Michael found the guy's backpack and sleeping bag back by the stand where he had been hiding. Everything was military issue, including the first aid kit which he now used. The sniper rifle had shattered with the impact of the NATO rounds, but it had saved the guy's left hand. The right arm was a mess from the elbow down...shrapnel from the rifle had ripped it open.

He wrapped a pressure bandage around the right arm to staunch the bleeding, and wrapped the left hand with gauze. No matter what he did the man would bleed out in a matter of hours since the nearest hospital was fifty miles away. Sometimes when you play this game you lose everything ... Michael had been shot a few times.

By moonlight he saw the guy's face had a scruffy three day beard ... so where was he before that? At a guess he was mid-twenties and in great shape ... ex-military for sure. A search of the pockets in his BDU's revealed nothing useful except a satellite enabled cell phone.

A wallet held nearly a thousand dollars, but nothing to identify the man; at least he had followed procedure. Michael glanced down at the heavy boots and detected something among the laces. He dug with his fingers and pulled out the black tag ... a dog tag.

Guys in combat often tied one of their tags in their boot laces in case the top half of the body was blown off ... it happened. At least the military graves department would be able to identify the remains if the body still had its boots. Michael tilted the tag and read the name ... Nathaniel Bolton. The guy's social security number, blood type and religion were noted, but the name was a shock.

Bolton ... could he be related to Terrance? That would be pretty farfetched but he would be sure to ask if Nathan ever woke up. There would be pain, lots of pain and the first aid kit contained injectable syrettes of morphine pain killer. The guy would be begging for it and in exchange Michael wanted some information.

He tied the guys boot laces together to keep him in place. Without the use of his hands he wasn't going anywhere when he woke up. Michael slogged across the wet channel to Starvation Island and waded the river to the far side. His found the parka was holed by one shot, but otherwise the tree beside it was torn up. Not bad, but a foolish waste of ammunition.

He hiked back through the trees to his campsite, proceeded to tear it all down and loaded the ATV. He would need the vehicle now, there would be no airplane landing here. This might be Terrance's son but the information on this location was passed along from another source. He didn't like to think that Ducky had betrayed him but that's the way it looked.

Michael started the ATV and headed back to the river, pausing only long enough to drop the GPS device into the water. He had two five gallon gas cans strapped to the back of the seat which would be enough fuel for nearly two hundred miles, but he didn't need to travel that far.

Nathaniel was awake and sitting up when Michael returned. The guy was shivering from the cold and shock so Michael wrapped the sleeping bag around him. The face gave away the pain he was feeling and so Michael held up the morphine.

"Why did your father send you after me?" Michael asked, taking a chance on that last name. "You give me that faggot line again and I toss this in the river."

Nathaniel seemed to be evaluating his position. "You know too much ... he was afraid you would get caught and talk."

"He knows me better than that ... who told you I was here?"

"You gave us your location when you used the GPS unit ... it has a transponder. Can I have the morphine?"

Michael twisted the end off of the syrette and exposed the needle. "You must have a means of communication with him, how can I reach your father?"

"Sat phone ... but he won't talk to you."

"If he wants to save your life he will," Michael said and jabbed the needle into Nathaniel's shoulder. Between the shock and the loss of blood the morphine knocked him out again. Michael picked up the phone and turned it on. The minute the phone connected to the satellite about six messages popped up, it seems daddy was worried. Michael hit the redial.

"Nate ... where the hell have you been?" Terrance said.

"He's wounded and needs an evac," Michael said.

Silence. "Why haven't you killed him?"

"Naw, he's just a pawn in this little game of ours. If this is the best you have then I'm going to declare "Check." One more move to "Checkmate," and you know it. He has about four hours before he bleeds to death and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"Michael ... I ... "

"Don't say anything. Just get in here and save his ass. I'll leave this phone on so you can triangulate the signal for a pickup. You're an ignorant man, Terrance ... and you'll pay the price for that soon enough."

Michael set the phone down next to Nathaniel and stood up. The area code had been 208. Boise, Idaho ... didn't mean he was there ... but it was time to go.

He zipped Nathaniel into the sleeping bag and left another morphine syrette next to the phone. Terrance would get someone out here in the next few hours, but by then Michael would be long gone. Good luck, kid, he thought. With a father like that you need all the luck you can get.

