[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  The bell sounded, indicating one minute to departure. He turned the collar of his coat up and pushed the glasses up his nose. The train on the opposite side of the ramp began moving. The security man scanned the windows as it rushed past in a vain attempt to see the departing faces. When it was gone, he turned his attention to the crowds boarding Sam’s train. Thirty seconds. Most of the people were boarded. The ramp was almost empty. The doors started to close on the woman in front of him, and he automatically stuck out an arm to stop them. As the woman boarded, he straightened up and turned his head slightly to check on Jack.

  • • •

  Jack forced himself to calm down, even though his heart was beating fast from the run to the ramp. He noticed the security guard was no longer with him. He wasn’t surprised: judging by the man’s gut, he hadn’t run anywhere in some time. Jack glanced up at the overhead signs and verified he had the right ramp. Aside from a few support pillars, he had an unobstructed view. The crowd was thick when he had arrived, but was now thinning quickly as the commuters boarded the two trains. The one on his right was the New York shuttle. He concentrated his scan on this side, wishing he could tell the security man to do the same, but they had no communication. The one-minute bell sounded.

  “Whatcha gonna do, Jack?” he asked himself.

  He could order all the trains to stop, but that would require leaving the platform and establishing communication with someone with the clout to get it done. Sam would be long gone by then. Maybe this was just another ruse to throw them off? Have the police search each train at its next stop? Again, not enough time to get the word out to all the destinations. Sam would most likely leave the train at the first opportunity. He would. Maybe there was enough time to stop just the trains which were in the computer Eric had hacked? He reached for the borrowed radio and was about to key the mic when his eye caught something.

  About six foot or a little more, wearing business attire, and standing toward the front of the train. Could be him. The man was just waiting for his turn to board. The doors of the train tried to close and people fought them as they entered. The man quickly reached out to hold the door open for a fellow commuter.

  It was his body language that did it. The man moved with the fluid motion of an athlete, or a soldier. Jack froze in place and ignored the question of the out-of-breath security man who had finally arrived.

  As Jack studied him, the man rotated his head and looked directly at him. The hair and glasses were new, but he would never forget the eyes.

  Sam smiled at him before turning and stepping onto the train.

  Jack broke into a sprint down the steps. The train doors were all closed now, and it was beginning to pull away from the ramp. The security man watched him pass with a look of bewilderment. Jack caught up to the moving train, but could not gain access. A few commuters gave him a puzzled look as he beat on the doors. He still had the radio in his hands, so he keyed the mic as he ran.

  “He’s on the New York shuttle! The shooter is on the New York shuttle!” Jack yelled as the train increased its speed. He would soon be out of ramp. He looked over his shoulder to see the end of the train fast approaching. Steps and a railing could be seen on the rear of the car. Stupid idea, Jack thought, as he prepared to do it.

  As he drew even with the end car, he gauged the distance and leaped. The shoes that had cursed him for so much of the day failed him again as his feet struck the surface of the steps. He quickly skidded on the smooth soles, lost his balance, and grabbed for the railing with both hands. The dirty rail slid in his grasp, so he quickly twisted and threw his body flat on the narrow platform. As he lay face down on the steel grate, his eye caught something following the train. He squinted in the dimming light to make it out as it bounced to a halt on the tracks behind him.

  It was his borrowed FBI radio.

  The state of West Virginia holds 4,758 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 3,187 are repeat offenders.

  —FORTY-EIGHT—

  Sam forced a path through his fellow travelers, making his way from car to car toward the front of the train. He got some frowns as he opened and closed the doors, letting in the cold January air. No one voiced an objection after seeing his size and the look he currently had on his face.

  The look was well earned. Sam was not happy with himself. He had smiled at Jack for no reason. Smiled at him! It was just a reflex action one would do after seeing an old friend and being recognized. What the hell was he thinking? He had to get off the train, and there were no stops planned for some time. He may have to gain control of the train. Something he had not planned on doing, and was unsure of how to go about it. He did know he needed to be up front, so this was his first priority: find the guy who drove this thing.

  He paused at the entrance to the first car as the train lurched and began a slight uphill climb out of Union Station. A few seconds later, the lights of Washington DC could be seen around them. The snow was still falling, but not nearly as heavy as earlier. His gaze fell on his own reflection in the windows. Even with the glasses and facial hair, he still looked like himself, albeit a paler, sickly version. At least Jack knew him. What were his current options? He was committed to this escape plan now. There were no options until the next stop. Jack’s radio and helicopters were faster than he could possibly run.

  “Are you all right, young fella?”

  Sam looked down at the bench he was standing over. He hadn’t noticed them when he had entered, but he now found himself looking down at an elderly couple seated before him. The man’s suit coat was a little rumpled and the shoes were worn. He gazed at Sam over a set of trifocals perched on the tip of his nose. A hat lay in his lap where he held his wife’s hand. Sam shifted his gaze to her to see a rosy cheeked face holding a friendly smile. A cane was grasped in her other hand, and she was bundled up against the cold much like her husband. Sam caught the smudge of ink on her wrist, partially hidden by a watch. A crude tattoo, just a number. Sam knew what it meant. There were very few of them left.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” he replied.

