Blood on the Tracks (35 page)

On my last day, as I was packing up the flowers and stuffed animals that Grams and Captain Mauer and the railroad folk had brought me, someone rapped on the partially closed door.

Clyde lifted his head from his spot in the sun.

“Come in,” I said, expecting Cohen even though he’d said he would wait for me out front. He had dropped Clyde off fifteen minutes ago and gone to bring the car around.

But it was Tucker Rhodes standing in the doorway.

“Ma’am,” he said. “Hope I’m not bothering you.”

He was dressed for the road in jeans and boots and an old army jacket. He had his ruck slung over his shoulder. As I came forward, he removed his cowboy hat. His eyes gleamed like emeralds in the wreckage of his face.

“Come in,” I said again, glad to see him. “Sit down.”

“I can’t stay,” he said. “Just stopped by for a second.”

But he came on into the room, made his way over to the window. Clyde pulled himself to his feet, still moving a little slower than he had before being shot. He took a few sniffs then glanced at me to make sure we were good on this. No doubt he remembered the man he’d tracked through a snowstorm.

I turned my palm flat toward the ground. Satisfied, he returned to his spot in the sun.

Tucker said, “They told me you got busted up pretty bad. I felt bad when I heard.”

I waved it away. “You doing okay?”

Always a stupid question.

He didn’t take offense. “You talking my heart or my head?”

“Both.”

He swung the ruck down on the bed, turned his hat in his hands. “Neither’s been right for a long time. But I guess didn’t any of us come back quite right.”

The thought of Nik hit with fresh pain. Like it did a thousand times a day. No matter how much time I spent thinking about him, missing him, wanting to turn and ask him a question, the fact of what he’d done still surprised me with the suddenness of a knife going in.

“You’re right,” I said.

We looked at each other. The clock ticked on the wall. Outside the window, ragged clouds flew by.

He shifted. “Jeezer said you guys went looking for Sarge. Didn’t find him.”

“That’s true.” I didn’t mention that it had gone the other way around.

“So none of this had anything to do with what we did in Habbaniyah?”

I shook my head. “That’s behind us.”

Down by the nurses’ station, an alarm sounded. Footsteps hurried by.

“Elise—” he started. Couldn’t finish.

“You loved her,” I said. “She loved you back. That says everything about your heart and your head.”

Grief swam into his eyes like a riptide. “She loved me even with all the war did to me. I never could understand why.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound trivial. Or patronizing. So I said nothing.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m tap dancing, you know?” he said. “Dancing right on the edge of some big pit that’ll swallow me up soon as I slow down.”

“What we did over there,” I said carefully. “Could be it wasn’t the right thing. Maybe we took a bad situation and fucked it up more. But we meant well. That’s what you need to remember, Tucker. We meant well. That might have to be enough.”

He nodded. “Guess it’s what I got.”

He patted Clyde on the head, picked up his ruck, and made his way toward the door.

“I’m catching out,” he said, tugging on his hat. “Guess it’s crazy to tell a railroad cop that. But I’m going to Montana to see my dad. He’s not got long, is what the docs say. After that, I figure I’ll just keep moving.”

“You ever need help settling down,” I said, “come talk to me.”

“I will.”

A nurse appeared at the door with a chair to wheel me out. Hospital policy.

I called to Clyde and took his lead in my lap as I sat. Tucker walked alongside us down the hallway. Someone would take the flowers and stuffed animals to the children’s ward.

Downstairs in the lobby, through the glass of the front doors, I saw Cohen waiting by the curb. He leaned against his car, arms folded, his right ankle hooked over the left. The wind had caught his tie, blown it sideways. His hair still looked like he’d cut it with manicure scissors.

Tucker turned to me. “Me and Elise, we owe you a lot.”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

“I still see her,” he said. “Elise. Does that mean I’m crazy?”

“No, Tucker. I’m pretty sure it means you’re sane.”

He touched my shoulder. Then he put on his hat and pushed the door open.

“Semper Fi,” he said and walked out of the building.

“Semper Fi,” I murmured.

The door swung shut behind him.

I returned my gaze to Cohen. He must have felt my eyes on him even through the glass because he turned to look straight at me. Smiled.

I didn’t know how things would work for us. Or if they would work at all. But I intended to try. As Dougie would have said, you gotta live a little.

The nurse opened the doors, and I pushed myself out of the chair. Clyde and I walked slowly out into the sunshine as Cohen came forward to meet us.

The day had been warm. Glorious for early March. But already the sun was tipping toward nightfall, the shadows growing. A chill wind ruffled my hair and Clyde’s, and for just a moment, we hesitated.

Then I jingled his lead and he looked up at me, his brown eyes certain.

“Let’s go, Clyde,” I said. “We’re still good.”

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CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing this novel took a village.

To the members of my critique group and to my beta readers for their insight, talent, encouragement, and phenomenal editing skills: Michael Bateman, Patricia Coleman, Deborah Coonts, Ronald Cree, Kirk Farber, Chris Mandeville, Michael Shepherd, and Robert Spiller.

To my cheerleaders, Donnell Bell, Deborah Coonts, and Maria Faulconer, all wonderful writers in their own right as well as my go-to team on those tough days. Deb, I’m raising a glass of single malt to the brainstorming and laughter we’ve shared from New York to Jackson Hole to San Francisco. Good times, my friend.

This book would not have been possible without the knowledge and insight of retired Denver K9 officer Dan Boyle, Senior Special Agent Scott Anthony, Foreman General Edward Pettinger, and Career Intelligence Officer Steve Pease. A very special thank-you to retired Denver detective Ron Gabel for sharing his vast experience, his stories, and his time. The help I received from these gentlemen was invaluable; any mistakes in this book are entirely my own.

To my agent, Bob Diforio of the D4EO Literary Agency. Serendipity, indeed.

To Grace Doyle and the team at Thomas & Mercer who believed in a book about a railroad cop. And to Charlotte Herscher, Rick Edmisten, and Dan Janeck, who made it a better book.

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In writing this novel, I took certain liberties in how I portrayed some of the counties, cities, railroad tracks, military bases, and institutions described in this book. The world presented here, along with its characters and events, is entirely fictitious. Denver Pacific Continental (DPC) is a wholly fictional railway. Any resemblance to actual incidents and corporations, or to actual persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Photo
©
2015 Jonathan Betz

Barbara Nickless is an award-winning author whose short stories and essays have appeared in anthologies in the United States and the United Kingdom. An active member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, she has given workshops and speeches at numerous writing conferences and book events. She lives with her family in Colorado.
Blood on the Tracks
, which won the Daphne du Maurier Award and was a runner-up for the Claymore Award, is her first novel.