Murder at the Movies (18 page)

“Let's get up there.”

“How?”

“Walk up the tracks.”

“But they're open,” Jake protested. “There are big spaces between the ties.”

Tretheway started through the crumbling archway leading to the tracks.

“And it must get to forty, fifty feet in the air,” Jake shouted after Tretheway.

“Bring the flashlight,” Tretheway ordered.

Jake hustled around to the back of the Pontiac. He yanked open the rumble seat. Leaning into the dark hole, he fumbled through the bric-a-brac on the floor—screwdriver, scout knife, a local unfolded map, a wrench, an old sweater, oil can—until his hand closed round the familiar flashlight. As an afterthought, he slipped the knife into his pocket, and he ran after his boss.

Tretheway began his ascent, confidently taking the uniformly spaced ties two at a time. Jake found the spacing awkward. For him two ties at once demanded an unsafe long stride, while taking them singly produced a quick mincing pace. And to walk on the rails required too delicate a balancing act.

“I hope there's no electricity left in these,” Jake said.

Tretheway kept climbing. Jake noticed the shadowy shapes on the ground getting smaller and smaller. The spaces between the ties were not quite large enough for a body to fit through, but between the up-and-down tracks the ties didn't always meet, leaving random uneven gaps, some large enough for a person even of Tretheway's girth to plummet through. Partway up Tretheway stumbled and went down on one knee.

“Be careful,” Jake said.

“What's that smell?” Tretheway ran a finger along a tie and held it under his nose.

“Probably old creosote,” Jake said.

“How about new gasoline?” Tretheway said.

“Maybe we should call…”

“C'mon.”

The two of them climbed cautiously toward the suspicious shadow that Tretheway had seen from below. Six-foot-high braced stakes stood at fifty-foot intervals between the two tracks. They supported lights, now disconnected, old cables and reflectors. The one they now approached appeared much thicker than the others.

“Can you see anything?” Jake asked. He was several ties behind Tretheway.

“I think it's someone tied to the post.”

Jake shined his flashlight at the shadows. “Can you make out who?”

“Could be Terminus.”

Jake forced himself to ask. “As in the burning of Terminus?”

Before Tretheway could answer, a muffled explosion, a low roar, then crackling came from below. Their heads jerked toward the sounds. At fifty feet above the ground they were far enough away from the base to watch the perspective of the inverted V of the tracks disappear into a miniature horizontal line of flame. The freshening northeast wind sweeping in from the harbour fanned the flames and encouraged their spread upwards.

“Look!” Jake said pointing.

“I can see.”

“No,” Jake said pointing again. “The parking lot.”

Two pinpricks of white light indicated a vehicle, from this distance about the size of a Dinky Toy, maneuvering erratically in the parking lot. Gears clashed, tires squealed, then red tail lights faded away as it roared up the mountain road.

“Must be that pickup,” Tretheway said.

“Do you suppose that's …” Jake looked at Tretheway.

“I'm sure of it.”

Tretheway stepped toward the post, quicker now, not as carefully as before. His right leg disappeared into one of the irregular spaces. He sat down heavily, his other leg shooting out in front of him. His thick muscular thigh, jammed between two of the ties, saved him from painful injury. “Damn!”

“What's the matter?”

“I'm stuck.”

For the next few minutes, which seemed like hours to both of them, Jake put his arms underneath Tretheway's armpits and, risking hernia, pulled in jerks while his boss strained upwards. Jake looked over his shoulder. The flames were closer or higher, he couldn't tell which, but were definitely noisier. It took six precious minutes before Tretheway's upper leg slithered out of the wooden pincers.

“You okay?” Jake asked.

Tretheway checked his leg. His pants were torn and stained, but except for a tingling sensation in his foot, he felt all right.

“My foot's asleep.”

“Can you walk?”

“Have to.” Tretheway stood up unsteadily.

The oil-soaked wood sizzled in the flames. They could feel the heat of the fire. Moans came from the shadowy stake. Jake stepped the rest of the way almost carelessly.

“It is Miles,” he shouted.

Tretheway limped up behind. “How is he?”