  “You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, son. Can I be of any help?” the old man offered. Sam felt a sense of gratitude. Here was a couple who had endured so much, yet here they were on a train, talking to a complete stranger and offering aid.

  “How do you know when something is over?” Sam asked. “When the time is right to end it?”

  The woman looked at Sam for a long moment before replying. “It’s over when you decide, young man. No one can decide for you. You, yourself, have to make the decision to go on.”

  The old man nodded and added, “If you are unsure of what you are doing, or if you are going to be successful, see it through to the end. I have found that is usually something worth doing.”

  Sam thought about this. They couldn’t know his situation, yet the wisdom of the words couldn’t be denied.

  “If it must come to an end, make sure everyone has closure,” the old man added.

  Sam nodded. He turned his head to look behind him and saw some activity. People were all standing on the car behind him and moving toward the rear of the train. He turned back to the old couple.

  “Thank you both very much.”

  He turned and stared out the window over the driver’s shoulder at the front of the car. Sam had made a decision. A new plan was now forming in his mind.

  • • •

  Jack stood in the corner of the car, scanning forward as the people filed past. His initial order had gotten only questioning stares on the first car. He had been forced to repeat himself louder. This got a few people moving. After drawing the Browning and holding it at high guard, the message finally got across. People were scrambling to comply now. As soon as Jack was sure Sam was not among them, he proceeded to the next car and repeated the process. When he reached the car Sam had been on, he paused at the door and peered through the glass. A careful scan revealed no sign of Sam. He checked his pocket for
the pictures. He quickly found the face with the glasses. With it in his free hand, he struggled with the door until he entered the car. He was met with a few startled looks and several stares. He put a finger to his lips for silence.

  “I’m with the FBI. I’m looking for this man. He was on this car a short time ago. Have you seen him?” He held the picture out at arm’s length and panned it around.

  A young black man in a business suit was standing with his hand on the overhead rail. He slowly held out a hand for the picture. Jack let him take it.

  “Yeah, I saw him on the ramp. I believe he went forward as soon as we all got on.”

  “Thank you.” Jack pocketed the picture and raised his voice. “I need everyone to go to the rear of the train. Get as far back as you can and stay there. Now.”

  Everyone moved at once, as if the captain had turned off the seatbelt sign. Luggage was pulled from under seats, and coats were put back on. One young man had to be roused from his sleep, and a young girl was detached from her headphones. Both got the message after seeing Jack. As the last one passed, Jack moved to the front of the car and prepared to repeat the process for the third time. He tried in vain to see through the scratched and graffiti covered window into the number two car.

  “No choice, Jack,” he muttered to himself.

  He took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

  • • •

  “Sydney, will you stop the pacing, please? You’re making me tired just watching you.”

  “I’m sorry, Larry. It just helps, ya know,” she replied as she wiped her sweaty palms on her pants again. “Why doesn’t he call? How can we help him if he doesn’t at least check in? I swear I’m gonna kill him when I see him.”

  As if it were listening, the phone in front of Larry rang. He grinned at her before picking it up. The following conversation of yeahs and grunts on Larry’s end did not help her state of frustration. They all watched as he scribbled a few notes on the notebook he always carried. Larry finally ended it with his usual flippant, “Okay.”

  “All right,” Larry said to the team, “that was the Union Station security team. They say Jack was with them on the New York shuttle ramp, when he just took off after the train as it was leaving. Evidently, he jumped onto the rear platform just in time. Don’t know what he saw, but it must have been our guy. They’re going to make contact with the train and have it stop somewhere that HRT can secure it safely. That’s the plan, anyway. I need to see Greg.” He grabbed the notes and turned for the stairs, only to see Agent Whitcomb approaching.

  “Do you have contact with Jack?” he asked. “He won’t answer the radio.”

  “Not since he was at Union Station,” Sydney replied.

  “I got a report that he jumped on a train?”

  “Yup. The New York shuttle.” Larry looked at his notes, “Number 409. Left about ten minutes ago. I was just coming to tell you. The people at the station are going to make contact with the train and tell it when to stop. They need a location from you. Any ideas where you want that to happen?”

  Greg turned to a subordinate and orders spewed forth. “I need contact numbers, make-up and description of that train, name of the person driving it, maps of the route and all stops. Get me time to the first one first, and a complete manifest. Go.”

  Sydney pointed to two of the office people. “Go help them.” They grabbed their laptops and followed the man-in-black from the room.

  Greg looked at the piles of paper on the tables. “Anything new you can tell me?”

  “No.” Sydney pouted. “We’ve been through it all a hundred times. Eric has a few files left to crack on the computer, but this is all we have. Not that it will help much if we did. Jack won’t answer the damn phone.” She ran both hands through the tangled mess of hair on her head. “You haven’t heard from him, either, huh?”

