Two Trains Running - By Andrew H. Vachss Page 0,84

to the surface.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I only wanted to—”

“What you want isn’t important. Is it?”

“No, sir.”

“And you know what is important, don’t you?”

“Yes. I . . . Yes, sir, I know. Please?”

“What time is your shift over?”

“Eleven. But then I have to close down the—”

“Oh four hundred hours,” the voice said. “That will give you plenty of time to prepare yourself.”

* * *

1959 October 04 Sunday 21:34

* * *

I got to get closer, refrained through Holden’s labyrinth mind. I got to get closer, so I can make my report. He moved as cautiously as a weasel approaching a henhouse, his passage disturbing the underbrush less than a gentle breeze. The night creatures were used to Holden’s presence—his scent didn’t alarm them, his movements didn’t send them scurrying. He was one of them: a resident, not a visitor.

That’s the one, he said to himself. That same ’55 Chevy. That’s why he didn’t back all the way in, the way most of them do—he wouldn’t want to get that beautiful paint all scratched up.

Music drifted out onto the night air, so softly that even Holden’s forest-trained ears could barely pick it up. Unlike the lumbering gait he automatically fell into whenever he had leave the safety of his forest, Holden moved with an almost sinuous grace as he closed the gap. The bruised-and-blue sounds of Bobby Bland’s “I’ll Take Care of You” floated over to him, but Holden didn’t recognize the song. He’s going to run down his battery, playing the radio with the engine turned off like that, he thought.

The moon refracted against the Chevy’s windshield, blocking Holden’s view of the interior as effectively as a curtain. It’s a warm night. Maybe they have the side windows down. I know that Chevy’s a hardtop, so even if they’re in the back seat . . .

Holden was so close that he tested each footstep before committing to it. From long experience, he knew that hiding behind a tree wasn’t as effective as standing in the open, blending with the night. His green-and-brown camouflage jacket and matching hat—gifts from his friend, Sherman—coupled with his ability to stand perfectly, soundlessly still, were all he had ever needed.

Holden didn’t like radios. They masked the sounds he coveted. The secret sounds he replayed in his mind, back in his room. They were his, those sounds. He owned them.

Holden often wanted to tell Sherman about the sounds. He thought his friend would understand. But . . . but he couldn’t be sure. Besides, Sherman was a policeman. A detective, even. Maybe there was a law Holden didn’t know about. . . .

The side windows were down, just as Holden had wished. Sometimes, Holden believed he could wish things true. Like tonight. He had wanted the windows to be down, and . . . there they were. But when he tried it on . . . other things he wanted, it didn’t work. There was something about this Holden yearned to understand. But there was no one he could ask—he knew what would happen if he did.

“I hate this.”

A woman’s voice came through the side window. Something about it was deeply familiar to Holden, but he knew better than to reach for the memory. Every time that happened, he ended up trying to grasp smoke. If you spook up a rabbit, and you don’t chase it, just stay in the same spot, very still and quiet, sometimes, sometimes, the rabbit comes back.

“You think I like it?” A man’s voice. A young man. Holden was sure he hadn’t heard it before. “What am I going to do?”

“That’s just it, Harley. It should be ‘What are we going to do?’ ”

“You know that’s what I meant.” The man’s voice was somewhere between angry and . . . something else. Holden searched his mind for the right word. Sulky. That was it. Sulky like a little kid.

“It’s only a couple of months, Harley. A couple of months, and then I’m gone from here. I’m going to start second semester.”

“You’ll be back.”

“You’re so sure?”

“Kitty, why do you have to always be twisting everything I say? I only meant, college, it’s not like you stay there forever. You’ll be back, for summers and stuff, that’s all I was saying.”

“You could come with me.”

“Come with you? To . . . what’s the name of that school, again?”

“Western Reserve University,” the woman’s voice said, proudly. “And it wouldn’t be to the school. We, the girls, we have to live in dorms. But it’s in