I twist out from under Blackie's knee and am halfway to my feet before something crashes into the back of my head. My brain and eyes jolt in their cavities. My vision fills with black and white sparkles and I think I might also be deaf. After a moment my vision starts to return, from the outside in. Faces appear and mouths move, but all I hear is an earsplitting buzz. I weave on my knees trying to figure out who and what and where but now the ground comes screaming toward me. I'm powerless to stop it so I brace myself, but in the end it isn't necessary because the blackness swallows me before it hits.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
Twenty-two
Shh, don't move."
I'm not, although my head jiggles and jerks with the motion of the train. The engine's whistle blows mournfully, a distant sound that somehow cuts through the insistent buzzing in my ears. My whole body feels like lead.
Something cold and wet hits my forehead. I open my eyes and see a panoply of shifting color and forms. Four blurred arms cross my face and then merge into a single foreshortened limb. I gag, my lips involuntarily forming a tunnel. I turn my head, but nothing comes out.
"Keep your eyes closed," says Walter. "Just lie still."
"Hrrmph," I mumble. I let my head fall to the side, and the cloth falls from it. A moment later it's replaced.
"You took a good hit. Glad to see you back."
"Is he coming around?" says Camel. "Hey, Jacob, you still with us?"
I feel like I'm rising from a deep mine, am having trouble placing myself. I appear to be on the bedroll. The train is already moving. But how did I get here and why was I asleep?
Marlena!
My eyes snap open. I struggle to rise.
"Didn't I tell you to lie still?" Walter scolds.
"Marlena! Where's Marlena?" I gasp, falling back on the pillow. My brain rolls in my head. I think it's been shaken loose. It's worse when my eyes are open and so I close them again. With all visual stimulus removed, the blackness feels larger than my head, as though my cranial cavity has turned inside out.
Walter is kneeling beside me. He removes the rag from my forehead, dips it in water, and then squeezes out the excess. The water trickles back into the bowl, a clean, clear sound, a familiar tinkling. The buzzing starts to subside, replaced by a pounding ache that sweeps from ear to ear around the back of my skull.
Walter brings the rag back to my face. He wipes my forehead, cheeks, and chin, leaving my skin damp. The cooling tingle is grounding, helps me concentrate on the outside of my head.
"Where is she? Did he hurt her?"
"I don't know."
I open my eyes again, and the world tilts violently. I struggle up on my elbows and this time Walter doesn't push me down. Instead, he leans over and peers into my eyes. "Shit. Your pupils are different sizes. You feel up to drinking something?" he says.
"Uh . . . yeah," I gasp. Finding words is hard. I know what I want to express, but the pathway between my mouth and brain might as well be stuffed with cotton.
Walter crosses the room, and a bottle cap clinks to the floor. He comes back and holds a bottle to my lips. It's sarsaparilla. "It's the best I've got, I'm afraid," he says ruefully.
"Damned cops," Camel grumbles. "You okay, Jacob?"
I'd like to answer, but staying upright is taking all my concentration.
"Walter, is he okay?" Camel sounds significantly more worried this time.
"I think so," says Walter. He puts the bottle on the floor. "You want to try sitting up? Or you want to wait a few minutes?"
"I've got to get Marlena."
"Forget it, Jacob. There's nothing you can do right now."
"I've got to. What if he . . .?" My voice cracks. I can't even finish the sentence. Walter helps me into a sitting position.
"There's nothing you can do right now."
"I don't accept that."
Walter turns in fury. "For Christ's sake, would you just listen to me for once?"
His anger startles me into silence. I rearrange my knees and lean forward so my head is resting on my arms. It feels heavy, huge--at least as large as my body.
"Never mind that we're on a moving train and you've got a concussion. We're in a mess. A big mess. And the only thing you can do right now is make it worse. Hell, if you hadn't been knocked flat and if we didn't still have Camel here, I'd have never gotten back on this train tonight."
I stare between my knees at the bedroll, trying to concentrate on the largest fold of material. Things are steadier now, not shifting so much. With each passing minute, additional parts of my brain are kicking in.
