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TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER
Miller: My feet were sweating. And my toes were sticky, practically glued together inside my sock. Is that gross?
Dr. Jacobson: Do you think it’s gross?
Miller: I wanted to take off my shoes, but I knew my feet had to smell terrible, so I kept ’em on. But I had this itch, right on the arch, so I kinda kicked my boots together—you know, like when you’re trying to knock off snow?
Dr. Jacobson: You were wearing boots? It was September in Alabama, right?
Miller: I always wore boots when I traveled. Still do, in fact. My pop taught me to wear steel toes at the train yard. All that heavy machinery—metal couplings and railcar loaders, the kind with the long, motorized belts for moving coal into those big cars. Plenty of ways to tangle the digits, he used to say.
Dr. Jacobson: This was a passenger train, was it not? It wasn’t transporting coal. There wouldn’t have been machinery like what you’re describing near the platform.
Miller: A fella can never be too careful when it comes to his dingles and dangles. Pop taught me that too. I’m extra careful when it comes to fingers and toes, but I’m pretty sure Pop was also speakin’ about his . . . you know.
Dr. Jacobson: I do. And your father sounds like a wise man. Did this particular trip happen when you were a child, Caleb?
Miller: Gosh, no. I was full grown by then. But somehow your old man’s good sense sticks with you, even years later.
Dr. Jacobson: Yes, I suppose it does.
Miller: Well, anyhow. Do you still want to know more about my boots?
Dr. Jacobson: Do you have more to say?
Miller: Just that I didn’t like the way this old lady looked at me when I started thumping my feet together, to get at that dang itch. She sat across the aisle, glarin’ out of her side eye and curlin’ those awful lips—so thin they looked drawn on. She musta took me for some junkie fightin’ off the jumps. But I never went for drugs, Dr. Jacobson. Not in my whole life. Unless you wanna count that wad of chew Nicky Foulmouth made me try. His real name was Fullmont, but all us guys called him Foulmouth ’cause he dropped F-bombs like those murder drones the army uses.
Dr. Jacobson: Okay, Caleb. It sounds like this woman made you uncomfortable. What did you do about it? Did you say anything to her?
Miller: Wouldn’t be gentlemanly. It would just be easier to move, I figured. Besides, I had to drain the radiator, as my pop used to say.
Dr. Jacobson: Drain the what?
Miller: I had to urinate, Doctor. I’d slugged a Big Gulp back at Union Station, while we waited for the mechanics to fix the air conditioning.
Dr. Jacobson: Oh, of course. What happened after you drained the . . . after you urinated?
Miller: Never got the chance. A big sign on the toilet door said “Out of Order.” First the AC, then the john? Amtrak isn’t what it used to be.
Dr. Jacobson: They’ve struggled with funding, I hear. But you said earlier that they’d already repaired the broken air-conditioning, back in New Orleans.
Miller: That’s what they said, but we were rounding Mobile in the high heat of summertime, and the cars didn’t feel any cooler. I raised my hand to the blowers and felt nothin’ but hot breath. If you ask me, they lied about fixin’ it up. Just kept us idling on the platform for an hour to make it look like somethin’ was being done. Probably thought it would put people at ease, and we’d just forget we were roasting. Well, I didn’t forget nothin’. My dang sweaty feet made sure of that!
Dr. Jacobson: Did you ever think about that problem with the AC, later on I mean? What if it hadn’t broken down? What if the technicians hadn’t delayed your departure from New Orleans?
Miller: No, I suppose I never did. But it does sound like terrible luck, now that you mention it. I suppose if that train had left on time, I wouldn’t be sitting here on your couch gettin’ my head shrunk, Doctor. Maybe a loose screw changed the entire course of my life.
Dr. Jacobson: Not just your life.
Miller: No, not just mine. That grouchy lady—maybe she’d still be alive if Amtrak had thought to buy better air-conditioning units. Maybe the jerk who cut Amtrak’s budget is to blame. Yeah, maybe that bad bastard’s responsible for all of them. All forty-seven souls who left the earth that night. [sniffles. weeping?]
Dr. Jacobson: We can stop here, if you’d like, Caleb.
Miller: No, sir. I wanna keep going.
Dr. Jacobson: Very well, but just so you know, we can stop anytime. If you don’t feel comfortable—
Miller: Comfortable? I never feel comfortable. That’s the point! I need you to fix me, Doctor.
Dr. Jacobson: Caleb, that’s not—
Miller: [shouts] I need you to make it go away! Wipe my memories, or somethin’. I know you can do weird stuff like that. I’ve heard about it.