It was forty miles through the mountains if he went to Eureka, but he wasn't heading to the town. Following the trails parallel to the Flathead River he reached Red Meadow Road by dawn which took him through the foothills between Nasukoin Mountain and Whitefish Mountain.

It was a gamble, but he figured Terrance would end up in Seattle because of Nathaniel. The hospital at the University of Washington was one of the best at reconstructive orthopedic surgery and the kid would need every bit of their skill to get any use of his hands back. Yes, Michael was sure Terrance would bring his son to Seattle. But he had to get there first.

Following the back trails past Stryker Ridge he followed the fire roads until he reached Highway 93. He had used up one of the five gallon cans of gas by this point but it was only four in the afternoon and he still had a few miles to go. He needed to eat before he started following the railroad tracks and there was a diner in Point of Rocks. Did he dare?

He was about twenty-five miles south of Eureka and about ten miles north of his destination, the Stillwater Lake region. He had his father to thank for his knowledge of how the BSNF freight trains ran in this part of Montana and how they would react when faced with an obstruction.

Michael didn't want a large tree, just one big enough for the top to lie across the tracks in a secluded area. The engineer would stop the train while several of the crew tackled the blockage with a chain saw, then they would be back on their way. A track crew would be sent out from the nearest maintenance yard to take care of the debris, but not until the following day.

All he had to do was stop the train for a minute and he would be aboard. He could have ridden the ATV about fifteen miles more into Whitefish where there was an Amtrak station but that would be foolish. He didn't think Terrance would notify the authorities, not if he was afraid his hired assassin might run his mouth, but someone could be watching.

He sat behind the diner with his takeout meal, just a couple of BLT sandwiches, but real food that didn't come in a sealed plastic wrapper. It would be dark in about two hours and he could resume his run down to Stillwater Lake. It was there that the railroad tracks crossed the highway and he could look for a place to cut the tree.

Hitching a ride on a freight train would not be a new experience, he had done it before. Growing up in Essex had been extremely boring, especially when school was out. With a population of about a hundred souls there were no kids his age in town, except for Everett.

Michael had known the boy since grade school, although Everett did not attend his school or any other. The concept of home schooling made perfect sense for someone confined to a wheelchair. Everett had developed DMD, Duchenne muscular dystrophy at an early age, crippling his body by the time he was eight. But there was nothing wrong with his mind. And since Michael's mother attended the same church as Everett's parents they were encouraged to make friends.

Hard to imagine a perfectly healthy boy like Michael would become fast friends with a handicapped kid but that is exactly what happened. The reasons were varied but among them were their common interests in trains and the fact that Everett was the smartest individual Michael had ever met.

Everett was in awe of Michael's father who managed the rail yards in Essex. They would spend hours sitting in the parking lot behind the Izaak Walton Inn overlooking the freight yards. All the employees could see them there and often waved in greeting. But Everett got his thrills when the locomotive engineers would toot their horns at him as they passed. The memories of those warm summer afternoons with Everett were all Michael had left.

They had often gone down to the bridge overlooking Sheep Creek to picnic. It was only a mile from the Walton Goat Lick Overlook where the wild goats came for the salt leeching out of the rock. Tourists came to look at the goats and take pictures while Michael and Everett liked looking at the strangers from around the world.

It was a fine spot for a picnic and Everett's mother always made them a basket of food. Fried chicken, pickles and olives, potato salad and a large jug of lemonade. The tourists with their out of state license plates driving by were always a good diversion, but then there were always the assholes.

Everett seemed to attract their attention, an easy target for an idiot. Michael could not fathom such bullshit but it seems a boy in his wheelchair made a good target. Sometimes it was a bag of trash, an apple core or even a mushy orange, but someone would toss the object at Everett and that made Michael furious. But the bullies were homegrown as well.

Wade was fourteen and lived on the other side of town near the highway. His age was unfortunate since all the other kids were either older or younger, but that was no excuse for his nasty attitude. He was six feet tall, skinny as a rail, and homely as a hound dog.

The county was well aware of Wade since he had this habit of carrying knives to school and threatening other kids. But that got him beat up by his stronger peers and so he settled on bullying younger kids like Michael and Everett who were only ten at the time Wade introduced himself.

