The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter 3

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The Plodder’s Mile

by Dane Allred

In Chapter One, Ray and Tommy robbed a bank, while John Graham jogged on the railroad tracks after a fight about money with his wife.

In Chapter Two, Ray left the money behind on the tracks and let Tommy get arrested by the police. The package of $100,000 was found by John Graham as he jogged back home.



CHAPTER THREE









Captain Greg Jones sat fiddling with his holster as the phone rang. “There has got to be a way to fix this thing,” he muttered under his breath, wondering how long the latest bruise from his gun would take to disappear. “Captain Jones speaking.”

“Hey, Greg, this is Harold from the big city! How’s the ‘burg?” Harold Smith never let a chance go by to harass his old high school buddy.

Jones smirked into the phone. “Smitty, here the air is clean, I haven’t shot my gun in a month, and the only bruise I got this month was from my holster turning my pistol into a hammer – on my hip.”

“You country bumpkins really know how to rub it in, man,” said Smitty, as his friend interjected another barb.

“How’s the leg hole?” inquired Greg.

Now Smitty was smirking as he thought back to the six months he had just spent rehabilitating a gunshot wound to his calf. “Good as new,” he lied into the phone. Greg knew it was a lie, and let it slide.

“What’s the occasion? I never hear from you anymore,” the small town cop said.

“Just a head’s up. We’re calling all the towns along the rail line to be on the lookout for some bank money. You remember, that big guy you helped us with on the train?”

“The ‘brains’ of the operation?”

“This oaf walked into a bank and got the teller to find $100,000. We think,” continued Smitty,” that they dumped the money somewhere along the tracks.”

“They?”

“Yeah, we’re looking for a small guy,” said Harold Smith, wondering how many more calls he would have to make like this today. “At least compared to the big guy, who we got off the train, the other guy is small.”

“The big one talking?”

“Yeah, non-stop about his kitty and the trip he was gonna take with his friend Raymond.” Smitty let the name sink in.

“Short guy named Raymond. Got it, Harold,” said Jones, letting the dig sink in. Smitty hated being called “Harold”.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said this was Harold.”

“You love the attention,” said Jones. “But I better let you go – lots of miles of train track to call.”

“Yeah. Thanks for reminding me.” Smitty chortled to himself. These small town cops really had it made. “Give me a call next time there’s a murder.”

“Ouch.” Jones kneaded the leather of the holster again. “I’ll call when we get our next moose sighting.” Jones hung up and wondered if there would be another incident with the local moose herd this year.



John Graham had a problem. There was no way he could keep the money, but there was no way he was going to give it up. Dueling with his conscience, he found that if he rationalized long enough, there was usually a middle ground where reason was not too shaky and ethics were somewhat satisfied. But where would that middle ground be with $100,000 sitting in front of him in a neat stack of bills?

If he turned the whole amount over to the cops, the bank would get it. If he kept it, his greed would never let him rest. Even now, he was having a struggle trying not to involve Reba, and only because he knew she would be the moral compass that she always was. He could hear her in his head, “Take it to the police. Now. Right now.”

But moral relativism was winning out today. They had struggled for so long with so little reward for the good they were doing in the community. Everyone knew school teachers don’t get paid enough, and if there was a magic way to bless the lives of two dedicated education employees like themselves – well, you just don’t kick fate in the groin when offered a gift. Perhaps the bank would write off the loss and the insurance company would pay the claim, and no one would ever come to claim the money. Right. That was never going to happen.

But in the convoluted paths of mystery and intrigue that were crowding John Graham’s brain at the moment, a brilliant solution was beginning to form in his head. He thought back to when he had first unwrapped the bundle, and noticed the 10 or 20 bills that surrounded the hundreds of other hundred dollar bills. At first, his mind registered disbelief and convinced him that there really wasn’t an entire bundle of bills, but that someone had made a fake bundle with just the outside bills being real.

And John Graham had created just enough stage props to understand how to make the bundle that looked like it had $100,000 in it.

So after three hours of cutting paper and hand dying it over the sink, the bundle, once retied, looked exactly like when he had first opened it. He had kept the brown paper wrapping of the original, and once again, sat looking proudly at the newest addition to the Graham home. A brick of mostly bogus bills, still consecutively numbered except for 18 bills which were now a stage prop. An $1800 stage prop, but still a prop ready for the performance John hoped would convince Officer Greg Jones down at the local police station. Satisfied with his afternoon of work, he now turned to the large stack of real money. Where to hide it for a while?



