Parallel Lies (18 page)

O’Malley’s Irish face flared scarlet, and for a moment Tyler worried he might have pushed him too far. O’Malley worked the cigar to a bright orange bead, burning the tobacco a little hot and probably ruining the rest of its smoke. The beer went down like water. Tyler wasn’t drinking his.

O’Malley sat forward and wheezed in a whisper. “According to Ms. Priest, you’ve already made the jump, am I right?” Tyler could only guess at what the man might be referring to—he and Priest had covered a lot of possibilities. He kept quiet, and let O’Malley talk. “Every six or eight weeks—there’s no real pattern to it—one of our freight trains derails. Six trains to date. We lost one engineer, one driver to disability. Our insurers and their underwriters have lost tens of millions. Hundreds of millions is more like it. We’ve followed a half dozen leads across twice that many states—”

“Enter Harry Wells,” Tyler whispered back across the table. His heart raced.

O’Malley nodded. “Harry was assigned one of our more promising leads. A Latino had been remembered by a rider who was rousted in a yard in Indianapolis. He’d been hiding on a car, and he remembered this Latino because, believing he was alone, the man had been constantly checking the scenery against his watch and making notes. That won our attention, to say the least.

“Harry was handy, already in Kansas City,” he continued. “We bumped him over to Terre Haute, and it was the last we heard from him.”

“I’ve read about those derailments. They supposedly resulted from mechanical problems or the conductors or engineers on drugs and alcohol.”

“We retire a few guys early, it’s cheaper for everyone than turning this into a three-ring media circus. We have customers, Mr. Tyler. Stockholders. Merger partners. Some maniac gets us in his sights, it’s not something we’re going to broadcast, especially since we can’t even prove it’s all the same guy. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Is it the same guy?”

“We have no evidence, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s why Ms. Priest was put on orders not to share. We don’t
know shit, quite honestly. Only that our trains keep rolling over. And now Harry Wells.”

“Sabotaged tracks? Explosives?”

“I meant what I said: no solid evidence. None. Zero. They look mechanical. When bearings fail on a freight car, the axle shears. We’ve been seeing a lot of bad bearings lately,” he said sarcastically. “Like six different sets. My job—at least one part of it—is to determine if foul play was or was not involved. When Bill Goheen took over this company we went five years without a single accident. Now six derailments in eighteen months. What do you think a bookmaker would do with that?”

“Disgruntled employees; people you didn’t hire but thought they deserved to be; fired workers at another company angry over a merger.” Tyler rattled these off but saw the enormity of the task. “It’s a big job.”

“Huge.”

“You’ve told Loren Rucker?”

“Your guys have investigated right alongside ours. No evidence of foul play. Just bad bearings.” He spoke a little louder, though still half voice. “But maybe, I mean what if, this is some wacko who didn’t get enough time with his Lionel set as a kid. You know? We got real serious about this investigation about a year ago, when our third train rolled over. Harry…Harry Wells I’m talking about…he was living with some of that frustration. I don’t believe he did what you said he did, but if he got tough with some of these guys, I can understand it. You lose too many in a row and the guys in the dugout get kinda restless.” He looked Tyler in the eye. “You know about losing your patience. I don’t have to tell you.”

Tyler felt his skin warm and his fist clench. He controlled himself and said, “He’s here in New York. At the very least, he passed through.”

“Ms. Priest filled me in. Rounding up the security videos—some quick thinking. I’d sure as hell appreciate any of those tapes when you can make them available. This guy’s been without a face for us for a long time.”

“And he still is,” Tyler reported. “Maybe video enhancement can help, but it’s doubtful: the cameras are typically mounted high, to see over heads, and the tape seems like it’s always a year or two old, grainy and full of dropouts. You won’t be matching him to any mug shots.”

“You got further with this than my guys did,” O’Malley said, with a hint of respect. “When you make your report to Loren, treat it however you have to, but on the report to the Bureau, I’d sure as hell appreciate it if this particular conversation was left out. That said, I’m not telling you how to run your show. You do what you have to do.” He added, “After you make your report, if Loren’s too dumb to keep you on, and you’re looking for a place to hang out your shingle—”

Tyler felt a surge of relief, both from O’Malley’s job offer and the information the man had provided. The offer did not feel underhanded nor an attempt to manipulate him. Just an offer put on the table—and a tempting one at that. He clarified, “I won’t be making any written report until someone ties me down and makes me do it. I think you’re safe there. The verbal reports? They’re for Rucker to deal with.”

