Chapter Six

The Bakersfield freight sorting yard was adjacent to the Amtrak station on Truxtun Ave. Bill found the station at 3:00 p.m. He pulled his Dodge Diplomat into a parking space and dashed off onto the freight yard tracks, once or twice his badge and authoritative demeanor brushing aside a trainman's questions and getting directions to the train he was looking for. He found it just as it was beginning to move out of the yard and in a reflex action he grabbed hold of a ladder leading up the side of a car and jumped on just as the train's speed accelerated to a dangerous rate. It was only by luck that he saw another man leap into an open box car fourteen cars away.

That had to be his man. Bill looked up to the top of the train car. He had seen enough movies where a man leapt over the top of moving train cars to realize it was possible; at least, for stunt men. Ralph wasn't to be seen and besides, it hurt Bill's pride a little to think he needed Ralph to do everything. He was an able Fed. He could handle some geek animal wacko. Timidly Bill began climbing the ladder to the roof of the car, a healthy dose of fear pervading his body and keeping his actions slow and deliberate. With a relatively quick move he dove onto the top and lay flat, the wind skimming his hair off his head. Cautiously he stood up, his legs wide apart. This wasn't so bad. The train was only going twenty miles an hour. He took a little step and kept his balance, the side to side motion of the train not that terribly precarious.

Bill got to the edge of the roof and looked down to see the tracks passing by quickly under the train. Logically, Bill's analytical eye saw it was only a leap of four or five feet to the next car, an easy distance for a man of 6'2". Emotionally, it seemed like he would be leaping across the Grand Canyon. Impossible.

But, then he realized people were going to be burned up. He was sure of it. And Maxwell might be the only person who could stop it. He glanced ahead and saw the track was straight for a solid mile. It made sense to jump now, without a turn to increase the danger.

Bill backed up a few feet to get a running start. He had always had an athletic frame and was still lean and in pretty good shape. Without allowing any more thought, Bill lurched forward and flung his body over the open space, landing on both feet and falling to his hands and knees, a little skin scraped off his kneecaps. Some sweat fell onto the roof.

No problem.

He stood up feeling rather proud; not bad for a fifty-two year old geezer. Too bad Ralph wasn't around to see him.

Only thirteen more cars to go.

The train seemed to be picking up speed.

Fifty-two was suddenly a fairly daunting age.

Ralph arrived at the Vagabond Inn nearly forty minutes after leaving Bill, a full thirty minutes later than he had anticipated given the brief distance to the Inn from the warehouse. He splatted onto the roof of the Inn. When he stood back up and looked around the circular parking lot, he was not surprised to find the truck was long gone.

He sighed. There was nothing to do but humiliate himself as the long arm of the law.

Ralph jumped down the thirty feet to land lightly on the ground and strode to the small lobby of the Inn, opening the door as if it was completely natural that a man dressed in a red superhero costume entered the room. The bored Inn worker, reading an entertainment magazine, didn't even glance up as he approached the counter.

"Excuse me," Ralph said, "but can you tell me which room Karen Englewood was registered in?"

The clerk looked up and snorted in derision at Ralph's attire. She pointed at him and said, "You some Superman wannabee?"

"Actually, in a way, yes. Now, which room was Miss Englewood in?"

"Can't tell you that," she said. "It's against the law." Her eyes narrowed cunningly and Ralph discerned she would tell him anything about any of their guests, no matter the law, for some money. Unfortunately, Ralph had none. Did any superhero outfit have pockets? His didn't. A fresh thought arose in Ralph's head. He held up a finger and said, "Be right back."

Dashing outside, he bunched his hands into fists and concentrated on turning invisible, and viola, he was. Opening up the lobby door, he meandered inside, the clerk once again reading about some celebrity's divorce. He shimmied over the counter and found the guest register and quietly turning a page he found that there was only one entry in the last week for a single woman, a Patricia Rodgers. She had been in Room 127. He closed the register and left the lobby, walking to Room 127. He passed a pop machine and wondered about keeping at least some change in his suit boots.

Ralph didn't even have to go into Room 127. Standing at the entrance of it another holograph occurred showing him that Patricia had indeed been Karen Englewood. The circular vision then showed Ralph she was driving down Highway 99, about twenty miles away.

