Jason Pinter - The Mark

Amanda tugged my arm.

“Henry, what do we do?”

I turned around. The other exit looked clear. I looked out the window, saw that the train tracks ran parallel to a line of trees fifty yards away. Through the treeline, I could see cars speeding down a highway.

“There,” I whispered. “The highway.” Amanda looked at me like I’d just given birth.

“How the hell…”

“Come on,” I said, pulling her to her feet. “Just act sick.”

When the conductor entered our car, I ran toward him, my arms and nose chain flapping wildly. Passengers stared at us as they waited with tickets and IDs in hand. I snapped my fingers and yelled.

“Hey, you, Mr. Ticket-Taker person. My girlfriend’s sick and she’s gonna puke all over your crappy blue leather seats if you don’t do something right quick.”

“Henry,” Amanda breathed. “What are you…”

“Start retching,” I said from the corner of my mouth. No sooner had I said it than a low guttural moan came from her lips, followed by a thick hacking cough. I felt warm spittle hit my cheek. The girl was good.

The conductor apologized to the passengers as he wedged his way down the aisle. Amanda-who I was now convinced should have studied at Juilliard-threw her arm over my shoulder and feigned collapsing. I held her up, with visible difficulty.

“What’s going on?” the conductor asked, his face a mixture of disgust and concern. Disgust, I imagined, with our appearance. Concern, because Amanda genuinely looked like she was ready to vomit all over the old lady in the next seat.

“Girlfriend’s gonna puke, stupid. You want it to get all over your nice train?”

“Goddamn it,” he said, wiping his brow with a fleshy hand. “Can’t you just take her to the restroom?”

“Toilet’s clogged. There’s shit all over the seat.”

“There’s another bathroom two cars down.”

On cue, Amanda covered her mouth and burped.

“Don’t think she’s gonna make it, my man.”

The conductor took off his cap, ran a hand through his thinning hair. A woman seated a few rows down yelled, “Hey, let’s get a move on.”

“What do you suggest I do?” the conductor asked, his patience wearing thin.

I replied, “Just give us a minute for some fresh air, to let her clear out the mucous and phlegm and bile, you know. We’ll be back in no time, I promise. And Mrs. Crabapple here won’t have to worry about her getting her hair mussed.”

“I’m not supposed to let passengers off unless we’re stopped at a station.” Again, like the world’s finest clairvoyant, Amanda leaned over and let a thin string of saliva drip from her mouth to the floor. The conductor watched in horror.

“That’s just revolting,” said the old woman in the next row. “Please get this creature away from my seat.” The conductor cursed under his breath.

“Come on.”

He gestured for us to follow him. Amanda limped like she’d been shot in both kneecaps. He led us to the entryway. The conductor, perhaps having one final doubt, looked back at us. Fortunately Amanda’s trail of saliva was now several feet long. That was all the convincing he needed.

He grabbed a small black handle and pulled it down. There was a loud fizz, like a freshly popped soda can, and the doors retracted.

Amanda sighed. “Air, sweet air.”

“You have five minutes,” the conductor said. “After that I’m not making any promises.”

“Gotcha, chief. Let’s go, honey. I knew you shouldn’t have eaten all that bacon before going to the rave.”

We stumbled down the steps, and I led Amanda to a patch of dry grass twenty yards from the train. As she leaned over, I caught the conductor going back inside. I waited until he was out of sight, and said, “Now.”

We bolted toward the cover of the tree line and the expansive stretch of gray highway behind it. A bolt of pain shot down my leg with each step, but there was no time to look back, no time to make sure we hadn’t been seen.

Then we were in the trees, ripping past branches, hiding behind a pair of large oaks. A soft wind poured down on us as we caught our breath. I peeked out from behind the tree, saw the blue brim of a conductor’s hat scanning the area. Then the conductor retreated inside and the door closed behind him.

As we began walking toward the highway, I heard the screeching of metal behind us, then an air-shattering horn. When I turned back, the train was pulling away.

I looked at Amanda, sweat dotting her forehead.

“You did real good, kid.” I brushed a strand of brown hair from her face, feeling her soft skin beneath my finger. She smiled, and I knew she felt it, too. “You did real good.”

“Thanks.” She was flushed a deep red from the exertion and, maybe, because she was blushing. “So how far are we from the city?”

“My guess? Nine or ten hours by foot, three or less by car.” Amanda furrowed her brow.

“I’ve never hitchhiked before.”

“Well, I’d never been shot before, but I guess there are some things you don’t have much say in.”

She took my hand as we approached the highway, the sun beating down on us, relentless. New York lay somewhere beyond the horizon. We were so close to the lion’s den, and somewhere within lay the truth. Somehow, I had to pry it loose before the jaws collapsed on me. Heading toward the highway, I wondered if I was walking toward absolution, or some terrible destiny.

The cell phone woke Mauser up. He’d been dreaming. Barbecues and beer. Base ball and bratwurst. Summers with John and Linda, their beautiful kids. Joel just learning to throw a football. Nancy playing in a new sundress.

And then the dream shattered just as quickly as their lives had been.

Denton was speeding down the highway. Lambert International was close. The plane was on standby, waiting for instructions on where to fly the two agents. The sky was growing dark, just a hint of red as the sun dipped below the horizon.

He clicked the answer button.

“This is Mauser.”

“Agent Mauser, Bill Lundquist over at the Chicago Transit Authority.”

“Mr. Lundquist.”

“Agent Mauser, I’ve been alerted by Amtrak security that on a commuter train that left Union Station this morning, a conductor reported a couple leaving the train during one of the security checks you advised.”

“What do you mean they left the train?”

“Well, sir, he said the couple didn’t fit the description given, he said they looked like they were coming from a rock concert or something, that they didn’t look threatening. The train stopped right outside of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.”

“Go on.” He could feel his blood steaming.

“The girl feigned illness, and they persuaded the conductor to let them off the train for air. When he went to check on them, they were gone. He assumed they came back inside while he wasn’t looking.”

“Jesus Christ, that was Parker and Amanda Davies.”

“Yes, sir, we’re pretty sure it was. I’m so sorry for this.”

“Stop with that. It’s over. But fire that fucking conductor.”

“He’s already been removed from duty.”

“Good. And Mr. Lundquist, what was that train’s final destination point?”

“Penn Station, sir. New York City. Also, they found the couple’s ticket stubs at their abandoned seats. They were paid in the full amount.”

“God damn it, ” Mauser spat. He closed the phone, dialed the supervisor at the Manhattan Transit Authority’s security division. “I want officers choking Penn Station to death, as well as all bus terminals. They’re headed right for you, be on guard, we’ll be there in a few hours.”

“We can make it,” Denton said. “We’ll be at Lambert in less than ten minutes, I’ve already cleared a hangar at LaGuardia’s Marine Terminal.”