Terminus groaned louder. His eyes were closed. He had been bound hand and foot and gagged before being tied to the stake. Jake's flashlight revealed several nasty welts on his head. One in particular, caked with dried blood, ran at an angle from just above his ear to his chin. Terminus's eyelids flickered.

“At least he's alive.” Jake struggled with the gag.

“Is he conscious?” Tretheway asked.

Miles Terminus opened his eyes wide, terrified. His mouth worked, silently at first. Then he spoke.

“He hit me.”

“What?” Jake said.

“With his sword.”

“Who hit you?” Tretheway asked.

“General Sherman.”

Tretheway and Jake looked at each other.

“He's on Strange Street,” Jake said.

“Let's get him out of here.” Tretheway took the flashlight from Jake. It looked like a penlight in his giant hand. “Untie him.”

Jake fumbled with the rope. “I can't undo the damn knots.” His voice rose.

“Take it easy,” Tretheway said. He looked back down the tracks. Thunder rumbled. The wind, stronger now, pushed the flames relentlessly higher. Smoke stung their eyes.

“Do you have a knife?” Tretheway asked.

“No.” Jake worked on one of the larger knots. “Yes!” he shouted, remembering the scout knife. He dug it out of his pocket. His hands shook.

Tretheway grabbed him firmly by the arm. He shined the flashlight on the unopened knife in Jake's grip. “Jake,” he said slowly and distinctly. “Open it carefully. Don't drop it.”

Jake's breathing slowed. He unfolded the knife blade deliberately. The phony imitation ivory handle, with its picture of Baden Powell, felt comfortable in his palm.

“Now cut,” Tretheway said. He jammed the flashlight in his pocket.

Two beams of light swept over the top of the Incline.

“What's that?” Jake asked.

“Could be headlights.”

“Maybe Wan Ho.”

“Let's hope so.”

“What if it's…?”

“Keep cutting.”

The scout knife had seen sharper days. Jake sawed at the tough hemp of Terminus's bindings while Tretheway pulled them taut. Several gave way. Invasive, out-of-place metallic clangs came from the top of the Incline; then a low but shrill metal squeal. Jake looked a question at Tretheway but kept sawing. Tretheway paid no attention to the noises.

“I'm getting hot,” Terminus said.

“Just another minute, Miles,” Tretheway soothed.

The metallic clangs grew louder. A high-pitched metal-on-metal squeal overlapped a tongue-biting metallic screech they couldn't ignore. Tretheway looked up. A large ominous silhouette gradually moved into his view at the top of the hill. The squeals continued.

It took Tretheway seconds to respond.

“Good God! It's one of the railway cars.”

“Eh?” Jake stopped cutting.

“There!” Tretheway shouted at the left hand track.

“It's moving!” Jake shouted back.

Tretheway glared into the darkness. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck. A small-scale figure climbed onto the roof of the Incline car and disappeared inside. The heavy coach slowly, ever so slowly, overcame its inertia and began its squealing descent down the rusty tracks toward the three stunned policemen.

Jake needed no urging to double his efforts. Tretheway tore apart a couple more weakened strands. Smoke enveloped them. The fire reached blistering
heat. Tretheway figured they had less than a minute. The knife blade broke. Jake stared at the useless handle, then at Tretheway. He remembered afterward, that this was when the slow motion started.

In a Herculean effort supercharged by life-saving adrenalin, Tretheway took a firm handhold near the top of the stake, wedged his size thirteens between two ties and using his strong leg muscles developed over years of competetive hammer-throwing plus his formidable weight, pulled the upright toward him until it formed almost a quarter circle, Terminus bending easily with it. The noise it made when the base snapped off sounded like the cracking of a Brobdignagian bull whip. Tretheway and Terminus toppled over backwards, fortunately uphill away from the fire and, also fortunately, close to but not through one of the gaps in the ties.

At the same instant the railway car blurred past. The old coach without gears, brakes, cables or the natural counterweight of the companion car to hold it back, had quickly reached an alarming speed. It threatened to jump track.

General Sherman braced himself in the open section of the coach and leaned recklessly over the guard rail flailing his 1853 Pattern cavalry sword. The double-breasted, dark blue frock coat, with blue velvet collar and cuffs, came to his knees. Light from the fire flickered over the two rows of shiny breast buttons grouped in threes. Shoulder straps with two stars denoted the rank of Major General.

