The Devil Went Down to Austin Read Online Free Page B

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    I've spent years imagining what that night must've been like.
    His good buddy taught him the trick, didn't he? It was so easy from where they lived, down in the Olmos Basin. The Union Pacific line went straight through, two times a night, always slowing for the crossings.
    He was fighting with his father again—about the length of his hair, maybe. Or drugs.
    Maybe his father didn't like his plans to drop out of business school, become a mathematician. That was his plan back then, wasn't it? Straight math. Pure numbers.
    So he stormed out of the house on Contour around eleven o'clock, midnight. He'd already made plans to meet his buddy down at the tracks, and his anger must've given way to excitement.
    He made his way down to the crossing—to the far side, the signal box where they always meet. He knelt in a clump of marigolds and waited. It might've been cold, that late in October. Or maybe it was one of those unseasonable Texas fall nights—steamy and mild, moths and gnats everywhere, the smell of river mud and garbage from Olmos Creek.
    He waited, and his buddy didn't show.
    He knew the train schedule. He was a little late. His friend could've caught the last train, could already be on his way north, to the junction of the MKT line—that underpass where they'd stashed
    a lifetime supply of stolen beer. His friend could be there right now, hanging out in the broken sidecar where, on a good night, they could find the transients with the Mexican hash.
    He gets a sudden thrill, because he's never tried to hitch alone, but he knows he can do it. And when he catches those rungs, he'll be Jack Kerouac. He'll be Jimmie Rodgers. And he knows his friend will be there at the junction to hear him brag about it—because it's a shared dream. His friend gave him the itch, reassured him, that first scary time—Look how slow it moves. It's beautiful, man. Just waiting for you. Let's get the rhythm. Count to three—
    So he makes his decision, waits for the rumble of the second train, the glare of the headlamp. He smells diesel, feels the strange, steady rhythm of a million tons of steel in motion.
    How could he know that his good buddy has forgotten all about him—that he is already in Austin, tending to his poor mamma, who has called out of the blue, after years of fuckyou good riddance nothing parenting? And his buddy went running to her.
    He doesn't know that, so waits for a good car—one of the old fashioned flatbeds. AII he has to do is jump on. When he targets one, his friend could've told him—not that one. Look at the ladder. But there's no one to warn him.
    He times it, then runs, catches the metal side rails. His boot hits the bottom rung and slips. His sole drags in the gravel. He should be able to hoist himself back up, but he hasn't planned on the rungs being so wet—cold metal, newly painted. His heel snags a rail tie and his fingers betray him. The last thing he feels is gravel and cold steel as he's pulled underneath, and the slow rhythm is not so slow after all—the giant metal wheel, a smooth disk, covering what—thirty inches?—in the space of a second.
    Whatever noise he makes can't be heard above the rumble of the train. There's no pain. No blood loss—every artery sealed perfectly against the tracks.
    He lies there in shock, staring at the stars. How long—an hour? Two?
    How long before this little brother got nervous, decided to give away the secret of where Big Brother goes when he's angry?
    And what did he think about as he lay there?
    I hope he thought about his good buddy who'd abandoned him, made him fall in love with trains, gave him a few months of freedom that he would now pay for by being immobile, bound to metal wheels—forever. I hope, somewhere inside, he wished his friend had been the one on the tracks.
    Because he's waited twenty years for this train. I want him to enjoy the ride.

CHAPTER 4
    Coffee and stale garlic bagels at the Travis County Sheriff's