Why was someone leaving the tattoos to be recognized in the first place? It was like someone wanted them found.
“Okay, I’m in Pocatello right now. I can be in Spokane later today. Can I call you on this number?”
“No problem. I assume you’re going to explain all this when you get here.”
“Sure thing. See you later.” How he was going to explain, he didn’t have a clue.
Bill left Pocatello with a copy of their file in his hands and adrenaline pumping in his veins. He was finally getting somewhere, even if it was finding bodies that were already dead. He set the cruise control on the Malibu he’d rented from Hertz and looked down the highway towards Spokane.
*****
Missouri
The wait for the train in Des Moines had been a brutal few hours for the Raildogs gathered in the freight yard. Epic hangovers were everywhere, and from the smell of it, Dougie was sure someone had puked.
It wasn’t any easier two hours later crossing into Missouri, as the swaying train tossed them around. Devon and Rashad were heading south with the boss and a few others had decided to come along. The five men sat or laid flat out in the boxcar with the door closed to keep the blinding sunlight out of their blood-shot eyes.
Dougie knew he’d find a second wind by afternoon and let his eyes close as he tried to think of something other than his pounding head. Four hours maybe and he’d be in Oklahoma City and then he knew a woman that wouldn’t mind him crashing at her place for a while.
Something just barely caught his attention. The little noise wasn’t that loud, he didn’t even open his eyes. Laying there, he tried to separate the different sounds of the train and the wind outside and listened more. There it was again, a little noise, like something sliding, filtered out to him from the corner of the boxcar. Then nothing. He’d almost dozed off when he heard it again.
Doug’s eyes sprang open. He didn’t move, just stared at the car door across from him. He recognized it now, the sound was like someone’s feet sliding along the outside ledge of the boxcar.
The hair on the back of his neck started to stand up and Doug felt a sudden stab of fear. He was rolling over to stand up when the noise outside changed. He heard the chain rattling and understood. Shit. “Guys, get up!” He charged for the opening.
The rattling of the chain became louder. Then he heard steel against steel clinking as the links hit something. There was a brief pause and then a loud click.
Doug slammed against the door, trying to move it. Wrapping his hands around the inside handle he leaned into it. The door slid a fraction of an inch, then stopped. The crack was barely wide enough to see chains looped around the outside door handles. His eyes meticulously checked each link of chain before settling on the lock that hung at one end.
“Hey, out there,” He rattled the door. “There’s people in here. You can’t lock us in.”
Silence. Doug knew someone was out there, he hadn’t heard any shuffling to get back away from the door. “Come on man. Let us out, okay?”
A voice came back, deep and slow. “Don’t think so.”
It had to be some shit disturber. “You don’t want to fuck with us whoever you are. This is Raildogs you’re fucking with.”
When there was no answer, he yelled again, “You hear me out there.”
“Don’t worry yourself asshole. I got it right. It’s Raildogs I’m looking for.”
Then he heard the shuffling feet moving away from the door. Gotta hand it to whoever it was, it took balls to be out there all that time clinging to the side of a boxcar while the train was moving.
Christ, what now? Doug was trying to assemble his thoughts when he heard the guy outside climbing up the ladder at the end of the car. Footsteps followed along the top. There were short flashes of someone visible through the air holes and corner joints.
“What the fuck is going on Doug?” A grim faced Devon was clearly getting agitated. The others were working at the locked door trying to pry it open. They looked desperate.
“I don’t know. The guy seems strange to me. Could be a nut case.” Doug touched the drop that splashed onto his arm from above. What the hell? He smelled the gasoline before his hand got to his nose.
“Hey man, what the hell is going on? Are you crazy?” He shouted up at the ceiling. His heart was pounding and his palms were starting to sweat. The guy needed to answer back. But he didn’t. Doug raced to the corner and using the frame as leverage, climbed up to get close to the top of the car.
He pressed his face against the ceiling. “Listen to me man, we can work this out. You want money? I can get some.”
He could hear footsteps on the roof. The stranger moved to his corner and got down close. “I don’t want your money.”
“What you want man? I can get you anything.”
“I want you to remember asshole.”
The conversation was too quiet for the others to hear, but it did seem to go back and forth. Then everyone heard Doug talking back to the guy. “No way, not me man. I was just there, that’s it.”
Now the liquid was pouring into the boxcar faster, splashing down to the floor. Doug climbed back down from the ceiling, looking over at his guys. The fear was plain on every face. He felt trapped. What could he do?
The conversation with their assailant was obviously over. Dougie Rackman reached out and balanced himself against the side of the boxcar as it rumbled down the southbound rail. This couldn’t be happening. He tried to focus on everything, anything, except his heart pounded against his ribs. He could hear the others scrambling around in the dark, banging and scratching against the outer walls, someone let out a scream.
He glanced upwards and ran his hand through his hair, his eyes darted around the boxcar. He could hear the guy moving around up above, the smell of the gasoline was everywhere as it poured through the holes in the ceiling, pooling on the floor. The constant vibration of the car rattling along the rail line just spread the gasoline further.
