The Railroad (13 page)

Then the man smashes the crowbar into the driver’s side window. Karen cowers against her mother’s body. After a few strikes, the window shatters, scattering glass over the front seat.

The man places the crowbar on the hood of the SUV and pulls something from his pocket. With a practiced hand he pulls a scalpel out from its case. He grabs Petra’s hand and slices her forefinger. She winces but says nothing. Karen watches in horrified silence as the man squeezes the finger and blood begins to drip onto the road.

Using her blood he writes on the windshield. Once he’s finished Karen can hardly see what he’s written: 4-5-1.

*

It was after dinner that night when Megan brought me a rocks glass filled with ice. I could see by the color what it was.

“Megan! You don’t have to bring me this.”

She seemed confused. “It’s the frog. Is that okay?”

I looked up and saw Eileen smiling. Clearly she’d taught Megan how to make me a drink. I think my eyes must have shown what I was feeling. Eileen smiled.

We sat and watched the seven o’clock news. Megan had just recently allowed us that time to do a few things that adults did. She sat with us for perhaps the sixth day in a row and fidgeted through the half hour show until she could watch something that fit her taste. This particular evening she had fallen asleep which made both her mother and I less tense.

There was still news about the 9/11 attacks. Once I’d stopped caring about the Twin Towers, I’d learned to turn myself off long ago to just about any news there was and tonight was no exception. I was drifting in and out when I felt Eileen stiffen by my side. I turned to see her face, but I could tell that she was doing her best to pretend nothing was happening.

When I spent ten seconds concentrating on the television I could see what had set her off.

…car was found on route 86 near the junction of route 42 near Haysford. As with the previous disappearances, the numbers 4-5-1 were found scrawled along the windshield in blood. Police are in the process of investigating, but it’s assumed to be the blood of the car’s owner, Petra Johnson. Both she and her 9 year old daughter Allison disappeared Tuesday evening. The alleged abduction fits the pattern of the earlier abductions of Sally Brodman and Cassie Jenz. In all three cases, the women were involved in civil or criminal cases in which child abuse was a central issue. Captain Jennifer Downs of the Haysford police force has told us that, while murder is being considered a possibility, police are awaiting further developments.

Due to the intense speculation as to the biblical nature of the numbers 4, 5, and 1, a writer at the New York Post has dubbed the alleged assailants the Chapter and Verse Killers. Police in Westchester County have stated conclusively that as many as four persons might be involved in each of these attacks, this contingent on the multiple sets of tire tracks found at each scene. Police have speculated that the victims are trapped between two vehicles before the abductions take place.

Police have added that the abductions require quite a bit of coordination and knowledge of the victim’s movements.

I listened with half an ear as the anchors followed up on the interview. I had just begun to calm down when I heard a small voice that made me jump.

“What’s that they were talking about?”

Both Eileen and I turned to see Megan staring sleepily at the television. My heart started to pound.

“It’s nothing, sweetie,” Eileen said hastily. “Just the news. You know the news is always like this.” She gave me a look; her face was red.

“They said something about children.”

“Yes, they did. It’s just the news. They’ve gone on to another story. Look! It’s about the Bronx Zoo.”

To our great relief, Megan shifted gears immediately and seemed to forget what she’d seen. As she settled herself in between us on the couch, I watched Eileen compose herself silently.

“I think I’d like a little wine, Mike,” she said softly. There were tears in her eyes.

I walked into the kitchen quickly and poured some wine. Then I poured myself a scotch.

As I walked out Megan stood up. “Are you sad, Mike?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re making a sad face.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Can I have something to drink?”

“Oh, god. Sorry. It’s impolite of me not to ask you if you want something.”

“Can I have what Mommy is having?”

“I think you’ll like juice more.”

She made a little girl face, thinking about it. “Okay. Billy Bear likes juice.”

Three days later we sat around my ugly dinner table. Things were slightly different; we had breadsticks and some wine glasses for our wine. There was olive oil and hard bread, all at Eileen’s suggestion. I didn’t seem to be having much trouble with the changing of the guard considering what I’d been eating for the last few months.

I had spread out a map and was showing Megan and Eileen an area of Michigan that was still relatively desolate. Near to the Canadian border in unforgiving country, it seemed the perfect place for us to go. There, my modest New York savings represented comfort. We could build a house for fifty thousand and I could probably do some type of work there, even if it meant opening a computer repair shop.

Megan was dubious; she held up the Places Rated book, which listed what were supposed to be the most desirable places to live in the United States. I’d read to her from it only two days before. “Why can’t we live in one of these places?” she asked.

“Because there are too many people there. And they ask questions. Maybe after a few years no one will care where you and your mother are but right now…”

“I won’t have any friends.”

“Mike is trying to help us,” Eileen told her daughter.

Megan stared at the wall and Eileen and I shared a glance. How could I blame a seven year old child for being dissatisfied with half a life?

I tried the only gambit I could think of. “Megan, don’t you want to go with me? I’m trying to keep you safe and I don’t want to stay here in this house.” It was my first stab at fatherhood and I felt stupid saying it.

She stared at me aghast, and then began laughing. “This house looks like shit!” she screamed, laughing all the time.

“Megan!” her mother gasped.

“Come on, Mom. You say it all the time. You said it when we were home.”

“This is our home now, honey. With Mike.”

Megan digested that. Then she began to cry. I watched while Eileen held her.

