Hang On Saint Christopher
Ray Nayler

The rain came down in twisting sheets, cutting off the lights of the town, of the gas station, everything. The world was gone beyond the railroad furrow and the drooping branches of the closest oaks. The abandoned house opened up like a sifter to it, and drops and streams pattered on the warped boards. Savage huddled in a corner of what had once been the living room, on a pile of his soaking clothes and his sleeping bag and watched the rain slash and patter against the single unbroken window with its view of the far-off town. Through the rattle of the rain came the moan of a freight whistle, and the low rumble of the train’s approach, shivering the loose boards of the house. The sound of the train went through him, made him restless, and he tossed down the cigarette he had been rolling from butt-crumbs and a bit of paper, and crossed the room, watching through a split in the window-boards as the shifting blob of light crept closer along the invisible tracks, slowly, as if the rain pushed upon it, holding it back.
The other tramps called him Savage because he told them he was pure-blood Apache, and because he wore a bandanna around his shoulder-length black hair. The black hair framed his brown face made darker by dirt. He told them he used to be a tracker. And they believed him, when he spun stories about a bent twig, though he knew nothing of twigs. He was strong, and so they believed him-with his buck-knife in his hand they always believed him, when he told them that his muddy blood was pure. He limped across the room and retrieved the short-dog of Thunderbird-the last. He drained it, felt it bite into him warm. The last of the money he had taken from the pockets of Frankie was gone.
He returned to the window. Looking out into the rain he thought of Frankie. Does the Indian not qualify for a little change, Frankie? Does he not qualify for a pair of pants that you’ve stolen from the department store? The nice blue jeans you’ve stolen? The jeans were soaked from the rain and grimed from the dirt in the little house. Frankie-he remembered the knife going into Frankie, just underneath the ribs where it is soft, and Frankie screaming. And the rock that finished Frankie. Frankie, so heavy, so hard to drag into the bushes.
A long way away, all of that. A long way along the tracks, now.
Savage could make out the details of the train’s blunt engine, and the face of the engineer behind wet glass. The boxcars behind the engine, the stacks of wet timber on flats-and a shape moving on top of one of the cars. On top, moving carefully, down the length of the car, then flattening. A leg swung over the side and found the top rung of the ladder. The shape went halfway down, twisted, fell away from the train.
A tramp. But he’d been on top of the cars, probably because they were locked up tight. How long, on top of the cars in the rain? How long, clinging like a spider to the iron, waiting for the train to slow enough to jump clear? It could be bad, when they closed the cars in this weather. Savage had seen a man die atop one of the cars during a Utah winter. Had watched him die, a white man. Because he had lost his coat.
The tramp would see the house, of course. He would be looking for shelter from the rain. Savage opened the long blade of the buck-knife, snapped it into place, and crept away from the window, moving into the mouth of the hallway, where he could see the room. His ears searched the hiss of the rain for human sounds, but the liquor buzzed in them like static. The long sharp weight of the knife in his hands, he waited.

Jamie made out the rectangle of the house through the rain. Shelter-anything. But was this far enough? Not far enough, but no money. Only the gun, tucked beneath the napped and soaking pea-coat. The rain-stopped. Jamie looked up at the blotted sky, unbelieving. Move, feet. Up the embankment. At the top, Jamie made out the distant fluorescent oval of the gas station. Half a mile, maybe. Half a mile. Get rid of the pack, and do it. Do it now, before the fear sets in and you can’t, Jamie. Up the porch of the dark house. The front door boarded but open, hanging open. Push it open.
Jamie stepped into the dark of the little house. The darkness was full of the sounds of rain dripping on the boards, and the bitter smell of decades of human beings squatting inside. A shout brought no response. Gray blades of night came through the boards of the windows and fell on the filthy floor. Jamie went in and found a dry spot to drop the heavy pack.
Now. Do it now. Wrap a hand around the handle of the gun, deep down in the inside pocket, and march. Easy-they just put their hands up and they give you the money. Easy. Out the door, and down the road and do it. You have to get a long way away from murder to escape it. A long way. And you need money to do it.
The light in the gas station bathroom was greenish-white, buzzing over Jamie’s portrait in the mirror. She stared at that face-it had been a while since she’d seen it under that much light. She had done a good job with the hair-dye, and although it was blonde in a few patches, most of it had taken the dye all right. She’d chopped it short. It was no more than an inch long anywhere. She scrubbed at a streak of mud along her cheekbone with the rough brown towels from the dispenser. There was nothing too special about the face-nothing that gave it away, she thought. Underneath the short brown hair, it looked like the face of a runaway boy. She pulled the collar of the pea-coat up around her throat and yanked the gun out. The face in the mirror bared its teeth at her.