There were few things in life Everett enjoyed. His computer, books his mother brought home from the library, the friendship with Michael, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups ... although not always in that order. The candy he got at Elmo's Gas and Go, and Mr. Wallingford made sure to have a good stock of them just to keep Everett happy.

The store was only half a block from his house and so Everett would wheel down the ramp outside the front door and take off up the street for his candy fix. It took some effort but the struggle was worth it just to be able to sit in the shade and eat one, two or even three cups of the chocolate covered peanut butter. That joy was abated one Saturday when Wade wheeled up on his bicycle and took the candy from Everett's hand.

There was little he could do to prevent the theft and Wade didn't stick around after snatching the candy. Everett went home and called Michael who said he would take care of it. Everett had no doubt Wade was going to regret his actions...and he soon did.

The goat lick was just part of a large section of land fronting Sheep Creek and an area behind it was posted with warnings for the tourists not to climb in the rocks. Falling was an issue, but so were the snakes. Montana had only one type of venomous reptile and that was the Western rattlesnake.

Living in the pine barrens behind the rocks these creatures would often slither up into the sun to warm themselves before retreating back into the hidden places beneath the boulders. Chances were if you ignored the signs you might get bit, but that didn't scare Michael.

He waited until dinner time just after sunset and then he made his move over to Wade's house. The burlap bag he carried in the basket of his bicycle stirred with movement but the snake could not escape until the top was untied. Michael sat on his bike in the street and through the front windows he saw Wade's family gathered at the dinner table ... just perfect.

Wade's bedroom window was open just enough for Michael to stand up on the pedals of his bike after he had untied the bag. He dumped the snake onto the bed which was right under the window, and then reaching into his jacket pocket he took out the pack of Reese's and tossed it on the bed where Wade could see it.

The story hit the local newspaper on Monday morning. "Essex boy bitten by rattlesnake," the headline read. Wade wasn't dead since snakebites rarely killed anyone who had access to emergency services. But he was in the Columbia Falls hospital in great pain since the bite had swollen his arm to nearly twice its size.

Wade never returned to Essex. The word around town was that he was now living with cousins in Missoula ... far, far away. No doubt Wade had gotten the message. The snake had done the job and Michael doubted the boy would ever eat another Reese's cup in his life.

Fishing was one thing a young boy could do in town without getting in trouble. While Michael waded in the shallows with his rod Everett would sit in his wheelchair on the bank and cast into the swirling pools within reach. This one particular afternoon they just sat in the shade of a long needle pine and Michael recalled their strange conversation, but then Everett often had strange ideas.

"Don't laugh at me, but I would like to visit China," Everett had said.

Michael smiled at the absurd suggestion ... they were both twelve years old. "That's all the way on the other side of the world."

"It is, and that's why I want to go there. I could take the train to Portland and go by ship to Hong Kong."

"And what would you do when you get there?" Michael asked.

"Study the people ... eat Chinese food."

"You don't speak the language.

"I could learn ... don't you ever dream of getting away from here?"

"All the time," Michael replied. "I will someday ... and so will you."

"I don't know about that," Everett said. "If I could walk things might be different, but I live on wheels. Where would you go if you left?"

Michael shrugged. "California ... I hear the beaches are nice."

"I'd love to sit on a beach and watch the waves roll in." Everett looked over at Sheep Creek. "Remember when you decided to go swimming in the creek?"

"I was eight years old and just plain stupid ... I could have drowned."

Everett laughed and waved his arms. "I could have swum out of there if the current wasn't so strong."

"The water was too cold ... I could hear my balls screaming for warmth."

"You have screaming balls, huh? I'll be sure to remember that the next time someone asks me about you. What do your balls say when you jerk off?"

"They sigh with contentment and then go back to making sperms."

Sex talk was frequent although the chances of Everett ever having a sexual experience were zilch, but he seemed interested in what Michael thought of the concept. Just talking about sex with a girl made Michael uncomfortable although at twelve he wasn't really sure why so he played along.

"I read that the first experience a boy has with intercourse lasts all of about four minutes," Everett once said. "Four minutes start to finish seems rather pathetic. I mean guys get one shot and then we're done."

Michael didn't know if Everett could ... did he dare ask? But Everett smiled. "It would take me twenty minutes, I'm sure."

"What? How ... how is that possible?"

Everett had laughed. "Hell, boy ... it takes me fifteen minutes to find my dick."