One, two, three and he was flying again, the wind once again causing his attention to flee from his invisibility and he lost his transparency. A couple of windblown crashes and he was soon on the tail of the truck, gaining slowly on it. He landed just behind the truck and reaching out with his hands did not allow him to grab hold of it. He skid to a halt and saw it retreating. He launched himself running at the truck and got up to a higher speed than the truck, blowing the back left tire out with a solid suit kick. Unfortunately, that sidewise swipe at a large, moving tire threw Ralph off balance and he stumbled forward, landing on the ground directly beneath the truck's undercarriage. As he rolled a few times the flattened truck tire ran over the back of him, the weight of the vehicle thrusting his breath from his lungs as his face was squashed into the street. The truck swerved to the right, then the left, then the right again before Karen's heavy use of the brake brought it under control and to a zigzagged stop by the side of the road, the front end on up on the curb, the read end angled out a little into the street.

Ralph got up, brushing off his hands and shaking his hair of bits of pavement gravel. Not the smoothest corralling of a criminal, but effective nonetheless. He jogged over to the driver's door and pulling on it heartily ripped it out. Karen, already shaken by the tire popping suddenly, upon seeing Ralph holding the heavy truck door in one hand, let out a scream of fear and nicely fainted.

That was convenient. Ralph gathered her up, carried her to the back of the truck and using his telekinesis, unlocked the door and had it lift up on its own accord. He placed Karen in the truck, tied her up with some spare rope and covered her mouth with the bandana in her hair. He then closed up the door and relocked it with his mind. It was shut tight.

Things had gone well even with the wind. He took three steps and lifted off to go help Bill. If he could find where the freight yards were.

Bill continued leaping over the train cars in a ceaseless continual pattern. He moved slowly across the top of the train car, hunched over and staying in the direct center. He sped up nearing the break between cars and caught himself after he landed, giving himself a moment of rest before beginning again.

He got to the fourteenth car and now had to inch forward to the side of the car where the ladder was leading down next to the opening of the box car. He stopped a few feet from the edge. Looking up into the sky, he was disappointed not to see Ralph yet. He should have been here by now. What was taking so long?

Bill was a brave man, but he was by no means fearless. That was one distinction that had helped keep him alive all the years of his active service. Still, the fact was there was just one man down in the car, and it was probably safer for Bill to be there, then to continue to tempt fate by standing on the top of the train. There were, after all, Bill knew, tunnels ahead on the tracks.

Compressing his lips into a tight line, Bill lowered himself down to the roof and scooted on hands and knees to where the ladder was welded to the top of the train. Grabbing both sides of the ladder Bill swung his long legs down onto a rung, gripping tightly for life, his heart pounding in his chest. There was nothing in the near distance to rub against the side of the train and brush him off like a fly on an arm, so he began his descent, avoiding any glimpse down to the ground rushing by underneath him. When he was at the level of the box car floor he paused a moment and then launched himself sideways landing on the dirty, wooden floor, strewn with some hay and miscellaneous papers. He saw David Hartman, eyes wide open, against the wall, a couple of ragged, unshaven hobos, drinking booze further in the corner. Now, in his area of expertise, Bill Maxwell stood up in full possession of his body, as if he had just finished walking down an office corridor, not scurrying over half a freight train. In a smooth and quick double movement, Maxwell took his gun out of his holster with his right hand, and his badge out of his right inside jacket pocket with his left.

"Maxwell, FBI. You're busted, Hartman. Drop the briefcase and turn around, leaning against the wall."

Hartman's face displayed the shock of the totally unprepared. "How did you find me?"

"Through your fairy godmother. Turn around." Hartman did as directed, resting his hands on the wall of the train as his head was turned as far as possible to see Maxwell. Bill put his badge away and pulled a set of handcuffs out of his pocket. "Now, just who are you going to toast crispy black? What does an animal activist barbecue, since it ain't a sirloin steak."

Maxwell saw anxiety on Hartman's face as he approached, which he expected, but it only lasted for a second and then it transformed into a more confident expression as his eyes flicked behind Maxwell's back.