  “No, just a couple of unidentified transmissions on our freq—just static and a few words. Could have been Jack. The radio he’s using is part of the homeland security net. We have a few relays in the station, but they aren’t all installed yet.” He paused and put a finger to the earpiece he was wearing. After listening for a few seconds, he acknowledged the transmission. “Good. Have the bird stay high and out of sound range. Don’t let the occupants see them, copy?” He looked up and saw the waiting faces.

  “One of the birds located the train and is trailing it,” Greg said. “I need to go upstairs and game-plan the stopping point. I’ll keep you up.”

  “Same here,” Larry replied.

  They all watched Greg leave, armed to the teeth, but with a finger in his ear again, his boots echoed off the tile.

  “Hey, guys?”

  The room’s attention turned to Eric. He had never stopped tapping the keyboard. Even through Greg’s short visit.

  “You have something, Eric?” Sydney inquired.

  “Yeah. A letter.”

  “I’ve seen the letter, Eric. I have several copies. We need something new.”

  “Not this letter. It’s different”

  “Different how?” Larry asked.

  “It’s personal. Addressed to Jack, and signed by Sam.”

  • • •

  “This is GW, Medic 11, go ahead.”

  “GW, Medic 11. Currently en route to you priority one with a sixty-year-old male. A and O times zero. Gunshot wound to the left lower chest. This will be from an unknown rifle, through and through. External bleeding is controlled. Patient is intubated at this time and has been decompressed on the left with frank blood. Last pressure of seventy-six systolic. GCS of 3. He’s starting his second liter of ringers via central. ETA of—” Ron let up on the mic. “Time, Danny?”

  “About six!” she yelled into the windshield.

  “About six,” Ron finished.

  Ron tossed the mic down on the shelf as the hospital answered, “Good copy 11. Trauma alert. See you in six, Ron.”

  Stan smiled at that. “Good to be well known, huh? Must be that deep voice of yours.”

  “It’s my high level of testosterone. That was Art on the other end. He’ll have everything ready and still meet us at the door. How’s our guy doing?”

  “Still bagging okay. How’s the line, Janice?”

  Before replying, Janice added a couple of pumps to the infuser. Nothing more than an inflatable bag that surrounded the IV bag, it supplied pressure to the line, making it flow faster than gravity alone would provide.

  “Still flowing, 300cc’s in.”

  “Okay, as long as we don’t get any more changes, we may have a chance,” Ron spoke his thoughts out loud.

  At that point, the steady beep of the heart monitor fell out of rhythm.

  “Damn it.” Ron grabbed for the pouch on the back of the monitor and pulled a large foil envelope from it. He made sure it had red trim before ripping it open and pulling out two large pads with wires attached. He quickly plugged the wires into the monitor and then peeled the backing off the pads themselves. One he applied to the right chest, just under where he had earlier stuck the central line in. The other he placed just above the catheter he had stuck in the left ribs.

  “Turn that monitor my way, Janice.”

  She quickly complied, and Ron saw what he had feared: his patient was showing signs of ventricular fibrillation. The heart rate was fast and erratic.

  “Stan, get in my drug box.”

  “Epi and Atropine?”

  Ron pulled his attention from the monitor. The heart was not doing well. Like everyone else’s, it required a steady supply of blood and a system with no holes in it. The senator was losing blood, and the only thing Ron had to replace it was IV fluids, fluids that did not carry oxygen. The heart was starting to complain, and it was showing on his monitor.

  “Yeah, hand them to her. Janice, I’ll take the bag. Listen closely; it’s about to get interesting,” he told her.

  Stan opened the drawer with one hand, as his other kept a tight grip on the overhead rail. He began handing her colored
boxes she had only seen before in books.

  Without taking his eyes off the monitor, Ron began to give instructions. “Grab one of the tan boxes. It says epinephrine and which end to open right on it. Open it up and you’ll find a glass vial and a plastic syringe. It’s capped, so you won’t get stuck.” He paused while she extracted the contents. “See the yellow caps on the ends of both pieces? Hold them in your fist with the yellow parts up, and flip them off with your thumbs.” The yellow caps popped as they flew across the stretcher and hit Stan in the chest.

  “Perfect,” Stan yelped. “Johnny and Roy.”

  Ron ignored the inside joke. “The two pieces will screw together now. You see it?”

  “Yeah,” Janice replied as she mated the two together. “Now what?”

  “See the IV line? It has a Y port in it with a little screw fitting. It’s blue. Pull the yellow cap off the end of the syringe, and it will twist onto the blue part. Don’t do it yet; just look.”

  “I see it.”

  “Okay, be ready to do the same with the other ones. When you push it, you just attach the syringe like I told you, and then you pinch off the line above it. Hold that while you push, and then release it when you’re done. Got it?”

  “Pinch the line, push the drug, and release the line. I got it,” She said. “Should I be the one doing this?”

  “We’re both gonna be busy, and I don’t have time to teach you the monitor. I won’t let you screw up. I promise,” Ron assured her.

  “Ron, look,” Stan prompted. The monitor was beeping again.

  Ron saw the end of a run of V-tach followed by an erratic beat. Ron reached out and adjusted the gain. At that point, the beeping increased, and a chaotic pattern appeared on the screen.