Raymond Johnson had a problem. There were two pressing urgencies he needed to take care of, but he was uncertain which to handle first. Not the fastest thinker in his third grade class, Ray had devised a system to help him make decisions. He didn’t realize he was using the same system Benjamin Franklin discussed in his autobiography, but that was just a sign of a good teacher in his past who had passed the idea from the book by Franklin into the brain of Johnson.

He sat at the diner eating his banana cream pie, which he noticed, had no banana pieces in it. But the large amount of whipped cream more than compensated for the lack of real pieces of fruit. Even though the waitress had given him a strange look when he ordered double whipped cream, Ray found unless he asked, he never had enough whipped cream. “A little pie with his whipped cream,” his mother used to say.

In front of Ray was a paper napkin with two columns. One was titled “Tommy” and the other “Football”. Ray was just paranoid enough to not write the word money, even though the robbery had taken place over 100 miles away. All the local newspapers had carried the story, with a giant photo of Tommy smiling as he held up his ID number for his arrest photo. The list for “Tommy” was not as large as the list for “Football”, and it looked like the money would be the very next thing Ray would take care of. He had less than $20 in his pocket, and would have to make some sort of “arrangement” tonight for another kind of “withdrawal”.

He liked Tommy, and realized that it was wrong to desert Tommy on the train, and probably just as wrong to leave Tommy in jail. But busting him out would get them both put away, and with both of them in jail, who would get Tommy out? Plus, Ray was seriously contemplating the loss of an excellent “business associate”, who would be dependable to get the job done without asking too many stupid questions. A partner who didn’t care how much of the take he was able to keep, a partner who would never be trusted by the police or attorneys to testify credibly in court. The list was long, and almost persuasive.

The nagging doubt about someone else finding the money first, or the police finding the money were the deciding factors for Ray. He knew where it should be, and the faster he got back to “Ridgeway”, the faster he could come back here and wait quietly for the police to release Tommy. Ray figured that there was no way for the cops to convict Tommy since he was not responsible for his own actions, and no one would want to take care of the big lummox anyway. So when the release came, Ray would be right there to scoop up his valued partner.

Besides, without the money, neither Ray nor Tommy would be going anywhere soon. Ray pushed the empty pie plate back from the counter and left a quarter tip. He needed to go get that money now. But first he would need to make “some arrangements” for some traveling money.

Food in Travel by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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FOOD IN TRAVEL

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


IF to her eyes’ bright lustre I were blind,

No longer would they serve my life to gild.

The will of destiny must be fulfilid,–

This knowing, I withdrew with sadden’d mind.

No further happiness I now could find:

The former longings of my heart were still’d;

I sought her looks alone, whereon to build

My joy in life,–all else was left behind.

Wine’s genial glow, the festal banquet gay,

Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad

I spurn’d, till little there remain’d to prove.

Now calmly through the world I wend my way:

That which I crave may everywhere be had,

With me I bring the one thing needful — love.

The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe

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The Cask of Amontillado



by Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled–but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is un-redressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally un-redressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point–this Fortunato–although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity–to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack–but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”

“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”

“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain

“Amontillado!”

“I have my doubts.”

“Amontillado!”

“And I must satisfy them.”

“Amontillado!”

“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me– “

“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”

“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”

“Come, let us go.”

“Whither?”

“To your vaults.”

“My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi–”

“I have no engagement–come.”

“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp, They are encrusted with nitre.”

“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

“The pipe,” said he.

“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls.”

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

“Nitre?” he asked, at length.

“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!”

My poor friend found it impossible to reply. For many minutes.

“It is nothing,” he said at last.

“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi–”

“Enough,” he said: “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”

“True–true.” I replied; “and indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily–but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”

“And I to your long life.”

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”

“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”

“I forget your arms.”

“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel.”

“And the motto?”

“”Nemo me impune lacessit.”

“Good!” he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough– “

“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.”

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement–a grotesque one.

“You do not comprehend?” he said.