Dr. Jacobson: Typically, I help my patients remember their past lives, not forget them. I can’t erase your memories, Caleb. And it wouldn’t be productive anyway. Your experiences make you who you are.
Miller: Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to stay up until three in the mornin’ watching infomercials for vacuums and jewelry cleaner because I’m terrified to close my eyes. ’Cause every time I do, I see those sparks spitting from the rails, and I hear those growls. Steel scrapin’, scratchin’. And the train car twistin’, then rollin’, bodies slapping the windows like raw chicken thighs on a butcher’s block. I see a baby sail from her mama’s arms straight into the luggage rack, crack its tiny skull. Then we’re all falling and falling. My knee crashes into my lip, and I taste pennies on my tongue. Eventually, I wake up from this nightmare, but only after we hit the river and water spills into the car. Freezing water. Sometimes that baby floats by, with a bone sticking out from its crooked neck. It winks at me. Then I’m fully awake, and the horror show blinks off, like flipping the channel. Now I’m in my La-Z-Boy and it’s back to the lady selling the Shark DuoClean. That sucker can pick up a dang bowling ball, Doctor! Why do I know this? Because I—can’t—fucking—sleep! [heavy breathing]
Dr. Jacobson: You’re experiencing post-traumatic stress, Caleb. Similar to what soldiers experience after they return from deployment. It’s difficult, I know, but we can work through it.
Miller: I should have died that night.
Dr. Jacobson: That was never a possibility.
Miller: You weren’t there.
Dr. Jacobson: And neither were you. Not in the way you believe anyway.
[silence 00:15]
Miller: You don’t know what you’re doing. I shouldn’t have come back here.
Dr. Jacobson: Caleb, you told me this same story last week and the week before that. I did some research. You’ve given a near flawless description of the derailment of the Sunset Limited. Earlier that day, a barge collided with the Big Bayou Canot bridge and knocked the rails out of alignment. When the passenger train hit the gap at seventy miles per hour, it jumped the track and fell into the Mobile River. It was the worst disaster in Amtrak history, and it was all over the news.
Miller: The news. You think I’m a liar? That I made it up?
Dr. Jacobson: I don’t think you’re a liar. Lying requires intent, Caleb, and I don’t believe you intend to deceive me, or anyone, for that matter.
Miller: Then why don’t you believe me? Why don’t you believe that I was there, that I saw all of those people drown?
Dr. Jacobson: What would you say if I told you that the Sunset Limited derailed twenty years ago? What would you say about that, knowing that you were only eight years old at the time, not an adult man in a former life, as you claim you were in this vision?
[silence 00:22]
Miller: How do you know that?
Dr. Jacobson: The Chicago Tribune has digitized its archives going back fifty years. It’s searchable online and publicly available. Your pop certainly was proud of his baby boy. He ran a birth announcement in the Sunday edition, December fourteenth, 1994. So, the day of that train crash, you would’ve been sitting in your third-grade classroom here in Chicago, safe and sound.
[cough, Miller?]
Dr. Jacobson: Caleb, you came to me for help. Now, I may not suggest the kind of treatment you had hoped for, but there are many effective methods for addressing what you’re going through. If you trust me, I can help you put all of this behind you.
Miller: No, you’re wrong, sir. I don’t need to put this behind me. That’s been the problem all along. I need to put it in front of me.
Dr. Jacobson: I’m not sure I understand.
Miller: The only way to stop this is head on, walk right up and punch it in the dang gut.
Dr. Jacobson: Let’s just take things slowly, and—
Miller: There’s no time for that. If you don’t believe me now, then you never will.
Dr. Jacobson: I believe your pain is real. And I believe you can get better.
[rustling]
Dr. Jacobson: You’re perfectly welcome to leave, but we still have twenty minutes left in our session. Have a seat and we’ll talk about this.
Miller: I’m tired of talkin’. Talkin’ won’t fix this. It’s time I did something about it.
[silence 00:27]
***
“What happened to the audio? It cut out. Did we lose the feed?” a woman asked.
“I dunno,” came the reply. “The signal’s at full strength. These bugs are finicky, though.”
“Oh, crappo, there he goes.”
FBI Special Agent Trainee Vera Taggart pulled off her headphones and slid open the van door. The afternoon humidity fogged her sunglasses, but she could still see Caleb Miller tromping up State Street with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. And she could see the scar on his neck, underneath his right ear. A pink infinity symbol etched into skin so pale the man’s blue veins showed through. The mark was jagged and angry. The botched result of cuts made in the heat of passion.
Taggart quickened her pace. Her ear buzzed.
“Be calm, Tag. This is a simple practical exercise. Trail the subject, see where he goes, but for Chrissake, don’t attract attention. Miller doesn’t know we’ve been watching him, and I’m sure Butler would like to keep it that way.”
