Ned Crickmore #2 — Tales from the Rails

I’d been riding the rails for nearly eight months, with still no sign of Mayhew.

Oh, there were stories, alright. “Man on the far side of James Park saw a pig in his garden, and the thing disappeared ‘fore he could chase it away.” “My friend’s friend knows Andrea Harperdeen, who said she was coming out of a fashion boutique in the Heights, when a pig nearly knocked her off her feet.” “A cousin of mine worked on a train with a conductor who claimed a time-traveling pig nearly got him eaten by a T-Rex.”

I didn’t put too much faith in any of the stories I heard. Mayhew had always been a mild-mannered pig; he wouldn’t dream of foraging in a stranger’s garden, or knocking over a lady. And I figured the story about time travel must have been completely made up.

That Mysterious Stranger had taken my pig, and left behind a trail of tall tales. Hunting him down was tiring, frustrating work, but I wasn’t ready to give up. I never would be. When I got Mayhew back, I’d take him back to the farm, take over the family business, and get on with my life in peace.

One evening, after tying down my train, I met an interesting fellow at a bar in James Park. The place was dingy, but the man was wearing a sparkling clean white lab coat. And despite being indoors, he also wore dark sunglasses. There were no other seats available, so I sat down next to him at the bar and ordered a drink and loaded potato skins. I asked the server to tell the chef to kindly leave off the bacon bits.

When the appetizer arrived, there were bacon bits on them.

Never one to waste food, I offered the potato skins to the man in the lab coat.

“I don’t accept food from people I’ve just met,” the man said.

“That’s a mighty strange policy to have,” I said. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself some enemies.”

“You could say that.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket inside his coat and lit up.

“I don’t think they’d take kindly to you smoking in here,” I said. I know it wasn’t my place, but I hate to see someone breaking the rules.

“I don’t think you have the right to tell me not to do whatever I want,” the man said without looking at me. He took a long drag on his cigarette. I looked at the bartender. He didn’t seem to notice the cigarette. I shook my head and took a deep swig from my drink.

“What’s wrong with the potato skins,” the man asked. I didn’t feel like answering after his outburst, but if my father taught me anything, it’s that a Crickmore is always polite.

“There’s bacon on them,” I said.

“What’s wrong with the bacon, then?” he asked.

“I don’t eat it.”

“Everyone eats bacon.” The man ashed his cigarette onto the bar. It was too loud in the room to hear ash hit wood, but I imagined a tiny sizzle when it landed.

“Not if their best friend is a pig,” I said, raising my glass to my lips. I was tired of being polite.

The man turned toward me, and for a brief moment, I could see into the folds of his lab coat. I saw the pocket that held his cigarettes, and in another pocket, I saw the hilt of a firearm. “Now that might be the first interesting thing you’ve said,” he said.

“Interesting is a word,” I said. I could tell him about Mayhew. I could tell him about the stories about the time-traveling pig I’d heard on the rails. Or, I could finish my drink and head back to my train.

I tilted my glass, drained the last of my beer, and slapped my Tocium on the counter. “I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening,” I said.

As I stood to leave, the man looked me square in the face. Or I think he did. I couldn’t tell, on account of the sunglasses. “You’re Ned Crickmore,” he said.

Now that stopped me in my tracks. But only long enough to say, “Well, then. I guess word gets out fast, when a man leaves his farm to hunt down his pig.” I didn’t want to talk to this man anymore. Something about him made the hair on my neck stand on end.

I turned around to leave, and then I felt the muzzle of a gun pressed into my lower back.

“The thing is, Mr. Crickmore,” the man said, his cigarette breath curling around me from my ear to my face. “I think I’d like to join you in the hunt for your pig.”

I remember feeling something white hot where the weapon was pressed against me, and I remember suddenly feeling drowsy — like if I didn’t fall asleep right that second, I would die. I fought the feeling for as long as I could, and then it felt like I was falling backwards into myself.

Next Stops

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