With such severe nerve damage it was nearly impossible for Everett to achieve an erection, but when he did there was always the chance for an orgasm. Needless to say he was fascinated by Michael's state of puberty and so there were moments of show and tell.

For some reason Michael didn't mind the experience of showing Everett his skills at masturbation. The way the boy watched was almost scientific in nature, but it had gone no further ... it couldn't because life just wasn't fair.

By the time he was thirteen there were two moments that year which brought a new reality to Michael's life. The most important was completely devastating to his childhood senses ... Everett died from the complications of pneumonia. Michael knew he had been sick, but nothing prepared him for the reality of losing his closest friend.

The funeral was held in Hungry Horse at the tiny chapel off of Highway 2 on the way to Columbia Falls. The building held about sixty people and many others stood outside the doors listening to the funeral ceremony. Michael sat outside on a folding chair in the bright sunshine and worked to control his emotions.

"The hardest part of life is accepting death, especially when a child dies," the minister's voice intoned from inside the chapel ... .and Michael tuned him out.

It was the most alone Michael had ever felt and the moment he lost contact with this church and their God. No rational deity would take the life of a crippled child such as Everett. The second most important thing was that Michael had come to realize he loved Everett and that had been taken from him.

He didn't think either of them understood the depth of their relationship even at the oddest of moments ... like the porn. Everett's computer was his lifeline to the world for education and research. The kid was a brain and didn't mind sharing what he had learned ... so there was this porn site.

Michael was distantly fascinated by watching a guy have sex with a woman when Everett logged on to the site. But it looked mechanical ... unemotional, and Everett summed it up.

"The first time I saw this I came to a realization," He said. "I'll never have sex with a woman, or see a real vagina for that matter. Reproduction is not on my bucket list. I will never get married and have kids ... let's watch something else."

And with that Everett switched to a gay porn site. The images of a handsome young man masturbating played out and Michael noticed Everett had an erection.

"See, I can relate to that ... we both can. Masturbation is a personal experience."

Perhaps Everett knew something that Michael had yet to understand about himself. Over the course of several months they looked at that site when the occasion permitted. It was as if Everett knew there was a limit to the things life would allow him. Would they have experienced more? There would be no answer to that.

The sense of loss struck Michael dumb as he watched the coffin go into the ground. It wasn't the lack of sexual expression that had been cut off by Everett's death but the end of understanding. In looking back it seems Everett must have known he was gay, and he was smart enough to fathom the depths of Michael's emotions.

Two months after the funeral Michael ran away for the first time. It was summer and he couldn't face the reality of life without Everett. The means of escape was right there within arm's length ... he hopped a freight train.

Somehow he knew Everett would envy the courage it took to sneak onto a moving train, but after years of watching Michael knew what he was doing. Neither the engineer in the locomotive nor the yard crew saw him run from cover because the train was just entering the curve outside of Essex. The row of cars was perhaps doing ten miles an hour at this point after leaving the yard and Michael chose an open low-sided ore carrier towards the rear.

His leap onto the metal ladder between the cars was hindered by his backpack, but only a little. He swore that next time he would toss the pack over the side before he mounted the ladder. Of course an open freight car could hold most anything and this one held anthracite, a black and messy choice.

The train was heading north and his discomfort at riding in a car filled with coal made the trip last an eternity, especially once it got dark. But he knew the freight would slow down as it passed through the rail yards of Whitefish and when it did he dismounted. He had not run far, this was all of fifty miles from home.

Michael spent the rest of the night in the woods beside the tracks where he encountered two old hobos who stole his backpack and his wallet with seventy-five dollars of his birthday money inside. He was scared, they had a knife, but they walked away laughing. The boy was a runaway and wasn't going to call the cops.

At dawn Michael made his way up the tracks to the Amtrak station and waited for the agent to arrive. The man called Michael's father and handed over the phone.

"Feel pretty foolish now, don't you?" His father said on the drive back to Essex. "You could have been killed jumping on that train, or those two bums could have slit your throat. What do you think?"

Michael could only agree, but what he said was far different. "I wanted to kill those two bastards ... I never felt so helpless in my life."

Frank Kellum nodded, but said nothing more to his son. Instead he bought a set of weights and a punching bag for the garage. Helpless was something he could fix, the loss of Everett had affected everyone in town. He could not allow his son to spiral down into depression.

