(Continued from the October 2020 issue of Exotic)
When I got back to my motel, I popped a beer and poured it into a glass—slipping off my shoes and splashing some water on my face. Henley’s voice was groggy when he picked up and I thanked the curve of the earth for that little bit of karmic grace.
"Crawford? You better damn well have something for me."
"I got a bra, a theory and no name."
"How do you have her bra and no name?"
"This ain’t exactly the kind of town that answers questions. I’ve bagged up the bra and I’m sending it overnight to forensics. I’d appreciate a timely response. In the meantime, I’m doing some research up here."
Henley sighed his Henley sigh.
"I know you don’t like me, Crawford—you don’t like anyone. But, you are my man right now. And, as much as I don’t like to admit it, you’ve been my man for a while. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, other than ’figure this shit out and take care of yourself, please.’"
I felt nothing to that and let the silence on the line speak for me. Then, I said, "Okay, Boss."
I hung up and went for a walk.
The church had seen better times. Green something adorned the white walls, in a toxic drip of generations of neglect, soaked into the stone itself about to fall over, yet continuing along whatever timeline it is that God keeps. I entered and genuflected, waiting to burst into flame. I sat in the nearest pew and stared at the rotted padding of the prayer stools, reclined here in their off hours. I looked at that man on the cross—he still had nothing to say. Rain started up and fed the grime of the walls outside. I closed my eyes and breathed. I nodded off and woke to a scraping sound at my feet and saw the lottery ticket flickering, just underneath my right heel. I picked it up to look at the address of the Starlight again, for no particular reason. Instead, I read, "Stop 6, Station 6."
I thought that was too clear to be true and so I crumpled it up, putting it away for later. I gave Jesus my spectacles testicles watch wallet on my way out and pulled my hood up to the rain, as the empty church closed behind me. Candles would have been nice. Then I pulled out my flask, took a long, holy pull and started walking back to my room and bed.
When I woke up, the new information was still there—and, I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like change. I looked up train stations in town and found none. I went for a walk again.
It was the nothing time of day, where nothing just kind of was and settled in the far sound of cars drifting by and birds singing halfheartedly. Someone had a ball game on a radio and a small power saw drilled through a small task. A neighbor took out the trash. Old, loose things drifted in a forgettable breeze. Someone plucked a guitar and their fingers squeaked the strings, as they found the notes. People still unsure about themselves from the night before—intro sounds to the leaf blower that would surely show up any second now. The diner was hosting the first breakfasters of the day and coffee sounded good. I ducked on in. As I sipped the Folgers cut with cream, I pulled out a laminated pamphlet on the history of the town tucked between menus and feigned interest. The waitress topped me off and asked if I was visiting.
"I am, just passing through. This seems like a pretty quiet place."
"Ain’t much to get your skirt blown up about, that’s for sure. But, we like it that way. How’d you find your way to us, anyhow?"
"You could say I’m here on business. Writing a book actually."
"Ya don’t say? What’s it about?"
"The Human Condition."
She nodded and I started losing her.
"That’s a joke. I’m actually doing research on old train lines around the country. Alaska’s my last frontier, as it goes."
She came back to me like a country song.
"Well, you’ve probably already seen the only tracks we got, down along the river off Chugach Avenue. It’s a bit of a mystery why they’re there—no one can recall them ever being used for nothing. Kind of a neat place to look around" she said, eyeing if anyone was listening.
"But, it ain’t exactly not trespassing."
I thanked and tipped her. Down by the river, the mossy branches tried to take my face off, as I slipped on questionable mud and looked for the tracks. The closest I could find were crumbling cement barriers with rusted rebar, reaching for rebar heaven. Graffiti snaked, as graffiti does in such places, sometimes on the trees themselves. The garbage and sewage smell grew stronger, as I went around a bend and saw an old sign with the number six falling apart on the face. I picked at it with my fingernail and looked around for what I had missed. Crows hobbled about a skinny tree. A bluejay tried to cheap shot them from above and they all took flight, to caw it out somewhere else. No tracks. I wandered around, keeping an eye on the sign, in case it decided to go the way of the lottery ticket and change up on me. As I was peering at it over my shoulder and thinking of questions I could have asked that waitress, I ran into something hard and metal with my hip. A handrail, hiding under overgrown vines, was bolted into a cement slab. I pulled at the vines, until a good sized pile lay on the ground and looked at the hole I had revealed leading down underground. I sighed. I pulled out the flask and sat down. I drank and stared down at this bad idea.
