Catching Out (Rail Riders Book 3), page 1
Catching Out
Rail Riders
Nicky James
Catching Out
Copyright © 2022 by Nicky James
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist:
Nicky James
Editing:
Susie Selva
LesCourt Author Services
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.
Contents
Freight-Hopping Terms
1. Dodger
2. Brady
3. Dodger
4. Brady
5. Dodger
6. Brady
7. Dodger
8. Brady
9. Dodger
10. Brady
11. Dodger
12. Brady
13. Dodger
14. Brady
15. Dodger
16. Brady
17. Dodger
18. Brady
19. Dodger
20. Brady
21. Dodger
22. Brady
23. Dodger
Epilogue
Note to Readers
Also By Nicky James
About the Author
Freight-Hopping Terms
Catching Out – Leaving the city via freight train
On the fly – Catching a freight train while it’s moving
Bulls – Railyard police (they have the power to arrest)
Greenhorn (or green) – A newbie rider
Slack Tension - Slack can build between the “knuckles” (joints) of each train car due to changes of speed. This results in sudden “pops” or violent jerks, often throwing or killing riders. Mostly happens during starting and stopping.
Riding suicide – Standing or balancing in a spot on a moving freight train where there is no solid ground between you and the tracks below.
Coupling/uncoupling – putting train cars together or taking them apart. Sometimes referred to as "humping"
Boxcar - Enclosed freight car, typically with sliding doors on the sides that are not usually unlocked. Very ideal for riding inside (if you can get in); not equipped with a low-hanging ladder, which makes them difficult to jump if the train is moving.
Grainers - Type of car with a slight overhang. Good for riding and hiding.
Stackers/Intermodal Stackers - Cargo containers. Generally going long distances. At the end of each container are wells (not always usable). Can be single or stacked two high. Double stackers can sometimes provide an overhang for protection from the weather. Access to inside is usually unavailable (like boxcars) but on occasion an open door can be found. They are located on the ends.
Gondola - Lowest priority freight car usually filled with junk (bulk materials, scrap metal, logs, lumber, steel, sand, copper, iron ore, wood chips.) Like a big dumpster with no lid. Exposed to weather and generally aren’t going far and can be left in remote areas. Not ideal.
Piggyback Car - A flatbed train car that is carrying a semi trailer.
Chapter one
Dodger
Was it possible the answers I’d been seeking for years were on the eighteenth floor of a high-rise in downtown Toronto? I was about to find out. Call it a hunch, but meeting this stranger felt like a step in the right direction, and I’d been spinning my wheels for too many years.
Things were going to change. I could feel it.
On the busy sidewalk in front of the tan brick building, I craned my neck as I tried and failed to count how many stories high this particular apartment went. The inset balconies blurred the higher I got, and I kept messing up. It didn’t help when some woman on her cell phone, who wasn’t watching where she was going, knocked into me. She had the audacity to give me a dirty look as she wobbled on her high heels and clip-clopped away.
I gave her the finger, but she didn’t see since she’d already turned her back.
Drawing deeply from my last cigarette, I squinted into the afternoon sun and watched the traffic zipping up and down Eglinton Avenue. Smog hung over the city, a thick inescapable haze of pollution. It was busy and noisy, two things I always associated with Toronto. The temperature was decent for a change. It hadn’t been this warm a few days ago, and I was hoping it would stick around. May was at an end, and June meant summer.
June meant freedom—for a few months at least.
After one last drag, I flicked my cigarette butt to the ground and stomped on it before blowing a thin trail of smoke from my lungs. I heaved my rucksack off the bus stop bench and hooked it over my shoulder, turning to the front doors of the apartment.
This was it. Time to meet this Brady Thompson stranger and see if he had the answers I didn’t.
I buzzed the apartment number he’d given me. A minute passed before a crackly voice came over the intercom.
“Hello?”
The guy knew I’d landed outside the railyard a few hours ago. I’d texted him, but it had taken time to get to York and find his place.
“Hey, it’s me. Dodger.”
“Oh. Okay, cool. Um… come on up.”
The door buzzed and clicked, and I grabbed the handle, yanking it open. There was no way in hell I was climbing eighteen flights of stairs. I wasn’t one of those hippy health nuts who needed to prove themselves with their Fitbits and gym memberships.
I stayed active in other ways—like chasing freights.
The elevator was slow and rattly. It gave me another minute to process the randomness of the whole situation. It had been a week since my good buddy RaptorZ had contacted me about this U of T student, and I’d agreed to help him out without a second thought.
Help him do what? I had no idea. All I knew was Brady Thompson had information about the CP Rail killer, and proving a killer truly existed had become my life goal, so I’d agreed to travel to Toronto to meet him.
On the eighteenth floor, the doors clattered open, and I found myself in a dimly lit hallway that smelled of cabbage and old cigarette smoke. The carpeting was shit brown with a mosaic patterning meant to hide stains.