Doug looked at the number three tattooed on his arm and realized he was as angry as he was scared. He was third in line, this shouldn’t be happening to him. Then he heard the muted roar of a torch and he snapped his eyes straight up.
Fuck no. This can’t be happening.
A blue curl of flame crept down from the top. The bastard’s gasoline pouring through the roof had left paths down the walls soaked in liquid. A firestorm raced to engulf the boxcar. With nowhere to go, the Raildogs jumped around, trying to avoid the flames on the floor, but the gasoline spread further as the train sped along.
And then as Rashad retreated from the encroaching fire, he surprised himself by backing into the gasoline soaked wall.
Doug watched him come off the wall over a puddle of flame and saw the moment when Rashad lost it. He was standing surrounded by curls of blue licking at his legs when he went up in a fireball. Lunging at the man next to him, he dragged that guy down too. Now both of them were in flames, screaming and frantic, pushing and trying to get up.
Doug turned to see who else was screaming and realized it was himself. He backed against one of the few pieces of wall that wasn’t in flames. The smell was revolting. He’d never smelt burning flesh. The smoke was getting thick as he sank to his knees.
Once he realized the walls were on fire he knew there was no chance. They were never getting out of here. He watched Devon slam repeatedly against the door even as the flames burned through his clothes.
He slumped down to the floor, coughed a few times and shook his head. He didn’t have any fight left, no screams either, he was struggling to breathe. He thought about what the guy had said. Fuck, so long ago. Doug wanted to laugh, he’d said it may times, payback was a bitch.
It was daytime. Didn’t anyone see the flames? He slumped over dead, his body hard to see in the suffocating smoke, as the flames started to claim his leg.
*****
Missouri
A figure crawled down the boxcar’s ladder, the screams
didn’t last long, but that wasn’t important. Getting the job done before the train pulled into Topeka was. With a mission at hand, timing was everything,
Working his way along the outside of the cars towards the back of the train, he looked back a few times at the flaming boxcar. Now he took up position on the last car and waited for something to happen.
Either the engineer was going to see the flames first, or someone was going to phone it in. The flaming boxcar could probably be seen for miles. He shook his head as he thought about farmer’s fields along the track. There was probably a string of fires behind them.
Would the engineer stop right away? Or keep going for the next station? You couldn’t plan everything. He wasn’t too worried, attention would be on the burning car and no one would notice anything happening at the back of the train.
With Topeka in sight the train started to slow. When he saw the flashing red lights off in the distance heading towards the rail line he knew it was time to get off. The figure jumped into a passing ditch going a little faster than he wanted and rolled a few times before coming to a stop.
Angling away from the tracks, he worked his way through the fields, keeping the rail in sight. He had to get to a station and find a train back up to Des Moines and then east to Salt Lake.
No one noticed as he slipped into the train yard, nor did they see him checking his little book for information on which trains went where, or see him pause to scribble a few words in the back of the book.
Chapter 9
Spokane, Washington
Cliff was back at the freight yard. He’d spent the night talking and drinking with Mikey’s crew. Now he just wanted the southbound train to leave so he could sleep the night off on the way back home.
He hung out in the vicinity of the train, keeping out of sight. Spotting the unmarked police car driving through the yard before they saw him, he quickly ducked between two boxcars, putting himself on the opposite side of the train.
Crouching, he peered under the train as the car drove by, stopping further down. Curious, Cliff moved around to get a better vantage point on the cop car. Getting out of the vicinity would be smart, but with everything that had been going on he wondered why the cops were in the yard.
The cop who climbed out of the car in a suit had to be a detective. Cliff was confused when the other one got out. He wasn’t dressed like a cop, wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a leather bomber jacket. Who was this guy? Undercover?
He couldn’t stop himself, inching closer trying to pick up what they were saying.
“They pulled him off here,” the detective said. “What was left of him.”
“The one in Pocatello wasn’t on a train, he was by the tracks,” hiking boots replied.
Cliffy retreated back the way he came. He’d heard enough. These cops weren’t here randomly, they were discussing the torture of his crewman. Who was the guy who knew about ninety-two down in Pocatello? How did he find out about Albert up here?
His head hurt. He’d had too much booze the night before to handle a problem like this. Something was definitely going on. He’d been sure someone was hitting the crew, but now there were cops involved and they seemed to know as much, or more, than he did. Shit, what the fuck was happening?
The train jerked forward and Cliff jumped back in surprise. He was so amped up about the cops that the train nearly scared the shit out of him. He shot another quick look under the train at the cops and then back at the rail cars as they jerked and banged together as they started moving.
Reaching up, he grabbed the handrail as it went past, his feet sprang into action as he gauged the steps and jumped aboard. He dove flat on the floor of the boxcar, but now that he was inside he could see the opposite door was open on the other side. Shit. He hadn’t seen that coming.
The boxcar rolled by the two cops who were looking absentmindedly at the rolling train. Cliff kept his eyes open for the one in street clothes, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, but the guy locked eyes with him and the two men stared at each other, their heads swiveling while the train picked up speed.
