Slaughter (18 page)

J
ordan worked hard on the farm the next day, standing near Jasmine's father as the two of them shucked corn. Jasmine's father, Luther, was a gangly, powerful man. He wasn't intimidated, but he didn't like meeting Jordan's unconcerned gaze. Luther was smart in a direct, instinctive kind of way, and what he sensed in Jordan was a kind of darkness of the soul. An emptiness that in one way or another would have to be filled.

Luther had talked to his daughter earlier that day, and though she had told him nothing, he knew by looking at her that something had ended, and something had begun.

She could no more hide her feelings than could Luther. And Luther believed in God and demons and the reality of hell.

Side by side in the bright sunlight, the heat and humidity building, the two men shucking corn sometimes chanced to look at each other, and it was always Luther who turned away.

Jordan had a plan. Railroad dicks these days were mostly an invention of fiction. The expense of hiring so many of them just to keep freeloaders from traveling without tickets didn't make good economic sense.

The boxcars were going north again, most of them emptied of coal and produce, jingling and jangling along the rails with their sliding doors open wide. More than half the boxcars were empty, the train's engines so far ahead of them they were out of sight except where the rails curved.

After supper Jordan went out onto the porch, carrying a cold can of Budweiser. He was scheduled to meet Luther again in the morning and finish the bin of corn cobs. Both Luther and Jordan knew they probably wouldn't see each other again.

The screen door slammed and reverberated in the quiet sinking light. Luther came out, carrying a can of chilled Bud like Jordan's.

“Hot night,” he said to Jordan.

“That time of year,” Jordan said.

Luther glanced around. It was an obvious act. “Jasmine around?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Seen her go upstairs after supper,” Luther said. “Guess she's still up there.” There was a high tension emanating from him, a crippling regret. The past was over. The future was going to change in a way that made Luther sick and afraid.

He'd known this day would come. When the cancer had gotten his wife, Jasmine's mother, Luther was left with Jasmine and her memories. He lived with his regrets. The silent truths that both knew were left unsaid. Nothing could stop them from working their dreaded damage.

He couldn't leave the farm, and nothing would compel Jasmine to stay in a house haunted by her mother. A family had been destroyed by death. Luther knew what quiet horror would haunt his final days, and perhaps his eternity,

He hesitated, seemed about to say something more to Jordan, then lowered his head and turned away.

“See you come sunrise,” he said.

Jordan didn't answer. Luther didn't look back.

 

 

The eleven o'clock
American Eagle
sounded its lonely trailing wail. Jordan thought it was like a wolf howl, carried on the wind.

He and Jasmine each carried a duffel bag just large enough for a change of clothes and some personal items. Jasmine had stood frozen in her bedroom before leaving, knowing it was the last time she'd see so many things, keepsakes, pictures, her mussed and longtime bed with its sheet dragging the floor.

Jordan had warned her: there was no way to move on without leaving the past behind.

Wasn't that the truth?

 

 

The
Eagle
wailed again. Jordan knew it would be audible back at the farmhouse, but not loud enough to wake anyone. Especially if they were used to it, as was Luther Farr.

The mournful sound of the train whistle signaled that it would soon be part of the past, and the past would be fixed in time and place.

Carrying their bags slung over their shoulders, Jordan and Jasmine jogged so their course would cross that of the train tracks. But they wouldn't cross the rails. They would stop at them, then wait.

Seconds became minutes, then the
Eagle
came at them at an angle out of the east. It started small and then grew slowly, coming at them faster and faster. They watched in the moonlight as boxcar after boxcar, most of them empty and with opened doors on each side, clanged and clattered past.

As they'd agreed, approaching the train from the side at a forty-five-degree angle, Jordan hung back so he could run alongside. Then he quickly mounted a small side ladder near the front of a boxcar's open door. In the same smooth motion, he tossed his duffel bag in, then pulled himself up and around and into the boxcar.

He swiveled so he was on his hands and knees, looking ahead for Jasmine. For a moment a voice in his mind told him she wasn't coming with him. What was a promise from a girl so young? To a boy not much older?

He edged closer where he was kneeling at the open boxcar door, and there she was.

Jordan watched fascinated as she followed his instructions perfectly. First she hung on to the ladder of the moving car and with her free hand tossed her duffel bag up through the gaping side door. Then she gripped the small steel ladder built into the side of the car. Made her way along the side of the bouncing, clanging car, to the open door. As Jordan had taught her, she grabbed hold of the ladder with both hands and swung out and then inside the boxcar,

But only halfway.

Her heart took flight like a startled bird, then Jordan's strong hand closed around her wrist. He pulled, pulled, her shins sliding and banging painfully against the floor's edge.

