Darius rolled over on his side to reduce the pain in his lower back from the industrial strength mattress he had been sleeping on. He had no complaints about the accommodations; firm mattresses always left him with a sense of sciatica after eight hours. He hadn’t picked the Best Western River’s Edge Hotel for the mattresses or the amenities. His selection was dictated by the business mantra, “location, location, location”. The River’s Edge was located between the bend of the Green River near the dump site of many of the Green River Killer’s victims and the remains of the historic Longacres Horse Racing Track. The latter was now just a derelict, being encroached on by the spreading Boeing Aircraft Company. There was something poetic about a hotel sandwiched between murder and gambling that appealed to his inner man. Still these details were a mere aside compared to the main plot, that is, the sharp bend to the Northwest that the Burlington Northern line takes just across the rode from the hotel.
He had reserved this particular room on the upper floor for the unimpeded view of the rail line just across the road and the empty parking area that would provide the perfect catch basin for the box cars, flat cars, plywood and gypsum products that would be hurled off the tracks by the momentum of the runaway freight train at the precarious turn. The cherry on the top of this catastrophic sundae was that the entire wreck would be at the base of Interstate 405, one of the busiest highways in the state right at the zenith of the morning rush hour. The “gapers block” would be magnificent. The dismay, anger, subsequent disciplinary actions for tardy employees would create a sense of rage that would be palpable throughout the region. And no one would be injured.
This last notion was of particular interest to him. Maximum rage and enmity was always the target. Anything that would elevate pride, such as war, road rage, etc., is of value whereas deaths were always humbling and often of little value. The last runaway he was involved with ran from Tumwater to Olympia exceeding 60 miles per hour. It had run through the dead end at the station, through the rear wall and out the front wall extending four blocks into the main city of Washington State’s capitol. Up to that point it was a flawless prank. Then the bodies were discovered. The railroad station telegrapher’s body was found in the attic of a building across the street. There were 15 others hospitalized for their injuries. That was in 1959. He still felt regret. Death had a purpose and when done with proper timing was very fulfilling. Accidental deaths like these were just sloppy work.
As he pondered the aftermath of the ’59 crash from his bed he noted that the Sun had cleared the crest of the Cascade Mountains and was lighting his room with more than just a promise of dawn. Then he realized something was missing. Where were the sirens? A derailment of this proportion should have woken him. If not the crash then certainly the sirens of the emergency vehicles would have ripped him from slumber. He threw off the covers and was at the window in two strides. He threw open the sheer curtains and stood there in awe.
It was a magnificent day. The kind of day the makes Northwesterners glad to live here. The snow capped Cascade mountains in the distance on a base of verdant green forests supported a flawless blue sky. The only thing missing was a train. Traffic along 405 was brisk and unencumbered. Thousands of happy commuters smiling and graciously allowing others to merge at will. It was pathetic.
In seconds he was past the elevator and bounding down the stairs three at a time. He blew through the lobby in nothing but black loafers and his pajama bottoms. Dodging cars on the frontage road he scrambled up the ballast slipping on the sharp rock not looking at his footing but rather to the North to see where the train must have gone. He saw nothing. It was only when he looked South did he spot the leading box car. It was two thousand feet down the tracks sitting behind a grove of trees that had obstructed his view from the hotel. He skipped from railroad tie to railroad tie until he stood looking up at the beast that he thought was going to disrupt the lives of so many.
He just stood there staring.
“Well that didn’t work out the way you planned,” a quiet voice intoned just to his left and outside of his peripheral vision.
“No it did not,” he reflected tipping his head slightly as he continued to look at the green Burlington Northern box car. He didn’t look at his visitor. He knew who it was. “Hello Horatio.”
“Hello Darius. It was the grade you know.” Horatio offered.
“The grade?”
“Yup. The elevation change was too subtle. It wasn’t steep enough,” Said Horatio.
“Oh but 900 tons, certainly just the inertia…” his voice trailed off because he knew he was wrong.
“Yeah,” he drawled, then abruptly added, “No.” Horatio added, “Not a chance. This baby rolled all the way from Auburn at 5 miles an hour. It was so slow that no one even noticed and”, he continued, “there was so little traffic that no one was even inconvenienced.” He put his hand on Darius’ shoulder. “Man you gotta get your act together. This was another total bust.”
Darius knew he was right. This was just another flub in a long string of flubs.
“Nice duds by the way,” Horatio smiled looking down at the contrast between the tassled loafers and the Spiderman pajamas.
“Oh yeah,” Darius said rubbing his arms recognizing the cold for the first time. He looked back, resignedly, at the near half mile walk back to the hotel. Then, abruptly he tensed and asked, “What time is it?”
“7:17am Pacific Daylight Time,” Horatio said looking at his vintage Timex.
“Oh mama!” said Darius and he was skittering down from the track and off through the trees to the road back to the hotel.
Next: Jessica