There were stairs, of course. Shining my pen Maglite, I counted approximately 26 steps, at an angle that meant I could take three at a time with someone chasing me back up—maybe two, since I had just smoked a cigarette and the soles of my shoes were worn smooth. Last damn thing I needed right now was a twisted ankle. Something leaked off in the darkness with a monotonous drip. My flashlight played over caged light bulbs in the gloom, whose extinguishment made the dark even more so. I scooted forward, looking for a switch, finding it under a growth of moss and throwing it. The bulbs buzzed and crackled to life, as grime burned away from their surface. "To hell with it," I said and started down.
A platform of the same corroded cement met me at the bottom. Tracks stretched off in both directions, feeling like they’d been waiting for me this whole time. I stood in between them and lit another cigarette, because this damn job was going to kill me, anyway. The air was still and held the second hand exhale in front of me. I took a step sideways to get it out of my face. Then I heard it—a slow dragging of feet behind me and to my left, about ten yards away from the sound of it.
I reached down, pretending I was interested in an unread text message and slowly unclasped the holster at my side. The dragging continued, and as it drew closer, I could hear rattling breath. Whatever or whoever it was, they probably didn’t appreciate me smoking in close proximity. I took a drag and slowly turned around, hand on my weapon.
At first glance, I wouldn’t have called it human, but as she came up to me, I saw it was an impossibly old woman, draped in layers of rags, patched over who knows how many times in colors that shouldn’t exist. I didn’t have any change on me and figured she didn’t need a smoke, so I just waited for her to approach.
When she reached me, it was obvious she was out of her mind. "Mmmmmmmm," she groaned. "No, no, no way. No way."
"No way," I parroted.
"Sun and moon are one in light, only darkness is alone. Mmmmm, no, no way."
"’Kay," I said.
Then, she snapped her head around and looked straight at me with rheumy eyes. "NO WAY," she shouted and slapped me—hard. The cigarette went flying off to die in slow ashes and I cursed, because I hate to waste half a smoke.
As I rubbed the red sting from my cheek, I thought about how I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but hitting an old woman would be a first. I decided against it and turned to the platform, where a train was screeching its way down the tunnel, like a monstrous worm eating the air out of the underground.
"God doesn’t go underground," I thought, for some reason.
She dragged herself away into whatever shadow she had come from, shaking her head and muttering "No way, no way."
When the doors creaked open, I thought about taking those stairs three at a time in the opposite direction. Then, I thought, "Nope, I got a fucking badge." The train lurched forward and the wheels screamed in the tunnel. I sat down and reached for the flask, before seeing the other lone passenger across from me.
"Evening," I said.
He started laughing and I thought, "Great, another loony."
He kept laughing. I took a look at him. He was bone thin and tall, maybe close to seven feet standing. His three piece red-and-black pinstripe suit was pressed and pristine—he wore a fedora, with deep black shades over his eyes. He had his hands folded on his lap and they were bony and pale, like a junkie’s, with long, sharp fingernails filed down. He kept laughing.
I slowly took a pull from the flask, pocketed it and slowly reached down to the holster. He laughed, louder this time. I slowly pulled the revolver and placed it in my lap, index finger over the trigger guard and thumb on the hammer. He laughed so hard, he had to bend over. Then, he straightened and with a grin I’ve only seen on corpses three days into decomp, cackled.
"Ticket please? Ticket please??? Hahahaha," while flourishing a rusted fork around his fingers, as if he were operating some nightmarish loom, occasionally dinging it on the metal hand pole.
"Listen pal, I’ve had a long couple of days and..."
The lights burned out and the train wheels screamed louder, as they struggled to brake. When the lights came back, he was gone and a robotic voice announced over the speakers, "Stop 6. End of the line."
The fork clattered underneath the seat, turning like a game of Spin The Bottle and stopped—pronged end pointed straight at me.
