Killer on the Tracks: Part One

     

    Alice stared at the wall in horror. While the blotchy wallpaper pattern of grey and orange birds was hideous to behold, that was not what provoked her reaction. It was the radio broadcast.

    "Today marks the third day of the manhunt," the radio blared. "Local authorities and volunteers continue their search for 'The Beet Knife Killer.' Federal officers are expected to arrive this afternoon. Sheriff Skinner has requested that all residents search their basements and outbuildings to aid in the manhunt. Remember, do not approach any stranger that you might encounter. Retreat from and report any suspicious individuals. Residents living along the railroads should be doubly vigilant!"

Alice, still wide-eyed, leaned forward and turned the radio off, her fingers having gone cold.

    "What would that be like?" Reuben mused.

    "Like," Alice asked. "Like what? To find a killer hiding in your basement?" Her voice was hollow and faint.

    "No," replied Reuben, "to be hacked to death with a beet knife!"

    "You're sick!"

"I'm sick? What sort of sick person . . . I mean, does he go for he head first, ya know, one quick pop in the forehead, then move on to the chopping and dicing? Maybe that isn't so bad, after all, they are already dead when the juicy business begins. I was thinking that . . ."

    "Would you just shut up? The whole thing is so sick."

    "Yah, that's why it's so amazing. You gotta wonder about how he . . ."

    "STOP!" Ma had come into the room. With her pronouncement, Reuben knew that this fascinating discussion was regrettably over.

    Everyone who had grown up in Eastern Idaho during the early 20th century had at some time used a beet knife. It was a straight blade of about eighteen inches with a wicked hook sprouting from the end, used to snag a beet that might be a little out of reach. The crew would walk behind the beet digger, which shoveled up the rows of sugar beets. The beets would move along a chain conveyor belt that bounced along, allowing the dirt to fall through, then dump out the back onto the ground. The crew moved in behind, snagging each beet, gripping it in the left hand, hacking off the bushy top, then throwing the beet onto the wagon that followed behind. There were many stories of Idaho kids with only three, or maybe only two, fingers on their left hand, but under interrogation, none had firsthand knowledge.

    It took a lot to get Alice to go out into the darkness, especially to head for the railroad tracks. When she expressed some anxiety about having a killer on the loose, Ma said, "Killer? Oh, he is probably halfway to Canada by now. It's the people of Montana who have to be careful right now." Alice found those words reassuring for maybe two minutes.

    Eva was expected to return from her trip to Salt Lake at 10:20 pm. The Jarnigan train stop was only a ten-minute walk from the house. Yet in the darkness, it felt like half an hour, and with the risk of encountering a murderer, it felt like an eternity. There was no way Alice would normally be willing to go, but Eva had promised to bring back a surprise for her little sister.

    Having Reuben and Ancel along to carry Eva's trunk back should have provided both company and comfort. However, Alice almost wished that she were alone, considering the inclination of her brothers. Padding through along St. Leon road stirred up thick layers of dust that had been accumulating throughout the dry autumn. They would soon turn off the dirt road and move along the railroad tracks to the lone spot designated as Jarnigan, Idaho.

    When it came to flagging down the train for a ride or to be dropped off, dropping off was much easier. All a person had to do was drag his trunk to the Conductor just before reaching Jarnigan, and the Conductor would signal the engineer to slow to a stop. Getting picked up by the train was altogether different. It required some theatrics.

    For example, when Morgan was heading off to the trenches of France, he had to jump up and down on his upended trunk, waving two red bandanas, and even that was almost not enough. The engineer only applied the brakes after he had already passed the jumping-jack doughboy perched on the end of his trunk. Morgan had to drag his trunk a quarter mile down to where the train had come to a halt. The passengers expressed their anger with him for the delay until they saw his uniform. The conductor snapped a military salute in respect, while the passengers jumped to their feet to do the same. And then, after all that, they just watched him as he struggled alone to pull his trunk on board. Americans have a funny relationship with the military.

    As Alice and her brothers shuffled along in the darkness, Reuben, predictably, was the first to speak. "You know, there is a legend in these parts about a certain railroad boxcar."

    "I don't want to hear this!" exclaimed Alice as she clamped her hands over her ears.

    Ancel wanted to do his part, so he said, "Legend? I love legends. Please, dear brother, tell us more."

    To compensate for the hands over Alice's ears, Reuben increased his volume as he told his story. "Yes, the legend tells of a cursed railroad boxcar, known as 'The Devil's Oubliette.' It has been the doom of many hobos who use empty boxcars for their budget method of travel. You see, the thing about this particular boxcar is that when opened, it looks normal. But you can see other hobos who have climbed in earlier, so it looks very homey to a fellow hobo. And once inside, the door vanishes from their view. The poor bum can't see, feel, or ever find the door again. He can't even see the other Hobos! He is trapped. Forever, or until the devil takes his soul. Hundred have met their demise in 'The Devil's Oubliette.'"

    Alice had slowly removed her hands from her ears. The brothers could not see the change of her expression in the darkness, but they could hear the incredulity in her voice. "So, let me get this straight. Once inside, you can't get out, ever," she smiled. "So, tell me, oh wise brother, how would anyone know the legend? There would be no one to tell the story." Her brother's ludicrous story temporarily calmed her fears.

    "Good point, sweet, naïve sister," Reuben gave a knowing nod. "It so happens that I have had a small acquaintance with a gentleman, whom I might describe as a 'claustrophobic hobo'. Yes, it is a tragic story! A traveler of the rails who can't bring himself to enter a train. Quite tragic".

    "So, get to it," said Alice, growing irritated.

    "Oh, he has been trying to beat his affliction for years. He gets himself all pumped up with confidence, throws open the door of a stationary railroad boxcar, and prepares to climb aboard. Then it hits him," Reuben explained with a tremor of sorrow entering his voice. "He freezes. He can't breathe. Then, in his despair, he climbs into one of the carriage racks under the train once again for the journey, feeling less than a man."

    "I'm still waiting for the point of your tedious story!"

    "Ah, yes, therein is the rub. My dear friend . . ."

    "You said he was just an acquaintance. Now he's your good friend!"

    "Don't interrupt little sister," said Reuben. "You demonstrate your ill breeding by inserting trifling matters into a tragic account>"

    "Ill breeding? Hah. You are calling your own sister ill-bred. So, where does that place you?"

    "Trifles, trifles," tisked Reuben. "Then late one night, as my beloved companion prepared once again to defeat his little psychological bugaboo, he threw open yet another boxcar. Well, I can only share a few of his terrifying words, considering your tender emotional state".

    If there had been enough light, he would have seen the familiar sight of Alice rolling her eyes.

    "My friend saw, in the most disturbing detail, a boxcar which contained more than a dozen terrified men. Each seemed unaware of the others. As they groped blindly in the gloom, they passed through one another without notice. They could not feel the doorway. Some were crouched into despairing heaps. And worst of all, they could not see the chains dangling from the walls, the hooks from which dangled every imaginable blade and saw, along with less-describable instruments of torture. A mercy that they could not see the fate that awaited each one of them in turn!"

    "I've had enough!" said Alice with a mix of resentment and unease. She increased her pace, letting her brothers fall behind.

    "Nice one," complimented Ancel. "I am impressed that you could make up all that in an instant."

    "What makes you think I made it up?"