Then she was in!

They lay together on the boxcar's rough plank floor, the train jouncing and squealing and very gradually building up speed. Fresh air streamed in through the open doors, along with the smell of the worked earth.

The train held its speed and the ride became smoother, the boxcar swaying in a gentle, rocking rhythm. The steel wheels began a steady ticking sound. The night breeze—or was it the moonlight?—played over them. Jordan and Jasmine were out in the endless fields and prairies, their dreams intact.

A man's voice from the dark shadows at the far end of the boxcar said, “I was glad to see you both made it.”

 

R
enz, seated behind his airport-size desk in his office, handed a photograph to Quinn. He had leaned so far over the desk, so he could reach Quinn's outstretched hand, that Renz's purple tie dragged and got defaced by what looked like eraser crumbs. Or were they pastry crumbs?

Whatever they were, Renz saw Quinn staring at them and deftly brushed them off and onto the floor behind the desk.

Quinn concentrated on the photo. It was in black and white, and grainy.

“It's a still from a security camera,” Renz said. “From four nights ago, ten thirty-five p.m. Outside the Devlin Building over on Twelfth Street. The guys who run the coffee shop inside have been bitching about drug deals going down in the passageway. That's also where a big Dumpster sits, gets emptied every two weeks.”

“So what makes them think this isn't a drug deal? Or some scroungers looking for a late meal?”

“Look closer at it.”

Quinn moved slightly sideways so a better light would show on the photo.

“That was the best the tech guys could do,” Renz said.

Quinn was looking at a slight figure, maybe a woman, turning and running away from what looked like a Dumpster. She was clutching something white in her (or his) hand, and looking back, as if to make sure no one was following. The camera angle was from approximately ten feet above the subject and at a sharp angle, so her face was barely visible. She was wearing a baseball cap, either blue or black, with the bill pulled down low so her features would be obscured. It did appear that the subject was glancing back.

Renz handed Quinn a magnifying glass. Quinn held the photo at the same angle to the sun and observed through the curved lens.

“That white object the character has in his or her hand looks like a foam takeout box from a restaurant,” Quill said.

“Yeah, but look at the ear.”

Quinn did. The subject's right ear seemed to protrude at a sharp angle from his head, and might very well be pointed. If it wasn't simply a shadow. Or an errant lock of hair.

Quinn said, “I don't know, Harley. Times are tough. This looks like somebody snapped a photo of a Dumpster-diver scouting around for dinner.”

“Or it could be our Gremlin on the run. Taking meals whenever and however possible.”

“With another killer with him? A copycat? Who'd want to be mixed up with a guy who slices and dices people?”

“Somebody who doesn't know what he's bumming around with. The worst of these sickos can seem the nicest and least dangerous. That's their cover, how they camouflage themselves.”

“The public seen this photo?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah. The morning news,” Renz said. “Thanks to
Minnie Miner ASAP.
”

“That would figure. Minnie can't stay away from murder cases. They make such compelling news.”

“Well, you can't blame her for turning death into entertainment. That's her job. At least we know where she stands.”

With a foot on your balls, Quinn thought, but didn't say.

 

 

The Gremlin put down his coffee cup in disgust. He was on the balcony of his apartment, where he often took breakfast. He didn't feel his best this morning, so it was coffee and orange juice only. No cream, no fat. He had to stay in shape. Small but mighty, he thought.

He laid the paper out flat and studied the photograph close up. Then he leaned back, satisfied. There was no way anyone could make a positive identification based on the grainy security camera still.

So what was going on? Or was it really only some good citizen who wanted his name in the papers and talked himself into thinking that the small person in the photograph was the Gremlin? And that the Gremlin was Jordan.

The more the Gremlin thought about it, the less likely anything representing a threat, or a plan, had been in evidence. He had simply parked half a block down from the restaurant and then carried his three large black bags from his car's trunk to the passageway. Quickly he'd lifted the lid of the Dumpster and tossed inside the black plastic bags, listening to them land softly on trash that had built up for the past two weeks and now had a familiar, sickening stench when the lid was raised. That was good, because when the Dumpster was lifted and emptied in the truck, what was on top would be on the bottom, and least likely to be found.

 

T
he shadow in the corner of the boxcar moved, then stood up and became a tall, potbellied man with a dark beard and gray-streaked hair grown down to his shoulders.

“You two hopped rides on trains before?” he asked.

“First time,” Jasmine said. She sounded almost cheerful, as if they were talking about learning to ride a bicycle.