The rail yard had some pretty big men to handle the heavy task of shuttling railroad cars around. Frank knew each of them and their temperament so he chose Bobby Dennings to coach his son for the rest of the summer. For three evenings a week Michael was shown how to lift and where to punch. It was only the beginning of a drastic change in attitude.

Michael blinked and took the last bite of his sandwich ... it would be getting dark pretty soon and it was time to move. The ATV had served him well so far, he could not have come this distance in such a short time without it. The snow covered trails would have taken him days to traverse on foot and a timeline like that was impossible for the things he had to accomplish.

He had sorted through the items that were lashed down on the back of the ATV and put all his necessities in one backpack. He broke the HK rifle down into small components and dropped some of them in the dumpster behind the diner along with the larger portion of the MRE's and the parachute. The Glock was coming with him.

He would change into the civilian clothing once he got off the train but he would need a new parka since it would not do to be running around in one with a large bullet hole in it. The ATV, shovel, chain saw and the gas cans would be left in the woods where someone would find them and put them to good use.

He swung out on the highway and headed south in the late afternoon overcast. It would probably snow again tomorrow but that was just fine. There was little traffic since most people would be home for dinner at this time of the day. But there would still be police on the road and Michael was mindful of cars ahead and behind. When a car did approach he pulled over into a driveway or breached the snowbank on the side of the road to await its passing. There were only a few more miles to go.

An hour before dark he came across the bridge and saw the tracks running underneath. He turned back north and followed the rail bed. There was nothing but flat open land on either side but closer to the lake there would be lots of trees and one of them would serve his purpose. It was time to gamble.

Freight trains ran in both directions and Michael had no idea of the schedule they would keep. If he dropped the tree and a southbound train approached he was screwed. They would remove the debris and the next northbound train would just keep rolling by ... it was all a matter of luck.

Two miles up he came to the trees and realized most of them had been cut back to prevent the kind of issue he was trying to create. A new growth of pine trees had been planted on the verge and most of them were barely a dozen feet tall ... and then he came to the mother of all trees.

This tree stood in stark contrast to the others, a tall cedar surrounded by lodgepole pines, and it was already dead. It looked as if lightning had struck some years ago and crippled the tree. Michael stared up at the top of the tree in the gathering darkness and judged it was just long enough to do the job.

Two things favored choosing this tree. It sat on a rise above the tracks so it would fall hard, and the rail lines ran straight and true for quite a distance in both directions. Michael wanted the engineer to see the obstruction and not plow into it with any speed.

He would be able to see the train coming for a mile or two so timing was everything. He just hoped the train's crew didn't investigate the reason the tree had toppled over since a chainsaw left easily identifiable marks on the wood. He set about cutting the directional notch at the base of the tree ... and then he waited.

An hour later he saw the lights of a southbound freight and was glad he had waited. Dozens of cars flashed by before the tail lights of the train moved off into the distance, and then faintly he heard the horn. Engineers often saluted other trains as they passed with a short blast of the horn and Michael set to work on the tree ... his ride was approaching.

The bulk of the cedar yielded to the chainsaw and Michael watched it fall and hit the ground with a resounding crash. He dropped the chainsaw and grabbed his pack, running down the hill and heading north away from the oncoming train.

He could barely see how much of the tree blocked the tracks, there was only starlight to show him, but it looked good so far. Once the train stopped the engineer might get suspicious and the crew would check out the length of the train to see if anyone had hopped on board ... he would do just that if he had the job. By heading north the train would barely have gathered any speed when it passed and Michael could pick and choose his car.

He stood in the pines on the far side of the track and watched the scene play out. The train screeched to a stop and it took the crew twenty minutes to remove the debris. The play of flashlights indicated that they did check the length of the train before starting up again and Michael watched as the lead locomotive passed by.

Freight trains like this had perhaps a hundred cars and that meant at least four locomotives to give it enough power to climb the hills into the mountain passes. The good thing about it was that the crew rode up front and there was rarely a caboose. But the box cars all had their doors sealed shut and so he chose a flatbed as it started to roll by.

There was no way for him to know what was under the tarps lashed down to the bed of the car but once Michael had hooked his ride he went exploring. Riding out in the wind was not a viable option, it was just too cold so he lifted an end of the tarp and slid under.

