“So she says.”
He stares into my eyes for a long time. I try to meet his gaze, but my eyes jerk rhythmically to the side.
“All the more reason to play this carefully. Jacob, look at me!”
“I’m trying!” I say.
“We’re going to get out of here. But if we’re all going to make it, we’ve got to play it right. We can’t do anything—anything!—until Camel’s gone. The sooner you get used to that, the better.”
There’s a sob from the cot. Walter turns his head. “Shut it, Camel! They wouldn’t be taking you back if they hadn’t forgiven you. Or would you rather be redlighted?”
“I don’t rightly know,” he cries.
Walter turns back to me. “Look at me, Jacob. Look at me.” When I do, he continues. “She’ll handle him. I tell you, she’ll handle him. She’s the only one who can. She knows what’s at stake. It’s only for three days.”
“And then what? Like you’ve said all along, we have nowhere to go.”
He turns his face away in anger. Then he spins back. “Do you truly comprehend the situation here, Jacob? Because sometimes I wonder.”
“Of course I do! It’s just I’m not liking any of the options.”
“Me neither. But like I said, we’ll have to sort that out later. Right now let’s just concentrate on getting out of here alive.”
CAMEL SOBS AND SNIFFS his way to sleep, despite Walter’s repeated assurances that his family will welcome him with open arms.
Eventually he drifts off. Walter checks him one more time and then turns off the lamp. He and Queenie retire to the horse blanket in the corner. A few minutes later he begins to snore.
I rise carefully, testing my balance at every point. When I’ve got myself successfully upright, I step tentatively forward. I’m dizzy but seem able to compensate. I take a few steps in a row, and when that works out all right I cross the floor to the trunk.
Six minutes later, I’m creeping across the top of the stock car on my hands and knees with Walter’s knife in my teeth.
What sounds like gentle clacking from inside the train is a violent banging up here. The cars shift and jerk as we round a corner, and I stop, clinging to the top rail until we’re once again on a straightaway.
At the end of the car I pause to consider my options. In theory, I could climb down the ladder, leap over to the platform, and walk through the various cars until I reach the one in question. But I can’t risk being seen.
So. And so.
I stand, still holding the knife in my teeth. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms moving jerkily to the side, like the tightrope walker’s.
The divide between this car and the next seems immense, a great span over eternity. I gather myself, pressing my tongue against the bitter metal of the knife. Then I leap, throwing every ounce of muscle into propelling myself through the air. I swing my arms and legs wildly, preparing to catch hold of anything—anything at all—if I miss.
I hit roof. I cling to the top rail, panting like a dog around the sides of the blade. Something warm trickles from the corner of my mouth. Still kneeling on the rail, I remove the knife from my mouth and lick blood from my lips. Then I put it back, taking care to keep my lips retracted.
In this manner I traverse five sleepers. Each time I leap, I land a little more cleanly, a little more cavalierly. By the sixth, I have to remind myself to be careful.
When I reach the privilege car, I sit on the roof and take stock. My muscles are aching, my head is spinning, and I’m gasping for breath.
The train jags around another curve and I grasp the rails, looking toward the engine. We’re hugging the side of a forested hill, headed for a trestle. From what I can see in the darkness, the trestle drops down to a rocky river bank twenty yards below. The train jerks again, and I make my decision. The rest of my journey to car 48 will be on the interior.
Still clenching the knife in my teeth, I ease myself off the edge of the platform. The cars that house the performers and bosses are connected by metal plates, so all I have to do is make sure I land on it. I’m hanging by my fingertips when the train lurches once again, swinging my legs off to the side. I clutch desperately, my sweaty fingers sliding on the cross-hatched metal.
When the train straightens out again, I drop onto the plate. The platform has a railing and I lean against it for a moment, collecting myself. With aching, trembling fingers I pull the watch from my pocket. It’s nearly three in the morning. The chances of running into someone are slim. But still.