"Look," Walter continues, his voice softer, "we've got three days left before we off-load Camel. And we're just going to have to cope the best we can in the meantime. That means watching our backs and not doing anything stupid."
"Off-load Camel?" says Camel. "Is that how you think of me?"
"At the moment, yes!" barks Walter. "And you should be grateful we do, because what the hell do you think would happen to you if we took off right now? Hmmm?"
There is no answer from the cot.
Walter pauses and sighs. "Look, what's happening with Marlena is terrible, but for God's sake! If we leave before Providence, Camel's done for. She's going to have to look after herself for the next three days. Hell, she's done it for four years. I think she can last another three days."
"She's pregnant, Walter."
"What?"
There is a long silence. I look up.
Walter's forehead is creased. "Are you sure?"
"So she says."
He stares into my eyes for a long time. I try to meet his gaze, but my eyes jerk rhythmically to the side.
"All the more reason to play this carefully. Jacob, look at me!"
"I'm trying!" I say.
"We're going to get out of here. But if we're all going to make it, we've got to play it right. We can't do anything--anything!--until Camel's gone. The sooner you get used to that, the better."
There's a sob from the cot. Walter turns his head. "Shut it, Camel! They wouldn't be taking you back if they hadn't forgiven you. Or would you rather be redlighted?"
"I don't rightly know," he cries.
Walter turns back to me. "Look at me, Jacob. Look at me." When I do, he continues. "She'll handle him. I tell you, she'll handle him. She's the only one who can. She knows what's at stake. It's only for three days."
"And then what? Like you've said all along, we have nowhere to go."
He turns his face away in anger. Then he spins back. "Do you truly comprehend the situation here, Jacob? Because sometimes I wonder."
"Of course I do! It's just I'm not liking any of the options."
"Me neither. But like I said, we'll have to sort that out later. Right now let's just concentrate on getting out of here alive."
CAMEL SOBS AND SNIFFS his way to sleep, despite Walter's repeated assurances that his family will welcome him with open arms.
Eventually he drifts off. Walter checks him one more time and then turns off the lamp. He and Queenie retire to the horse blanket in the corner. A few minutes later he begins to snore.
I rise carefully, testing my balance at every point. When I've got myself successfully upright, I step tentatively forward. I'm dizzy but seem able to compensate. I take a few steps in a row, and when that works out all right I cross the floor to the trunk.
Six minutes later, I'm creeping across the top of the stock car on my hands and knees with Walter's knife in my teeth.
What sounds like gentle clacking from inside the train is a violent banging up here. The cars shift and jerk as we round a corner, and I stop, clinging to the top rail until we're once again on a straightaway.
At the end of the car I pause to consider my options. In theory, I could climb down the ladder, leap over to the platform, and walk through the various cars until I reach the one in question. But I can't risk being seen.
So. And so.
I stand, still hol
ding the knife in my teeth. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms moving jerkily to the side, like the tightrope walker's.
The divide between this car and the next seems immense, a great span over eternity. I gather myself, pressing my tongue against the bitter metal of the knife. Then I leap, throwing every ounce of muscle into propelling myself through the air. I swing my arms and legs wildly, preparing to catch hold of anything--anything at all--if I miss.
I hit roof. I cling to the top rail, panting like a dog around the sides of the blade. Something warm trickles from the corner of my mouth. Still kneeling on the rail, I remove the knife from my mouth and lick blood from my lips. Then I put it back, taking care to keep my lips retracted.
In this manner I traverse five sleepers. Each time I leap, I land a little more cleanly, a little more cavalierly. By the sixth, I have to remind myself to be careful.
When I reach the privilege car, I sit on the roof and take stock. My muscles are aching, my head is spinning, and I'm gasping for breath.
The train jags around another curve and I grasp the rails, looking toward the engine. We're hugging the side of a forested hill, headed for a trestle. From what I can see in the darkness, the trestle drops down to a rocky river bank twenty yards below. The train jerks again, and I make my decision. The rest of my journey to car 48 will be on the interior.