It didn’t.
I followed it along, listening to the commotion from behind several doors. People living their lives. A baby cried. A dog barked. Someone had their TV set at max volume, the theme song for SpongeBob SquarePants leaking into the hall.
I checked the numbers on the doors until I came to the one marked 1812. The little brass number two on the end dangled upside down. I stared at the peephole, wondering if Brady Thompson was watching me from the other side.
Without further ado, I knocked. I wasn’t one to get nervous or overthink circumstances. I was a go-with-the-flow type. If anything, seeking out this Brady character had filled me with excited energy. He was a believer like me. Most people didn’t think the rail killer existed.
Apart from RaptorZ, the rest of my friends thought I was nuts. They were convinced the whole thing was a myth to scare riders.
The door opened two inches, catching on the inside chain. A single, smoky-blue-colored eye peeked around the corner. Above the eye was a perfectly sculpted blond eyebrow set at a wary angle. The apartment was brightly lit, highlighting the stranger’s wheat-colored hair and fine-boned profile.
I couldn’t get a read on his age since I was only looking at half his face.
“Dodger?”
“Are you expecting someone else?”
“No.” Brady huffed a nervous laugh, closed the door, slid the lock free, and opened it again. “Sorry. You can never be too careful. Please, come in.” He made a flourishing gesture, granting me entrance.
Before closing the door, he glanced down the hall. “Are you alone?”
“Um, yeah.”
He frowned as he closed the door. “Oh.”
First impressions? Brady Thompson was preppy. He wore wrinkle-free chinos, a white cotton button-down—the sleeves rolled to his forearms and the front open to expose his throat and prominent collarbones—a sweater vest, and argyle socks.
His blondish hair was stylish with a slight wave. It reminded me of how those posers and academics at university tended to wear their hair. I’d done jobs for guys like Brady while working as an electrician for my dad’s company back home in Moose Jaw. I’d have bet the guy’s trust fund he came from money. He was well-groomed. Primped, if I had to choose a word. Like he’d fussed extensively before I’d shown up.
Brady examined me in much the same fashion, and I could only imagine the stereotypes he was ticking off on a checklist inside his head as he took in my riding gear, tattered rucksack, and enervated attitude. I was exhausted and smelled like diesel fuel, a side effect of having traveled thirty-five hours on a freight to get to Toronto. He probably thought I was some homeless chump who would just as soon steal from him as help him.
It couldn’t be helped. The guy shouldn’t judge if he wanted my help.
“So, hey.” I held out a hand. My mother had taught me manners, and my father had smacked me upside the head enough times I’d learned to use them. Besides, someone needed to cut the awkward tension, or we’d be standing in the entryway to his apartment, staring at each other, all day. I had better things to do. “Good to finally meet you. Not gonna lie,
Brady seemed to hesitate a moment before accepting the handshake. “Yes. Um… thank you for coming all this way. So, is Dodger a nickname?” He made a little gesture with his hand, waving a finger at me as he asked. There was a slight campiness to his voice, a faint lilt.
“It is, but only the privileged get to know my real name, so don’t ask.”
“Fair enough.” He rubbed his hands together. “I won’t try to cipher the meaning behind it. Although, if we’re going to work companionably with one another”—he made a railroad gesture, swinging two fingers between us—“it might be in our best interest to inject a little trust into this alliance.”
“No.”
He dropped his hands. “Oh. Okay. I understand. Well, I guess we can get to it. Um… do you mind leaving your boots at the door?” He indicated my feet, wrinkling his nose at my mud-caked footwear. “They make us pay a hefty deposit on these places, and I have no desire to spend half a day scrubbing muck out of the cream carpeting.” Another flailing gesture over his shoulder as he motioned to the other room and his precious carpeting.
“No problem.”
The guy was clearly one of those people who talked with his hands. He was a little over the top, expressive, but I bit my tongue and untied my boots, kicking them off and leaving them on a plastic mat by the door. I dropped my rucksack beside them since I doubted I needed it.
“Can I get you a drink or something to eat?”
“Maybe in a bit. I’d like to know why I came all this way. Rap said you weren’t forthcoming, but you needed help with something. Not gonna lie, I’m curious. The CP Rail killer has been a personal project of mine for a long time. It’s a bit of an obsession. Most people think it’s hooky nonsense, so it’s nice to find someone who doesn’t.”
Brady stalled, one hand on a hip, the other near his mouth, and he stared at me like I was some rare piece of art. He didn’t move into the apartment and kept searching my face for something I couldn’t decern. Maybe he was trying to decide whether he could trust me.