Cliff kept staring into the daylight for a second after the face was gone, his heart pounding. Would they stop the train? Call right now and have it stopped? He didn’t think so. There were too many trains out there with people on them to be stopping them every time they saw someone. They could have it stopped at the next station though, and that was an issue.
The train wasn’t up to full speed yet, still within the city limits. His heart slowing, he made a quick call, he wasn’t staying on this train. It might get stopped somewhere ahead. He’d catch the next one. He just had to slip back to the station and wait. There was always another one.
He flexed his muscles to loosen up, he hated rough landings and looked carefully for someplace to jump off. What he really wanted was to be sitting on his deck back home sipping on a beer. Hesitating just a second, he leapt off the moving train.
*****
Spokane, Washington
Bill heard the train rattle, he turned to see the boxcars rocking, the steel knuckles slamming as it started to move. His eyes idly traced the passing graffiti and examined the open doors on the boxcars. Suddenly, something caught his eye and he zeroed in. Someone was staring back at him from the moving train.
He couldn’t see the guy well, he was laid flat out on the floor. He would’ve thought it was a bum except for the intensity of the stare. It was like the guy knew they were cops and he was watching them as closely as Bill watched back.
“There’s someone on that train.” He turned to the detective.
“Nothing new there.” The detective didn’t seem too concerned.
“We going to stop it?” He wanted to talk to the guy on the train.
The detective raised an eyebrow as if he though Bill was kidding. “We can’t do that. Christ, it’s just a bunch of kids and people with no money riding the trains. What? You want to hold up the line? Have trains stacked up from here to who-knows-where. Just to kick some bum or a couple kids off? Ain’t happening.”
Bill let out a sigh. He knew the guy was right. Still, he wasn’t going to forget that face. He’d like to run into it again. Something about him had been dangerous looking. He pictured his daughter getting onto a train with that guy and it sickened him.
It was easier now to feel like he was going to vomit when his stomach was already empty. Arriving later than he thought he would the day before, he had made plans to meet the detective this morning. He skipped breakfast purposely because he knew he’d be in the morgue at some point.
He shook his head. The fresh memories from the visit to the morgue that morning weren’t needed, nor had he summoned them. Some things just stayed with you awhile. He would have to just add this one to the stack of nightmares from past cases.
The detective had said they’d found a wallet in the jeans left behind in the rail car and so this body had a name, Albert Simms. One thing Bill was sure of, the guy had paid a high price for whatever he’d done in life. He tried calculating in his own head. Would he have wanted a blowtorch or a knife used on him? What a bizarre decision to have to make.
After what he’d seen in the morning, Bill was thinking that the knife was probably worst. It had taken something out of him to witness the damage. In police work you got a bad case every once in a while, you didn’t usually get mutilated bodies one after another. Your mind could only deal with so much at a time. No wonder war vets had problems. The non-stop horror in those situations would grind you down.
Since the body had been lying down when he saw it, some of the skin flaps that had originally been hanging downwards had actually flipped back into place. But most of them had been hanging open, hardened with rigor mortis. In some spots you could see clear down to the bone where the knife had carved away the muscle and meat. In other places the wounds were flayed open until you could see the veins and layers of cut muscle.
Out of habit Bill started counting the wounds, stopping at forty.
There were too many. They went up the front of the legs and chest, down the back and into the meat of the calves. Little ones crisscrossed down the sides and insides of the legs and arms. No doubt a bleed-out. Christ, it would have been a bloody mess.
“Okay detective, how about a ride back?” Bill wasn’t sure what he was doing next, but he did have two confirmed tattoos, and he had two bodies.
As they left the rail yard, both their phones started ringing. Turned out all the station equipment hurt the phone reception. People had been trying to get a hold of both of them.
“Dewton.”
“Detective Roberts, Topeka, Kansas. Good day there.”
“Hello, what can I do for you?” Bill wasn’t sure where this was heading.
“Well, we got some bodies up here. Your alert in the system about tattoos and rail lines came up. I figured you might help us solve this thing here.”
“Do you mind telling me what’s happened?”
“Shit no. We got a boxcar full of burned bodies. Looks like someone chained the door and then poured gasoline over the boxcar and set her up in flames.”
“Jesus.” Bill was shocked.
“You can say that again. Anyways, one victim who died of smoke inhalation was only partially burnt. He has a number three tattooed on his inside wrist. That what you’re looking for?”
“You got it.” Now he knew where he was going next.
It took a few minutes to catch the caller up to speed. Then they made arrangements on where Bill could get a hold of him.
“You should know. The other vics had tattoos as well, but we can’t make anything out of the mess that’s left.”
After closing out the call Bill turned to the detective. “Think I can get a ride to the airport and have your guys take care of my rental car?”
“Sure Bill, no problem.”
On the way to the airport he reviewed his notes. Things were happening too fast. Suddenly bodies were dropping hard. Another low one, this time number three. He felt like he was running behind and needed to get caught up. As he thought about it, he realized he needed a live gangster to talk to and made a mental note to add that to his search criteria.
Raildogs Page 9
