Lowboy by John Wray Read Free Book Online Page A

sign mounted over his bench. He knew what the sign was for and he said its name proudly: the indication board . His voice was clear in his ears now, serene and assured, because he knew what was going to happen next.
       
    The train came in as hard as the ghost train before it, knocking the wind flat and paving it over with sound. First the hissing of the current, then the shrieking of the wheelheads, then the champing of the brakepads in their sockets. There was no hearing anything else. If objects on the platform were trembling now it was with the force of the slackening cars, not because of the falseness of the world. Lowboy bent forward to watch for the conductor’s booth, still clutching at the bench with all his fingers. He saw the conductor from a long way off, a heavyset man with a longsuffering face, goggles flickering like strobelights as he came. His booth eased to a stop across from Lowboy’s bench with all the symmetry of prophecy fulfilled. He glanced at Lowboy obliquely, pressing the goggles to his face, then rolled his dim eyes up to check the board. When he’d satisfied himself that all was in alignment, he made a small grudging movement with his elbow and the doors came open. They stayed open for ten seconds, the prescribed minimum. The conductor’s lips flapped slackly as he counted. Lowboy watched his every move, enraptured.
    “Getting on?” said the conductor.
    Lowboy shook his head shyly. “I’m waiting for the C.”
    “See that posting?” The conductor’s face jerked toward the wall. “C’s not running right today. Best be getting on with me.”

    “That’s all right,” said Lowboy, shivering with pleasure. “I don’t mind.”
    “You hearing me, son? I just told you the C—”
    “Your ten seconds are up,” said Lowboy. “Shut the doors.”
    The conductor lifted his goggles and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and replaced them with exaggerated care. Other than that he gave no evidence of surprise. He let the C# and A ring out, ticked his head from right to left, then shot back into his cubby like a cockroach. Lowboy closed his eyes and waited for the signal— two long buzzes, close together—that gave the motorman the go-ahead. When he opened them the train was long gone, the platform was empty, and the cigarette wrapper lay nestled in his lap. Only then did he remember about the voices. He looked around him circumspectly, careful not to draw attention, but Skull & Bones had disappeared without a trace. The rat was still there but the cup was missing. No one else on either platform. An arm’s length from the bench, halfway to the nearest column, lay a crisply folded twenty-dollar bill.
       
    Lowboy stared down at the money and tried to explain it. An accident, he decided. Out of somebody’s pocket. The explanation was plausible and clean, an educated guess, the kind that they approved of at the school. A Clozaril-flavored answer, he said to himself. Clozaril with Thorazine on top.
       
    He braced his head against the wall and did nothing. It was hard to imagine getting up from the bench and putting the twenty into his pocket. He hadn’t touched money in a year and a half, not since getting enrolled, and the tunnel was no place for accidents. On the other hand he was starting to get hungry. There was nothing in his pockets, not even a napkin or a matchbook or a pencil. Not even a pill. “On the other hand,” he said out loud, listening for the echo offthe tiles. Accidents will happen, he reminded himself. Accidents will happen all the time.
    The face on the bill, of a thin schoolteacherly man with pistachio-colored hair, reminded him of someone that he knew. His father possibly. But he knew the name of the schoolteacher well enough. “Jackson,” he said, pointing down at the money. “Andrew Jackson, Indian killer.”
    Jackson smiled up at him with green patrician lips. I’d gladly trade you, Lowboy thought, for a Swiss cheese omelet and a side of