Last Train To Clarkdale

Chapter 1 Late May Central Arizona Gliding down the gentle curves of I-17 from Flagstaff, Clay Cartwright almost drove on autopilot, watching the once familiar landscape unfold before him. They said you can’t go home again. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to, yet something seemed to be drawing him back. The drag of it felt as relentless as one of those tractor beams they spoke of in old science fiction tales. How many years had it been? More than ten and nearer twenty…He had to be bloody f*****g insane to go back and relive a minute of it. The memories that filled the oldest suitcase in his mental baggage were all ugly, weren’t they? And yet what he felt right now seemed mostly vague, gentle nostalgia, instead of the bitterness he thought would be there. As he turned north toward the Verde Valley towns, he decided maybe that was partly because nothing was the same. Oh, there were the same ragged old hills, the unbelievably blue sky, some of the old run-down buildings mixed among the new ones…yet it still felt different. Would he run into any of the guys he’d known in school, the ones who’d taunted him as “Gay-Clay” and made his life miserable? Or some of the older folks who’d known his parents and been as appalled as they’d been when he came out at sixteen? Still, he had to take that risk. He only knew he had to go back and come to terms with it all. The old grade school looked derelict and decaying. They had new schools now, consolidated to serve the several small area communities, instead of the low-budget old ones for each locale. The middle school was gone—only a concrete foundation left. The old high school held some offices and a small shop or two. He made a U-turn and headed down another road, the one that led to a favorite old hangout. The railroad station had never been much, a small frame building painted a dull mustardy yellow, but for him, it was paradise. He loved trains, always had. For several years, the high points of his week were the days when “the local” arrived, a Santa Fe manifest freight bringing in a variety of commodities to serve the somewhat isolated area, a few villages in a river valley edged by rugged mountains. Smelling the diesel fumes, hearing the powerful rumble of those GP-9 locomotives and sometimes daring to talk to some of the train crew took him out of his misfit status. When a work train came in with crews to maintain the tracks or repair the bridges over the many arroyos that tended to wash out during the summer monsoon rains, he would hang out and watch, listen and learn. Those experiences had ultimately turned him to the career he followed to this day, a life inexplicably bound to the railroad industry. He pulled into the parking lot, a much larger and better-maintained one than he recalled and looked around in amazement. The new depot, built in Spanish Colonial style, had class and quality. Behind the building, two older—though clean and brightly painted—diesel locomotives idled, hooked to a string of matching coaches and some open observation cars. Then he recalled they ran a tourist expedition here now. He’d read about it a few years back and then promptly forgot. On an impulse, he got out of his import crossover and walked across the road to the station. Maybe he could still get a ticket for today’s trip, or at least before he headed back to Topeka. It was midweek, just short of summer, and the crowds should not be too heavy yet. As luck would have it, he got a seat on today’s trip. Maybe it was meant to be. With a couple of hours to kill before the post-noon departure, he wandered through the gift shop and then out to an open courtyard that featured several bronze sculptures of wildlife. They were exquisite, life-like, and beautiful. A slight sound close behind him had him spinning around. Clay was always sensitive about his space, alert. Maybe that went back to the mean tricks and bullying he’d known in school. Unseen people behind him were not safe. Was this different? As he took in the man who had paused, a step or two away, he felt the same shocking jolt one got from a close lightning strike, the raw sizzle of energy. With a whiff of clean, outdoorsy scent, it stirred an adrenaline rush. Definitely a bear. Casually dressed with a pair of cameras hanging around his neck, the guy must have been at least six-foot-two with a solid physique. A neatly shaped, coffee-dark beard framed his rugged features. Under an Aussie-style hat, a pair of dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but Clay would bet they’d be a vivid blue. He wasn’t sure where that impression came from. Given the hair color, brown would be more logical. Still, he visualized the striking contrast of blue eyes with that outdoor tan and brunette hair. Could a heart really skip a beat and then leap forward in double time? It felt that way. He sucked in a fast breath. Who was this guy?