Still clenching the knife in my teeth, I ease myself off the edge of the platform. The cars that house the performers and bosses are connected by metal plates, so all I have to do is make sure I land on it. I'm hanging by my fingertips when the train lurches once again, swinging my legs off to the side. I clutch desperately, my sweaty fingers sliding on the cross-hatched metal.
When the train straightens out again, I drop onto the plate. The platform has a railing and I lean against it for a moment, collecting myself. With aching, trembling fingers I pull the watch from my pocket. It's nearly three in the morning. The chances of running into someone are slim. But still.
The knife is a problem. It is too long to go in a pocket, too sharp to stick in my waistband. In the end, I wrap my jacket around it and tuck it under my arm. Then I run my fingers through my hair, wipe the blood off my lips, and slide the door open.
The corridor is empty, illuminated by moonlight coming through the windows. I pause long enough to look out. We're on the trestle now. I had underestimated its height--we're a good forty yards above the boulders of the riverbank and facing a wide area of nothingness. As the train sways, I'm grateful I'm no longer on the roof.
Soon I'm staring at the doorknob of stateroom 3. I unwrap the knife and lay it on the floor while I put my jacket back on. Then I pick it up and stare at the doorknob a moment longer.
There's a loud click as I turn the knob, and I freeze, keeping it turned, waiting to see if there's a reaction. After several seconds, I continue twisting and push the door inward.
I leave the door open, afraid that if I close it I'll wake him up.
If he's on his back, a single quick slash across the windpipe will do it. If he's on his stomach or side, I'll plunge it straight through, making sure the blade crosses his windpipe. Either way, I'll hit him in the neck. I just can't falter, because it must be deep enough that he bleeds out quickly, without crying out.
I creep toward the bedroom, clutching the knife. The velvet curtain is closed. I pull the edge of it toward me and peek in. When I see that he's alone, I exhale in relief. She's safe, probably in the virgin car. In fact, I must have crawled right over her on my way here.
I slip in and stand by the bed. He's sleeping on the near side, leaving space for the absent Marlena. The curtains on the windows are tied back, and moonlight flashes through the trees, alternately illuminating and hiding his face.
I stare down at him. He's in striped pajamas and looks peaceful, boyish even. His dark hair is mussed, and the edge of his mouth moves in and out of a smile. He's dreaming. He moves suddenly, smacking his lips and rolling from his back onto his side. He reaches over to Marlena's side of the bed and pats the empty space a few times. Then he pats his way up to her pillow. He takes hold of it and pulls it to his chest, hugging it, burrowing his face into it.
I raise the knife, holding it in both hands, its tip poised two feet above his throat. I need to do this right. I adjust the blade's angle to maximize side-to-side damage. The train passes out of the trees, and a thin streak of moonlight catches the blade. It glints, throwing tiny shards of light as I make adjustments to the angle. August moves again, snorting and rolling violently onto his back. His left arm flops off the bed and comes to a stop inches from my thigh. The knife is still gleaming, still catching and throwing light. But the movement is no longer a result of my making adjustments. My hands are shaking. August's lower jaw opens, and he inhales with a terrible rumbling and smacking of lips. The hand beside my thigh is slack. The fingers of his other hand twitch.
I lean over him and lay the knife carefully on Marlena's pillow. I stare for a few seconds longer and then leave.
NO LONGER RIDING a wave of adrenaline, my head once again feels larger than my body, and I stagger through the corridors until I reach the end of the staterooms.
I have a choice to make. I must either go up top again or else continue through the privilege car--where there's every possibility someone is still up gambling--and then also pass through all the sleepers, at which point I'll still have to go back up top to get to the stock car. And so I decide to make the ascent earlier rather than later.
