Derailed (36 page)

I sure didn't feel honored to be in the company of the disciples in this regard, but to realize Jesus understood meant a whole lot. I dropped my head in my hands. “O Lord, I'm sorry. I
have
heard your voice on other occasions, and I can say, ‘Give me Jesus,' and really mean it, but . . . I'm still not connecting. So I'm askin', please be with me in the next few days even though I don't know how to be with you.”

Corky nudged me with her nose as if saying amen.

When I called Estelle Saturday night, I still didn't have any news.

“Harry! Feels like it's dragging on forever. Is there only one train a day? Does that mean you won't be back until Tuesday?”

“Afraid so. I'm really sorry, babe. But if I'm still here by Monday, I'm gonna insist Gilson pull the plug on this operation.”

“Monday? Well, he better pull the plug by then! And you can tell him for me, it doesn't sound like they know enough to even put you on that train. They oughta fly you home . . . Oh, here's DaShawn. He wants to say something to you.”

There was noise as the phone changed hands. “Hey, Pops. You shoulda seen that game today. Cubs pulled it out after being down three to the Diamondbacks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Soriano homered. Then Derrek Lee delivered a two-run single. Cubs won seven to five.”

“Wish I could've gone with you. How you guys doin'?”

“Oh, we're cool.”

“Is he all moved in to Great-Grandma's place?”

“Yeah, an' he said I can sleep over sometimes if I don't mind the sofa.”

Things were changing back home and I was two thousand miles away.

“Hey, let me speak to your gramma again.”

Once she was on the line again, I said, “Just wanted to catch up a little more. Did you go down to see Leroy today?”

“Yeah. He seems to be doing okay.” I could hear the longing in her voice. “All his burns are healed, but in some places the skin's still so thin. The nurse was encouraging though. Said he might be able to move out of the nursing home by midsummer. But I don't know, Harry, all the meds he's on keep him in kind of a fog.”

“We'll find somethin' for him, babe. God'll help us.” And as we ended our call, I believed it too.

Sunday morning Corky woke me from a sound sleep, whining to go out. I pulled on my pants and got her outside in time, but her stools were as loose as soup, and she needed to go out four times in the next couple hours. The leftovers I'd brought back to the motel must've made her sick. Thankfully, by noon she seemed okay.

Then my phone rang. “Bentley. It's a go for tonight's train! Get yourself in position, and keep me informed. You might even snag the guy in the station.”

“Any description on the perp yet?”

“Nada, nothin' at all.”

“All right. I'll call you once I'm on board.”

I hung up and called Estelle right away. She was one happy lady. “But pray for me, babe. Gonna need it to find this guy.”

After packing, I took Corky for a good, long walk. Much to my relief, she seemed fully recovered. Back at the motel, I left her in the room long enough to check out, making sure the security latch
on my door was flipped over so it wouldn't close all the way and lock me out. When I returned, I slipped Corky into her harness with the words Guide Dog on its side. “Well, old girl, here we go.” I rubbed my hand over my head to make sure it didn't need a shave, then put on my plaid flat hat and mirrored shades. We exited the room as a blind man with his seeing-eye dog. Behind me, my small, black suitcase rolled
clickety-clack, clickety-clack
over the joints in the sidewalk.

No one paid us much attention as we walked the mile along North Broadway toward Union Station. The smell of fried prawns and crab rangoon sizzling in hot oil gave way to exhaust fumes from the busy street, finally masked by the sweet scent of the bougainvillea growing in sidewalk planters. A few clouds were collecting overhead, but I'd had enough days in the California sun to last me for a while, so I didn't mind.

It was tempting to gaze up at those tall, spindly palm trees or study the beautiful mosaic of blue-and-white glazed tiles lining the arch of the station's main entrance, but I couldn't appear to be a man enjoying the sights. Still, I couldn't help but notice the Spanish architecture of stucco walls and high-beamed ceilings inside the station. It rivaled the magnificence of the towering Corinthian columns, solid limestone, and marble of Chicago's station.

Travelers crisscrossed every which way, heading to and from trains, buying tickets, and picking up food and magazines from concessions, looking for arriving passengers. To my surprise, cops were everywhere . . . not Amtrak Police but TSA agents, Los Angeles County Sheriff's deputies, and teams of private security guards, patrolling in units of two to four men. They appeared outfitted for battle—bulletproof vests, web belts crammed with extra clips, cuffs, riot batons, cans of Mace, radios, and some serious weapons.

I made my way cautiously through the main waiting room. Finally, I took a seat in one of the large leather chairs with high backs and sturdy wooden armrests. They were custom-built antiques, adjoining one another like theater seats, and so big I felt like a little boy sitting in a grandpa's chair.