The man smiled. A couple of teeth were missing, giving him a jovial, carved-pumpkin expression. “I'm Kirby,” he said. He was holding what looked like a gin or vodka bottle. He started to take a drink, then realized the bottle was empty. He skillfully dropped it on the leather toe of his shoe so it wouldn't break on the boxcar floor and leave grass shards. It rolled whole and harmless away. The whole process looked as if he'd done it countless times before.

Jordan hadn't moved since noticing the man. “Jordan,” he said, by way of introduction.

There was a slight dip in the rails, causing the car to lurch and sway. Everyone flexed their knees and rode it out.

Looking dubious, Kirby said, “You two sure this is new to you?”

“We're sure,” Jasmine said.

Kirby stretched as if to show off his height and muscles in contrast to Jordan's slightness. He looked anything but fit, yet he still held the undeniable advantage in size and strength over Jordan.

“What we gotta do right off,” Kirby said, “is get these boxcar doors partway shut so we won't draw any attention. Y'unerstan'?”

“Sure,” Jasmine said. “We wanna look like the other boxcars, but not so much that we won't have enough hiding space to stay outta sight.”

Kirby smiled at her, looking like a happy pumpkin with selectively missing teeth. Then he aimed his smile at Jordan. “This is a smart and sexy little gal you got here.”

Jordan didn't know what to say to that. Simply muttered, “Thanks.”

Jasmine looked at him, as if for the first time a balance had shifted. He seemed scared, and that scared her.

She wasn't the only one scared. Jordan wished he had a weapon. A stout club. Even a gun. The only thing he had that could do damage was his folding knife in his jeans pocket, with its four-inch blade. He knew it would take too long to fish the knife out of his tight jeans and open it with both hands.

He was standing near one of the wide-open doors, his feet spread wide so he could maintain his balance in the swaying boxcar. Outside, only a few feet from him, green scenery glided past.

“You kids'll get used to it,” Kirby said.

“Used to what?” Jordan asked. He saw that Kirby was now standing closer to Jasmine.

“Bein' on the road. It's hard till you know the ropes, then you catch on.”

“To what?” Jordan asked.

“To where you can grab some sleep, find a meal. An' stay outta harm's way. Y'unerstan'?”

“Sure.”

“An' you gotta know who your friends are.”

Kirby moved suddenly, causing Jordan to jerk his body and step protectively toward Jasmine.

But Kirby was merely moving to one of the wide-open boxcar doors.

He pushed sideways on the heavy steel door to close it, but it didn't move.

“Sometimes they don't close so easy,” he said. “This one slides rough. Gimme a hand, Jordan.”

Jordan made his way over, and the two of them leaned hard into the door. It didn't budge.

“Sum'bitch is like it's welded,” Kirby said.

Suddenly the door slid easily halfway closed and then jammed. Jordan had fallen to his knees. As he stood up, he saw that Kirby was watching Jasmine. He couldn't keep his eyes from her.

“Only open it partways,” he said to Jordan. “Leave it about two feet from bein' closed, then we'll do that to the other door. That way we'll have some cross ventilation and light in here, and we'll still be outta sight unless somebody pokes his head in and looks around close.”

Jordan recalled how invisible Kirby had been in the shadows when he and Jasmine first got into the boxcar. Kirby had been nice enough so far, but Jordan knew enough not to eat the whole apple.

His right knee was plenty sore where he'd bumped it on the floor. He crawled over to where Jasmine sat near an open door, then sat down beside her with his back against the boxcar's plywood side. Along with Jasmine, he stared out at the trees and fields. At the distance. He'd never been this far from home.

Kirby was sitting across from them, near where the other door was open but only a few feet.

“How far you two goin'?” Kirby asked. Here and there straw and white packing tablets lay on the boxcar's plank floor. He had a strand of straw stuck in the corner of his mouth like a toothpick. It rotated in a wide arc as he moved his tongue around.

“All the way east,” Jordan said.

Kirby stared across the boxcar at Jasmine.

“This train's gonna stop at Jeff City,” he said. “Then it'll go on to St. Louis, where it'll switch out.”

“Switch out?”

“Uncouple and sit empty till it gets hooked to another engine. We just need to avoid the railroad dicks.”

“We'll figure out how to make our way,” Jordan said.

Jasmine smiled at him, reaching over and squeezing his wrist.

Kirby sneezed, spat out his straw, and struggled to his feet in the swaying boxcar. He reached into a back pocket as if to draw out a handkerchief.

Instead he was gripping something in a small gray cloth bag the size of a sock.

“What's that?” Jasmine asked.

Kirby smiled, then said, “Candy.”

Only it wasn't candy; it was gravel. And it formed a hard lump in the toe of the sock that made it an efficient sap.