She had no intention of getting on Butler’s bad side. This was Tag’s final field test, and she couldn’t graduate the new agent training course without sign-off from the special agent in charge of her assigned field office.
“I’m closing the gap, one hundred feet. I don’t want to lose my line of sight,” Tag said.
“That’s too close. This is a basic surveillance operation. Trust me, Miller’s not sophisticated enough to evade us. Hell, even if he does, the guy’s hardly important. We’ll probably close his case file after we’re done today. Besides, Butler’s doing you a favor, letting you conduct your last test with a real subject before you’ve officially earned your wings.”
“That’s because I have such a terrific mentor,” Tag snarked.
“Tuck that sass back into your britches, Li’l Miss. I’ve been sitting Q-babies ever since the white-haired president got blown in the Oval Office.” Special Agent Joe Michelson, her training officer and temporary partner, let his smoker’s cough crackle in Tag’s earpiece.
“Q-babies? That’s not how you’re supposed to refer to your coworkers.”
“When you wipe that Quantico ‘Q’ off your creds, I’ll be the first to salute,” Michelson said. “For now, just stick to the ops plan. Follow this skinny fuck for the next forty-five minutes, write up a shiny three-oh-two, and then you’ll get your big boy pants.”
“Again, not an appropriate way to speak to a female colleague.”
“If I see someone who looks like a female colleague, maybe I’ll change my tune.”
Tag brushed off Michelson’s sexist remark. She’d heard it all before. “Hey, what do you think Caleb meant by ‘It’s time I did something about it?’”
“Beats me. That sad sack has major self-esteem issues. Maybe he’s finally going to sign up for a gym membership. Work on that bird chest.”
“What if it’s something else, Joe? What if he really is part of the Sons of Elijah? They could be planning another attack, and he could be helping,” Tag said.
“The last time the Sons did anything like that, you were learning to write in cursive. Whatever members haven’t already blown themselves up have probably died from tetanus, the way they liked to carve those infinity symbols into their skin. And even if the group hasn’t dissolved completely in the last thirty years, even if there’s a den of dirty cultists holed up in a basement somewhere, having a circle jerk inside a giant pentagram, Caleb Miller is definitely not involved. He’s just a skinny-ass mouse man with serious psychological problems.”
Michelson had a point. Tag thought about the inconsistencies in Caleb’s story about the train crash. He’d said it was summer, his feet were hot—but somehow the river water was freezing cold? Caleb claimed to have been on that train in a past life, but he had the time line totally wrong. Why would he lie about something like that?
“Maybe Caleb is a fraud,” Tag said, “but for Agent Butler to open the case, there must have been some kind of evidence of criminal activity to predicate an investigation.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, even the big boss.”
It would have been one hell of a mistake. After six months of tracking Miller, the FBI hadn’t picked up anything useful on his cell phone or on the bugs they’d slipped into the air vents in his apartment. Tag had read through the prior surveillance logs. The guy did the same thing every night. He went straight home after work, microwaved a frozen burrito, watched some TV, maybe a little porn—and not even the nasty kind—and then it was lights out by nine thirty. Not exactly the life of a religious cult member and domestic terrorist. Still, something about the guy gave her a brain itch. Maybe there was more to Caleb Miller, and everyone had missed it.
“We should bring him in,” Tag said flatly, not convinced.
“Now, hold on, Elliott Ness. Butler would bust both of your gallbladders if you tried shit like that. You’d be on the first bus back to the Virginia forest and probably get recycled into the next training class, if you’re lucky.”
“Gallbladder. Singular. You only have one.”
“What?”
“You said both gallbladders, but you only have one,” Tag corrected. Expletive-laced mumbling filled her earpiece.
“Look, you’re not testing arrest procedure today, last time I checked, so leave the little guy alone,” Michelson advised.
“I don’t mean we should arrest him,” Tag explained, breathing harder as she sped up. “Let’s just bring him in for an interview. I don’t see the harm if Butler’s done with him anyway.”
Caleb had lengthened his stride, and the gap between them had widened. Tag worried she’d lose him completely.
“Hey, it’s your exam—and probably your funeral. The boss said I wasn’t supposed to help you.”
“Agent Butler said that?” Tag asked.
“Well, if you plan to catch your mouse man, you’d better turn up the cardio because he’s already across Wacker, and the light’s about to change.”
“Christ. Can’t you keep it green, hold up the traffic until I cross?” Tag would draw too much attention if she began running. Caleb probably wouldn’t notice; he hadn’t lifted his eyes from the sidewalk since leaving Dr. Jacobson’s office. Someone else could be watching the street, though, like the man in the expensive suit standing outside the Starbucks or the yoga mom letting her Pomeranian blow mud onto the grassy easement.
