Blood on the Tracks by Barbara Nickless Page A

first slick fall of snow, and caught myself. My duty belt banged and rattled, my bag bounced on my hip.
    Five trainees in my class gave catching out a try—got drunk and tried to hop a southbound freight. Results were mixed—a broken wrist, two broken ankles, and a sheered-off thumb. Those still in one piece spent the next two weeks running calisthenics and watching endless safety videos.
    The guy who lost his thumb took a job as a mall cop.
    Next to me, the train filled the horizon, looming like a mountain against the sky. I kept my eyes on the platform and on the dark cubby above it.
    In the far distance, Clyde barked, a single sharp sound. Hurry up , he was telling me. I’ve got something.
    I put on a final burst of speed. I was my father’s daughter, and unlike those cadets, I knew exactly what to do. Coming abreast of the hopper, I thrust my foot onto the metal stirrup, grabbed hold of the ladder like a penitent reaching for God, and swung onto the platform.
    The motion of the train slammed me onto a steel floor slick with snow. I went skittering across. The skin split on my cheek and peeled off my palms. My brain bounced in my skull with a sickening jolt.
    I scrabbled for a hold on the icy floor. My feet shot out over the other side, and I felt the suck of gravity and the grinding tug of the wheels. I reached for the ladder on the far side, was jerked away with the train’s motion, and grabbed again.
    Then, like grace descending, my body reached the tempo of the train. My hands closed on the ladder, and the world quieted.
    I hauled myself to a crouch and looked at the ground hurtling by. A landscape that had seemed harmless when walking was now a minefield of sharp ballast, thorny acacias, and vast fields of cactus.
    I saw my landmark—the piñon pine and limestone scree—and leapt.
    The earth slammed into me and I rolled along the ground with the momentum of the train, pitching to a stop against an acacia bush. I lay still, momentarily stunned, blinking up into the leaden sky. Snow burned my wounded face.
    Then Clyde was on top of me, tail wagging fiercely, sweeping the snow from my skin with his tongue.
    I rose to my knees and threw my arms around him, burying my throbbing face in his fur, heedless of the pain, my pulse thundering in my ears from adrenaline and the fear of losing him.
    Clyde tolerated my embrace for a moment or two before he wriggled free and danced around me, sniffing my jacket pockets for his Kong, still on the game.
    I stood and grabbed his lead and held it as tightly as I could with my injured hands.
    “Game over, boy. I don’t know what you think you’ve found, but it’s time to get the hell home.”
    But Clyde trotted away from me, moving west as far as his lead would allow. He looked back at me over his shoulder, ears cocked and tail jaunty. His tongue lolled.
    Game ON , he seemed to be saying. Are we going to get this guy or what?
    I whistled him back. Reluctantly, he obeyed.
    “They got the guy, Clyde. In Fort Collins. Or almost got him. He isn’t here.”
    Clyde looked up at me, then at my coat pocket where his Kong was stashed.
    The first worm of doubt raised its head. I pushed it down. “There’s nothing here, Clyde. Look, this is all my fault. You’re the best damn dog around, and you and I both know it. We’ll get your shine back.”
    Clyde waited.
    “Ah, hell, boy. What are you trying to tell me? That you got it right and the Fort Collins PD are full of shit? I am not going to walk into a blizzard to track down a phantom. How do I know it’s not a rabbit or groundhog or some farmer burning corn? How do I know it’s Rhodes?”
    Clyde nosed my jacket. I ignored him. The scrapes on my face and hands throbbed in the cold. My back and shoulders ached. My left calf burned, and when I looked down, I saw that dozens of cactus spines had pierced my pant leg and punctured my skin.
    I hugged myself and stared out over the brown prairie with its thickening shroud of white. The