bearer? Or had it always been on George Weed? Rainwater dashed against the train’s windows, spreading and trailing back. I studied the geography of the clouds, feeling further from the answer than ever. The only thing to do was fly back to Phoenix and face Peralta’s wrath.
I must have been dozing. The car rocked a little as another train swept past us. I opened my eyes enough to see the Palo Alto depot washed by the rain. Maybe I could get a job as a lecturer at Stanford. Lindsey and I could live in the city, and I could ride the train to work. Maybe pigs would fly. Maybe I was a protege of Dan Milton, but the world had too many well-credentialed history professors wanting to find sinecures at top universities. Still, it was a nice daydream. I let my head settle into the softness of the seat and closed my eyes again, day-dreaming about Lindsey. Nicer daydreams. Taking her out on the town. Having her read me a classic in bed. The times she would wear black pumps and nothing else…
But when the train lurched forward again my eyes fluttered open just enough to see the face in the window of the door that led to the next train car. The face was looking at me. It was a blond man, with his hair slicked back. I kept my head down and my eyes nearly closed. I didn’t believe it. Maybe he had just intruded in my dozing. I closed my eyes tightly for a second. But when I opened them again, he was there.
It was the blond man from Encanto Park. He saw me see him. The face disappeared and I could see the door to the next car open and close. A burst of adrenaline lifted me to my feet and propelled me toward the door.
The train was picking up speed, gently swaying side to side. My feet found purchase with the rocking motion, and I slipped quickly to the end of the car. Then I opened the sliding metal door that went into a small, enclosed vestibule where the cars connected. Around me, the train sounds were louder, the air cooler. I looked through the glass of the next door. The car was full of Silicon Valley commuters going home to towns on the Peninsula or in the city. Faces regarded me with the wary disinterest of city people. I stayed in the vestibule, watching. No blond man. For reassurance, I felt the Colt Python in the nylon holster on my belt, and then I pulled the door open and stepped into the next car.
These were double-decker commuter cars. So I had the best view of the people sitting on the first level, where the seats were two abreast on either side of the aisle. Stepping forward, I could also see the seats above, single chairs that overlooked the car’s central hallway and were set off by a railing. It became clear what I couldn’t see: the stairways up to the second level.
I moved quickly up the winding stairs. But just as my head came up enough to see down in the car, a figure moved out of the staircase at the opposite end, pulled open the door, and disappeared forward into the train. It was the blond man. He was again well-dressed, in a dark blue suit, red tie, and white shirt. His suit coat was roomy enough to conceal a large firearm. I fought to slow my breathing as I crossed the carpeted aisle on the second floor, tramped down the metal stairs, and followed him through the next door. I could hear a conductor calling out the stop at Redwood City and the train was slowing. I couldn’t let my blond-headed watcher get away.
Then I was face down, my nose mashed into the cold metal floor of the vestibule. My brain was about two steps behind events, fighting desperately to catch up. He’d used a neat move on me, waiting just the other side of the vestibule, then coming at me from behind once I stepped through. He must have stepped into the back of my knee to bring me down, then pulled my trench coat and suit coat over my arms to disable me while shoving my face into the floor. I admired the hell of out his little move as I struggled to swing myself around, worried that a bullet might come into the back of my head, my hand struggling to feel the butt of the Python, my mouth full of cottony fear. I was conscious of all the metal grinding against metal around me, as the train cars rubbed against each other. But I was alone in the vestibule.
By the time I got on my feet, the blond man could have been a mile from the train. We were moving again, and I could see nothing out the window but drizzle-mussed lights fading rapidly behind us. I limped back to my seat, avoiding the eyes of a conductor who was paying too much attention to me. My knee was feeling as if it were constructed of Jell-O, and for some reason my stomach was queasy, too. I slumped into my seat, feeling foolish and vulnerable. The blond Russian slimebag had played me like I was a rookie. No, like a civilian. I was a joke.
Then I became conscious of the frantic pounding against my breastbone, a sense of constriction, my breath gathering inside me. The old familiar sense of dread, that death could be at hand. But I knew this was no heart attack. It was a bad brew of brain chemistry, that’s all. Or maybe it was the melancholy and fatalism of Celtic and Welsh genes stewing around inside me, the knowledge that history would eventually work against me. I tried to ignore it.