*

I jerked awake to a gasping sound. At first I wondered if there was some animal outside that had gotten a bone and choked on it, but soon I knew it was in the house. I took a quick look at the clock. 3:47 A.M. I jumped up, pulled on some underwear and went padding out into the living room.

The sound was clearly coming from the other bedroom. I lurched through the door and saw Eileen holding Megan just as she had been earlier. Only now the child was gasping for breath and flailing her arms.

“Asthma?” I asked.

“No.” Eileen shook her head. It was as if I wasn’t in the room. Somehow I knew this had happened before.

“What is it?”

“Panic attack.” She stroked her child’s head methodically, trying to will away the beast that was holding her.

I’d heard about such things. One woman I worked with was prone to attacks that would leave her hyperventilating and dizzy. But it had never made any sense to me. “Is there something you can give her?” I asked stupidly, becoming one with the panic.

“It’ll pass. Just give her time.”

“Why hasn’t this happened before since she’s been here?”

Eileen grimaced. “It has. I just hoped it wouldn’t wake you.”

“Oh,” I said stupidly.

I thought of all the things that might help and, of course, alcohol was at the top of the list in the adult world. Not a good alternative. “I could play her
Billy Bear
CD. Do you think that would calm her down?”

“No!” It was almost a screech. I quickly realized that I was a superfluous nothing in the face of a mother trying to protect her child. Anything I did would just be a distraction.

“Remember what the doctor told you, honey. Breathe deep and slow,” Eileen told her daughter from only inches away.

The little girl continued to gasp and, to my dismay, I could also see that she was crying. I stood frozen, not knowing what to do. Megan tried to obey her mother; her breaths became slow and even. But each time she seemed to be getting it under control a new spasm would hit her and the gasping would start again.

Eileen began to rock her daughter, slowly. Megan dug her face into her mother’s shoulder and held on for dear life. After a few minutes it seemed that her breathing was beginning to slow.

Finally I realized that Megan was asleep. I looked at the clock and realized I hadn’t moved for twenty minutes; my legs cracked when I finally did. Eileen put her daughter down on the bed and pulled the covers over her.

“Is it likely to happen again?” I asked lamely.

“She’s so exhausted after one of those things she’ll probably sleep the rest of the night.”

“What causes it?”

“In general, no one knows. But in her case I can guess what contributes to it.”

Before I could say anything else, she got up and walked out of the room. I walked out to find her pouring herself a glass of wine. She finally sat on the couch and stared at the blank television screen, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I always said that if that judge had been able to see her like this, but my lawyer told me that these attacks are increasingly common in children. They could explain it away the way they did everything else.”

I sat next to her, feeling useless. “How often does it happen?”

“There’s no pattern. I’m not sure it’s in response to anything that’s actually happening to her at the moment. It could be what she’s dreaming.”

“We can get her help.”

“You mean drugs? Great. I know children who get pumped full of Ritalin when they’re little just because they have a
problem
. And then they become little walking zombie versions of their parents who are taking Paxil or something like that.”

“If it helps…”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is the answer. I just don’t want to give up yet.”

“On what?”

“On being responsible for what happened to her. For helping her through it.

“Okay.”

“You’ve really picked a pair of fucked up girls haven’t you?” She said it with a smile but there was fear in her voice.

“My choice. I had good reason.”

 She smiled at me and leaned her head against my shoulder. “I wonder what it would have been like if I’d met you ten years ago.”

My heart jumped; there weren’t too many ways you could take a remark like that. Looking back on it, we had been leading up to this point all along. “It probably would have been better for both of us. I wouldn’t have had to live as yuppie asshole of the month in New York.”

“I don’t know why you keep saying that about yourself.”

“I don’t know. It’s odd to look back on yourself and know that you did something for years that makes no sense. I was just on an adrenaline high. Once I came down from one big achievement, I’d have to have another. I don’t really think I can explain it.”

“Working hard?”

“No. A lot of people do that. It was the realization that it was a waste of time that really got to me. It was good enough. And then it wasn’t.”

“You don’t talk about 9/11 much.”

“There isn’t a lot to say about it.”

“But it brought you here.” She put the wine glass beneath my mouth and tilted it. I took a good swig. “I don’t think I can stand flirting with you and having you reject me. Not when I’m in a state like this. So I’ll just be a slut and ask you if you want to make love to me.”

We weren’t looking at each other at that point which made it easier. “I think I do. But sometimes I think that I’d be taking advantage of you if I did. You’re sort of vulnerable now.”

“I know that.” She put down the wine and stood up, stretching. “Come with me."

I took her hand and followed her into my bedroom. She giggled. “This place is really ugly.”

“That’s what I was going for, I guess.”

“Was your apartment back in Manhattan like this?”

“No. Actually it was pretty trendy, I’d have to say.”

“Um hmm…” We sat on the bed and she leaned toward me, putting her arms around me. “I just want to be like this for a while if that’s okay.”

“Fine.” My tone was casual but my feelings weren’t. It had been a while since I’d been near a woman and, to my surprise I found that even a casual touch from Eileen was a lot more overpowering than anything else I’d experienced with Barbara. It was strange that I hardly thought about her anymore.

It was like we were slow dancing despite the fact that there was no music at all and we were on the bed. Her body got closer to mine as the pressure in my throat mounted. I knew I was committed but somehow there was a small guilty thought tugging at my mind. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but what if Megan wakes up?”