“Not I,” I replied.

“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”

“How?”

“You are not of the masons.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”

“You? Impossible! A mason?”

“A mason,” I replied.

“A sign,” he said.

“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaure.

“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”

“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi–”

“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess.

“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”

“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building-stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated–I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I re=approached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed–I aided–I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said:

“Ha! ha! ha!–he! he! he!–a very good joke indeed–an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo–he! he! he!–over our wine–he! he! he!”

“The Amontillado!” I said.

“He! he! he!–he! he! he!–yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo–the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”

“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”

“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud:

“Fortunato!”

No answer. I called again:

“Fortunato!”

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick–on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.

In pace requiescat.


This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from the weekly program "Abundance". As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday.

Abundance Escapades April 11

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Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the "Abundance" of this world every Sunday from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time). This is the entire broadcast which includes two episodes of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred" and two selections from "Literature Out Loud". These short pieces are available here at podbean and are also available at 1001Thanks.blogspot.com. Watch for his upcoming book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. Also included is Chapter Two of “The Plodder’s Mile”.

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Two

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The Plodder's Mile
by Dane Allred

CHAPTER TWO


Tommy sat in the railroad car turning the bundle over and over again in his hands. Smaller than a shoebox, it contained something very solid, and the brick seemed to weigh almost ten pounds. A strong and very tall man, Tommy had no problem hefting the weight in his hands, tossing it up and down, then from side to side, then rolling it over from top to bottom, then back again.

Ray didn’t have the patience that seemed to come naturally with Tommy’s mental challenges. Although easily amused, it was also easy for Tommy to irritate Ray. “Give me that, you idiot,” Ray whispered to Tommy a bit too loudly, since the other three passengers in the car looked up to see if Ray was going to reprimand his big friend again. Ray smiled and asked a little too politely, “Could you give me that for a minute, Tommy?”

“I like playing with it, Raymond.” Tommy held the package close as if protecting a pet. “It’s like a really heavy football, and I feel like I’m one of those catching guys on the football team.”

The little girl, the girl’s mother and the businessman turned to look at Ray. Over the last hour they had seen several tantrums, cajolings, negotiations, and stand-offs over the package. Ray realized he would need to get rid of this unwanted attention.

“Tommy, you do look like one of those football guys, but not the receiver,” Ray intoned in a child-like voice. “You look like the quarterback, the guy who throws the ball.”

Immediately Tommy lifted the package for a forward pass, which brought Ray to his feet. “But, sometimes, Tommy,” he said getting closer to the towering Tommy, “sometimes the quarterbacks pretend to throw and just hand-off the ball.” Although shorter than Tommy by at least a foot, Ray sidled up to the quarterback and took the hand-off, and excused himself into the next car. Tommy followed like a puppy.

As soon as the door shut, Ray pulled Tommy closer, which also meant lower. “Listen you big stoop,” said the little man. “You drop this package and it breaks, there won’t be no money for us to spend later. Those people in there, you think they’re just going to sit there while money flies around the train?”

The idea seemed to have an appeal to Tommy, who reached again for the package. “No, Tommy, we are not going to throw the money around the train. I want you and me to spend the money, not them, so I am going to keep a hold of it for a while, okay?”

Tommy slumped into another seat, with his lower lip protruding in a pout. He rehearsed the rules he had learned on this train ride. “Don’t talk about the money, don’t say the word money, don’t talk about what you are gonna spend the money on, don’t play with the money…Why do there have to be so many rules?” Ray sat down next to Tommy to whisper more instructions.

“Stop saying the word money.”

“But you just said money.”

“That’s because you said it four times in a row.”

“But then you said it, so I can say it, too. Money, money, money, money…”

Ray knew there was no hope in winning an argument with Tommy, so the next best thing was to distract him. Out came the yo-yo, which Tommy had yet to master. But he could spend hours flinging the yo-yo down and then winding it back up again.

“Yo-yo!” erupted the squeal, which frightened the two other people in this car to move farther to the end. Tommy was an imposing sight, and when fully frenzied, he would strike fear into grown men. Even cops. Especially cops.