O’Malley looked genuinely pleased. “So you plan to continue?”

“Absolutely.” He glanced over at Priest. She looked at him; she seemed pleased to hear this.

O’Malley clearly had believed Tyler’s work was over. “It’s a city of six to ten million, Mr. Tyler. We have over a dozen agents out there looking for him around the clock. Have had, for months. You really think you’re going to find him here?”

O’Malley had slipped—perhaps he’d drunk that beer too
fast. Tyler wondered how they could have been looking for someone for “months” when mention of a Latino had only recently come in. Tyler considered pointing this out but then said thoughtfully, “No. I don’t think I’ll have to find him. My bet: he’s going to find you.”

Terre Haute, Indiana, held closely to the eastern banks of the Wabash River and steeped under a brood of winter clouds. The small Midwestern city had given birth to a socialist leader, Eugene Debs, who’d been jailed for participating in a railroad strike, its river had been the source of a folk song or two, but for Alvarez, its importance was that it was home to several rail yards. Terre Haute served as a rail intersection, a nerve center, and as such it was the logical jumping-off point for Alvarez’s final freight derailment.

By contractual arrangement, these tracks carried trains belonging to dozens of other carriers, including Northern Union. Fees were determined by tonnage and number of cars. Of the four regional companies, CIE and Louisville-and-Nashville were under contract to Pinkerton for their security. The smaller carriers worked with lesser-known firms. Northern Union, CSX, and the big nationals kept security work in-house. Consolidations and mergers had left many companies traveling over the same shared rails, sharing yards, sharing maintenance, and yet oddly, all being managed by different security companies. In terms of security, Terre Haute was a model of confusion; for Alvarez it was a thing of beauty, a place where jurisdiction was unclear. A derailment would necessitate dozens of meetings and phone calls—a time-consuming process that would benefit Alvarez’s escape. His encounter in the boxcar had shown him that NUS agents were out looking for him. But NUR controlled more
than thirty thousand miles of track. Even O’Malley could not effectively police a network that size.

Alvarez’s purpose that night in the boxcar had been to establish location. That research now returned him to Greencastle, Indiana. Shipping manifests that he’d studied inside NUR’s New York headquarters had provided him with both scheduling and equipment assignments.

Somewhere in the darkness, freight car AJ5-6729 awaited him. Once he found it, he needed only minutes to ensure its derailment.

He was distracted by erotic thoughts of Jillian and cautioned himself to maintain a clear head. New York had been a success: he had gained access to the escort service’s Internet site and had won confirmation of a “date” with the same woman whom he’d followed to the Powell. Jillian was not needed, not necessary, and he knew better than to involve himself with
anyone.
Even so, she lingered in the back of his mind invitingly: sensual and understanding—a near lethal combination for a man in his current situation.

In Greencastle, five lines of CSX track met with a north/ south spur of the Louisville-and-Nashville, meaning that all freight trains slowed to a crawl when passing through this small town. Some interline trains exchanged cars, others offloaded freight. Despite all this activity, Greencastle was considered insignificant real estate by the conglomerates that controlled these tracks. In all of Greencastle, there was not a single security agent for any of the rail companies. Yard employees were encouraged to keep an eye out for riders and throw them off, but only the local police had authority to arrest or detain, and the police here seemed more preoccupied with DePauw U. kids than with the rusting tracks left behind by the mining boom nearly a century earlier.

At midnight, in forty-one-degree temperatures and near total darkness, Alvarez wore four thin layers of insulating clothing, including black jeans and his black leather jacket.
He carried the duffel containing two hydraulic car jacks, each weighing about fifteen pounds. He also carried a box filled with a dozen round bearings intended for equipment half the weight of a freight car. All those bearings would quickly fail as they overheated. He slipped into the area of intersecting tracks west of South Jackson Street. Using an alias, he had flown two flights to get to his spot: Newark to Cincinnati; Cincinnati to Indianapolis. To reach Greencastle, less than thirty miles from Indianapolis, he had avoided trains altogether, electing to take an airport cab to Putnamville and then walking a series of country roads three miles north to Greencastle. He’d begun that walk at ten-thirty at night, and not a single car or truck had passed him during the entire forty-five-minute journey. Umberto Alvarez loved the Midwest.