"Empty the register into a bag. Don’t try anything funny, or I’ll shoot you dead."
The words sounded weird and echoey in the bathroom. The words were hollow and unconvincing.
Why hadn’t he left her alone? Why had he done it-pulled the car off the side of the road and gone at her like that? He’d made her do it! She’d told him to leave her alone. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. And that time, she’d reached for the pistol he always kept in the glove-box, and . . . she remembered the jolt of the shot, the pistol bucking against her naked belly, the dying weight of him on top of her, and the warm blood.
The man behind the register had seemed so nice when she asked for the bathroom key. It was a shame to have to do this to him, she thought. But it was murder-what she had done was murder, and she needed that money.
And his car. She would take his car, too. You could get further with a car. She paused just a moment longer before pushing the door open. It had been in a service-station bathroom like this that she had cut and dyed her hair. It was funny-all the service station bathrooms looked the same, in Oregon and here in California. Maybe all over. She almost expected to see the stains her hair-dye had left in Oregon on the sink here. She almost expected to find the long cut strands of her hair scattered on the floor.
There was one car outside, a Honda Acura in the drizzle at the furthest pump. A woman in a miniskirt stood watching the gauge on the pump, her arms wrapped around herself. Jamie watched her pull the nozzle from the car’s tank and hang it up. Why a miniskirt in the rain? It made no sense. Jamie became aware of the swell of her own breasts beneath the coat. Nothing but suffering had come of them. The Acura started with a thick puff of exhaust and pulled away, its taillights streaking in the wet air. The gas station was empty.
She’d told him she didn’t want to do it again. Why don’t they listen? The first time-in the back of his truck under the pines a quarter-mile from her mother’s double-wide she had been willing. It was exciting, taking him away from her mother, knowing that he wanted her-wanted her desperately. She’d felt-but she didn’t want to think of that. The thought of that time mixed with the second time, when he had forced herself on her, and . . .
She had told him she didn’t want to do it. Why don’t they listen? Her mother had passed out drunk again when Jamie returned home, bloodstained, and threw what she could in her pack. She’d taken her clothes, her diary, her father’s St. Christopher medallion, a toothbrush, scissors, and a box of her mother’s chestnut brown Loreal hair dye.
There was a mountain curve just below the house where the freights slowed enough to jump on them. She had done it before, as a gag, out drinking, a bunch of them from high school, then hitching back home from Carver, twelve miles away. So she’d gone down there and waited.
It was murder, now. They must have found her mother’s boyfriend (she would not think his name) dead across the bench-seat of his pick-up out in the pines. She found herself thinking of his rough hands, thickened by construction work. Stupid. She had been so stupid.
Jamie came through the door of the station with the gun out, her arm ramrod-straight.
"Empty the cash register. And don’t try anything stupid! I’ll kill you, I swear to god!"
The man behind the counter was in his forties, at least. He was heavy, with a soft red face, and blue eyes that looked tired and friendly. Dog-eyes, she thought. He didn’t seem particularly surprised by the gun. His brow furrowed.
"All right, young man. All right." He put his hands up, shoulder-level. "There’s a silent alarm underneath this counter. But you’ll notice I’m not touching it. I’m opening the cash register, like you said."
He gingerly lowered his finger to the no-sale button, and the register dinged open. He began taking the money out.
"I have to reach under the counter for a bag."
"Do it slow." The Luger quivered like a dowsing rod in Jamie’s hand.
"Of course. Don’t be nervous, now." A small, friendly smile curved the corners of the man’s mouth. "I want this to go well just as much as you do. Maybe more." He filled the bag slowly. There was less money than Jamie had hoped for. Not more than two hundred dollars.
"Do you want the change?"
"No."
A car went past the station, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. A flower of cold opened on the back of Jamie’s neck. Her eyes met the man’s. Again his mouth pulled in that little smile.
"You want something else, don’t you?"
"Your car."
"The keys are in my pocket. I’ll get them out." He reached slowly. "Things must be hard for you."
"What?"
"Things must be hard for you." He set the keys on the counter.
"Buddy, you don’t know the half of it."
The man’s smile widened, and saddened.
"The car is around the side. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you five minutes before I call the police. You’ve given me a fair shake, and so I’ll give you one."
Jamie snatched the bag and the keys from the counter.