I cocked a brow. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“It’s not hooky nonsense. There is a killer.” He flashed his attention over his shoulder. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. I might be a bit obsessed myself. I’ve rationalized my fixation by loosely turning it into the focus for my thesis.” He rolled his eyes with a frustrated sigh. “I’m still working on it. It’s a mess. Anyhow, I don’t have people over often, but when I do, they… don’t understand.”
“Now I’m intrigued.”
“Let me show you.” He made a rolling motion with a hand, allowing me to go ahead.
I already knew Brady Thompson was brilliantly smart. RaptorZ had told me he was taking some forensic or behavioral science thing at the university. His intelligence showed in his manner of speech and presentation. When I looked at some people, I could tell that they were way smarter than the average Joe. Brady was one of them.
If I hadn’t known in advance, Brady’s apartment would have been a dead giveaway.
I’d heard the workings of a genius’s brain could be categorized as anarchic. Too much going on inside for them to think in a straight line. It leaked out their ears or some shit. Brady’s apartment reflected that sentiment to a T. Not in a messy way, but in a controlled chaos sort of way. It was an explosion of the inner workings of his brain. It was a Dr. Sheldon Cooper meets Dr. Spencer Reid type of moment, and my jaw came unhinged.
“Holy shit.” I spun, gaping, unwilling to blink and miss anything.
Brady stood off to the side, his expression wary. He had one arm wrapped around his middle and the other balanced on top, hand poised over his mouth. “It’s excessive. I know.”
“It’s fucking incredible. I’ll say it again. Holy shit.”
The largest wall in the living room was covered with an oversized, cross-country map of all the CP and CN Rail lines. I had a similar one in my basement apartment at my parents’ house back in Moose Jaw, but it was half the size and far less detailed. This one showed decommissioned lines going back a hundred years. Where he got the map, I had no idea, but I was jealous as fuck and wanted one. It was easily six feet long and four feet high.
Off to one side were umpteen photographs, lined up in a perfect grid format, four across and three down. They were some of the missing riders, the ones who had turned up dead. I knew because I had the same collection on my wall at home. Brady was missing a few. I didn’t know the riders personally, but I had been keeping my own notes since this whole strange thing had begun.
Surrounding the map were charts and various handwritten notes. Oddly, there were white eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pieces of paper taped beside each. Thumbtacks and colored string tied each section of notes to a specific part of the map. It wasn’t hard to sort out. The notes corresponded with the location where a body had been found. There were twelve.
On another wall, Brady had hung clipboards filled with wads more paper. I couldn’t read them from where I stood, but above each was a small, colored strip of tape with a bold string of numbers written in black marker. I wasn’t sure what they meant.
Whiteboards were balanced against the third wall, with illegible scribbles filling every square inch of space in red and blue and black dry-erase ink.
There were file boxes stacked around the room, some with their lids off, displaying fat folders and loose papers. A stack of textbooks and newspapers littered the coffee table. They surrounded an open laptop.
Lastly, a narrow bookshelf sat at an angle in one of the corners. It was filled with more textbooks, vastly focused on forensic science and criminal psychology.
There was no TV in the room, no game system, no knickknacks or plants or decorations of any kind. It was the essence of madness. It was a room more fitted to those cop shows than one belonging to a university student, and I was in love.
I circled the room twice, unable to pick my jaw up off the floor, absorbing every detail. There were no words for what I was feeling. My room back home was similar but on a much, much smaller scale.
On my third circuit, I paused, staring at the odd display of blank white papers around the map beside his notes. They seemed to be covering something. Frowning, I approached and reached out, intent on lifting one to see what was hiding underneath.
Brady was beside me in a flash, clamping a hand around my upper arm, finger theatrically poised in the air, asking me to hang on a second.
“A word of warning, if I may. I wasn’t sure how squeamish you were, so I covered the more graphic photographs before you arrived. As a precaution and courtesy.”
I studied Brady’s expression. His eyes were bluer than I’d originally thought, and they reflected the lamplight, showing flecks of silver and granite. His attention was riveted to my face, and he was serious. I mean, why would he lie about something like that?
“What do you mean graphic?” It might have been a dumb question, but if he meant what I thought he meant, then he had a lot of explaining to do. “What’s under there?”
Brady flicked his attention to one of the sheets of white paper and back. “They’re crime scene photographs. Not pretty.”
There was no hint of deception in his tone or body language, so I approached the closest group of pictures and lifted the white paper to see for myself. The instant I laid eyes on the image underneath, I tore my hand away like I’d been burned. My stomach muscles tightened as the paper fluttered back into place.
“Dude. What the fuck?”
“I did warn you.”
He had.
My attention jumped from one white piece of paper to another. There were dozens. The information surrounding the map was segmented into groups. If my assumption was correct, each pertained to a specific rider. The strings showed where the bodies had been recovered.
And each group, apart from two, contained at least two covered photographs.
“How the hell did you get crime scene photos? I thought the police dismissed their deaths as accidents.”