Maxwell's mind raced rationally piecing together Hartman's reaction, defining the disaster a moment before it unfolded. There was someone else in the car, an ally of Hartman's, whom Ralph hadn't picked up on, perhaps because his fingerprints hadn't been on the glass—

Maxwell's turn to confront the second activist probably saved his life. The blow directed at the back of his head lost its full power, glancing off its side. Still, it was stunning. As he staggered, a second smack landed on his right forearm, shocking the nerves of his arm into submission and causing the gun to drop out of his hand. The pain was terrible and Bill reflexively grabbed his wrist. Hartman took immediate advantage of Maxwell's incapacitation and stuck him a solid blow in the forehead with the corner of his briefcase. Bill collapsed to the floor, blood flowing freely down his face. A kick to his chest curled him up, and things got worse after that. The two didn't relent and feet kept smashing into his body as Bill struggled to reach his second holster with his right arm incapacitated and his left protecting his head from errant wallops. Through the chaos he saw Hartman reaching down for his gun and Maxwell sent it skimming over the wood floor with his heel. It tumbled out of the box car. As a kick hit a kidney, and agony exploded inside Maxwell he saw the air turn red. He finally yanked out his other gun and wildly fired a shot, then another, in desperate fear for his life. The box car ear-splittingly echoed with the booms.

The blows ceased and he heard scampering sounds followed by silence.

Bill lay on his side awhile cursing himself for his stupidity. When the pains settled into dull aches, he rolled to his back, and then with a grunt sat up, noticed the criminals were gone, and stiffly reholstered his gun. He wiped blood out of his eye with his left hand, his right forearm still tingly. More blood instantly fell down his face. He felt a noticeable inch and a half long cavity in the skin on the left side of his forehead, deep enough to leave a scar. He then palpated a decided bump on the back of his head.

"Ow," Maxwell whined.

"You lost that one, Fed," one of the drunks said. "Hit ya with a crowbar, the one behind you."

"Ya shoulda looked around when you came in. Sloppy work. Wouldn't you say, Crawford?" the second asked the first.

"Sloppy indeed."

Sloppy indeed. Almost fatally so. He should have looked around. Too much relying on Ralph and the holographs.

"Still, gotta say you can take a hit or two, and keep on ticking. Can't he, Winston?"

"Yup, can take a beating with the best of 'em."

"Would you two shut up and drink your hooch? I don't need a drunken recap," Bill growled in a foul mood, their inane dialogue worsening the ghastly pain he still felt in his lower back. Kidney strikes were devastating. He hoped he wouldn't be urinating blood. When he was sure he wasn't going to upchuck, he stood up, warily, rubbing his right arm and opening and closing his fist; the functioning was returning pretty well. He wiped blood out of his left eye again, and more still flowed instantly downward. That was a losing battle. He'd need some stitches.

Bill limped to the edge of the box car, the muscles over his kidney spasming a little. He looked at the ground passing by quickly and realized his gun was long gone by now. He'd have to buy a new one. Quality automatics were expensive, but at least he could deduct the expense from his taxes. Thank God he had taken to wearing a double holster, no matter how "Wild Bill" Ralph thought it was. It had probably saved his life. Bill stared up the ladder, where Hartman and his crony had no doubt fled. He took his communicator out of his pocket. "Ralph, Ralph, come in. Can you hear me? Come in."

There was a crackling and then a long scream ending in a befuddled mess of sounds. Bill was able to interpret this occasional response by now; Ralph had crashed.

The hoboes kept yammering. "They're getting away. They may have leapt off the train already, don't you think, Crawford?"

"No wonder criminals abound in society, Winston. Law officers simply let them escape."

"Ralph, can you hear me?" Bill asked again, ignoring the ragamuffin choir in the background.

"Bill, sorry, the wind is giving me grief," Ralph voice finally answered.

"Did you get the female in the truck?"

"Yup. All tied up in the back."

"How far are you from the train?"

"Without wind, five minutes. With wind, I don't know. Did you get Hartman?"

"No. There was another fellow with him, which your holograph didn't detect. They got away and I'm going to look like a black and blue spackled Frankenstein." He lightly probed his forehead wound again.

"You're hurt?"

"Nothing a bottle of aspirin and a colon of catgut can't fix."

"Don't move. I'll be right there. It's the damn wind. I can't fly in it."

Bill put the communicator back in his pocket, as blood dripped off his chin onto his shoe. Hopefully that would wash out. He liked these shoes. He wiped his face again, only to feel the blood still oozing out.

"They're getting away, Officer."

"It's 'Agent', and I know they are! Can't you fall into an alcoholic stupor?"

"After only a bottle of rye? Only amateurs can't handle a bottle of rye, isn't that right, Winston?"