Corky stiffened, and I glanced down to see if she was alerting. But it wasn't about drugs. A K-9 unit was coming our way—two deputies and a German shepherd half again as large as Corky. As they got closer, I half considered letting them know that I was on the job too, but they veered away before I said anything. Across the hall, I saw another K-9 unit, this one with a black lab like Corky. What was going on? Had the DEA turned out the troops to catch this same Sinaloa mule I was after? It looked like they were expecting a war.

Then a greasy-haired kid came by on his skateboard, and Corky alerted immediately. And no wonder—the kid cupped a lighted joint between his thumb and forefinger. I could smell the smoke from ten feet away. I watched as the boy swerved through the crowd, heading right for the K-9 unit with the German shepherd. But when he got near them, the German shepherd barely glanced at the kid. And the deputy merely gave him a hand signal to get off his board. No riding in the station.

They weren't here for crowd control or to bust druggies.

I got up and walked with Corky to the restroom, passing another cluster of four deputies while meeting another pair coming my way. Standing to the side of the restroom door, like a valet at a hotel, was an older man dressed like a farmer, or maybe a shepherd with a staff. The staff, which was at least a foot taller than he was, was an ornate cross with the words “Jesus Saves” carved on it. He wasn't talking to anyone or even looking them in the eye. Just standing there holding up his sign. Guess that was something.

About forty-five minutes before my train was to depart, I started speaking randomly to anyone close by, acting as though all I could do was hear or sense their presence. “Excuse me. I need to catch the Southwest Chief to Chicago; could you help me find a Red Cap, someone who could take me to my train?”

“I'd love to help,” said a woman hurrying past, “but I'm about to miss my own train.” But when she'd gone about twenty feet beyond me, she began calling to a guy emptying a trash can. “Sir, sir, could you help that man back there?” She pointed my way. “He's trying to find a Red Cap.”

“I'm no Red—” The janitor saw me and waved to the woman that he was on the case. Within five minutes, a Red Cap helped Corky and me get on board an electric cart, driving us through the station and down a long corridor to my train. I felt guilty using the service some truly handicapped person might need.

As I rode along—the cart emitting its annoying
beep, beep, beep
to warn people it was coming—I realized I didn't see any more cops, not one, whereas a half hour earlier, I'd counted over twenty. Obviously, something had been going on. Those dogs hadn't been sniffing for drugs. Probably searching for explosives. Made me feel insecure to have no idea what had just gone down. But apparently, the crisis had passed without incident.

Captain Gilson's secretary, Phyllis, had booked me in an accessible bedroom on the lower level of a Superliner sleeping car, in keeping with my cover. Mine happened to be right behind the engines and baggage car.

Since I was the first person to board, my car attendant went out of his way to help me get settled. Eyeing Corky as she curled up on the floor beside me, he raised his voice as if blindness equaled hearing impairment. “Now over here is your basic washbasin—hot and cold running water. Just press the levers. And on the side, the yellow-lighted button—oh, sorry—anyway, you can feel an emergency call button on the side here. Press it anytime you need me. Then comes the toilet. There's a curtain behind it if you want to draw it for privacy, but—”

“Carl—is that what you said your name was?—I'm not
totally
blind. I can see light and dark. In fact, I can see that you're standin' over there by the door.”

“Oh, yes sir. Sorry.”

Corky groaned and stretched out on her side while the attendant frowned at her. “Your dog okay?”

“She's fine.”

“Hmm. Well, if you need anything . . . Actually, there are little braille labels on everything. And the shower is just down the hall, second door on your left. You'll find plenty of towels in there on the shelf.”

“Thanks. I'm sure I can manage. I've ridden the train many times, and I've been able to find my way around. Just one thing, how far back is the dining car?”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about that, sir. I'm glad to bring you your meals—”

“How far?”

“Third car back. This is car four thirty-one, and there're two more sleepers behind us, then the dining car. After that comes the observation . . . I mean, the lounge car. The snack bar and café are on its lower level. All the rest are coaches, four I think.” He hesitated. “Well, if you don't want me to bring you your meal this evening, do you want me to make a reservation for you?”

“That'd be great. How 'bout seven? Now . . . don't want to hold you up any longer. You probably have more passengers comin' along soon. But I appreciate your help, Carl. I really do.”

“No problem. I'll put you in for seven then. But what'll you do with your dog when—”

“Don't worry about her.”

“Okay, but if you need anything, anything at all.” He backed out of the compartment, starting to give me a wave and then stopping.

I shook my head and turned to my window as hundreds of first-class and coach passengers began to stream along the platform. Carl was out there by the door, ready to welcome the other first-class passengers assigned to 431. With the tinted windows of my compartment it wouldn't be easy for people to see in, but I still kept my shades on as I watched them dragging luggage and hanging on to children, trying to figure out where they were supposed to go.