cars seemed static but somehow still moving.
Impossible, he told himself. How fast could I be going?
He glanced down at the speedometer. What he saw sent him into a panic. The numbers had left the face of the speedometer and were floating on top of the dashboard, dancing in and out of focus as they went.
What the hell's happening?
He was no longer amused or calm. The smile had left his face, replaced by utter fear. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Staring out the rain-smeared windshield, he desperately searched for an exit.
“Forget the speedometer, Matuszak. Watch for an exit,” he mumbled, in a failed effort to reassure himself. “Find an exit and get off the road.”
But he could hardly distinguish the flashing yellow lights of the overhead warning sign as he passed beneath it. How was he going to see an exit in this downpour?
You're deep in the proverbial pot now, he decided. Better pull to the side till your head clears.
He searched frantically for an open shoulder area to pull off. There was none, only an endless ribbon of steel formed by the double row of guardrails. Certainly not enough room to pull off, and too dangerous simply to stop. He switched the Escort’s hazard flashers on, steered the Ford as close to the edge of the road as he dared. He prayed for a miracle.
You're losing it Matuszak, the strange, unfamiliar voice said.
“Who said that?” he shouted. “Who are you?”
He turned, looking for the source of the voice. No one was there. He was alone in the car. He saw only the empty passenger seat with the rain pouring through the open window.
Dummy, the voice mocked. Can't drive. Now you've left the damn window open. Watch that truck!
“Truck? What truck?” He turned, half expecting to find someone in the rear seat. “Where are you?”
If there was an answer, he didn't hear it. The indignant bellow of the semi's air horn erased all but the sound of bawling tires and grinding metal. The horn's Doppler effect faded as the huge eighteen-wheeler jackknifed, slicing through the puny guardrail, obliterating several warning signs in the process.
Forget me. Pay attention to the road!
“Yeah, must pay attention to the road,” Matuszak mumbled, no longer searching for the source of the voice.
Unaware of the mayhem left in his wake, he concentrated his efforts on his driving and the road ahead. Each new curve required increasingly more effort to negotiate. His body quickly became too exhausted to respond, his legs too heavy to lift... and where did this terrible pressing pain in his chest come from?
A chorus of horns blared.
What the hell's wrong? he thought as he tugged on the Escort’s Steering wheel. I can barely move my arms to steer. I've gotta to stop, gotta stop.
He tried to apply the brakes, but his legs refused to respond. The instrument panel was only a swimming blur and no longer attached to the Escort's dash. The windshield's smeared surface seemed alive with yellow flashing lights performing a distorted kaleidoscope dance.
In the end, the sensation of hurling downward, and patches of green flashing by were the last Matuszak remembered as he closed his eyes and prayed.
A peaceful calm replaced the shrill air horns and darkness enveloped him.
* * *
Even though the police department's communication center was buried deep within the building's fourth floor, 911 operator, Patricia Dembinski, knew the moment the thunderstorm broke. The sudden influx of incoming alarms, reports of downed power lines, and auto accidents served as her window to the outside world.
The musical alert tones in her headset indicated another incoming call.
“911, Operator 144. Do you request Fire or Police?”
Ignoring the question, the excited voice screamed, “There’s been a terrible accident. Send an ambulance!”
Patricia's computer screen indicated the call originated from one of the numerous emergency phones strategically positioned on the JFX. As she spoke, the 911 system automatically began to fill in the origin of call, the nearest mile marker, and other pertinent information on the screen.
“On the JFX? Where?”
“Yes. Just passed it. Please hurry!”
“North or southbound? Are there any injuries?”
“Yes. My God, do you have to ask so many questions? Just hurry, please! The car ran off the road. We need an ambulance!”
Within minutes of Matuszak's vehicle leaving the roadway, a police unit and Ambulance #3 were weaving their way through the snarled traffic, passed the jackknifed tractor trailer, en route to the scene of the JFX's latest victim.
The Escort was easy to find. At the roadway's edge the Escort's balding tires had left a set of deep, serpentine tracks across the muddy shoulder and onto the open grassy area. The Escort spun several times before disappearing into a dense thicket of vegetation. Like a runaway tank, the Escort's body carved a crude, tunnel-like passa
geway into the dense undergrowth. The path of downed saplings, brambles and vines, terminated thirty yards deep into the undergrowth atop a small rise of ground.
Ensnared in a cocoon of wild grape vines and snapped tree branches, the Escort came to rest at the base of a large oak. The oak's massive trunk made short work of the old car's front end, turning it into a mass of twisted metal and broken plastic.
Matuszak was unconscious when the ambulance crew unbuckled the seat belt and lifted his limp body from the auto.
He had survived the third attempt on his life.
* * *
The distant ringing was soft at first but quickly rose in volume. Matuszak fought against the clanging intruder invading his peace but finally surrendered and opened his eyes. He saw only faint outlines in the room's darkness.
Confused, his eyes swept about the room. At first nothing seemed familiar, then gradually the furnishings began to take on recognizable shapes. He was home. Painfully, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His aching body, rebelling against the forced movement, begrudgingly obeyed. He fumbled a few seconds before finding the lamp's light switch. Blinking against the bright light he reached for the receiver.
“Hello,” he mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes with his free hand.
“Matuszak,” the chipper voice on the other end of the line greeted him. “It's me, Becker. I was about to hang up. How do you feel?
“Terrible. I ache all over.”
Yesterday was the second time Matuszak had awakened to find himself in an emergency room, a nasty habit that had developed since his assignment to this case. It had been Becker’s smiling face that greeted him as the ER nurse finished disconnecting the IV tubes and monitor.
“Yeah, I guess you've got every right to. You didn’t look so good after that stomach pump finished with you. Have you been up and about?”
“No. Too tired. I've been listening to music. Guess I must have dozed off. What time is it anyway?”
“A little after eight. Look, I'm sorry to disturb your rest, but I happened to be at the hospital on another case. Thought you would like to know.”
