Water for Elephants (40 page)

The divide between this car and the next seems immense, a great span over eternity. I gather myself, pressing my tongue against the bitter metal of the knife. Then I leap, throwing every ounce of muscle into propelling myself through the air. I swing my arms and legs wildly, preparing to catch hold of anything—anything at all—if I miss.

I hit roof. I cling to the top rail, panting like a dog around the sides of the blade. Something warm trickles from the corner of my mouth. Still kneeling on the rail, I remove the knife from my mouth and lick blood from my lips. Then I put it back, taking care to keep my lips retracted.

In this manner I traverse five sleepers. Each time I leap, I land a little more cleanly, a little more cavalierly. By the sixth, I have to remind myself to be careful.

When I reach the privilege car, I sit on the roof and take stock. My muscles are aching, my head is spinning, and I’m gasping for breath.

The train jags around another curve and I grasp the rails, looking toward the engine. We’re hugging the side of a forested hill, headed for a trestle. From what I can see in the darkness, the trestle drops down to a rocky river bank twenty yards below. The train jerks again, and I make my decision. The rest of my journey to car 48 will be on the interior.

Still clenching the knife in my teeth, I ease myself off the edge of the platform. The cars that house the performers and bosses are connected by metal plates, so all I have to do is make sure I land on it. I’m hanging by my fingertips when the train lurches once again, swinging my legs off to the side. I clutch desperately, my sweaty fingers sliding on the cross-hatched metal.

When the train straightens out again, I drop onto the plate. The platform has a railing and I lean against it for a moment, collecting myself.
With aching, trembling fingers I pull the watch from my pocket. It’s nearly three in the morning. The chances of running into someone are slim. But still.

The knife is a problem. It is too long to go in a pocket, too sharp to stick in my waistband. In the end, I wrap my jacket around it and tuck it under my arm. Then I run my fingers through my hair, wipe the blood off my lips, and slide the door open.

The corridor is empty, illuminated by moonlight coming through the windows. I pause long enough to look out. We’re on the trestle now. I had underestimated its height—we’re a good forty yards above the boulders of the riverbank and facing a wide area of nothingness. As the train sways, I’m grateful I’m no longer on the roof.

Soon I’m staring at the doorknob of stateroom 3. I unwrap the knife and lay it on the floor while I put my jacket back on. Then I pick it up and stare at the doorknob a moment longer.

There’s a loud click as I turn the knob, and I freeze, keeping it turned, waiting to see if there’s a reaction. After several seconds, I continue twisting and push the door inward.

I leave the door open, afraid that if I close it I’ll wake him up.

If he’s on his back, a single quick slash across the windpipe will do it. If he’s on his stomach or side, I’ll plunge it straight through, making sure the blade crosses his windpipe. Either way, I’ll hit him in the neck. I just can’t falter, because it must be deep enough that he bleeds out quickly, without crying out.

I creep toward the bedroom, clutching the knife. The velvet curtain is closed. I pull the edge of it toward me and peek in. When I see that he’s alone, I exhale in relief. She’s safe, probably in the virgin car. In fact, I must have crawled right over her on my way here.

I slip in and stand by the bed. He’s sleeping on the near side, leaving space for the absent Marlena. The curtains on the windows are tied back, and moonlight flashes through the trees, alternately illuminating and hiding his face.

I stare down at him. He’s in striped pajamas and looks peaceful, boyish even.
His dark hair is mussed, and the edge of his mouth moves in and out of a smile. He’s dreaming. He moves suddenly, smacking his lips and rolling from his back onto his side. He reaches over to Marlena’s side of the bed and pats the empty space a few times. Then he pats his way up to her pillow. He takes hold of it and pulls it to his chest, hugging it, burrowing his face into it.

I raise the knife, holding it in both hands, its tip poised two feet above his throat. I need to do this right. I adjust the blade’s angle to maximize side-to-side damage. The train passes out of the trees, and a thin streak of moonlight catches the blade. It glints, throwing tiny shards of light as I make adjustments to the angle. August moves again, snorting and rolling violently onto his back. His left arm flops off the bed and comes to a stop inches from my thigh. The knife is still gleaming, still catching and throwing light. But the movement is no longer a result of my making adjustments. My hands are shaking. August’s lower jaw opens, and he inhales with a terrible rumbling and smacking of lips. The hand beside my thigh is slack. The fingers of his other hand twitch.

I lean over him and lay the knife carefully on Marlena’s pillow. I stare for a few seconds longer and then leave.

N
O LONGER RIDING
a wave of adrenaline, my head once again feels larger than my body, and I stagger through the corridors until I reach the end of the staterooms.

I have a choice to make. I must either go up top again or else continue through the privilege car—where there’s every possibility someone is still up gambling—and then also pass through all the sleepers, at which point I’ll still have to go back up top to get to the stock car. And so I decide to make the ascent earlier rather than later.

It’s almost more than I can manage. My head is pounding, and my balance seriously compromised. I climb onto the railing of a connecting platform and somehow scrape my way up to the top. Once there, I lie on the top rail, queasy and limp. I spend ten minutes recovering and then crawl forth. I rest again at the end of the car, prostrate between the top rails. I
am utterly drained. I can’t imagine how I’ll keep going, but I must, because if I fall asleep here I’ll fall off the first time we hit a curve.

The buzzing returns, and my eyes are jerking. I dive across the great divide four times, each time sure I won’t make it. On the fifth, I nearly don’t. My hands hit the thin iron rails, but the edge of the car hits me in the gut. I hang there, stunned, so tired that it crosses my mind how much easier it would be to simply let go. It’s how drowning people must feel in the last few seconds, when they finally stop fighting and sink into the water’s embrace. Only what’s waiting for me is not a watery embrace. It’s a violent dismemberment.

I snap to, scrabbling with my legs until I get purchase on the top edge of the car. From there, it’s easy enough to haul myself up and a second later I’m once again lying on the top rail, gasping for breath.

The train whistle blows, and I lift my huge head. I’m on top of the stock car. I only have to make it to the vent and drop down. I crawl to the vent in fits and starts. It’s open, which is odd because I thought I closed it. I lower myself inside and crash to the floor. One of the horses whinnies and continues to snort and stamp, riled up about something.

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.

T
HE 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.

•  •  •

I
N 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.