Stephen Cannell - Vigilante

“ Bonne chance, ” he said, then slammed the door and sprinted off the track. I could feel the car shuddering with the vibrations of the approaching train. The red lights across the street from us were clanging, the bar arm lights flashing. I was unable to move.

Marcia was staring dumbly up the tracks at the approaching train. We were both trying to claw at the door handles to get out but had no strength to accomplish it.

Then the headlights swept around the last bend in the track and the train was bearing down on us from less than a block away. The engineer saw us and started leaning on the horn. He was going way too fast. The train whistle kept blaring as the white headlamp on the lead car wigwagged back and forth, strobing the car as the train thundered toward us.

We sat there, staring helplessly, watching the end of our lives approach at breakneck speed.

I’ve heard that at the moment of death your life will sometimes pass before your eyes as a series of living tableaus. As I stared in terror at the approaching train, I had no retrospective vision-no precious insights. I was just sitting there, unable to move, locked in full panic. The only thing that kept running through my brain was, This can’t be happening.

The train whistle blared relentlessly now less than a hundred yards away as a hundred and fifty tons of metal and glass bore down on us. The brakes were shrieking as they locked up on the track, throwing out sparks on both sides. Metal squealed against metal. We were seconds from impact.

First I heard the crossing guard arm behind us shatter. Then our car was hit from behind. As Marcia and I were thrown forward the airbags deployed. Next we were being pushed violently across the intersection and off the tracks. The nose of the Cad hit the crossing arm on the opposite side of the intersection, broke through it, and kept going.

Once the Cadillac broke through the guard arm, the tires cramped and it brodied right, spinning sideways. For a second I could see out the driver’s side window. A gray Navigator with smoked windows was behind us, powering us off the tracks. As we skidded sideways, the big SUV turned sharply with us and both vehicles barely cleared the rails. Seconds later the Metrolink flashed past.

The door to the Navigator opened and Lester Madrid climbed out. Leaving his cane behind, he limped quickly over to us and opened the car door. He pulled me from the front seat and laid me on the ground. Next he limped around to the passenger side to free Marcia. As he pulled her out, the train was still screeching by, trying to stop, but it was going so fast it would keep going for almost two more blocks. All I could see was the taillight as it finally came to a halt almost a quarter mile away.

I struggled to sit up. My head was spinning. Lester came back around the car and looked at me with disgust.

“I can’t believe I’m down to rescuing ass-wipe pussies like you,” he growled.

“Help me up,” I said.

He pulled me to my feet, and as soon as he did I started teetering. I felt a mile tall and six inches wide. I swayed and finally leaned against the Cad, trying to keep from falling down.

Marcia was lying on the grass on the far side of the road. She was beginning to regain some coordination and was struggling to get to her feet. She couldn’t make it but managed to prop herself up in a sitting position with her arms out behind her.

“Who parked you up there?” Lester asked. I couldn’t answer, so he went on. “I’ve been following you for two fucking days, Scully. How did you miss me? You should work on getting your head out of your ass.”

“Lee Bob Batiste. We need to get him, Les. He killed Lita.”

“Come on,” he said. “I saw where he went.”

Lester helped me into the front seat of the Navigator and then pulled Marcia to her feet and helped her into the seat behind.

I heard some train crewmen running toward us, their footsteps crunching the gravel beside the tracks as they approached. Lester got behind the wheel, slammed the door, and swung a U.

“Hey!” somebody yelled. “Come back! Where you going?!”

But Lester already had the Navigator in a smoking turn and squealed it back up and across the tracks.

“Where’d Lee Bob go?” I asked.

“Took off running up that side street back there,” Lester said. “Looks like designer houses and a cul-de-sac. Ends up by the foothills.”

He had the pedal down and the engine roared as the big SUV screamed across San Fernando Boulevard and made a right. We headed toward the foothills about a mile and a half away.

“Oh, shit,” Marcia muttered, ducked her head down, and threw up in the backseat.

Lester glanced back angrily at her. “You gonna puke, lady, do you mind doing it in your fucking purse?”

We flew up a residential street toward the hills beyond.

“There’s a backup piece in the glove box,” he said.

I fumbled with the latch, but I couldn’t get it open. My coordination was still shot.

Lester reached over and opened the glove box, then pulled out a.38 and dropped it on my lap.

“Try not to shoot me with it,” he growled.

We reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the road and Lester smoked the Navigator to a stop. I looked past the new designer houses and caught a glimpse of what looked like a man running in the moonlight through the brush up into the hills beyond.

Lester got out, then turned to Marcia. “Can you drive?”

“I think so,” she said. Her hair was in tangles. She had vomit stains on the front of her once-stylish gray designer pantsuit.

“Take this car back down the hill. On the way, call nine-one-one and give them this location. There’s a police station a mile away on San Fernando. Get help up here.”

Then, as Marcia pulled out, Lester led the way up toward the hillside. I stumbled along behind him clutching his.38 in my still-numb hand.

Lester was limping without his cane but making damn good time. I was struggling to keep pace.

We made our way between two houses and exited a back gate to a wilderness area behind the designer development. I saw Lee Bob loping across a large field of dry, brown grass cover. He was almost a quarter mile away, heading toward a three-hundred-foot rock cliff. If he got over the top, he could disappear into the mountains. He was barely lit by moonlight as he got to the rocks and began climbing the craggy surface, using his ropy build to pull himself effortlessly up.

Lester Madrid knelt in the dirt at the edge of the brown grassy meadow and watched Lee Bob scale the cliff.

“Fucking little spider monkey, ain’t he?” Lester said.

“I don’t think I can make that climb,” I said, as I dropped in beside him. “I don’t know what drug that nut-job gave me, but my coordination is shot.”

“With this leg I sure as shit ain’t gonna climb no rock wall,” Lester said. “Come on.”

We moved out into the field, breaking through tinder-dry brush, and hurried to close the distance to the cliff face.

Lee Bob was now almost halfway up, moving faster all the time as the degree of ascent lessened near the top. He must have heard us crashing through the brush below, because he paused and then turned to look down. He studied us for a minute, hanging from the rock face, then resumed his climb.

“If he gets over that ridge, he’ll be gone,” I said hotly. “We gotta do something.”

“Fuckin’ calm down. He ain’t getting over no ridge,” Lester replied. Then he licked his fingertips and moistened his gun sight.

“You can’t just shoot him in the back,” I said.

“Suggestion box is open, Dudley Do Right, but you better make it fast.” I couldn’t come up with anything. The Cajun was almost at the top of the cliff as Lester carefully sighted down the barrel and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. It was a tough shot. Problem was I needed Lee Bob alive to make my case against Nash. I certainly didn’t want this retired SIS gunfighter dropping him.