Tag smoothed her hair—a habit that began after she’d cropped it short her freshman year of college. Back then, she’d doubted she had the courage to do it, right up until the first black strands had floated to the bathroom floor. Even now, she liked to brush her hand up the back of her head, against the grain, to make sure it was still gone. Somehow the prickly sensation helped her remember important details, like the techniques she had learned from the droning Academy instructors counting down the days to retirement. Check for countersurveillance, they’d said. Tourists taking too many pictures, smokers flicking ash off unlit cigarettes, women pushing empty strollers.
Who would actually do any of those things? Tag thought. How old was that advice? Nowadays, everyone took too many pictures. It didn’t mean you were a suicide bomber. And this was downtown Chicago, not a classroom. She would just blend into the hustle of the street and catch up to Caleb as best she could.
The stoplight flicked red as Tag reached the intersection. She could see Caleb walking onto the bridge ahead, crossing into River North. Once across the river, he could easily slip into a store or an apartment building. There were a thousand mouseholes in that neighborhood. Tag stepped into the street, searching for a gap in the flow of vehicles. A truck blared its horn and forced her back onto the curb.
“Gah!” she shouted, flicking up her middle finger at the driver.
“Don’t sweat it. We’ve still got the tracker in Miller’s backpack,” Michelson said. “Besides, it looks like he’s stopped.”
“Stopped? Where did he stop? I can’t see him anymore. Did he get across the bridge?”
“Oh, shit,” Michelson’s voice darkened. “You don’t think—”
“He’s going to jump!”
To hell with the red light. Tag pulled out her badge and gun and held them both high above her head. She waved them at the oncoming cars like magic talismans, commanding the metal beasts to halt. The FBI’s OIC, Office of Integrity and Compliance, would probably censure her later. Drawing her sidearm in the heat of rush hour jeopardized her safety and the safety of those around her, they’d say. In bold, twenty-four-point font. They’d be right too. Pull out a gun in downtown Chicago and you’re likely to get three more pointing back at you. At least that’s how it had worked growing up on Tag’s block.
A man riding a motorcycle didn’t see Tag sprinting across the street until he’d nearly slammed into her kneecaps. His front wheel jerked sideways as he tried to avoid hitting her. A plume of white smoke sprayed from his back tire, and he tumbled onto the road.
“Oough. Sorry, man.” Tag stepped over the motorcycle guy’s back. He’d torn a hole in the elbow of his leather jacket, but otherwise he looked unharmed. Causing injury to a motorist—add that one to the list of infractions.
Once Tag reached the curb, she looked back to see if anyone had noticed. The entire intersection had jammed up with a snarl of cars wedged together at odd angles like a vehicular orgy. A Jeep Wrangler had smashed into the electrical box that housed the workings for the stoplight, which now flashed red. The blat of angry honks drew the attention of a hundred eyeballs up and down Wacker Drive.
“What’s going on out there, Tag? Didja get hit?” Michelson asked.
“You don’t exactly sound concerned,” Tag said between huffing breaths. She ignored the chaos behind her and sprinted onto the DuSable Bridge that spanned the Chicago River. The concrete and metal drawbridge bounced to the rhythm of rolling tires. American flags whipped from poles positioned every ten feet along the railing. A small crowd had fanned out near the bridge’s apex. Some of the spectators stood with raised phones, waiting for something to happen.
Caleb Miller stood on the railing with his chin pressed into his chest, looking down at the brown water. He swayed apathetically, except for the occasional jerk of his arm to regain his balance. The jagged scar on his neck was plainly visible now, and it pulsed purple. A woman yelped when Caleb lifted his right foot from the iron railing.
“He’s definitely going to jump,” Tag whispered. “He’s going to hurl himself off the side of the bridge. He’ll hit the water like it’s a cement slab.”
“Focus, Tag. Do not engage the subject,” Michelson advised, all business now.
“Like hell. The guy’s about to kill himself, Joe.”
Tag wiggled through the human wall and climbed the railing. She stood beside Caleb, fifty feet above the flowing water. An open-top boat passed underneath the bridge. A guy on the deck was imparting architectural trivia through a bullhorn to rapt tourists. Then he shouted and pointed at Tag. The tourists’ heads hinged back on open jawbones like baby birds awaiting a snack. Then more phones appeared. Everyone wanted a pic of the crazy chick on the bridge, clinging to a flagpole beside a young man who leaned into the wind with a dead look in his eye.