"The long key with the plastic is the ignition and the door key. Maybe you could do me a favor, and leave the car somewhere I can get it back. It’s my only one."
"Okay." Jamie said. "I will."
The man nodded. He placed his hands flat on the counter.
Jamie backed out through the door, still holding the gun on him. The car was a beat-up Toyota Cressida. Its interior smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The floor on the passenger side was strewn with discarded Marlboro packs. In the rear seat was a child’s safety chair and a tiny baseball cap.
Jamie started the engine and pulled out. Through the plate-glass windows of the station she saw the man still standing with his hands palm-down on the counter. He turned and watched her pull away, and one of his hands came up in a slight wave.
Under the counter was the heavy black .38 he carried with him. He picked it up and dumped the shells out clattering on the counter. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He lined the shells up like little soldiers. His hands were shaking. He looked at the clock. There were very few customers at this time of the night. He decided that ten minutes were better than five. He might as well wait until his heart stopped pounding and his hands stopped shaking. He reloaded the gun and placed it beneath the counter once more.
Perhaps one of the officers would be kind enough to give him a ride home.
The road out to the farmhouse was black with wet-earth and choked with tire-slipping weeds. Jamie cursed herself for leaving the pack behind. She should not even have come back for it, but how far could she get on two hundred dollars-maybe less-without even a change of clothes? And without the St. Christopher medallion she felt-irrationally, she knew-that she would be lost. The police would not look here, she thought. They would expect her to be already long gone. And . . . the man at the station had thought she was a boy. That was something in her favor. She would pick up the pack and be gone. How long had it been now. Five minutes? Not even five minutes.
She slipped in the wet grass as she got out of the car.
The little house sagged in the wet air, waiting for her. The door was open. As she left it? She thought so. She went up the porch and inside, feeling for the pack where she had left it. Not there? She bent over, pacing her way with her fingertips along the warped boards. She’d left it just to one side of the door, just here, where it was dry, against the wall.
Savage hit her with the butt end of the knife, ramming it downward between her shoulder-blades, and the dark went darker.
She came to with weight on top of her, inside her, pushing her nakedness against the floorboards, crushing her into the floor. Ragged breathing in her ear. Panting. She was numb, could not move. Dimly, she made out strewn shapes of her clothes, the torn-open bag, the Black L of the Luger, far away. Something sharp against her throat, tendrils of hair waving over her face, a black square, a human head above her. She tried to cry out, but the only sound that came from her was a strange mewling that did not seem her own. Oh god, why don’t they listen? The sharpness bit into her, bit deep, deeper, sawed into her throat and her hot blood rushed out. She felt the thud of the knife into her chest. Again. Again. Again. It should hurt more, it should hurt more, it seemed like it should hurt more . . .

A voice, in the dark.
"Does the Indian not qualify . . ."
She could not hear the rest.
Savage stood up and wiped the bloody knife on the leg of his jeans. He snapped it closed. From one of the windows of the farmhouse, you could see the unwinking fluorescent star of the gas station. Blinking red-and blue satellites moved in and moved away. One rushed like a strobing American comet down the freeway. Beyond the gas station was the cluster of light-specks, the streetlights and the houselights of the town, with the freeway cutting away, moving diagonally into darkness.
Eventually, the cluster of lights would expand, swallowing the star of the gas station, and they would build an apartment complex on the old farm, a hundred tiny flags flapping in the wind. Eventually. But for now . . . for now the world had forgotten the little farmhouse. They had boarded it up and left it to rot into the ground.
That was all right with Savage. It had been a place to run to, anyway. And it had brought him the money, and the girl. He had thought she was a boy, until he had opened the pack and seen the panties, the little pink diary, the medallion on a girl’s silver chain, and known that he had gotten lucky.
A freight train ground through the furrow behind the house, so close that the moldy walls shook with its scream, and the light from its headlamp, cut into checkers by the window-boards, swung across the crumbling wallpaper and the naked body of the girl on the floor, and his face.-
He snatched the bag up, and tucked the Luger into the waistband of his jeans. Quick now-he could catch the freight and be far away again by morning.

Ray Nayler was born in Alma, Quebec. He moved away from the -30
weather of his hometown at a young age and has spent most of his life in California, in Santa Cruz and Oakland. Ray's short stories have been published and are forthcoming in several magazines including The Berkeley Fiction Review, The Edge, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Hardboiled, Heist, Blue Murder, Outer Darkness, and in the UK at Crimewave. He can be contacted at like_the_rabbit@hotmail.com.