It's almost more than I can manage. My head is pounding, and my balance seriously compromised. I climb onto the railing of a connecting platform and somehow scrape my way up to the top. Once there, I lie on the top rail, queasy and limp. I spend ten minutes recovering and then crawl forth. I rest again at the end of the car, prostrate between the top rails. I am utterly drained. I can't imagine how I'll keep going, but I must, because if I fall asleep here I'll fall off the first time we hit a curve.
The buzzing returns, and my eyes are jerking. I dive across the great divide four times, each time sure I won't make it. On the fifth, I nearly don't. My hands hit the thin iron rails, but the edge of the car hits me in the gut. I hang there, stunned, so tired that it crosses my mind how much easier it would be to simply let go. It's how drowning people must feel in the last few seconds, when they finally stop fighting and sink into the water's embrace. Only what's waiting for me is not a watery embrace. It's a violent dismemberment.
I snap to, scrabbling with my legs until I get purchase on the top edge of the car. From there, it's easy enough to haul myself up and a second later I'm once again lying on the top rail, gasping for breath.
The train whistle blows, and I lift my huge head. I'm on top of the stock car. I only have to make it to the vent and drop down. I crawl to the vent in fits and starts. It's open, which is odd because I thought I closed it. I lower myself inside and crash to the floor. One of the horses whinnies and continues to snort and stamp, riled up about something.
I turn my head. The exterior door is now open.
I jerk up and scootch around so I'm facing the interior door. It is also open.
"Walter! Camel!" I shout.
Nothing but the sound of the door gently hitting the wall behind it, keeping time with the ties clacking beneath us.
I scramble to my feet and lunge for the door. Doubled over and supporting myself with one hand against the doorframe and the other on my thigh, I scan the interior of the room with sightless eyes. All the blood has left my head, and my vision once again fills with black and white explosions.
"Walter! Camel!"
My eyesight starts to return, from the outside in so that I find myself turning my head to try to catch things in the periphery. The only light is what comes through the slats, and it reveals an empty cot. The bedroll is also empty, as is the horse blanket in the corner.
I stagger to the row of trunks against the back wall and lean over them.
"Walter?"
All I fin
d is Queenie, shivering and curled into a ball. She looks up at me in terror, and I am left with no doubt.
I sink to the floor, overcome with grief and guilt. I throw a book at the wall. I pound the floorboards. I shake my fists at heaven and God, and when I finally subside into uncontrolled sobbing Queenie creeps out from behind the trunks and slides into my lap. I hold her warm body until finally we are rocking in silence.
I want to believe that taking Walter's knife didn't make a difference. But still, I left him without a knife, without even a chance.
I want to believe they survived. I try to picture it--the two of them rolling out onto the mossy forest floor amid indignant curses. Why, at this very moment, Walter is probably going for help. He has made Camel comfortable in some sheltered spot and is going for help.
Okay. Okay. It's not as bad as I thought. I'll go back for them. In the morning, I'll grab Marlena and we'll go back to the nearest town and ask at the hospital. Maybe even the jail, in case the town decided they were vagrants. It should be easy enough to figure out which town is closest. I can locate it by proximity to the--
They didn't. They couldn't have. Nobody could have redlighted a crippled old man and a dwarf over a trestle. Not even August. Not even Uncle Al.
I spend the rest of the night planning all the ways I can kill them, rolling the ideas around in my head and savoring them, as though I were fingering smooth stones.
THE SCREECH OF THE air brakes snaps me out of my trance. Before the train has even stopped, I drop to the gravel and stride toward the sleepers. I climb the iron stairs to the first one shabby enough to house working men and slide the door open so violently it bounces closed again. I reopen it and march through.
"Earl! Earl! Where are you?" My voice is guttural with hate and rage. "Earl!"
I stalk down the aisle, peering into bunks. None of the surprised faces I encounter is Earl's.
Onto the next car.
"Earl! You in here?"
I pause and turn to a bewildered man in a bunk. "Where the hell is he? Is he in here?"
"You mean Earl from security?"
"Yeah. That's who I mean, all right."
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Two cars thataway."
I pass through another car, trying to avoid the limbs that stick out from under bunks, the arms that spill over their edges.