The fire roared. A whirlwind of sparks engulfed the front of the coach. Metal shrieks came from its
pro-testing undercarriage. Lightning flashed simultaneously with an ear-shattering crash of thunder.

The whole structure vibrated. But the scariest, most noticeable sound in Jake's mind was the desperate swish of General Sherman's sword when it came within an inch of decapitating Terminus just as Tretheway pulled him from harm's way.

Righting himself shakily, the General pointed his sword at the sky. He let loose a tormented, wild scream of rage unheard above the hellish din. The wind whipped his poorly made beard and sideburns away. His historically inappropriate cocked hat followed. A malevolent twisted glare took possession of Neil Heavenly's face. He burst through the leading edge of the flames as dramatically as any Wagnerian Valkyrie. The slow motion ended.

“Did you see who that was?” Jake shouted. In his excitement he swallowed smoke and began coughing.

“I saw.” Tretheway scrambled to his feet. “Let's get out of here.”

They half carried, half dragged Terminus, post and all, backwards up the sloping Incline ahead of the fire. Through sporadic holes in the flames and smoke, they were able to follow the careening railway car on its final trip.

“Gawd.” Jake coughed violently. “Look at it go.”

Tretheway shook his head. “I'm surprised the old tracks don't collapse.”

“What's going to stop it?”

“There's a concrete wall at the bottom.”

“Let's hope it holds.”

“It's starting to rain,” Terminus said.

They backed further up the Incline. The runaway car incredibly hugged the guiding tracks. And the tracks held. Neil Heavenly could still be seen, swaying, brandishing his sword. Twenty tons of steel coach thundered onto the city street in a fiery cloud of flying debris, with just a hint of hesitation as it made gravel out of the low concrete barrier. Heavenly disappeared. In the car's erratic journey downtown, it zigzagged from front lawn to front lawn taking out numerous bushes and small trees before finally coming to rest on a substantial traffic island three blocks away. On one zig, it almost crashed into Wan Ho's cruiser belatedly coming to the rescue.

Tretheway and Jake made it to the safe limestone shelf at the top of the Incline, still manhandling Terminus. They freed him from the post. The thin cords binding his hands and feet untied more easily than the thick hemp that had snapped the blade of Jake's knife. Jake rubbed life back into Terminus's wrists and ankles.

“Will you look at that.” Tretheway viewed the panorama spread out before them.

The fire still roared fiercely despite the fitful rain. But it was running out of fuel. Already at the bottom puffs of hot ashes exploded in the air as weakened ties collapsed onto the ground below. Sirens wailed. Flashing red lights identified the emergency vehicles, several of which clustered around the smoking pyre of the Incline car. Others veered around the traffic island and raced to the Incline's base while the remainder, Wan Ho included, coursed up the mountain road on their roundabout way to the top. Stroboscopic flashes of sheet lightning eerily illuminated the whole scene.

“Too bad we're the only ones to see the Mayor's holiday extravaganza,” Tretheway commented.

Jake smiled. “It looks like a long Labour Day.”

The rain changed from intermittent to monsoon. They made no attempt to find shelter. Refreshingly cool rivulets made flesh-coloured streaks down their relieved, smoke-darkened faces. Tretheway looked at Jake. His wet hair stuck messily to his forehead and his white shirt, now streaked with creosote, hung halfway out of his waistband. A torn flap of pant material exposed a scratched knobby knee. One shoelace was missing.

“Do I look as bad as you?” Tretheway asked.

Jake looked down his front, then at Tretheway. “Yes,” he replied.

“You okay, Miles?” Tretheway asked.

Terminus kept rubbing his wrists. He didn't answer.

“Miles,” Jake repeated. “Are you all right?”

Terminus stared blankly at Jake. “I didn't mean to kill him,” he said.

“You didn't,” Jake said. “He rode right into the fire.”

Tretheway caught Jake's eye. He shook his head. “I don't think he's talking about tonight.”

Jake looked puzzled.

“It's all over now, Miles.” Tretheway said.

Terminus switched his gaze to Tretheway. It was hard to tell whether he was crying in the heavy rain. Jake remembered he hadn't put the top up on his car.