His flashlight revealed long crates, massive tires, and the cabs of dismantled combine machines ... he was in luck. The next few hundred miles were all mountains and forest meaning there were few farms until they reached either Idaho or Washington State. He chose one of the cabs and pulled open the door to reveal a nice comfortable seat.

There was a choice to make now that he had a ride to the west. The freight would go thru Libby and on across the state line to Sandpoint, Idaho. Libby was about two hours away and Sandpoint another two beyond that. From what he remembered of the Amtrak schedule the Empire Builder passenger train went through Sandpoint about one o'clock in the morning.

If his luck held the freight would arrive there around midnight but probably wouldn't stop. Missing that connection Michael might have to ride this train on into Spokane which was a huge risk. Big freight yards had security forces, especially in this day of Homeland Security rules and regulations. If he stayed aboard there was a great chance of being caught ... he couldn't risk that.

He needed to stop this train in Sandpoint and he hated to do it but there was only one reason he could think of to make it come to a halt. He reached in his pack and pulled out the emergency flares Nathaniel had so kindly brought him. It was a dirty trick to play on the crew of this train but a fire would bring them to a stop.

Michael didn't want to set fire to the train just make it look like one. Of course once they discovered the flares all hell would break loose and the police would become involved. Any stranger found within a mile of that incident would become a suspect. He would have to choose the spot carefully and he better figure it out soon.

Sandpoint was on the Pend Oreille River and the tracks came in on the north side of town curving around the waterfront and passing the Amtrak station before crossing the river on a dedicated railroad bridge. If the train was going to stop and leave any freight cars behind it would do that before it entered the town, but he couldn't count on that.

Of course if the train did stop Michael would not have to pull the flare trick and he could slide off into the darkness beside the tracks. This flatbed car was about halfway along the line so it would keep on going west, probably all the way to Spokane. It was around eleven-thirty when he decided it was time to leave his hiding place and make the flares ready to use.

The train was starting to cross a series of bridges and was turning in a long slow curve to skirt the course of the river. The Empire Builder passenger train would be about an hour behind by now and Michael needed to reach the Amtrak station in time to alert the manager to stop that train so he could board.

The snow covered fields gave way to rural housing and he could see the river on the far side of the tracks, they would soon reach a spot where he had to make his move. The tracks skirted urban areas and he could see the buildings of several towns built up around the tracks ... and then the train began to slow down.

Michael pulled the parka close about his body because it was damn cold this close to the water. He figured there was no way he was going to get a new coat before boarding the passenger train, but his backpack would hide the bullet hole for now. There was no way he was going to hang around Sandpoint and wait for the next train to come his way.

Freights did not barrel through industrial and residential areas since there were too many roads that crossed the tracks. The main line would run past the station and he felt the cars shift as they were shunted off on a side track. Good, it seems they were going to stop and he shoved the flares back in his pack.

There was a large industrial complex along this siding and the freight kept rolling slower and slower. Michael decided to make his exit away from the lights of the factories and into the trees until he could see what was happening. And so when the train came to a stop he was off and running into the woods.

Something smelled really bad and when he came to a fence he saw the ponds of the sewage treatment plant and smiled. There would be few people about in this area because of the stench. He followed the fence line and crossed a parking lot before reaching the road. The Amtrak station would only be a mile or so away so he had to keep moving.

The road followed the tracks and he could see the freight train was just sitting there motionless. There was only one main line through Sandpoint and perhaps the freight was shunted to this siding so that the Amtrak train could pass. It was past midnight, time to push on to the station.

The station was all lit up and Michael saw a baggage cart outside with two suitcases on it ... someone else was boarding the train. He stayed on the fringes of the parking lot and out of the glare of lights. At the moment he did not feel presentable in BDU's, it was time to wash up and change.

The brick station building looked pretty run down but was still serviceable. There were doors from the waiting area onto the deserted platform but it was too cold for anyone to be outside. There was a single door at one end of the building and as Michael approached he saw the frosted glass windows to the left, the bathrooms.

It took him ten minutes in the men's room to wash up and change into civilian clothes. He exited the building and tossed the dirty BDU's in the dumpster before walking around the building to the main entrance. It was twelve twenty-five in the morning.