The yard was dark, and Alvarez was taking no chances that NUR had stationed someone here. Upon his arrival, he had stood perfectly still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, only to realize they already had: he could hardly see any distance at all, given the cloud cover and lack of city light. He watched and waited for a half hour, his nerves wired by coffee and adrenaline—not a movement out there. Finally, he braved it, using a red bandanna as a filter over his mag light, creating a faint red ray that he followed. Red light did not carry well past a few yards and therefore would be difficult for anyone to spot, even from nearby South Jackson Street. He worked the long line of rail cars sidetracked in the yard, some hitched to others, some orphans, all the while alert for the unexpected rider or unscheduled guard who could be lurking. He remained attentive for the smell of booze or cigarettes. He crept quietly alongside the cars, pausing at intervals, his dull red flashlight beam seeking out the control numbers on the sides of the cars and flatbeds.

There she was: AJ5-6729. He touched the side of the car with reverence. It was a messenger, this car, destined now to deliver destruction to the doorstep of William Goheen, one
last effort to draw O’Malley’s attention away from the bullet train, however briefly. AJ5-6729, a flatbed listed in the NUR manifest, was scheduled to depart Greencastle today. The smell of success filled his head like the glow from a good wine. He felt giddy. He carried no notes, all necessary information had been committed to memory. His laptop, his mechanical brain, was secured through passwords. He read the stenciled numbering—AJ5-6729—one last time. It was scheduled to be interlined that same morning. The full train, owned and operated by NUR, would travel on CSX tracks through western Indiana—Brazil and Seelyville—on its way to Terre Haute and St. Louis beyond.

Its ultimate destination was Albuquerque, New Mexico—a destination that would never be reached. AJ5-6729 would lose its axle and roll somewhere this side of Terre Haute. It would carry the rear cars with it.

Alvarez circled the flatbed. Convinced he was alone, he tossed the duffel beneath the car and followed under himself. With the proper equipment, a trained maintenance crew could switch out journal bearings in minutes. Train truck axles were secured by nothing more than gravity. With bad bearings and lubricating wood waste removed, Alvarez could create a “hot box” in virtually no time. Later he’d ride a different freight to the town of Brazil. There, he would waste the morning awaiting the only foolproof mode of transportation out of the area: Amtrak. His research into the speed of this train and the timing of “hot box” failure suggested that sometime before Terre Haute, the driver or engineer would notice an unexpected shimmy, a buckling, a rumble, which would pass up the steel like a cold shiver. AJ5-6729 would begin to fishtail. Then the train would roll, car after car. A lazy, slow roll that would snap a coupler well before the forward cars—and the locomotive—were threatened. A few thousand tons of steel would roll off the track, skid, and crawl through the
landscape, ripping up the rail in its wake. An investigation would begin that would distract, if not consume, O’Malley and the NTSB—all players that Alvarez needed out of the way in order to give him room to work his magic on the bullet train.

Tyler might have had his first decent night’s sleep had it not been for the thoughts patrolling inside his head. The talk with O’Malley had both intrigued and upset him. Information had been kept from him, by NUR and possibly by Loren Rucker. O’Malley’s unwavering confidence and arrogance got under Tyler’s skin and festered. The man’s opinion that Tyler had little chance of success irritated but somehow also inspired him.

He tossed and turned, sleeping poorly, with the hotel’s bedside clock shining a dull green light onto his face and through his closed eyelids. He woke himself up with a start in the middle of making love to Nell Priest, an erection beneath the sheets, and realized that she, too, had gotten under his skin. He had been away from home just a couple of nights, but it seemed much longer.

Tyler placed another call to his attorney, Henry Happle, who related that the bank was unwilling to negotiate repayment of the missed mortgages. They took the stand that if Tyler repaid all his current mortgage debts in a lump sum, as well as a $527 penalty fee, and was able to keep current with future payments, the foreclosure papers would go away. They might as well have suggested he fly to the moon.