A confrontation with the cops was where Ray got the idea to recruit Tommy as a partner. After three cops had retreated from an especially big Tommy tantrum, calling instead for back-up and some psychiatric help, Ray had sat back and made some plans. Fortunately, Tommy had committed no great crime, only wanting to ring the bell at the carnival hammer game 50 or 60 times, so when the proper authorities worked to sort out the confusion, Ray stepped up to gain a partner.

“Sorry for the fracas, officers,” he had said. “My friend here isn’t working with a full deck, and sometimes he scares other people. I’ll take care that he don’t cause no more trouble.” Tommy had then looked at Ray, smiled, and everyone was happy to part company. After a few hamburgers, Ray found out Tommy was alone at the carnival, but lived up the street in a group home. Taking Tommy by the hand to a new life, Tommy was content to leave his past behind and seek the adventures Ray had planned for him.

Ray knew the perfect partner when he saw it. Though twice the size of Ray, Tommy was unable to distinguish right from wrong, instead relying on Ray to “clarify” the situation. Ray had been in prison several times for burglary and other minor crimes. The short stocky red-haired man was getting older now, and had yet to make his big heist. Now he greedily hugged the bundle of money, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm for the successful crime. It was almost all he could do to not stand on the seats and proclaim their collective brilliance, which of course, meant Ray’s brilliance.

Tommy was almost more trouble than he was worth, botching the first two hold-ups by pointing out Ray and confessing the entire plan to the tellers. Out came all the details, and after another rescue or two, Tommy had finally got it right.

One hundred thousand dollars right.

Now if Ray could only get him to shut up long enough to get away, they would have plenty of time to figure out what was next. Ray confessed as much to himself. He hadn’t really thought it would be this easy, but with the gentle giant next to him, he started to contemplate the next big heist.

But then the train began to slow, and then stopped.

The train was still miles from its destination, and Ray knew they weren’t supposed to stop for at least another hour. The few times Ray had checked out this escape route, the train had never stopped this early.

Tommy looked up and kept winding up the yo-yo. He looked out the window and pointed. “Look at the pretty lights!” he said, motioning to the two police cars directly outside the window of the train.

Ray instinctively pulled Tommy to the near side of the car, popping open a window to hear the conversation outside. Ray and Tommy huddled next to the window. Four detectives were gathered around one of the cars.

“Short guy and a big guy,” said the boss. “A really big guy,” he motioned with his hands gesturing far above his own head.

Almost before the gesturing stopped, Ray was dragging Tommy to the front of the train. There was no way they could leave the train and not be seen in the opens fields which surrounded the tracks. Ray was thinking as fast as he could, still dragging Tommy along with him wondering what to do next.

As he opened one door at the front of a car, and crossed the landing to enter the next car, Ray paused to look down. He could see the tracks under the train. The entire train was about to be searched. But maybe they wouldn’t think to search under the train.

Ray tossed the bundle up under the next car, hearing it hop two or three feet before landing next to a wheel. Perfect.



John noticed the commotion on the tracks after he had started jogging back toward home. Even though he knew it was better to keep running so there wouldn’t be as much muscle soreness the next day, the sight of four policemen escorting a huge man from the train was too intriguing to miss. He stopped next to the end of the train and watched.

“Yeah, we took the money and it was a big football, but it was heavy, and Raymond said we could spend it on anything we wanted.” The big man practically gushed at the prospects, not wanting to wait to share his excitement. “I told the nice lady at the bank we was going for a train ride, and she said she wanted to ride, too, and on the same train, and so I wonder if she is here?”

Two of the detectives held onto Tommy’s head to make sure he didn’t hit it on the door as they put him in the patrol car. The car springs bent under the load as his head barely cleared the doorway.

While the car sat full of Tommy, John finally decided to ask what was going on. His friend from the local police force told him it was a search for some stolen cash, and that he should stand off to the side of the tracks. It wasn’t more than 5 minutes before the train pulled out.

The prospect of sore muscles faded as John decided to stay and watch the show. Just like everyone else who slows and gawks, John wanted to be in on the discussion. So little happened in Ridgeway that a good police story would be discussed for a week.

After the train left, John approached the same detective, his friend Greg Jones . “Any luck?” The dark-suited man shook his head, but pointed to the car. “Looks like we got the brains of the operations, at least,” he smirked, ducking into one of the cars and pulling away.



