Andrew Vachss: Two Trains Running

“You only… kill white people? Because of what-”

“No,” Dett said, making a harsh sound in his throat. “I kill the people I get paid to kill. You think it’s only whites that run gangs?”

“But if they’re all criminals…” Tussy said, desperately searching.

“I’m not a vigilante,” Dett said. “I’m not out doing justice. I’m just trying to slow that train down. I was given seven years.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I left, Tante Verity told me my time started in that field, when I killed those three men. And it would run for seven years. By then, the first train would be through the crossroads, no matter what. If I’m not already dead, I can start walking my own road, that’s what she said. I’ll be clean then.”

“That’s not for another-”

“About four years,” Dett said.

“It’s too… horrible,” Tussy said, sobbing.

Dett sat with his fists clenched, unable to look away.

1959 October 11 Sunday 02:21

“Why did you tell me all this, Walker?” Tussy asked, an hour later.

“I had to. Tante Verity told me I could never have a friend, not for seven years. I could never be close to anyone. But she promised I would find a pure woman. And when I did, I could tell her.”

“But how could you possibly-?”

“She said I’d know. And she was right. The second I saw you, I knew.”

“I can’t… It’s like it’s too big to even think about, what you said. That’s really you, Walker? A man who goes around killing people?”

“I have to do it,” Dett said. “I just have to. I did my best to explain, but I know how it sounds. Like I’m insane. Chasing ghosts. Trying to slow down some train. I know. But every word I told you is the truth, Tussy.”

“I…”

“You know it’s true,” Dett said, relentlessly. “You know I’m true, true for you, or you never would have told me what you did. About your… about your life.”

“But… what’s going to happen, Walker?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re just going to disappear? And then do another…?”

“Yes. Until the time has passed. Or until I get killed.”

“You sound like it doesn’t matter to you at all.”

“It can’t matter, not until the seven years has passed.”

“What are you saying?” she said, struggling with tears.

“I’ll come back then, Tussy. If I’m alive, I’ll come back.”

“For me?”

“If you would have me.”

“How can you even-? I…”

“I’ll just call. On the phone. If you hear my voice, and hang up, I’ll have your answer.”

“Walker…”

“I’m gone, Tussy. If you ever see me again, I won’t be Walker Dett. I’ll be… I’ll be clean. I thought of just… telling you a story. About some secret mission or something. Hoping that you’d wait for me. But if you’re going to have the truth of me when I come back, you had to have the truth of what I am now. What I was before that, too.”

“I can’t…”

“I know,” Dett said. He got to his feet and walked out into the night.

1959 October 11 Sunday 09:30

“Yes. I’ll get him,” Cynthia said.

She handed the phone to Beaumont, mouthing, “It’s him,” as she did so.

Beaumont picked up the receiver, a determined look on his face.

“This is Royal Beaumont,” he said.

1959 October 11 Sunday 13:21

“I thought you said he was going along with everything.”

“That’s what he said,” Lymon answered Shalare. “And I still think he is.”

“You didn’t know he was going to hit Dioguardi?”

“I don’t know who knew that. Sammy didn’t, that’s for sure. And him and me and Faron, we’re the senior men.”

“But it’s that young one, Harley, that you said Beaumont had picked out to be next in line, not any of you, isn’t that right? Isn’t that why you came to us in the first place, Lymon?”

“Yeah. That’s right. Harley’s just a kid, maybe twenty-five. I don’t see why Roy would-”

“Never mind that now. Give me something I can use, Lymon. If Beaumont did it-and I can’t see anyone else-why would he make such a move?”

“For Hacker.”

“Hacker?”

“One of our guys. A collector. He disappeared a while back, and Roy always said it was Dioguardi’s work.”

“Yeah,” Shalare mused. “He’s that kind of man, is he?”

“That’s one of the things that kept us together, all these years. We’re not a gang, we’re more like a… family, maybe. And Roy, he’s the father.”

“And you, Lymon, you’re his brother, then?”

“And my name should be Cain, that’s what you’re saying?” Lymon snarled, his voice thick with fury. “You fucking swore there was to be no blood. I came to you-”

“You came to me to betray your brother,” Shalare said, pronouncing judgment. “And now it’s time for you to fulfill your contract. I want the exact layout of the-”

Lymon lunged for Shalare, an unsheathed hunting knife in his right hand. Shalare took the first thrust on his left forearm and rolled to the floor as he lashed out with his boot. Lymon sidestepped the kick, got in one of his own to the ribs, raised his knife, screamed, “You won’t make dirt of me, you-” And then Brian O’Sullivan had him from behind.

1959 October 11 Sunday 16:22

Mickey Shalare’s white Chrysler slowed at the guardhouse. Seth strolled to the lowered window, shotgun in hand. When he saw Brian O’Sullivan behind the wheel, his face opened in a smile of greeting. A man in the back seat shot Seth in the chest, the silenced pistol inaudible past twenty yards.

As the Chrysler sped forward, four more vehicles followed. Armed men spilled out, shooting.

Return fire from the house sent Shalare’s men running for cover. Two didn’t make it. Brian O’Sullivan leaped from behind the Chrysler and ran to one of the fallen men. Udell cut him down with a single shot to the chest, worked the bolt on his deer rifle, and put another round into the man he had wounded. From his perch on the second floor, Udell calmly scanned the scene, then began firing methodically at the scattered cars, hunting for gas tanks.

Faron slithered around a corner of the stone house, dropped to one knee, and aimed his rifle at a clump of three men crouched behind one of the cars Udell was firing at. The men bolted for a safer spot. Faron dropped the first two; the third made it.

An armored car suddenly roared up to the front door. The small-arms fire from inside the house bounced harmlessly off its reinforced steel plating. A small, runty man with three fingers missing from his right hand jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran back toward Shalare’s men, his body hunched over. “Down!” he screamed.

The truck mushroomed. The entire front of the stone house crumbled, replaced by a wall of fire.

As Shalare’s men charged, Luther walked through the flames, a pistol in each hand, no expression on his slack-mouthed face. The first three men who saw him died.

A shot tore the sleeve of Luther’s gray flannel suit. A pistol dropped from his useless left hand.

“They’re after Roy!” Faron shouted to Luther. “Go back and cover him.”

Luther turned his back on the gunfight and ran through the house. When he got to Beaumont’s office, he yelled, “They’re all around!”

“Come on, Beau,” Cynthia said, calmly. “We have to get to the car.”

“No!” Beaumont said, as Cynthia reached for his wheelchair. “There’s no time to push this goddamned thing out the long way, and it won’t fit through the escape hatch. Go out the back way, like we planned.”

“We can carry you-”

“Not a chance. Luther’s only got one arm. Now, get going!”