"Oh, yes. I've been able to handle rye since I was eight."

Rubbing his sore chest, Maxwell was irked. His failing to discern Hartman's ally, hiding across the freight car irked him. His tender crowbar bump irked him. The blood running down his face and the inevitable facial scar irked him. The other three thousand aches pulsating throughout his body irked him. Ralph's incompetence in flying irked him. But standing uselessly in the freight car while murderous criminals possibly escaped irked him the most.

The hell with waiting. Maxwell went back to the opening of the freight car and looked down the way they were traveling. Nothing that could scrape against the train's side, dislodging him, was coming as far as he could see. He reached out with his long arms and grabbed hold of a rung of the ladder and swung his feet onto it. Gathering his courage, Bill began climbing upwards, having to pause every now and then to clear his left eye of blood. They were only armed with a crowbar and a metal suitcase; he had a gun containing seven bullets and a spare cartridge in his pocket. They couldn't surprise him again; he knew there were two of them. Ralph should be arriving soon. The odds were on his side.

Bill climbed slowly. He wasn't quite as energetic as earlier. But, he felt his adrenaline releasing the higher he climbed. It was nerve-wracking getting near the roof, worrying if they were right there, waiting for him, to smash down on his head a more solid hit than the glancing head strike in the car. Holding onto a rung with his left hand, he pulled his gun from its holster again. Crouching down he got his body high enough on the ladder that with a sudden spring his torso cleared the roof, his gun ready to fire.

Hartman and his partner were only four cars down to the left; apparently they had their own misgivings about leaping from box car to box car and were none too happy to keep doing so. Jumping off the train to escape seemed pretty far from their minds. Bill grinned. He climbed onto the roof, having to kneel down as the tracks made a pretty tight curve. As the train straightened out, he partly rose and progressed down the middle of the roof, leaping over the open space and gaining on his alleged felons. The shock of landing sent all his bruises into protest and he stumbled forward onto his hands and knees, but too unsteady to catch himself and he landed flat on his stomach. Oh, boy, he thought, lifting his head off the dirt of the roof, this was much more difficult than before. But, he wanted these guys. He disdained those willing to kill people to protest the death of animals. Bill was an animal lover of dogs and horses—which he'd rarely admit--and it angered him when people abused them, but nothing was worth killing people at a convention. There were legal ways to protect animals. Murder wasn't legal.

He got back up to his feet. Preparing himself for each coming jolt, Bill leapt the other cars.

The creeps saw him nearing and after clearing the final hurdle he was on the same boxcar as them. Hartman was ten feet away, the other guy, wielding the crowbar, only eight feet and a little to his left. Maxwell had the advantage, facing the way the train was going. He aimed his gun directly at Hartman, his eyes going back and forth between the two men.

"Hold it, Hartman. And you, put the crowbar down," he ordered the unknown man, who had taken a step or two closer. Maxwell turned the gun on him. "Freeze, creep!"

There was a piercing "Bill!" yell as Ralph was delivered from the heavens, skimming over Bill and the two men, landing on the next roof over on his stomach, sliding fast at an angle over the top side of the car. Bill naturally watched his partner trying to ensure he was alright; even given the protection of the suit, Ralph could hit his head or somehow possibly otherwise injure himself. He saw Ralph standing up on the ground as the train passed along and a relieved Bill, in his anxiety over his friend's safety, realized he had unintentionally committed a grave error. Flashing back around to face his adversaries his head burst into atoms, vaporizing almost entirely into pure white light. He lost everything—awareness, control of his body, a comprehension of time and reality. Bill experienced a sensation of lopsided movement, followed by a few seconds of flying, like Ralph, freely, through the air.

There was a sudden breath-taking stoppage of forward motion, a vicious slam into something that did not budge at all, and from far away he perceived nauseating cracks and snaps as the world turned over and over and over so quickly he felt like a tornado spinning at an F5 velocity. It seemed to go on forever, for a millennium, and there was nothing he could do but continually twirl about until it finally ended and he lay still, faintly registering he was now nothing more than a battered clump of damaged humanity.

Bill felt a thick layer of brutal pain cover him like a second skin, tight and constricting. Otherwise, the world was a fading proposition. All Bill knew was that it was quiet except for the clacking of a train heading off into the distance and the sound of a high-pitched voice singing out the word "Bill! Bill! Bill!" like a bird chirping gaily in a tree.