Ray smiled to himself as the train pulled out. He had told Tommy he had to go to the bathroom, but that he didn’t want anyone to know about it. So Tommy was supposed to wait for Ray in the second car, while Ray went to the bathroom in the third car. Ray had actually gone several cars down, and sat in the toilet for a while. When the police found Tommy, Ray was several cars away and the two were never matched up. Ray had sat next to the small fatherless family looking out the car amazed at the sight, and when the detective walked by them he didn’t even give Ray a second glance. Even though he had to ditch Tommy, the money would be here on the tracks when he came back – if he came right back. Then Ray would worry about what to do about Tommy. Or maybe he wouldn’t worry.

Now to look for some landmarks so he could find his way back. The sign at the edge of town said “Ridgeway.”



John shook his head and watched the police cars pull away. He stretched briefly on the rails, trying to get the stiffness out of his calf muscles. Sitting for too long next to the train had made him feel the cold, and he could also feel his muscles beginning to stiffen up, which would give him something else to worry about when he finally got home.

The railroad tracks were now his again, and they pulled him homeward. The steady rhythm began again.

He put one foot before the other, starting again another plodding mile, which was not really running and not really walking. Especially when he ran up hills in races, he often thought to himself that he was the only person who knew he was running. Plodding, like the Budweiser horses. But like Confucius said, “It matters not how slow you go, only that you do not stop.” Step after step, he built momentum.

Then he started to build a small bit of speed, as much as uneven railroad ties would permit. He ran past a package and looked down at it as he passed. For one moment, he thought about ignoring it since it would involve another stopping and more stiffening of his muscles.

But finally, curiosity got the better of him. He slowed, turned around and walked back to pick up the package, which was much too heavy to be a football.

The brown paper wrapping seemed ordinary enough. Secured with some twine, it was big enough to get the best of John’s curiosity. It hadn’t been here earlier in his run.

Picking it up, John wondered at the mass. It was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, and the substantial weight both surprised and intrigued him. Why would a large, heavy package be dropped on the tracks?

Untying it was too slow, and now John now was really curious. Carefully he grabbed the brown paper and pulled at a corner, hoping to expose enough of the package to get an idea of what it was.

Dense stacks of greenish-white paper were under the brown. A fragrance wafted up from the package and the sight and smell of the bills punched John like a right-left combination. This package was money! He tore at the corner a bit more, and then saw the paper wrapper encircling the top stack. They were one hundred dollar bills!

“This has to be thousands of dollars,” John thought to himself. He looked around the fields that surrounded him. There was no one to be seen, and even the dark horse was pre-occupied with the hay. John tucked the package under his arm, and like the halfback on the winning team, jogged triumphantly back home.

A thousand thoughts crowded his mind, but the image of the high school touchdown was the dominant thought that kept crowding out the others. He should have left the evidence in place. Cue the Rocky theme. He should have contacted the police immediately. Tuck the cash under his arm and protect it, and cross the goal line, ready to solve all the problems he had been contemplating earlier. Touchdown!!



John flipped through a small stack of $100 bills. There was the crisp smell of newly-minted money, and after checking, he decided that all of the numbers were consecutive. This bundle had to be the package the detectives wanted.

But it was $100,000 dollars! Enough to do whatever they wanted with lots left over to pay bills, buy cars, to go on vacations. Whatever Reba wanted, he would be able to give her. It was a powerful feeling, which was followed by some thoughts about the reality of the money.

“Stolen cash,” the detective had said. Consecutive numbers meant it was probably stolen from a bank. The big guy they had arrested was talking about the lady at the bank, so he was the one who took the cash. But like the detective had said, probably not the brains of the operation. Would there be a reward for its return? From a bank?

John shook his head silently to himself. It would be wrong to keep the money, and banks wouldn’t offer much but congratulations for being a good citizen. There had to be a way to keep some of this money, if only for a finder’s fee, that would let his conscience rest and still benefit his family somehow. But how?

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

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JABBERWOCKY
by Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Hand by Guy de Maupassant

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The Hand

by Guy de Maupassant



All were crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his opinion about the Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this inexplicable crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.

M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence, discussing the various theories, but arriving at no conclusion.

Some women had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was saying such weighty things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by fear and curiosity, and by the eager and insatiable desire for the horrible, which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than the others, said during a pause:

“It’s terrible. It verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be known.”