My injured pride rocked along with the train as we passed through Hollister, San Bruno, and the grassy empty land that was once the city’s main rail yard. The car was silent except for the beat radiating from the headset of the kid sitting across from me. The Russian couldn’t be after me to get to Lindsey-unless he thought she was in San Francisco with me. Or his mission was somehow to grab me as a bargaining chip. Either thought was unsettling. At least she was safe. I prayed she was safe. Wherever the hell she was. With Patrick Blair, with his waterbed eyes. I visibly shook the junk of brooding thoughts out of my head as the train slowed. We stopped at a forlorn little shelter at the foot of a hill. We were back in the city now, but outside the landscape looked abandoned. Gentrification had apparently not reached this far into San Francisco’s underbelly.
And a well-dressed man gingerly stepped off the train and walked toward the shelter.
The Russian.
David has good judgment-that’s what people always said. As a teenager, I was mature and careful. The older cops appreciated that I wasn’t a hotdog, and the older professors commented on my thoughtful nature. As a bachelor, I never radiated the danger that can attract so many women. Nope, I was predictable, prudent… ponderous, as one old girlfriend said as she was getting restless. Yep, David doesn’t do stupid impulsive things. Usually.
I bolted up and ran for the exit, nearly flattening an elderly Asian woman trying to find a seat. The door was just about to shut. I jammed my fist against the rubber edge and the door stopped and opened again. A little alarm rang. My foot was already on the wet asphalt. I stepped out of the streetlight and felt the train pull away. Then the spot became as silent as the primeval forest.
I surveyed my surroundings. The shelter sat in a little depression, down a hill from what looked like some apartments. A long footpath ran down the hill from the apartments to the station. In one direction the tracks ran into a tunnel, and above that some darkened industrial buildings. Behind me, old warehouses crowded right up to the tracks. The air smelled of the bay and something heavy and sour, maybe an oil refinery. There was not another person or car within sight. Then I saw the Russian. He was already two-thirds of the way up the footpath, passing through a cone of light, walking rapidly.
There was only one way out: the footpath. I took the chance he wouldn’t look behind him, and ran as fast as I dared along the rain-soaked concrete. He was already past the buildings and out of sight by the time I had covered the hundred yards that took me to the cone of light where I had first spotted him. It was a tough climb from the tracks, and the moist heavy air burned in my lungs. When no gunshots came from the direction of the apartments, I continued on, hoping he hadn’t seen me get off the train.
In minutes I was on a street. Looking right, I saw the Russian was two blocks ahead, walking slower now, his shadow bobbing off a wall. This was definitely not the part of San Francisco the tourists saw. From cracked pavement on the street and sidewalks to the big empty buildings with their broken windows and graffiti-stained walls, it had seen better days. The historian in me appreciated what I was seeing: the remains of the old industrial city, when railroads and manufacturing and union jobs defined upward mobility for most Americans. The buildings around me were substantial, brick and stone, several stories tall, with elaborate machinery sprouting out of roofs and sides. One wall had collapsed, revealing a nave and transept of an abandoned industrial cathedral. Remains of railroad tracks ran down the middle of the street, and the cracked curbs were matted with old trash. Here and there, a working warehouse remained, trucks coldly illuminated by harsh yellow-orange security lighting. Elsewhere, sparse streetlights radiated a cool gloom.
As I walked, I became aware of old cars parked in empty lots. But they weren’t abandoned. I saw movement inside. A cook fire flared beside one ruined van. People living in their cars. A little colony, in sight of the soaring towers of downtown. And two men in suits walking past.
I drew closer to the Russian. If he had seen me he wasn’t showing it. At one point he looked behind him, but I had stepped into the dead space of a wall that jutted close to the street. It was dumb luck but I took it. Then there was the matter of what I would do when I caught up with him. Or, my panicky insides reminded me, what he would do with me. My cell phone was in my trench coat. So easy to call the local authorities and…what? I couldn’t prove anything. And considering that I was wandering outside my jurisdiction without having checked in with the