“It’s way higher than it looks, once you get up here,” Tag said. The rippling river made her dizzy.
“Taggart, what in God’s glory are you doing?” Michelson spat. He sounded genuinely angry now. Tag ignored him.
Caleb slowly raised his arms and squinted into the sun. Tag needed to get his attention.
“Yeah, so, this is a real rush, my dude, but I’m gonna be honest with you,” she said. “Heights make me super light-headed— and sometimes nauseous. In that order. What do you say we hop on down and talk this out? Not that way, of course.” Tag nodded toward the river. “We can sit right here, on the street, and just get into it. You and me. What do you say, Caleb?”
The young man angled his chin toward Tag. His bloodshot eyes spilled salty streams onto his flushed cheeks. Tufts of unwashed hair flickered around his temples like flames. “How do you know who I am?” he asked.
“For fuck’s sake! You said his name, Tag. The subject’s name. You’ve totally blown it,” Michelson’s voice crackled. “No way in hell Butler’s passing you now. Get back to this van right—”
Tag pinched her earpiece and flicked it into the river.
“What was that?” Caleb asked.
“My earpiece,” Tag explained. “My partner—my instructor, really—he wanted me to leave you to your business. You know, your suicide in progress. I disagreed with that idea, as you can probably see.” Tag’s stomach churned.
“Are you a cop?”
“Not exactly. I’m a trainee. You’re my final exam, actually. Can you believe that? How am I doing, bud?”
“I don’t understand.” Caleb’s foot slipped and his knee buckled. He threw his arms out, hands like blades, striking a tightrope walker’s stance. The people on the bridge gasped in unison but settled once the young man restabilized.
“Listen,” Tag said. “I’d really love to chat more, get to know all about your hobbies and favorite pastimes, but I’d really prefer to do that shit on the sidewalk, if that’s okay.”
“Talking and talking. There’s nothing left to talk about,” Caleb groaned.
It wasn’t working. Tag had thought climbing onto the railing alongside him would make Caleb reconsider his options.
He’d realize that someone cared about him—a stranger he’d never met. He’d feel seen, and that would be enough to talk him down. She’d misjudged the root of his distress. Caleb didn’t feel marginalized or rejected. Self-pity hadn’t brought him to this moment. Something else had driven him to the point of self-destruction.
“Guilt,” Tag blurted.
Caleb blinked and chewed his bottom lip.
“All those people on the train died, but you got to keep on going,” Tag continued. “You got to breathe and run and eat Mexican food and fall in love. By fate or luck, you swam out of that busted train car and crawled onto the riverbank. Alive.”
“You’re going to tell me that life is precious. Every day is a gift.”
“No, I wouldn’t feed you bullshit like that.” Tag lowered her voice and leaned closer to the troubled young man. “It’s not cold enough, Caleb.”
“What?”
“The water down there. It’s summer in Chicago. It would probably feel like slipping into a warm bath. Maybe even relaxing. Not like that churning current the day of the accident. That was freezing water, remember? That water was so cold it burned, didn’t it? It locked up your arms and legs. The people who died, it turned their muscles into rocks, pulled them under. And when they opened their mouths, and that icy river water gushed past their tonsils and filled up their lungs, it probably felt like grenades exploding in their chests.”
Caleb was sobbing now. Snot dripped from his nose.
“It won’t feel like that for you, Caleb. Not on this sunny day. You’ll go easy, peacefully. And all those people from the crash,” Tag continued, “they’d be ashamed. How dare you pretend to know about their suffering? How arrogant of you.”
Caleb crouched and gripped the railing with both hands beside his shoes. He looked like a swimmer on the starting block, about to spring into the pool. Except Caleb didn’t spring forward; he stepped down, onto the walkway, and tipped onto his side with his knees pulled into his chest. Tag slid down the flagpole and lowered herself onto the sidewalk too, watching the open-deck boat drift farther downstream and navigate the gentle bend in the river. The surface of the water waved hypnotically. The gurgle in her belly grew into a rolling boil, and Tag leaned over the railing and puked.
The bystanders cheered and began spreading the news with their thumbs. Caleb blubbered in the fetal position with a yellow pool spreading under his hip. Tag wiped vomit from her lips and smiled. The young man would live another day. Who doesn’t love a happy ending?
Agent Butler might not. The boss might fail Tag right out of the Bureau. Or maybe not. Either way, Tag felt a rush of satisfaction, watching Caleb suck in short breaths on the sidewalk. She’d saved a man’s life. That was some superhero shit. Right then, she couldn’t have predicted how she’d feel about Caleb Miller just a few days later. She’d think back to that moment on the bridge and realize the gravity of her mistake.
She should have let him jump.