The judge turned to her:

“True, madame, it is likely that the actual facts will never be discovered. As for the word ’supernatural’ which you have just used, it has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that it had to be given up.”

Several women exclaimed at once:

“Oh! Tell us about it!”

M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went on:

“Do not think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But if, instead of using the word ’supernatural’ to express what we do not understand, we were simply to make use of the word ‘inexplicable,’ it would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to tell you, it is especially the surrounding, preliminary circumstances which impressed me. Here are the facts:

I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the edge of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains.

The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream, enmities hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels revenge for insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants and relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was full of these stories.

One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles.

Soon this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so with his revolver and rifle.

Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high personage, fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons; then it was affirmed that he was in hiding after having committed some abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even mentioned.

In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John Rowell.

I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could, but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.

However, as rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread, I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds.

For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird, I went at once to Sir John Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to accept it.

He was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a kind of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called British stiffness, and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly for my attention. At the end of a month we had had five or six conversations.



One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.

He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love with this country.

Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment, telling me that he had travelled a great deal in Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing:

‘I have had many adventures.’

Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla.

I said:

“Are all these animals dangerous?”

He smiled:

“Oh, no! Man is the worst.”

And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented Englishman.

“I have also frequently been man-hunting.”

Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and see different makes of guns.

His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.

He said: “It is a Japanese material.”

But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I went up to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of a skeleton, but a dried black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles exposed and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as clean as though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the middle of the forearm.

Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold an elephant in leash.

I asked:”‘What is that?’”

The Englishman answered quietly:



“‘That is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in the sun for a week.’”

I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to see; it made one think of some savage vengeance.

I said: “This man must have been very strong.”

The Englishman answered quietly: “‘Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.”

I thought that he was joking. I said: “This chain is useless now, the hand won’t run away.”

Sir John Rowell answered seriously: “It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.”

I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself: “Is he an insane man or a practical joker?”

But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other subjects, and admired his rifles.

However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as though constantly in fear of some attack. I paid him several calls. Then I did not go any more. People had become used to his presence; everybody had lost interest in him. A whole year rolled by. One morning, toward the end of November, my servant awoke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered during the night.

Half an hour later I entered the Englishman’s house, together with the police commissioner and the captain of the gendarmes. The servant, bewildered and in despair, was crying before the door. At first I suspected this man, but he was innocent.

The guilty party could never be found.

On entering Sir John’s parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its back, in the middle of the room.

His vest was torn, the sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off, everything pointed to, a violent struggle.

The Englishman had been strangled! His face was black, swollen and frightful, and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something between his teeth, and his neck, pierced by five or six holes which looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument, was covered with blood.



A physician joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a long time and then made this strange announcement:”It looks as though he had been strangled by a skeleton.”

A cold chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I had formerly seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain was hanging down, broken.

I bent over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of the fingers of this vanished hand, cut–or rather sawed off by the teeth down to the second knuckle.

Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door, window or piece of furniture had been forced. The two watch dogs had not been aroused from their sleep.

Here, in a few words, is the testimony of the servant:

“For a month his master had seemed excited. He had received many letters, which he would immediately burn. Often, in a fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a switch and struck wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall, and which had disappeared, no one knows how, at the very hour of the crime. He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as though he were quarrelling with some one.”

“That night, somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only on going to open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one.”

I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public officials. Throughout the whole island a minute investigation was carried on. Nothing could be found out.

One night, about three months after the crime, I had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke, three times I went to sleep again; three times I saw the hideous object galloping round my room and moving its fingers like legs.

The following day the hand was brought me, found in the cemetery, on the grave of Sir John Rowell, who had been buried there because we had been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing.

“Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more.”

The women, deeply stirred, were pale and trembling. One of them exclaimed:

“But that is neither a climax nor an explanation! We will be unable to sleep unless you give us your opinion of what had occurred.”

The judge smiled severely:

“Oh! Ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply believe that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came to get it with his remaining one. But I don’t know how. It was a kind of vendetta.”

One of the women murmured: “No, it can’t be that.”

And the judge, still smiling, said: “Didn’t I tell you that my explanation would not satisfy you?”