Evan Hunter: Nobody Knew They Were There

There are footprints in the snow.

For a moment, I mistake them for my own, assuming automatically that they are the tracks I left when climbing up to the boulder. But then I see that they move inexorably across the ravine toward the center of the span where they become tangled and confused, as though whoever left them had been milling about there for some time, and then they continue on in a straight purposeful line of march toward the concrete pier at the western end. I am suddenly panicked I look at my watch again. It is twenty minutes to eleven, the train will arrive in eight minutes.

I scramble down off the boulder, half sliding, half falling to the concrete pier below. I brush snow away from the girders.

The wires running from the dynamite have been cut

Someone has cut the wires.

These wires, and presumably all of them, the ones connecting the charges to each other, the ones running back to the boulder and the box. The lead wires buried in the boulder’s snow, the ones I carefully wrapped around the brass screws and fastened with the wing nuts, are meaningless. They go from the box to nowhere. Bob and Harold, I think. Those sons of bitches walked the track this morning. Or maybe not. I can visualize an envious Seth, a cheated Weglowski, a doubtful Raines, either or all of them committing this senseless sabotage that now renders me impotent I am filled with blinding rage. I begin digging deeper into the snow, thinking I will tear the sticks of dynamite free of the footing to which they are taped, clasp them in my arms, and run onto the tracks to meet the train. But I remember what Weglowski told me about the comparative safety of dynamite, and I do not know whether impact with the onrushing locomotive will detonate it. There is too much I do not know. I am a fool on an expert’s errand.

I remember something else Weglowski told me.

I scramble up to the boulder again, Sara’s idiotic jingle racing in my mind, Oh, dear, what can the matter be, and lift the blasting machine by its leather handle, rush across the tracks to the center of the span, climb under the trestle. The train is not yet in sight. I look at my watch. Four minutes. I do not know whether this single charge of dynamite at the keystone point will indeed be enough to demolish the bridge and the train, not even Weglowski could tell me that for certain. But it is at least a chance, and if I can reconnect the severed wires here… I look at my watch again. Three minutes. I look down the track. Nothing yet. On the highway, Sara has climbed out of the car and is waving to me again.

There are wires dangling from beneath the trestle, a tangle of cut wires. I look for the dynamite, knowing for certain that this is where Weglowski placed his center charge, but I find only strands of tape sticking to the girders. Cut tape. The dynamite is gone. The train will arrive in two minutes, and the dynamite is gone. Whoever did the job has done it completely, there is nothing left, nothing.

On the highway, Sara yells, “Arthur!”

I turn my head to look at her.

“It’s not coming,” she shouts.

“What?”

“It’s not coming! The train. I just heard it on the radio.”

“What?”

“They arrived by jet. At the airport. They’ve already been helicoptered to the campus.”

“No.” I shake my head

“Yes, Arthur.”

“No,” I say again.

But I realize it is true.

There is rock-and-roll music flooding the automobile. It provides a shock background for my numbness. I cannot yet accept the total disintegration of the plan. The reversal of events has stunned me, and I sit in silent gloomy speculation as I drive the winding mountain road into town, where crowds are already streaming toward the campus.

The road to the airport is clogged with automobiles heading in the opposite direction, bound for the university, where our beloved loyal leaders will once again assure the American people that we are unified in our goals and aspirations. I begin wondering about their decision to fly. Was the Peace Train abandoned because of security reports from their advance agents? Or was that the plan all along, lead us to believe they were coming by train, and then board an airplane instead? Are they really that clever at manipulation and deception, can they so bewilder and confuse, can they rob us of decisive action forever — the way they robbed Adam of life and David of direction?

I cannot believe it.

There is yet a future not of their making, there is a baby in Sara’s belly, there is hope. And although they may have succeeded for the present, they will have to meet that future one day, and it will succeed where we have failed, it will rush to challenge whatever trains come roaring over that fucking bridge, whatever planes drop unexpectedly out of the sky overhead. I drive silently, and Sara sits silently beside me, her hands folded in her lap.

At the airport, I park the car and take my bag from the trunk.

“Shall I come in with you?” she asks.

“Yes. Please.”

We go into the terminal. At the check-in counter, I show my ticket, and the uniformed airline employee pushes his computer buttons and verifies my seat and puts a tag on my suitcase and staples my baggage claim check to the ticket folder. Sara and I walk together to the gate, still silent. I want to tell her what I was thinking in the car. I want to tell her there is still hope. But I sense she knows this, I sense it is this she has contained in her own silence ever since we left the bridge. The plane has not yet begun boarding passengers. Sara excuses herself and goes to the ladies’ room. The huge jet is waiting at the end of the ramp. I stare at it blankly through the long terminal windows. They are announcing the flight when Sara returns.

“I just got ray period,” she says.

I look at her. There are tears streaming down her face.

“Good-bye, Arthur,” she whispers.

“Good-bye, Sara,” I answer, and turn away.