Two Trains Running

What if it were true? he wondered. What if he’d rid the world of a murderer? What were the odds of that—of anything—being true? He couldn’t be sure that Grace was being straight with him about the dead boy. Could he have convicted himself of a murder that had never been committed? He would have liked to force the truth out of her, but he knew her well enough to understand that once she swore something had happened, she would never forswear it, however improbable the facts made it appear. The things that were truest for her were the lies she relied on, and if one or another accidentally turned out to be true, it would still come out a lie in her head.

“C’mon, Jimmy! Le’s go!” She pulled harder on his arm, yet her expression gave scant sign of emotion. Her face seemed in its frail angularity the face of a wicked androgynous fairy peeking from among scarlet rushes, not quite hiding a knowing smile. Perhaps he misread her, perhaps that almost imperceptible curvature of the lips merely reflected a degree of strain. But that, in the end, was why he let her drag him away—the intimation that her secret self was peeking out from behind the clownish surface she usually presented to the world, and that she wanted something other than protection on a long train ride, that she signified an ending more intricate than death, and had some sly and delightful, albeit not yet formulated, transmortal purpose for which she now intended to save him.

Unless you were a runaway child and fell prey to one of the many pedophiles who frequented the area, the Salt Lake City freight yard could be an agreeable place for someone wanting a free train ride. The bulls had little interest in tramps, and the crews were a generally friendly bunch, an attitude that manifested in their habit of leaving a few boxcars open on every train that went out. Madcat and Grace had located such a car and were sitting with their backs against a wall, looking out the door, which was cracked so wide it might have been a picture window offering a view of a fireball sun declining behind snow peaks.

“What we gon’ do for money in Tucson?” Grace asked out of the blue.

“The usual. Maybe pick up some day work here’n there.”

Grace fingered the edge of the sleeping bag. “I waited tables in this fancy cocktail bar one time—made me some serious money. If I had a job like that, maybe we could get us a place. Not for forever, y’know. Jus’ for a coupla months. Be nice to have our own place for a coupla months, wouldn’t it?”

“Might,” he said. “Long as we stay away from rent hassles. I had enough of that shit.”

“You don’t need to say nothin’ ’bout that. I’m with you there.” She tucked in her chin and inspected the front of her new sweatshirt, smoothed out the ironed-on decal of a fluffy white kitten. “Y’know, I think we’re startin’ to learn ’bout each other. We’re gettin’ to where we can start workin’ stuff out.”

A kid with a shaved head, wearing an army jacket and jeans, was angling toward the car, cutting across a weedy patch. Madcat kept an eye on him.

“It’s like with now,” Grace said. “I’m okay with goin’ to Tucson, ’cause I wanna make you happy. But that don’t mean I’m givin’ up on takin’ you to visit my uncle. I figger it’ll come time when you’ll wanna do that for me.”

The kid took a stand some twenty-five feet away and stared at Grace. His neck was heavily tattooed, his facial jewelry picked up glints of the dying sun. Grace didn’t appear to notice him. Her mime-pale face wore a distracted expression as she contemplated some fictive future. Madcat vibed a warning at the kid, cautioning him to get his Road-Warrior-looking ass the hell and gone.

“I think you gon’ be surprised,” said Grace. “Two people get together, neither one of ’em knows what’s gon’ happen at first. But after ’while—” she groped at the air, like an artist trying to describe a half-imagined shape “—you can sorta feel how it’s gon’ be.”

You don’t know what’s in me, Madcat beamed at the kid. Hell, I don’t know myself. But you don’t want to find out.

A thin ridge of cloud like the coast of a rugged country hovered above the peaks, dark gray hills and cliffs of cloud washed to blood-red underneath.

“Ain’t like I kin see it or nothin’,” said Grace. “If I could—” she gave a snort of laughter “—we wouldn’t never have no troubles. I’d jus’ draw us a map straight on to wherever it is we’re bound.”

The kid spun on his heels and set out east along the tracks, head down, hands thrust in his jacket pockets, as if disappointed in life.

“And where’s that?” Madcat asked. “Where it is you figure we’re bound? Besides Tucson, I’m talking.”