There were two people sitting in the waiting room, a man and woman. Michael approached the ticket window and saw it was closed, but someone had to be around. The man noticed Michael's puzzled look.

"Station manager will be back in about fifteen minutes," the man said. "Are you boarding the train?"

"I am," Michael said.

The man looked at his watch. "Won't be here for another forty minutes. My wife and I showed up early ... we're always early."

"Good habit ... you won't miss anything."

Michael leafed his way through the brochures on the ticket counter and picked up a schedule for the Empire Builder. He didn't really need one as he already knew the train would arrive in Seattle by noon. He sat in the corner facing the ticket counter ... it had been a long time since he'd been to Seattle.

Tim Hutchinson had been his first gay relationship in high school, but who was he kidding? Tim had been a meaningful relationship and that was cut short when the family moved to Seattle. There had been an avalanche of emails, chats online, but they both knew it would never be the same.

Then in the summer after graduation Michael skipped out on his summer job in the kitchen at the Inn. He took the train to Seattle and stayed with Tim's family for two weeks. It was a disquieting period of time, sleeping in the same room but not sleeping together. Tim had moved on, he had a boyfriend, and Michael learned to make the best of what they had ... a friendship.

But Tim was out in a big city that had a gay community and Michael received his introduction to the nightlife and the scene. A small town boy from the sticks attracted a lot of attention among Tim's artistic friends. Michael was wined, dined, and even bedded by several of them ... it was a revelation.

He was faced with a fall term at the University in Missoula, a town where gay was not compatible with the local politics. His final days with Tim were spent in celebration of Pride Week. From the raucous street scene around the gay bars in Capitol Hill to the parade in the center of town, Michael came to adore these people ... and yet ...

There were serious doubts in his mind that he could live openly as a gay man. He saw the joy at Pride but he also saw the hate on display by protestors with their placards. "God Hates Fags" ... "Homos Burn in Hell." It made him angry ... he hated bullies ... he wanted to lash out at them ... but he didn't.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Michael looked up at the round faced man in the Amtrak uniform.

"You plan on boarding the train?"

"Yes ... but I need a ticket for Seattle," Michael said.

"We can do that ... always a few seats here and there, come over to the counter."

Michael picked up his backpack and walked to the ticket window. The manager went back behind the counter and keyed up his computer, typing in a few commands.

"I'll need to see some ID, and the ticket is eighty-four dollars."

Michael produced his Canadian passport, hoping the name wasn't flagged by the cops. Perhaps it was too soon, but Terrance would do it eventually. Meantime Michael would disappear.

The manager looked at the passport and smiled. "Canadian, eh?" Laughing at his own joke.

Michael nodded and slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter. The manager entered some data and a machine printed out the ticket. The hundred disappeared and Michael's change was counted out.

"There you go, Mr. Wilson. Empire Builder should be here in about fifteen minutes. Out the doors and to your left for the coach seating. Have a pleasant stay in America."

"Thank you," Michael said.

The man looked like he wanted to chat but Michael took his change and the ticket and went through the doors and out onto the platform. Cold, just above freezing, but he was used to it by now. He had come a long way in the past twenty-four hours and wasn't sure what lay ahead.

Tim might still be in Seattle but Michael wasn't planning on making contact. It had been over ten years and things change, people change. His face would have been in the news back then, perhaps it was again. Just because he had escaped in California didn't mean the media would not spread the word.

He smiled. They would be looking for Michael Pruitt, the phantom assassin who didn't exist anymore. There were risks involved in what he was planning to do and Terrance would be alert for the danger. Hell, even the passport was a risk but it was not time to become Michael Kellum again, and he would, but only when the killing stopped.

He heard the horn on the Empire Builder as it approached the station, and then all of a sudden it was there. Such a beauty ... Everett's words, not his. The cars came to a stop and the conductor dropped the stairs. Michael looked for the man and his wife, but they were hustling towards the sleeper cars up front.

He proffered his ticket to the conductor who assigned him seat 16-A, and Michael boarded the train. The lights were out and most of the passengers were asleep in the sparsely populated car. 16-A was a window seat, but B was empty as well. Michael dropped his pack on the B seat and slid into his own. He leaned over and rested his head on the pack and was out like a light.

On to Chapter Five

Back to Chapter Three

Chapter Index

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"No Reason to Kill" Copyright © Chris James. All rights reserved.
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