Here, the road curved, bringing Lou even closer to the train tracks, now some ten feet to his left. He cut his speed, then confident he had driven far enough, braked to a stop and exited the Beemer. He took the car keys with him, hoping against hope that once Cap and George were freed, all three would be able to make their way back to this spot undetected. Lou took one other item from the car as well, a tire iron. It would probably be that against guns and killers who knew how to use them, but better a tire iron than just his wits.

The huge eastbound freight train lumbered along at about the pace of a brisk walker. Lou jogged up to it, ignoring painful messages from both his wounded thigh and stiff ankle. Down the track to his left, the lone headlight on the lead engine of Chester’s train glowed like a cyclops in the deepening night. Following alongside the CSX cars, Lou checked out the steel ladders on two of them.

From a distance, jumping hobo-style onto such a slow-moving train did not strike him as too perilous. However, from up close, and somewhat hobbled, he wasn’t so confident.

Seven fifty-eight.

He had to move. Cradling the tire iron in his hand, Lou caught his breath and jumped at a chest-high rung on the next passing ladder.

The tire iron clanged as he got a hold of the painted metal. An instant later, the hand with his weapon lost its grip on the rung. Lou swung away from the side of the car like an opening door. The tire iron fell to the gravel beside the squealing wheels. Gripping tightly with the other hand, he shifted his weight to counter the momentum, then swung back, hitting his nose hard against the ladder. Instantly, his eyes teared up and his vision blurred. With his hand now freed, he managed to regain his hold. With tears still cascading, and now nearly breathless, he climbed. At the top, he flattened out on the roof and peered across at the trio of engines on Chester’s train as the phantom rolled slowly past them.

Next came the unending line of corn cars and boxcars. One by one, he scanned the numbers painted on each. The massive CSX train groaned and shuddered as it passed no more than two feet from the other.

“One-thirty-one.

“Twenty-seven.

“Sixty.”

Lou said each number aloud. His heart was racing as the cars glided past. The car he had chosen to jump on was past the silo now. The sound of corn kernels rumbling down the loading tubes was lost in the grinding of the wheels.

“One-oh-seven.

“Sixty-two.”

It was just after eight.

Be strong, Cap.… You be strong.

“Thirty-six.

“Eighteen.”

He looked ahead at the number of the next car he would pass.

There it was! Fifty-eight, right after eighteen.