I turn my head. The exterior door is now open.
I jerk up and scootch around so I’m facing the interior door. It is also open.
“Walter! Camel!” I shout.
Nothing but the sound of the door gently hitting the wall behind it, keeping time with the ties clacking beneath us.
I scramble to my feet and lunge for the door. Doubled over and supporting myself with one hand against the doorframe and the other on my thigh, I scan the interior of the room with sightless eyes. All the blood has left my head, and my vision once again fills with black and white explosions.
“Walter! Camel!”
My eyesight starts to return, from the outside in so that I find myself turning my head to try to catch things in the periphery. The only light is what comes through the slats, and it reveals an empty cot. The bedroll is also empty, as is the horse blanket in the corner.
I stagger to the row of trunks against the back wall and lean over them.
“Walter?”
All I find is Queenie, shivering and curled into a ball. She looks up at me in terror, and I am left with no doubt.
I sink to the floor, overcome with grief and guilt. I throw a book at the wall. I pound the floorboards. I shake my fists at heaven and God, and when I finally subside into uncontrolled sobbing Queenie creeps out from behind the trunks and slides into my lap. I hold her warm body until finally we are rocking in silence.
I want to believe that taking Walter’s knife didn’t make a difference. But still, I left him without a knife, without even a chance.
I want to believe they survived. I try to picture it—the two of them rolling out onto the mossy forest floor amid indignant curses. Why, at this very moment, Walter is probably going for help. He has made Camel comfortable in some sheltered spot and is going for help.
Okay. Okay. It’s not as bad as I thought. I’ll go back for them. In the morning, I’ll grab Marlena and we’ll go back to the nearest town and ask at the hospital. Maybe even the jail, in case the town decided they were vagrants. It should be easy enough to figure out which town is closest. I can locate it by proximity to the—
They didn’t. They couldn’t have. Nobody could have redlighted a crippled old man and a dwarf over a trestle. Not even August. Not even Uncle Al.
I spend the rest of the night planning all the ways I can kill them, rolling the ideas around in my head and savoring them, as though I were fingering smooth stones.
THE SCREECH OF THE air brakes snaps me out of my trance. Before the train has even stopped, I drop to the gravel and stride toward the sleepers. I climb the iron stairs to the first one shabby enough to house working men and slide the door open so violently it bounces closed again. I reopen it and march through.
“Earl! Earl! Where are you?” My voice is guttural with hate and rage. “Earl!”
I stalk down the aisle, peering into bunks. None of the surprised faces I encounter is Earl’s.
Onto the next car.
“Earl! You in here?”
I pause and turn to a bewildered man in a bunk. “Where the hell is he? Is he in here?”
“You mean Earl from security?”
“Yeah. That’s who I mean, all right.”
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Two cars thataway.”
I pass through another car, trying to avoid the limbs that stick out from under bunks, the arms that spill over their edges.
I slide the door open with a crash. “Earl! Where the hell are you? I know you’re in here!”
There’s an astonished pause, with men on both sides of the car shifting in their bunks to get a look at this loud intruder. Three-quarters of the way down I see Earl. I charge him.
“You son of a bitch!” I say, reaching down to grab him by the neck. “How could you do it? How could you?”
Earl leaps from his bunk, holding my arms out to the side. “Whoa—hang on, Jacob. Calm down. What’s going on?”
“You know fucking well what I’m talking about!” I shriek, twisting my forearms around and out, breaking his grasp. I hurl myself at him, but before I make contact he once again has me at arm’s length.
“How could you do it?” Tears are running down my face. “How could you? You were supposed to be Camel’s friend! And what the hell did Walter ever do to you?”
Earl goes pale. He freezes with his hands still closed around my wrists. The shock on his face is so genuine I stop struggling.
We blink at each other in horror. Seconds pass. A panicked buzz ripples through the rest of the car.
Earl releases me and says, “Follow me.”
We step down from the train, and once we are a good dozen yards away, he turns to me. “They’re gone?”
I stare at him, seeking answers in his face. There aren’t any. “Yeah.”
Earl sucks in his breath. His eyes close. For a moment I think he might cry.
“Are you telling me you didn’t know anything?” I say.
“Hell no! What do you think I am? I’d never do something like that. Aw shit. Aw hell. The poor old fella. Wait a minute—” he says, training his eyes on me suddenly. “Where were you?”
“Somewhere else,” I say.
Earl stares for a moment and then drops his gaze to the ground. He puts his hands on his waist and sighs, bobbing his head and thinking. “Okay,” he says. “I’m going to find out how many other poor bastards got tossed, but let me tell you something—kinkers don’t get tossed, even lowly ones. If Walter got it, they were after you. And if I were you, I’d start walking right now and never look back.”
“And if I can’t do that?”
He looks up sharply. His jaw moves from side to side. He regards me for a very long time. “You’ll be safe on the lot, in daylight,” he says finally. “If you get back on the train tonight, don’t go anywhere near that stock car. Move around the flats and rest under wagons. Don’t get caught, and don’t let your guard down. And blow the show as soon as you can.”
“I will. Believe me. But I’ve got a couple of loose ends to wrap up first.”
Earl gives me a long last look. “I’ll try to catch up with you later,” he says. Then he strides off toward the cookhouse where the men from the Flying Squadron are congregating in small groups, their eyes darting, their faces fearful.
• • •
IN ADDITION TO Camel and Walter, eight other men are missing, three from the main train and the rest from the Flying Squadron, which means that Blackie and his group broke up into squads, riding different sections of the train. With the show on the brink of collapse, the working men probably would have been redlighted anyway, but not over a trestle. That was meant for me.
It occurs to me that my conscience stopped me from killing August at the very moment someone was attempting to carry out his orders to kill me.
I wonder how he felt waking up beside that knife. I hope he understands that while it started out as a threat, it’s since transformed into a promise. I owe it to each and every one of the men who got tossed.
I SKULK AROUND all morning, searching desperately for Marlena. She is nowhere to be seen.
Uncle Al strides around in his black and white checked pants and scarlet waistcoat, slapping the head of anyone who isn’t quick enough to jump out of his way. At one point he catches sight of me and stops cold. We face each other, eighty yards apart. I stare and stare, trying to focus all my hatred through my eyes. After a few seconds, his lips form a cold smile. Then he makes a sharp right turn and continues on his way, his grovelers straggling behind.